Larry Temple - 100 Days of Terror

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19 days earlier

Noah rolls over and lifts the phone to his ear.

Reardon, says Spencer.

Huh Reardon says confusedly.

Reardon! Get up!

What?

Get up! Are you up?

OK, OK, Im up. He slowly sits up in bed.

Are you drunk?!

No, just hung over. Stop talking so loud, he pleads.

They found your car.

OK, so, why are you calling me so early in the morning? In fact, why are you calling me at all? Shouldnt the cops call me?

First of all, its 10:45, second they called the FBI. Your car was torched, she states matter-of-factly.

Huh? What? Why would the cops call the FBI?

They found a note in your car.

I thought you said my car was torched, his voice trails off for a moment. How was there a note?

Thats the weird part; the note was in a fireproof box in your trunk at the base of a collapsed power line tower in the middle of nowhere, she says trying to make sense of it all herself.

What!?! Im so confused, he stammers.

Me too, all I know is McCullum said to pick you up and drive you there. Ill be at your place in 15 minutes. Meet me down front.

FBI Special Agent Noah Reardon, a sculpted, 61 dark haired, blue eyed, former javelin thrower, rolls back into his bed and moans as he hangs up the phone. He has long shooting pains emanating from the base of his skull reaching up over his scalp and pulling back his eyelids. This is not his worst hangover, but it is up there. Reardons drinking problem has been out of control for over four years now. Once a rising star, now relegated to stakeouts for low level thugs and endless reams of paperwork in the New York office. His former partner, Laura Spencer, is a 511 former collegiate swimmer with shoulder length jet black hair always worn in a ponytail. She sat out most of her senior year thanks to a torn ligament in her shoulder. Spencer has been keeping an eye on him ever since he sunk into the bottle, but even by her standards, this is weird. Reardon is trying to collect his thoughts while he is wrapping his mind around what she said. Reardons car was stolen 10 days ago. He is lying there with Spencers words dancing through his head. Car torched note power line tower his head is pounding like a jackhammer on granite.

Suddenly Reardon is startled awake as he hears the buzzer being pushed repeatedly. He rolls out of bed and walks over to the intercom kicking a beer can along the way. It tings as it hits a wooden chair leg. His apartment is the stereotypical bachelor pad with stains on the furniture and carpet except he is 15 years removed from college. There are beer cans and old take-out containers strewn about the kitchen table and living room.

What!

Get up you moron. Im here! she hollers.

Quit shouting. OK, OK, Ill be down in five, he declares.

Ten minutes later, Reardon pops out the front door of his rundown brownstone. He is disheveled and hasnt shaved for several days. He stinks and his suit hasnt seen a hanger in weeks.

Wow! You look horrible!

Please, stop shouting, he pleads as she gives him the stink eye.

Im not yelling, she calmly states.

OK then, just talk softer, he urges. So, whats this all about?

All I know is McCullum called me into his office, told me they found your car burnt to a crisp - and it had a note inside.

Whats the note say?

I dont know and I didnt ask. McCullum handed me an address and told me to pick you up on the way. He is already en route, she explains.

Reardon and Spencer arrive at the downed power line tower just a few hundred yards from a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere 40 miles into New Jersey. The shack is a couple miles south of a small community surrounded on three sides by the Wawayanda State Park just a half mile south of the New York state line. There are two police cars, a dark sedan, and a utility truck at the scene. Moments after they arrive, a second utility truck drives up. McCullum is talking to the officer in charge as they walk up. They cant get too close to the car because McCullum has ordered the police and utility trucks to stop and stay back at least 200 feet. The tower is a crumpled heap encasing the car, miraculously leaving it undamaged except for the fact it is now a crispy charred hulk.

McCullum has only been working in the New York office for three years. He doesnt know many details about what happened to Reardon so many years ago or what finally pushed him over the edge. However, he and Reardon have a special agreement , albeit a strange one. All McCullum knows is that Reardon spent three brilliant years in Afghanistan working counterterrorism and it had all gotten to him at some point. McCullum is a bull in a China shop and only cares about what his agents can do for him today and the past is a distant memory even for something that just happened a week ago.

What the hell took you so long? McCullum barks.

Umm, traffic was bad, she sputters out.

Bull! Is he hungover again? Turning to Reardon, Are you hung over? Reardon begins to speak. Never mind!

McCullum turns to the officer.

Get that letter again, McCullum commands, and the officer quickly reaches into the back seat and pulls out a letter in a plastic evidence bag. Here, read this.

___

Dear FBI Special Agent Noah Reardon,

New York Office

Its day 10! Rise and shine, I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. Start paying close attention and you might want to start making some phone calls. I have left clues and will leave clues for 10 more days. However, after that you are on your own. But dont worry; I dont think you will need any more clues after Day 20.

Sincerely,

Your good friend

___

I dont get it. Spencer says slightly exasperated as the wind whips her ponytail into her face and she hands the letter to Reardon.

I dont get it either. Why do you think I told you to pick up this sorry excuse for an agent? McCullum sneers at Reardon. What does it mean?

Reardon quickly scans the letter and looks up. I have no idea. Day 10, yeah, my car was stolen 10 days ago, but who cares, he says earnestly.