Gangsters In Suits
“What are you doing here?” I asked the man.
He smiled and shook his head, but didn’t answer me. He was dressed in a dark suit with an expensive white shirt and tie. His hair was black and neatly trimmed to just below his ears. He looked like he had been born wearing a suit and carrying a gun.
The only thing missing from the picture was a pair of sunglasses that would have completed the image. It wasn’t so much what he said or did that made my blood run cold; it was how he said it and who he seemed to be saying it to. My stomach lurched as if I’d swallowed a dozen knives. “You’re not one of them,” I whispered.
The man turned toward me, raising both eyebrows at my statement. Then he shrugged and gave a wry smile. “I am someone else.”
It took me several seconds to realize who this man really was: John Henry O’Hara. There were many things about him that weren’t quite right, though, and even then they wouldn’t have been wrong for another man. He wore a small gold ring on each finger—one with a diamond, one with a ruby.
On his left hand, there was no wedding band. But then again, neither was there any sign of a wife or children. And although he carried himself well, it was hard to believe that a man could look so polished while also having such a thin, pale face. A few days ago, I might never have guessed that I’d see him standing before me in this moment, but now everything made sense.
“How long have you known about this place?” I asked.
O’Hara nodded his chin over my shoulder, where I saw the two men watching us through the glass doors. They were both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, but their eyes shone brightly under their shades.
“Since the day we moved into our new offices downtown,” he answered.
A shiver ran up my spine, and I felt myself leaning backward away from him.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
His smile widened, and suddenly I understood why he always seemed so relaxed despite being surrounded by danger. If I hadn’t seen his body riddled with bullets, I probably still wouldn’t know how badly he was hurt.
“No one,” he replied.
That’s when I knew I should kill him because no one came walking back out of the woods looking like a million bucks after taking a bullet to the gut.
But then something happened inside me. Something deep inside of my mind that I couldn’t explain. Something that told me this guy wasn’t some evil mastermind planning to destroy the world. Not exactly.
No, he was someone completely different, someone, more important than either of us realized. This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced something similar during these last few months.
My heart pounded, and my hands began shaking. Suddenly, I wanted to throw up. Or maybe cry. Maybe laugh? I couldn’t tell. Whatever emotion was trying to break free within me was too strong, and I found myself holding my breath instead.
Then all at once, the pressure broke loose, and I gasped for air. The emotions boiled up inside me until I finally lost control and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Oh God! Oh God!”
The other agents turned to stare at me curiously. One of them opened the door behind us and stepped outside. “What is going on?” he demanded.
After a second or two of silence, I heard O’Hara reply calmly, “She’s experiencing her gift.”
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, I recognized what must be happening inside my own mind. Somehow, I was connecting with the other people around me, sharing thoughts, feelings, and memories. Some of those memories were mine, but most of them belonged to the people I was touching.
And none of those people were evil.
There was nothing good about the situation, though. Every single person in this room had done horrible things in the name of money, power, and greed. The truth was that everyone who lived in New York City was capable of murder, even if they didn’t want to be. That was the ugly reality of life, and the fact that I had come to accept it meant that I’d become part of it.
Now that I was connected to others, I could feel their pain and suffering. Their lives were filled with fear and regret, and there was very little happiness left between them. They were broken. Torn apart. Twisted beyond recognition.
I was supposed to stop this from happening. It was my destiny. My fate. But somehow I’d let the darkness consume me. I’d fallen into the same trap as the rest of humanity, and I wondered how much longer I would continue down this path. Was it possible that I’d already given up on my promise?
When I looked across the table, I saw that the woman with blonde hair was staring at me strangely. She blinked twice, then stared at me with wide eyes, waiting patiently for me to respond.
Suddenly, the light bulb clicked in my head, and I remembered what she’d said earlier: You are my savior.
It took everything I had not to laugh hysterically. As far as I knew, I was the only human on earth who thought I was anyone’s savior.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I snapped.
Her face paled slightly before returning to normal again, and she shook her head sadly. Then she whispered softly, “We don’t joke here, Ms. Parker. We live in a dangerous world.”
I didn’t understand what she meant, but then I noticed that the man sitting next to her had tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked desperately confused as he glanced at the agent standing behind him, who stood motionless beside the door.
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
He sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Because we’ve been betrayed,” he sobbed.
***
Once I’d calmed down enough to speak normally, I asked the agent behind me, “Did you say something just now?”
He nodded his head. “Yes.”
“By whom?”
“They have many names,” he responded. “The Shadow People.”
At least he knew what he was talking about.
A shiver ran through me as I thought about the night I’d met the mysterious shadow figure. There were a thousand questions buzzing through my mind, and I felt certain that I needed to find answers fast, but first I needed to get the hell away from this place.
“Where do I go?” I asked.
Before he answered, another voice spoke up, saying, “Ms. Parker, please wait here while I fetch the doctor.”
His tone wasn’t threatening, so I waited quietly while the agent walked toward one of the closed doors at the back of the room.
But after five seconds of being alone, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I stood slowly, put on my jacket, and headed straight for the exit. Once I reached the hallway, I slipped past several more agents and hurried toward the front entrance where I’d last seen O’Hara.
With each step I took, the coldness seeped deeper into my bones, and my knees trembled violently. I almost couldn’t stand it anymore, but I forced myself forward until I found her sitting on the curb outside the building, smoking a cigarette.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded and leaned against the wall next to her. After taking a long drag off of her cigarette, she exhaled loudly, causing smoke to billow out over our heads.
“Do you know any good bars nearby?” I asked.
O’Hara blew a cloud of smoke toward the sky. “None that won’t kill you, anyway.”
She tossed aside her cigarette and grabbed my arm.
“Come on. Let’s grab some dinner. You need to eat something.”
My stomach grumbled when I heard her order, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
“What kind of food is this?” I asked.
O’Hara shrugged. “All kinds of stuff. Hamburgers, pizza, barbecue, sushi.”
As soon as we stepped inside the restaurant, I stopped dead in my tracks. The walls were lined with shelves full of books and knickknacks, and the floor was covered by a thick rug that seemed to absorb every ounce of noise.
Every surface held a piece of artwork, whether it be a painting or sculpture, and the ceiling was adorned with beautiful stained glass windows. The tables and chairs were made of dark wood, and even though it was early evening, most of the people sitting around us were eating steaks.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “This place looks great! How did you find all this?”
“Your friend brought us here,” O’Hara explained. “That guy upstairs? He’s like your guardian angel or something.”
For a moment, I wondered if she could read minds because suddenly I felt incredibly uncomfortable. My shoulders tensed up, and I began looking around the room nervously, wondering how much attention we were drawing. It didn’t help that the hostess was staring at us intensely.
After ordering drinks and appetizers, we sat down at a small table near the bar and talked for hours. While I told her about the events leading up to my arrival at the FBI offices, I also shared the stories that I’d written in my journal.
When I finished telling her about the day I’d encountered the shadow figure, she stared at me for several moments without speaking, and then finally said, “So, what happened after that?”
I laughed. “Not too much. They got me drunk.”
O’Hara frowned. “And they let you drink alcohol?”
“Well … no,” I replied sheepishly.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to believe what happens next. But I promise you’ll be surprised.”
We both ordered desserts and coffee, and once our meals arrived, she continued, “There was an incident in Chicago a few months ago. A young girl disappeared, and her parents hired this private investigator to look into things. She had a history of mental illness, but none of them expected her to run off and become a prostitute. And certainly not within such a short period of time.”
The waitress came by and dropped off two large glasses of water.
“How old was she?” I asked.
“About fifteen years old.”
Her words struck a chord deep within my soul, reminding me of the age of my daughter. This was the same thing I’d been trying to write about before I left home. If I’d only known then what I know now.
“Was there any evidence that someone might have kidnapped her?” I asked.
O’Hara shook her head. “No, nothing. There wasn’t even any sign of foul play. We never found the body. In fact, it would’ve been easy enough to make everyone think she just ran away, except for one strange coincidence. About three weeks after she went missing, the PI discovered a new client who’d hired him to track down a runaway teenage girl, and he used to work for the police department.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Chicago PD.”
***
When we returned to the hotel, I lay down on the bed and pulled out my notebook.
“It’s so quiet,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” O’Hara agreed. “Too quiet.”
I looked up from the page and saw that the sun was setting through the window. Outside, the streets were beginning to fill with pedestrians, but the only sound was the chirping of crickets and the distant roar of traffic.
I sighed deeply. I knew I should get ready for bed, but I couldn’t force myself to stop writing. Instead, I wrote feverishly until the last possible second, barely finishing the final sentence before turning out the light. Then I buried my face in the pillow and fell asleep.,
The End