Missing Thread

Prologue

PrologueFriday, Lake Charles, Louisiana

FBI Probationary Agent Benjamin Samuels, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in his van staring at nothing. He glanced at his watch for the third time in the past ten minutes. A sigh escaped his lips. Time was moving slowly. Boring.

The house he was watching had been still for hours. He reached over to the passenger seat and opened the cooler bag. Hmm…tuna sandwich, apple, a bag of peanuts, a couple of ding dongs, and some bottled water. He grabbed a ding dong, downed it in three bites and washed it down with coffee from a thermos.

He changed the CD that was playing to a more upbeat sound and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. He sang along with the song and threw in some ad libs of his own. Anything to help pass the time.

It was a dead end street with lots of bushes. He was parked down the block from the home that was his assignment, well-hidden in an old overgrown driveway. There were no houses directly in front of him and he had a clear view of the old cottage and the driveway that ran up the side of the property. The black pick-up parked there, hadn't moved since yesterday, according to the nightshift agent. Ben's dayshift started four hours ago.

Ben heard the gurgling of his stomach and felt a sudden burning in his chest. Indigestion. Shouldn't of had that left over chili for breakfast. He'd been late rising this morning and the chili was the only quick food he could find in his near empty fridge. Ben reopened the cooler bag and grabbed a bottle of water. He drank half the bottle, while rubbing his abdomen.

It wasn't the FBI's case originally. It came from out-of-state. He didn't have all the details, except that it was a joint venture between the FBI and US Border and Customs Protection, reporting directly to a committee of Homeland Security. The subject under investigation had returned to Lake Charles, Louisiana to attend to his mother's affairs. She'd died a week ago. The field office in New Orleans had been contacted. They covered sixty-four parishes in Louisiana, divided up under six satellite offices. Lake Charles was one of the six resident satellite offices in the state. New Orleans had passed the case on to his boss, Cam Hutchins, Resident Agent in Charge.

Ben's job was to watch and record the subject's activities. So far, nothing of interest had occurred—a small funeral attended by the deceased woman's son, who was their subject, with a few Bingo lady friends, and a couple of neighbors; a quiet reception at the house; and a visit to a lawyer. Garbage bags had been put out on pick-up day and some cardboard boxes were delivered to a thrift shop. All had been confiscated by his agency, unbeknownst to the subject. All very mundane. The man had a return plane ticket to New York state and would be leaving in a few days. The field office would forward a report of their surveillance to the powers that be back east and the role his office played in the case would wrap up.

His radio crackled. “Agent Samuels? Motz here. Do you copy?”

The agent picked up his radio and addressed the SOG Specialist. The Surveillance Operations Group was contracted by the FBI to provide trained personnel to assist their Agents in surveillance ops. This arrangement freed up time and manpower for other FBI projects. “I'm here. What's up? Over.”

“I'll be out of the car for five minutes. Pee break. Over.”

“Ten-four. Out.”

Aaron Motz was parked out of sight one block over; ready to pick up the tail should their subject be on the move.

Ben felt a discomfort pass from his stomach into his intestines. He squirmed in his seat and drank more water. Damn chili.

As a probationary agent, he'd been with the bureau for ten months. He knew he had to cut his teeth on jobs like this. He'd spent his whole life wanting to be a part of the FBI and here he was. All he had to do was pay his dues and find ways to deal with the humdrum side of the job. These days would pass and he had big dreams for his future with the Bureau.

A few gas bubbles welled up inside his chest and he burped them out, bringing some relief to his indigestion. But he sensed he was in trouble as the discomfort grew in his lower abdomen. A glance around the van confirmed that in his rush to get to work this morning, he'd left an all important item at home—a roll of bathroom tissue. s**t. Ben groaned. Great choice of words, Einstein. It wouldn't be the first time he'd retreated behind bushes or down laneways while on surveillance. It was a hazard of the job. Nature had her own schedule. Ben had no problem relieving himself in this manner, but no way would he succumb to this particular urge without that precious square of paper. And it had started to rain.

He glanced at his watch and noted ten minutes had passed since his conversation with Motz. “Motz, you there? Over.” Static and more static. “Motz? Over.” Damn.

Flatulence gurgled through his intestines until the gas escaped, forcing him to roll down his window for some fresh air.

He stared at the house down the street and came to a decision. One turn of the key in the ignition and the van started. He turned right onto the street and drove in the opposite direction of his charge towards the gas station two blocks down.

A few minutes later, he was back with a fresh thermos of coffee and feeling all the better for it. Ben turned around in the abandoned property and reclaimed his position in the bushes. Motz confirmed he was back in place. He released his seat belt and adjusted his seat for better comfort. Might as well be comfortable. Ben opened the thermos and poured some coffee into the lid.

He searched out the house down the street. “Oh f**k…” His hand holding the coffee to his lips froze. His eyes searched up and down the street.

“Ooh no… no…” He pounded the steering wheel with his other fist. “You're in deep s**t now.” The black pick-up was gone, leaving the gravel driveway empty, except for tufts of overgrown grass blowing in the breeze.

Fifteen minutes…fifteen fuckin' minutes. That's all I was gone. Ben stared at his cell phone charging in the cigarette lighter. He had no choice but to call it in. All he could think of was how he'd blown such an easy assignment. All because of some spicy chili.

The call was picked up by a receptionist. “Resident Agent Hutchins, please,” he said in a defeated voice. He punched the steering wheel one more time. Hutchins' gonna be pissed.