I put a hand to my mouth. “Oh, my God…”
“What? What?” Faraday demanded.
I looked again at Wallace’s photo. The flickering back and forth was slowing down, and, alarmingly, the 12-6-2014 date was starting to settle in for longer and longer periods between flashes. “Mrs. Duncan…my neighbor,” I said as I began to tremble. “She gets new furniture, like, all the time. And it’s always the same guys who bring it. This one guy, Wes, he’s seriously creepy, and the last time he was at her house, he sort of leered at me.”
“What’s his last name?” Faraday asked me. I shook my head; I didn’t know. “What’s the name of the furniture store?”
I shook my head again. I’d seen that truck a half dozen times, and I’d never registered the name. And then I had an idea. “Call Mrs. Duncan! She’ll know!”
Faraday asked me for the number as he picked up the receiver on Wallace’s desk. I leaned over and dialed it for him. After a few seconds, I knew she’d answered, because Faraday said, “Mrs. Duncan, it’s Agent Faraday with the FBI. I’ve got Maddie Fynn with me, and we have a very important question for you. Can you please give us the name of the store where you buy your furniture?”
Faraday grabbed a pen and scribbled onto a sticky pad. “Culligan’s Furniture,” he said. “Got it, thanks.” He hung up with Mrs. Duncan and dialed 411, requesting the warehouse of the furniture company. He put the phone on speaker so that we could all hear as it began to ring.
“Culligan’s warehouse,” said an older man’s voice.
“I need to talk to one of your delivery guys, first name Wes,” Faraday said, without even introducing himself.
“He ain’t here,” the man said, clearly annoyed.
“Is he out on delivery?” Faraday pressed.
“No.”
Faraday sighed impatiently. “Then where is he?”
“Dunno,” the man replied. “But I ain’t his answering service.”
“Listen,” Faraday said, his tone sharp as a razor. “This is special agent Mack Faraday. I’m investigating a series of murders, and I need to know—”
“Yeah, sure you’re a special agent,” the man interrupted with a snort. I could tell he didn’t believe Faraday. “What are you, double-oh-doofus?” And then he snorted again and hung up.
Faraday’s face turned crimson, and he squeezed his free hand into a fist and pounded the desktop. Steve, who’d been standing next to me jumped and muttered, “I’ll go call the director and get your authorization, sir.” And with that he ran out the door.
Faraday looked at me. I pointed to Wallace’s photo. “It’s starting to settle more and more on today!” I whispered.
Faraday grabbed up the phone again, redialing 411 but this time he asked for the address of the warehouse for the furniture store. After hanging up, he turned to the other agent who was still hovering in the doorway and said, “I need to put a trace on Wallace’s phone.”
“It’ll take me at least an hour,” the man said.
“Do it!” Faraday snapped, then grabbed me by the elbow and backtracked to his office to grab his coat. Tossing me mine, he paused and said, “Will you come with me and keep watching the photo?”
I nodded, and we were out the door in a rush.
Faraday drove like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic so much that he started to make me nauseous. “Is he still alive?” Faraday asked, taking a turn so fast that the tires squealed.
I looked down. The numbers continued to flicker back and forth, but more slowly. It was almost like a pulse getting slower and slower. “Yes, he’s alive,” I told him. “But I’m not sure for how much longer.”
Only a few moments later, we arrived at Culligan’s warehouse. Faraday pulled up to the large bay door and ordered me to stay in the car. He then ran to a man bent with age, who was standing in the entry. I rolled down my window so I could hear, and watched Faraday flash his badge and then get right up into the old man’s face, pointing at him and yelling that he was going to arrest him for obstruction unless he told him where he could find Wes.
The old man waved his arms a lot, clearly unafraid of Faraday. “I told you on the phone, pal, that I don’t know where the hell that lowlife is! He never showed up for work today, okay? And the other half of his crew called off sick! Says he’s got chest pains…My aunt Fanny, he’s got chest pains!” My mind flashed to the memory of Rick sitting next to me on Mrs. Duncan’s couch, his deathdate prominently hovering above his forehead, and I was shocked to realize that today was his deathday. With a pang, I knew that Rick had been right; it’d be his heart that would give out on him. “Always something with them two!” the old man continued angrily. “Most unreliable crew I got!”
Faraday balled his hands into fists and looked like he was ready to pick the man up and shake him for information. I felt I had to do something so I jumped out of the car and rushed over. “Does he know where Wes lives?” I asked, trying to distract Faraday from violence.
The old man turned to me. “He lives on Thirteenth Street,” he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the street behind us.
“What house number on Thirteenth Street?” Faraday barked.
“How the hell should I know? You want me to pull his file, that’s gonna take me a while. They’re at headquarters with HR.”
“What’s Wes’s last name?” Faraday growled.
“Miller,” the old man spat.
And before Faraday could turn away I asked, “Do you know what kind of car Wes drives?”
The old man turned large impatient eyes at me. “They’re hiring kinda young down at the FBI,” he said, but then he added, “He drives a pickup. A Ford F-150.”
“Is it a dark color like gray or charcoal?” I pressed, the adrenaline coursing through my veins making my heart pound.