Nowhere To Run
Chapter Three
Frank had climbed the stairs to his office and had just started looking over Katherine Dawson's file once more when Monica entered.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, barely glancing up from the papers before him.
"I thought maybe I could help you go over those files one more time."
Frank put the papers down and looked at her. "Monica, go home. Enjoy your much deserved time off. And for the last time, you are NOT responsible for the chain of events that have led us nowhere. She's good." He said tapping the file in front of him. "She's very good. Probably more so than either one of us gave her credit for. So go home and come back on Monday morning and not a moment before because I need you to be 100%. I don't need a profiler who's doubtful of her abilities. Understand me?"
"All right. I'm going. And Frank……" she paused in the doorway, "…….thanks."
Frank gave her a smile and waved her away.
He turned his attention back to the profile on his desk. He read over the facts for the umpteenth dozen time. Something just didn't add up. He had the same thought the first time he had read her file and even after all this time, he couldn't quite pinpoint the problem. He rubbed his eyes and stared blankly at the pages, eyes unfocused.
"Go home Francis. Take your own advice and go home." He turned off the light and started to head out the door. As an afterthought he paused and grabbed the case file to take home with him. *Taking your work home with you…..now there's a new idea* he thought with a chuckle.
25 minutes later Frank entered his apartment. He flung the papers that he had brought home with him on to the dining room table and proceeded to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable. A few minutes later he reemerged in his favorite jeans and t-shirt. He went into the kitchen and proceeded to pour himself a glass of the wine he had chilling in the refrigerator. Glass in hand, he sat down on the living room couch, propped his feet up on the coffee table and leaned his head back on the couch and shut his eyes.
Too quiet. Music. That's what he needed. He set the wine glass down on the nearby table and proceeded to select a CD from his vast collection. Something that most people didn't know about Frank Donovan was that he had quite a wide range in tastes when it came to music. Rock. Blues. Jazz. Even a bit of country. Classical.
You name it, he probably had at least one CD of it. It all depended on his mood. Tonight for some reason, he wanted something sultry. He chose a disc from a Latino artist he had heard of when he was in Madrid a few years ago.
He sat on the couch once again and lost himself in the music and the taste of the wine. What started out as a relaxing evening soon changed for him. Something in the music. Why had he picked that particular type of music right now. He sat there for some time thinking about the rhythm and the beat of the music. The soulful sound of the singer's voice. He was singing about a lost love and the ensuing heartache. Frank slowly opened his eyes and looked around his rather meager apartment. The furnishings were comfortable but not extravagant. No personal photos adorned the mantelpiece above the fireplace. No personal touches of any sort could really be found around his home. It almost had a cold and antiseptic feel to it, and he wondered, not for the first time, if it would always be this way.
Frank had been on his own from a relatively early age. His father had been killed when Frank was still fairly young. It still felt like yesterday when his grandfather had come to tell him what had happened. Frank and his mother had been staying with her parents in Barcelona when the news arrived. Frank's father had been killed while on assignment in Columbia. His father had been a journalist with an American newspaper and had been assigned to cover a story about a drug cartel. Unfortunately, he got too close to the action and was caught in the cross fire between two rival drug families. His mother had been devastated. Although not an overly affectionate woman to begin with, she had become even less so after Frank's father was killed. She withdrew even further into her shell of an existence and Frank was left to heal by himself. His grandparents did all that they could for the boy, but they feared that what he really needed they could not give him. So Frank grew up learning to depend on himself and no one else. He kept his emotions to himself, just like his mother had. Even at his mother's funeral some ten years later, Frank showed little emotion. He'd learned well from her.
Suddenly Frank couldn't stand the music anymore. It made him think and feel things he'd rather not face. So he turned off the stereo and found something to occupy his mind. Work.
He found the case file on the table and opened it once again. Instead of picking up the stats sheets, he instead picked up the girl's photo. He stared at the woman's likeness. She was a pretty woman. Blonde hair and piercing green eyes. He absently wondered if she wore contacts. Her eyes were an almost unnatural shade of green. Almost jade, but brighter. High cheekbones. A hint of dimples on her cheeks. Her hair in the photo was long. Hanging well past her shoulders. It was shiny with an almost silky look to it. He wondered if it would feel as soft as it looked.
"Where the hell did that thought come from??" he wondered out loud. "Who the hell cares if her hair is soft? The woman has reportedly killed over 15 people in cold blood. And here I am wondering how it would feel to run my fingers through her hair!"
Frank stood suddenly and closed the folder in front of him. He backed away from the table like he was afraid to turn his back on it. *I need to get out of here* He thought. Now.
He'd already had two glasses of wine so instead of taking a drive, he decided to get out and walk a bit. It was after midnight, but he figured he was safe. After all he was a federal agent and armed. If anyone messed with him, he could deal with it.
A few blocks later, he found himself in front of a small local bar. Funny, he'd never noticed it before. He drove this direction every day going to work. It was just one of those buildings that seemed to fade into the background. But somehow tonight, it was all but inviting him to go inside. So he took up the invitation.
He was right. It was small. Maybe 8 tables and a long bar made of heavy oak. At one end of the bar was a rather large TV showing a baseball game in it's 12th inning. Who was playing? He had no idea. But the game seemed to hold the attention of just about all of the bar's few inhabitants. He leisurely strolled to the bar and sat down.
"What can I get for ya?" asked the man behind the bar.
"I'll just have a beer. Whatever you have on tap is fine." Frank answered.
The bartender brought the drink and eyed Frank for a few heartbeats. "New around here? I don't think I've seen you before." The man asked.
"I live a couple of streets over and just happened to find your place here while I was out walking. Seemed like a nice place so I thought I'd stop in."
The man chuckled. "Nice place, huh? Yeah, I guess you could say that. It's comfortable at least. The names Brendan McCauley by the way." he said extending his hand.
"Frank Donovan. It's nice to meet you Mr. McCauley," Frank replied while gripping the man's hand.
"Please. Call me Mac. Everyone else does. Frank Donovan, eh? Funny. You don't look Irish."
Frank laughed at that. "My father was Irish/American. My mother was Spanish. I guess I take more after her side of the family than his."
"That might explain it then. Well you're welcome in our little Irish pub nonetheless, Francis Donovan. It is Francis, isn't it?", Mac asked with one raised eyebrow.
Frank once again laughed. He liked this man immediately. "Yes it is, but my mother always called me Francisco."
"Well Francis. By way of welcome, this drink is on the house. And I hope to see more of ya from time to time should you wonder this way again."
"I think I'll make a point of doing just that. From time to time."
Frank finished his beer and one more all while enjoying the atmosphere and joining in the idle chit chat going on around him. All too soon it was time to go. He thanked Mac for the beer and headed on home. *I'll definitely have to come back here again* he thought to himself while walking back to his place.
///////////////////////////////////////
During the following few days, Frank found himself drawn more and more to Katherine's picture. It was as if staring at the photo would somehow help him crawl inside her head so he could help to understand her.
He found himself with more and more questions and no answers. Not the least of which was, how does a beautiful woman end up being a paid assassin? Not that being beautiful had any bearing on anything. So she was beautiful. So what? So she has silky soft hair, mesmerizing eyes and full, luscious lips.
"Oh my God!! I'm losing it!" Frank growled in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Again he closed the file folder and walked away. "Stop looking at it, you idiot! You're supposed to be thinking about getting inside her head, not getting inside her pants!"
Frank looked up at the clock. Nearly 9:30. Again, he felt this overwhelming need to get out of his apartment. *Mac. I'll go over to Mac's bar and have a couple of drinks. That ought to help clear my mind a bit* he thought.
Frank grabbed his jacket and exited. Once outside, he immediately felt better. It was nearly autumn and the leaves had already started to fall. There was a briskness to the air that hinted of colder weather to come. All in all, it was invigorating. Just what he needed.
A few blocks over, Frank entered Mac's bar. "Francis! How are ya? You said you'd be back, and here ya are!"
"Hey Mac. How have you been?"
"Oh not too bad. Although it wouldn't help to complain if I were" he answered with a wink. "The usual?" Frank nodded. *The usual? I've only been here once, and I've already got a usual* he smiled to himself.
After Mac brought over his beer, Frank started to look around the place. A couple of the customers were ones that he had seen the first night. Regulars, he supposed. A few new faces, but still ones that looked like they belonged here. And then he saw a woman at that other end of the bar. She was younger than the rest of the crowd. Late twenties, or early thirties. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting. She had her head down for the most part just sipping on her cocktail. The rest of the bar's inhabitants were either engaged in conversation or watching the TV. She was doing neither. Maybe she was waiting for someone. But then again, she didn't seem to be looking for anyone either.
Mac came over a while later with another beer. Frank took the opportunity to ask a question.
"You seem to know everyone here, am I right?"
"I take pride in that, my friend. I've known the name of every customer who's ever set foot through that door."
"The woman at the end of the bar, you know her name?" Frank asked.
Mac gave a conspiratorial wink. "Ah, she's caught your eye, has she? She's a pretty lass, to be sure. Just a little on the quiet side. Her name is Amanda Blake. She drops by here every few days. Been coming here for just a few weeks I believe. Hardly talks to a soul. Has her few drinks and then quietly leaves. Why don't you go talk to her, Francis. Maybe she'd prefer the conversation with someone closer to he own age than with one of us fuddy duddies."
Seeing Frank hesitate, he added, "Go on then. Times a wasting!"
//////////////////////////////////////
She'd seen him walk in the bar. He would be hard to miss in any crowd. Even in the bar's muted lighting, she could tell he was devastatingly handsome. Almost painfully so. She tried to watch him without him seeing her. And when he started talking to the bartender, she knew they were talking about her. Her heart began racing. Why were they looking her way? What could they possibly be saying? Then she saw Mac mix another drink. Her drink. But instead of bringing it to her, she handed the glass to the man at the other end of the bar and motioned for him to bring it to her.
*Oh dear Lord!!!* He was walking her way!
"Excuse me. You looked like you could use another drink."
She sat there momentarily stunned. Something about the sound of his voice left her paralyzed. She didn't think she'd ever heard a more soothing sound before. Mustering up whatever courage she had, she finally turned to face him.
Frank waited nervously for the woman to look at him. The way she sat there stone still for a second made him believe that she'd rejected him before even looking at him. Then she slowly turned towards him. He looked into the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen. Stunning. He'd never seen eyes like them before. Maybe once, but that was…………….
Then the realization hit.
Chapter Three
Frank had climbed the stairs to his office and had just started looking over Katherine Dawson's file once more when Monica entered.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, barely glancing up from the papers before him.
"I thought maybe I could help you go over those files one more time."
Frank put the papers down and looked at her. "Monica, go home. Enjoy your much deserved time off. And for the last time, you are NOT responsible for the chain of events that have led us nowhere. She's good." He said tapping the file in front of him. "She's very good. Probably more so than either one of us gave her credit for. So go home and come back on Monday morning and not a moment before because I need you to be 100%. I don't need a profiler who's doubtful of her abilities. Understand me?"
"All right. I'm going. And Frank……" she paused in the doorway, "…….thanks."
Frank gave her a smile and waved her away.
He turned his attention back to the profile on his desk. He read over the facts for the umpteenth dozen time. Something just didn't add up. He had the same thought the first time he had read her file and even after all this time, he couldn't quite pinpoint the problem. He rubbed his eyes and stared blankly at the pages, eyes unfocused.
"Go home Francis. Take your own advice and go home." He turned off the light and started to head out the door. As an afterthought he paused and grabbed the case file to take home with him. *Taking your work home with you…..now there's a new idea* he thought with a chuckle.
25 minutes later Frank entered his apartment. He flung the papers that he had brought home with him on to the dining room table and proceeded to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable. A few minutes later he reemerged in his favorite jeans and t-shirt. He went into the kitchen and proceeded to pour himself a glass of the wine he had chilling in the refrigerator. Glass in hand, he sat down on the living room couch, propped his feet up on the coffee table and leaned his head back on the couch and shut his eyes.
Too quiet. Music. That's what he needed. He set the wine glass down on the nearby table and proceeded to select a CD from his vast collection. Something that most people didn't know about Frank Donovan was that he had quite a wide range in tastes when it came to music. Rock. Blues. Jazz. Even a bit of country. Classical.
You name it, he probably had at least one CD of it. It all depended on his mood. Tonight for some reason, he wanted something sultry. He chose a disc from a Latino artist he had heard of when he was in Madrid a few years ago.
He sat on the couch once again and lost himself in the music and the taste of the wine. What started out as a relaxing evening soon changed for him. Something in the music. Why had he picked that particular type of music right now. He sat there for some time thinking about the rhythm and the beat of the music. The soulful sound of the singer's voice. He was singing about a lost love and the ensuing heartache. Frank slowly opened his eyes and looked around his rather meager apartment. The furnishings were comfortable but not extravagant. No personal photos adorned the mantelpiece above the fireplace. No personal touches of any sort could really be found around his home. It almost had a cold and antiseptic feel to it, and he wondered, not for the first time, if it would always be this way.
Frank had been on his own from a relatively early age. His father had been killed when Frank was still fairly young. It still felt like yesterday when his grandfather had come to tell him what had happened. Frank and his mother had been staying with her parents in Barcelona when the news arrived. Frank's father had been killed while on assignment in Columbia. His father had been a journalist with an American newspaper and had been assigned to cover a story about a drug cartel. Unfortunately, he got too close to the action and was caught in the cross fire between two rival drug families. His mother had been devastated. Although not an overly affectionate woman to begin with, she had become even less so after Frank's father was killed. She withdrew even further into her shell of an existence and Frank was left to heal by himself. His grandparents did all that they could for the boy, but they feared that what he really needed they could not give him. So Frank grew up learning to depend on himself and no one else. He kept his emotions to himself, just like his mother had. Even at his mother's funeral some ten years later, Frank showed little emotion. He'd learned well from her.
Suddenly Frank couldn't stand the music anymore. It made him think and feel things he'd rather not face. So he turned off the stereo and found something to occupy his mind. Work.
He found the case file on the table and opened it once again. Instead of picking up the stats sheets, he instead picked up the girl's photo. He stared at the woman's likeness. She was a pretty woman. Blonde hair and piercing green eyes. He absently wondered if she wore contacts. Her eyes were an almost unnatural shade of green. Almost jade, but brighter. High cheekbones. A hint of dimples on her cheeks. Her hair in the photo was long. Hanging well past her shoulders. It was shiny with an almost silky look to it. He wondered if it would feel as soft as it looked.
"Where the hell did that thought come from??" he wondered out loud. "Who the hell cares if her hair is soft? The woman has reportedly killed over 15 people in cold blood. And here I am wondering how it would feel to run my fingers through her hair!"
Frank stood suddenly and closed the folder in front of him. He backed away from the table like he was afraid to turn his back on it. *I need to get out of here* He thought. Now.
He'd already had two glasses of wine so instead of taking a drive, he decided to get out and walk a bit. It was after midnight, but he figured he was safe. After all he was a federal agent and armed. If anyone messed with him, he could deal with it.
A few blocks later, he found himself in front of a small local bar. Funny, he'd never noticed it before. He drove this direction every day going to work. It was just one of those buildings that seemed to fade into the background. But somehow tonight, it was all but inviting him to go inside. So he took up the invitation.
He was right. It was small. Maybe 8 tables and a long bar made of heavy oak. At one end of the bar was a rather large TV showing a baseball game in it's 12th inning. Who was playing? He had no idea. But the game seemed to hold the attention of just about all of the bar's few inhabitants. He leisurely strolled to the bar and sat down.
"What can I get for ya?" asked the man behind the bar.
"I'll just have a beer. Whatever you have on tap is fine." Frank answered.
The bartender brought the drink and eyed Frank for a few heartbeats. "New around here? I don't think I've seen you before." The man asked.
"I live a couple of streets over and just happened to find your place here while I was out walking. Seemed like a nice place so I thought I'd stop in."
The man chuckled. "Nice place, huh? Yeah, I guess you could say that. It's comfortable at least. The names Brendan McCauley by the way." he said extending his hand.
"Frank Donovan. It's nice to meet you Mr. McCauley," Frank replied while gripping the man's hand.
"Please. Call me Mac. Everyone else does. Frank Donovan, eh? Funny. You don't look Irish."
Frank laughed at that. "My father was Irish/American. My mother was Spanish. I guess I take more after her side of the family than his."
"That might explain it then. Well you're welcome in our little Irish pub nonetheless, Francis Donovan. It is Francis, isn't it?", Mac asked with one raised eyebrow.
Frank once again laughed. He liked this man immediately. "Yes it is, but my mother always called me Francisco."
"Well Francis. By way of welcome, this drink is on the house. And I hope to see more of ya from time to time should you wonder this way again."
"I think I'll make a point of doing just that. From time to time."
Frank finished his beer and one more all while enjoying the atmosphere and joining in the idle chit chat going on around him. All too soon it was time to go. He thanked Mac for the beer and headed on home. *I'll definitely have to come back here again* he thought to himself while walking back to his place.
///////////////////////////////////////
During the following few days, Frank found himself drawn more and more to Katherine's picture. It was as if staring at the photo would somehow help him crawl inside her head so he could help to understand her.
He found himself with more and more questions and no answers. Not the least of which was, how does a beautiful woman end up being a paid assassin? Not that being beautiful had any bearing on anything. So she was beautiful. So what? So she has silky soft hair, mesmerizing eyes and full, luscious lips.
"Oh my God!! I'm losing it!" Frank growled in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Again he closed the file folder and walked away. "Stop looking at it, you idiot! You're supposed to be thinking about getting inside her head, not getting inside her pants!"
Frank looked up at the clock. Nearly 9:30. Again, he felt this overwhelming need to get out of his apartment. *Mac. I'll go over to Mac's bar and have a couple of drinks. That ought to help clear my mind a bit* he thought.
Frank grabbed his jacket and exited. Once outside, he immediately felt better. It was nearly autumn and the leaves had already started to fall. There was a briskness to the air that hinted of colder weather to come. All in all, it was invigorating. Just what he needed.
A few blocks over, Frank entered Mac's bar. "Francis! How are ya? You said you'd be back, and here ya are!"
"Hey Mac. How have you been?"
"Oh not too bad. Although it wouldn't help to complain if I were" he answered with a wink. "The usual?" Frank nodded. *The usual? I've only been here once, and I've already got a usual* he smiled to himself.
After Mac brought over his beer, Frank started to look around the place. A couple of the customers were ones that he had seen the first night. Regulars, he supposed. A few new faces, but still ones that looked like they belonged here. And then he saw a woman at that other end of the bar. She was younger than the rest of the crowd. Late twenties, or early thirties. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting. She had her head down for the most part just sipping on her cocktail. The rest of the bar's inhabitants were either engaged in conversation or watching the TV. She was doing neither. Maybe she was waiting for someone. But then again, she didn't seem to be looking for anyone either.
Mac came over a while later with another beer. Frank took the opportunity to ask a question.
"You seem to know everyone here, am I right?"
"I take pride in that, my friend. I've known the name of every customer who's ever set foot through that door."
"The woman at the end of the bar, you know her name?" Frank asked.
Mac gave a conspiratorial wink. "Ah, she's caught your eye, has she? She's a pretty lass, to be sure. Just a little on the quiet side. Her name is Amanda Blake. She drops by here every few days. Been coming here for just a few weeks I believe. Hardly talks to a soul. Has her few drinks and then quietly leaves. Why don't you go talk to her, Francis. Maybe she'd prefer the conversation with someone closer to he own age than with one of us fuddy duddies."
Seeing Frank hesitate, he added, "Go on then. Times a wasting!"
//////////////////////////////////////
She'd seen him walk in the bar. He would be hard to miss in any crowd. Even in the bar's muted lighting, she could tell he was devastatingly handsome. Almost painfully so. She tried to watch him without him seeing her. And when he started talking to the bartender, she knew they were talking about her. Her heart began racing. Why were they looking her way? What could they possibly be saying? Then she saw Mac mix another drink. Her drink. But instead of bringing it to her, she handed the glass to the man at the other end of the bar and motioned for him to bring it to her.
*Oh dear Lord!!!* He was walking her way!
"Excuse me. You looked like you could use another drink."
She sat there momentarily stunned. Something about the sound of his voice left her paralyzed. She didn't think she'd ever heard a more soothing sound before. Mustering up whatever courage she had, she finally turned to face him.
Frank waited nervously for the woman to look at him. The way she sat there stone still for a second made him believe that she'd rejected him before even looking at him. Then she slowly turned towards him. He looked into the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen. Stunning. He'd never seen eyes like them before. Maybe once, but that was…………….
Then the realization hit.