Chapter 8: The Witness

"Juan's Office"
Zamok Archipièlago
Republic of Yara

Juan Cortez was busy in his so-called "office" fashioning one of his many handmade weapons and supplies. In actuality, however, this office was actually just a crude workshop based inside a rather archaic bunker located on one of the islands that made up the Yaran island chain known as Zamok Archipièlago.

The enigmatic Yaran Jack of All Trades, dressed in one of his usual tropically-themed shirts, jeans and boots with a wielder's apron and wielding goggles, was busy using a power sander to smooth out a handcrafted silencer for one of his resolver pistols when he was abruptly interrupted by the high-pitching ringing of his satellite phone.

Juan groaned and cussed in Spanish before removing his safety goggles, setting both them and his work-in-progress aside for the moment, and crossing to a small end table on the opposite side of the room. He scooped up the satellite phone and glanced at the Caller ID readout, not immediately recognizing the number. He did, however, notice that the number was of American origin, therefore imploring him to answer in English.

"Hello," Juan flatly answered in his typically brusque accented English.

"Señor Cortez," a somewhat dull-sounding female voice replied, "This is CIA Operator Seven-Four-Alpha-Seven calling from Agency HQ in the United States. I have an agency asset on hold who's looking to speak with you. He says it's an urgent matter."

"What's his code?" Juan inquired.

"November-One-Nine-Eight-Eight," Operator 74A7 said, "Our trace has determined he's calling from a landline in the United States, specifically a public phone outside a convenience store in Southern Vermont. The connection is secure."

Juan swallowed, as he hadn't heard the code N1988 in a very long time. "I see," he said, "Patch him through, please. Thank you."

A brief period of digitally-tinged static was then heard on the other end of the line before Bill Harvey answered on his end. "Juan?" Harvey said, "It's Bill Harvey. You were my CIA handler and trainer when my team and I executed Operation Independence Day back in Two-Thousand-Four."

"Yes," Juan replied with disinclination as well as recognition, "I remember you, Señor Bill. I heard you left the Agency and joined the FBI."

"That I did," Harvey said, "I was with the Bureau for eight years and I actually retired a while back. I've been temporarily reinstated to help my cousin and his colleagues investigate a serial killer who's active in my hometown."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Juan replied, "How can I help?"

"Well," Harvey began explaining, "We recently found a latent fingerprint at one of the crime scenes and we tried to run it through the various databases. However, we hit a wall when the print was red flagged as one with G-Fourteen security status. You're still Yara's legal attaché for the CIA, aren't you?"

"I am," Juan replied, "Yes. But, to be honest, I'm really not as associated with the Agency as I used to be despite still having that title."

"But you still have the necessary connections," Harvey said, "Right? Juan, it's been a long time for me, too, amigo. All my other Agency connections have scattered to the four winds. I could really use your help. No, better yet, we could use your help to catch this sick sack of shit." All but begging, Harvey put substantial emphasis on the "we".

Juan sighed deeply before mustering a reply. "Alright", he replied, "As luck would have it, the CIA's Deputy Director for the Northeastern Region was raised in Yara. I do have a good rapport with her, so send me the fingerprint image and I'll coordinate everything with her in Langley." He then gave Harvey his e-mail address.

"Great," Harvey said with considerable relief in his voice, "You're my hero, Juan. Thank you!"

Juan chuckled in retort from his end of the line. "You're welcome, Señor Bill" he replied, "Now hang up before I change my mind, you stubborn fucking Yànqui." "Yànqui" was a lighthearted slang term spoken by native Yarans often said in reference to Americans.

Residence of Karen and Gary Harrison
Toll Street, Winterville
Later That Evening
4:45 PM

Meanwhile, back on American soil, Troy Harrison took a bit of personal time to visit his parents at their home. Karen and Gary Harrison lived in a large green and white Victorian farmhouse situated in Winterville's Toll Street, just a few houses up from the long, historically significant covered bridge that separated the Vermont and New Hampshire state lines by way of the Connecticut River. In addition to Karen and Gary who lived on the ground floor, Jeremy and Hope Farley resided in the rear upstairs apartment of the house.

Harrison parked his SUV and found his way to his parents' backyard, where he found his father, Gary, spraying down his refurbished 1992 Bomber 202 Pro 20-foot bass boat with a garden hose. Gary Harrison was a tall, burly white man in his mid-60's whose gray hair was in a short buzzcut. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of well-worn beige athletic shorts.

"Daddy!" Harrison called out as he rounded the corner into the backyard.

In response, Gary turned off the hose and turned to see his son walking toward, at which point he chuckled. "Hey buddy!" he said before turning the hose back on and resuming his cleaning.

Harrison briefly put his arm around his dad's shoulder before taking a good look at the boat. "You've been taking good care of this thing, I see" he said, "It looks just as good as when you first got it last spring."

Gary nodded, not taking his eyes off his task. "Yep," he said, "The motor's holding up well, too. I'm thinking of taking it out to Cape Cod in a month or two."

"Cool," Harrison replied, "Where's Ma?"

"She'll be out in a minute," Gary said, "She's headed to Fairlee to see Claire." Claire Ross was Karen's 54-year-old cousin who had been fighting a very contentious battle with breast cancer for the last 16 months.

Harrison frowned at the mention of this. "Ah," he replied, "Ma said it's been quite the struggle for her and Fred." Fred Ross was Claire's very devoted and benevolent husband of 22 years.

"Yeah," Gary said, "Your mother says that the chemo's helping her a lot more, though."

"That's great," Harrison said. He then heard the side kitchen door close in the distance. Harrison then turned to see his mother, Karen, coming outside.

She was dressed in a teal and green sweatshirt with her well-faded blue jeans and white Nike sandals. She also carried two Tupperware containers that held two servings' worth of her famous homemade lasagna, and her black leather purse was draped around her neck.

"Hey," Harrison said to his mother as he walked closer to her, "Daddy said you're going to see Claire, huh?"

Karen nodded. "Yep," she replied, "I thought I'd bring her and Fred some lasagna so he doesn't have to cook fish for the umpteenth time this week."

Harrison chuckled. "Right on," he said before embracing Karen in a hug, "Be careful, okay?"

"I will, babe" Karen confidently replied as their embrace broke, "I love you."

"Love you too, Ma" Harrison said, "I'll see you later."

Interstate 92
Winterville County, Vermont
5:45 PM

Karen Harrison was driving northbound on Vermont Interstate 92 in her red 2016 Toyota RAV-4 SUV headed towards Fairlee, Vermont. She had the car's radio tuned to local radio.

"...And now the latest on the multiple murders tragically plaguing Winterville, Vermont" the female reporter's voice said from the radio, "Chief of Police Jayden Porter issued a press release earlier this morning stating the belief that a white van seen leaving the general vicinity of the latest murder scene may be a vehicle recently stolen from a Brattleboro fuel company."

A now interested Karen turned up the volume and continued to intently listen. "The vehicle is described as a white Two-Thousand-Sixteen Ford Transit panel van," the reporter continued, "Bearing the Vermont license plate number X-Q-C-Five-Nine-One. It also has the official decal for the Fuego Fuel Company on its passenger-side sliding door. Chief Porter also cautioned any citizens who see this vehicle that the suspect may be armed and dangerous. Anyone who sees the vehicle or has any information on these shocking murders is asked to contact either the Winterville Police Department or the Vermont State Police immediately."

Karen reduced her speed as she happened to notice a white panel van pulled off onto the grooved shoulder of the interstate. She carefully pulled up beside it as she saw a tall, skinny bald white man hurriedly exit the vehicle, at which point she rolled down her passenger window to address him.

"Excuse me!" she called out, "Do you need some help?"

The bewildering man said nothing as he ran like a scared coyote into the thick woods beside the interstate.

Perhaps against her better judgement, Karen got out of the RAV-4 and carefully walked up to the now deserted van. All the color drained from her face as she sighted the license plate number: XQC591.

"Jesus H. Christ!" she muttered as she grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and frantically dialed 911.

"Vermont Nine-One-One," a male dispatcher answered, "What is your emergency?"