Unbreakable (Unraveling) (6 page)

“Ben would never do this,” I say. “You know him enough to know that.”

Barclay nods. “I’ve said as much, but none of my higher-ups will listen.”

“What do you need from me? To testify or something?” I ask. Character witnesses don’t count for much, but I know Ben. I know him better than anyone else. I know what kind of person he is, the mistakes he’s made, and the things he’s done to make up for them.

Barclay shakes his head, and something about the look on his face tells me whatever his plan is, it’s bigger, more dangerous, and maybe even less legal than something like testifying. “I need you to help me find him.”

I almost laugh. “If he’s not at home and he’s not here, I’ve got no other ideas. You have resources I can’t even imagine. How can I possibly help you? Besides, did you look around on your way in? My world is trying to rebuild. I need to be here.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not on the case anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Barclay sighs. “I’ve been taken off the case because I have too many ties to it. They think that I’m personally invested since I know all the main players involved.”

He doesn’t have to say that he thinks it’s bullshit. I know he does, and he’s right. Sure, he worked a case that ended up involving Ben, but Ben was a target in that case, and if he were a suspect now, any agency would want an agent who knew the suspect to help out.

Agents are taken off cases for one reason: when they’ve become a liability.

Barclay didn’t seem to
dislike
Ben—once he decided not to shoot him, at least—but he didn’t have any real personal ties to him, either. If Ben did something wrong, Barclay wouldn’t hesitate to do what was needed. It’s the one quality he has that I actually respect.

Which begs the question: Who thinks he would be a liability, and why?

“What about Eric?” I say. Eric Brandt is another IA agent and Barclay’s partner. “You said he was your mentor. He could talk to someone.”

Barclay shakes his head, and when he speaks again his voice is thick. “Eric is dead.”

“
W
hat?” My voice is breathless. “How?”

“Officially, it was an accident,” Barclay says. “He was home alone, taking a shower. He slipped and fell, pulling the shower curtain down with him, and knocked himself out. The shower curtain clogged the drain and he drowned.”

And in case I hadn’t heard the skepticism in his voice or seen it on his face, he adds, “But it wasn’t an accident. Someone murdered him.”

I don’t disagree. It sounds like a scene from one of those bad
Final Destination
movies—too many coincidences lining up to equal an accidental death. Instead, I get to the point. “Who would do that?”

“I don’t know,” Barclay admits.

I open my mouth to offer my opinion, but then I stop and look at Barclay. He’s looking at me, waiting—expectant even. He obviously has a theory, and he wants to know if I’m going to come up with the same one.

I take a deep breath because I know that if I’m right, I might be about to dive into something huge. “When did it happen?”

“Both Eric and I wrote up our reports as soon as we realized this was human trafficking, not just one missing person,” Barclay answers. “Then we were excused from the case. I fought it. This case was huge for me, a career maker, but Eric told me to lay off the information, that he’d talk to the higher-ups.”

“And he did,” I say. I don’t like where I think this is going.

Barclay nods. “Two days later, Eric was dead and a report he supposedly signed with ‘proof’ against Ben was on the server. The order to find Ben and bring him in was issued.”

“That means . . .” My heart hammers in my chest, and I can’t say what I think out loud.

But Barclay knows what I mean. “Someone in IA is involved.”

Which would also explain the liability issue—Barclay was taken off the case because someone above him doesn’t actually want it solved.

Because Ben is a convenient scapegoat.

I
listen to everything Barclay says while I fight to keep my breathing even and my hands still.

I’m tempted to run upstairs, change my clothes, give Jared a hug and tell him I’ll be back, and bolt through a portal with Barclay—charge off and rescue Ben from these false charges. This is
Ben
. He saved my life, and I would do anything for him.

This is Ben—and I love him.

Even though I don’t trust Barclay himself, I trust his motives. This is Barclay wanting to do the right thing—get the right guy—and it’s him wanting to do the right thing for his career. Plus he and Eric were partners, and there’s an unwritten rule in law enforcement that says when your partner is killed, you do whatever it takes to nail the guy responsible.

But for me there’s still one very important thing to consider.

“How can
I
possibly help you?” I ask.

Barclay purses his lips, and I know he must have a well-thought-out reason. He strikes me as a guy who hardly ever asks for help, and I doubt I’m his go-to person. But whatever it is, he’s hesitant to tell me.

“I’m serious,” I add. “Even without IA resources, you’re still way more equipped to handle this alone. At best, I’ll slow you down. At worst, I’ll get in your way.”

He doesn’t say anything—he looks like he’s trying to weigh his words before speaking. Given his ability to offend me pretty easily, I can’t say I blame him.

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he says finally. “I did that, and you almost shot me.”

“That’s different. We were here.” I shake my head. “How is me traipsing through different worlds with you going to be helpful? Plus, I have my brother to think about and a world to help rebuild.”

He rolls his eyes. “My plan is a little more sophisticated than that, Tenner.”

“So what is it?”

He doesn’t say anything, and that’s when I have my answer. I’m not going to blindly leave my world and put my life in Barclay’s hands, when I can’t think of anything that would actually help me find Ben or prove him innocent. “My answer is no.”

“You can’t say no. I—”

“This isn’t about you,” I say over him.

Barclay stands up and begins pacing around the room in front of me. “This is important. You need to come with me—I can’t find Ben without you.”

“Tell me your plan, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

He shakes his head.

Stupid prick
. “Then get out of my house,” I say as I stand up. I’ve had enough.

I’m halfway to the stairs when Barclay says, “You’re in danger, Tenner.”

I stop and turn to him. His expression is blank, his blue eyes just staring at me, without betraying whatever it is he’s thinking.

I don’t get a chance to ask him why. Because right then, as I’m halfway up the stairs, the front door flies open and Deirdre is there, gun drawn, with about a dozen Marines at her back, screaming at Barclay, telling him to put his hands on his head and get down on the ground.

“
I
can’t fucking believe this shit,” Barclay says as he raises his hands.

From the stairs, I yell that it’s okay, that it’s just Barclay, but no one listens.

The Marines move into the apartment, sweeping into position to cover any possible escape and to make sure no one else is here. Their guns are pointed at Barclay, their eyes only on him.

Deirdre shouts at Barclay and advances on him swiftly but cautiously. The look on her face is absolutely feral—this is Deirdre Rice, FBI agent, and Deirdre Rice, widow and mother of two kids, all in one. Deirdre, who’s not about to lose anyone else. If I was Barclay, I’d be scared.

As she moves in, Barclay keeps his hands raised. He’s relaxed, but with a clear look of annoyance on his face, as if this is inconvenient for him.

He doesn’t even flinch as Deirdre moves in and disarms him, taking a gun from the base of his spine.

“Do you have any other concealed weapons on you?” she says, her voice thick with venom.

“Gun at my left ankle,” he says.

Without taking her eyes off him, she bends down to retrieve the backup gun, and once she has it, orders a Marine to move in and frisk him.

I can’t help holding my breath. I’m worried Barclay has another weapon. He’s the kind of guy who would have a backup for the backup
and
the kind who would keep something to use to escape. Plus, with the technology he has access to, he could have something innocent looking like a pen that’s actually a lightsaber.

The last thing I want is for anyone to get hurt—Deirdre, the Marines, even Barclay.

“Can we put some of the guns away and maybe sit down and have a rational conversation?” I say.

Deirdre doesn’t turn to look at me, but I can see the anger sweep across her face. I know how much she blames Barclay for everything that’s happened—because he betrayed the Bureau, because he lied, because he was, in a lot of ways, too late.

“Taylor Barclay is wanted for questioning,” she says. “And I plan on doing just that.”

I nod because I know it’s true, and if Struz were here, I’m sure he’d be going through the same precautions.

“Cuff him,” Deirdre says to the Marine who’s just frisked Barclay and come up empty.

I hear a creak from the hallway upstairs and look up to see Jared. “You okay?” I whisper.

He nods. “Are you?”

I couldn’t be more proud of him. Deirdre and the Marines are here because Jared used the walkie-talkie in Struz’s bedroom to get in touch with them. Jared reacted, even though no one told him to, and now he’s watching me with fierce protectiveness.

It’s a little like looking in a mirror.

“I’m good, I’ll be up in a minute.” Again he nods, and he goes without having to be asked twice. He’s going to be a great man someday—he’s going to be a lot like our dad.

When I look at Barclay, Deirdre is maneuvering him to the couch. His hands are behind his back, and he’s not actively working against her, but he’s a pretty solid guy, and he’s not exactly helping her either.

“Where have you been, Taylor?” Deirdre asks.

He snorts. “Not anywhere you’d be familiar with.”

“So you just went home to your own universe and left us to clean up the mess you left behind?” she asks.

Barclay’s eyes shoot to mine, and I see the flicker of surprise, like he’d assumed I’d kept the multiverse and everything that went with it to myself, before he covers it with a shrug of feigned indifference. “Wasn’t exactly my mess.”

“And whose was it?” she asks, even though I told her—several times—the same story I told Struz. She knows it was Reid.

Barclay smiles. “That’s classified.”

I’m not sure why he’s trying to piss her off, but when she backhands him across the face, he must know it’s working.

T
he rest of the interrogation is painful to watch. It’s not like on television. There’s no soundtrack to manipulate your emotions, no music to muffle the shouted questions and answers, the sound of skin hitting skin, and the anxious breathing of everyone stuffed into too small a room. The air is tight and smothering, with fear, anger, and egos threatening to strangle us all. It’s too hot, and the sweat beading on my skin only seems to emphasize the way my pulse is pounding underneath.

Deirdre’s questions are focused and specific. She asks Barclay about everything from his life in his universe to the recent disappearances here in ours. She’s unyielding and determined—even I feel a little off guard at the way she fires questions at him.

But Barclay doesn’t once seem fazed. A few times he lets out little quips or snide remarks. Once he answers her question with, “That’s a little above your pay grade.” But mostly he’s just silent, wearing a heavy-lidded expression of smugness with his lips curved in an arrogant smile.

He doesn’t flinch the couple of times she slaps him, but his lip is bleeding when Struz finally comes home. He opens the door slowly and scans the room without a single expression coming over his face. His eyes meet Deirdre’s, and after whatever silent communication passes between them, she nods and steps aside.

“Take him to a secure location and confiscate everything he has on his person,” he says to the Marine in charge. “Keep three people on him at all times. Someone has to take a piss, they radio for someone to cover for them first.”

“Yes, sir,” the Marine says.

Two of them haul Barclay up, as Deirdre whispers something to Struz. He nods.

As they’re pulling him out the door, Barclay turns back and looks at me. “You’re smart, Tenner. Just like your father. You know you should come with me.”

My face feels hot at the mention of my dad. I wonder what he would think of all this.

But Barclay has no right to bring up my dad. If Barclay had just come clean with him, maybe my dad would still be here. Which means I’m not about to feel bad for Barclay.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that he didn’t want to tell me his plan, and I wasn’t going to blindly follow him. I remind myself I can’t do anything to help.

“You should come with me,” Barclay repeats. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

What he means, though, is Ben.

Ben doesn’t have a lot of time.

W
hen the door shuts, Deirdre slumps onto the couch, and Struz watches her, then turns to look at me. “Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“That asshole has come back to tear more shit apart,” Deirdre says, and I’m a little surprised. She isn’t the kind of person who swears. “What more do we need to know?”

“Where the missing people are going,” I say without thinking. Because it’s true. If nothing else comes out of this night, now we know why people are being abducted.

For a minute it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Both Deirdre and Struz freeze with their eyes on me. My heartbeat throbs in my chest.

“Barclay is investigating a human-trafficking ring,” I say. Then I tell them about Barclay following me today, surprising me before I got home, and about Jared opening the door for him.

Struz turns to Deirdre. “Get everyone here in the next fifteen minutes. I don’t care what else is going on.” She nods and grabs the walkie-talkie, and Struz puts a hand on my shoulder. He squeezes lightly, and the look on his face is my undoing. His eyes are soft and the lines on his face express concern and worry—they say,
Are you okay?
I struggle to keep my emotions under control, keep the sting in my eyes from turning into tears. The truth is, sometimes it all feels like it’s too much, like I can’t take it anymore, like I don’t know how to keep living like this.