Catch a Shadow Read Free

world for too long had been a cage large enough only for a hard cot and a toilet.
    And he was at risk of going back because of an enigmatic phone call that could well be a trap.
    He stepped out of his rental car and into the shadows of a building. He hadn’t forgotten how to blend into his environment.
    He glanced down at his watch. Five minutes until the meeting time.
    He’d been here an hour. Upon arrival, he’d made a quick trip inside the tavern, studied the interior. Then he’d driven around until he found a parking spot where he could watch the front door. Not the back, but the parking lot there stayed full.
    So far, no one seemed familiar. No one looked around as if searching for someone.
    He thought about walking away, but hope was a mighty force. He recalled every word of the phone call that came five days after his release. His phone had just been installed one day earlier in the modest, furnished apartment he’d rented.
    He’d figured, when the phone rang, it was his supervisory officer—one of only two people who had the number.
    â€œKelly? Jake Kelly?” came a male voice on the phone.
    Jake hadn’t recognized it. It certainly wasn’t the man who now controlled his life.
    â€œYes. Who is this?”
    â€œNever mind that. I have a message for you,” the voice continued. “This is it. My client says he knows what happened in South America. He wants to meet with you at a tavern at 602 North Highland in Atlanta on Tuesday. Four p.m. Back room. Left corner table. Don’t be followed.”
    â€œWho is your client?” Jake asked, not trying to mask his sudden hope.
    The caller hung up.
    Jake had checked the caller ID: Unknown Number.
    He suspected he wouldn’t discover more, even if he had resources to pursue a search. Instead, he jotted down every word. His memory, except for the day that eluded and haunted him, was good, but he wanted the conversation, such as it was, as it had been said.
    â€œ He knows what happened in South America …”
    He glanced down at his watch again. Every movement of the minute hand made his freedom more precarious.
    He was on supervised parole, required to report in once a week and subject to unannounced checks. He was forbidden to leave the state of Illinois. He was a fool for risking violating his parole, but this might be his only chance to clear his name, to get some justice for Chet and Ramos and the others. And himself. He’d been abandoned—no, condemned—by those he trusted, by the government he’d served to the exclusion of everything else. He’d lost all faith in anyone but himself, and even that was wobbly at best.
    He’d tried for the last seven years to discover what had happened in South America. His letters—and those of his attorney—had gone unanswered, queries always blocked by national security walls.
    All he knew was that while he was recuperating in a hospital, someone found a half a million dollars in a bank account that led back to him, an offshore account he’d never opened. He’d been charged with stealing both the cash and diamonds his team had carried on that last mission.
    He’d also been suspected of murdering his teammates for money. Chet. Ramos. Del. Adams. The army had sought to charge him with that, but they could find no bodies. There was only the offshore account, the missing cash and diamonds, and four missing men. That had been enough for a conviction of theft. His own wounds had been self-inflicted, the JAG prosecutor had charged. Never mind he’d nearly died from them. The army had lost five million dollars, and it needed someone to blame.
    The memory of what happened that afternoon had never come back to him. Major head trauma often caused amnesia that wiped away events that immediately preceded the injury. But he was no ordinary person. He was trained to observe anything and everything and catalog it to memory. The failure to