— WHERE ARE WE GOING? — asked Clooney as he accelerated as much as he could.
Martin thought quietly, touching the area of his wounds. The cold intensified the pain, and the icy water from the rain dampened the bandages, making the situation worse.
— We can go back to my house. — said Carl Benedetti, drying the wet revolver.
— It wouldn't be a bad idea... — Clooney said.
— Let's go to my house. — Martin said seriously.
— To yours? — Clooney asked. — You're being sought by I don't know who and you want to go to your house!? That's crazy! Think of your friends who are already underground right now!
"We are all in the same situation," Martin replied resignedly. "Our homes have certainly been placed under surveillance, so anyone would be at risk. But I have weapons, ammunition, and a small amount of money stored at my house that could help us. Besides, if any sentries were there, they must have given up by now, since I haven't been home in days!"
Benedetti sighed over his recent disappointment. He realized that he was now also involved in that sinister plot, when he saved the boy in the hospital and took him to his home, even letting him use his phone.
There was no turning back...
Martin continued:
— We can go in through the back, there is a way to avoid any surveillance.
Brad Clooney nodded his decision and headed in the direction Gregory pointed, towards his house.
A SHORT TIME LATER, they arrived at the neighborhood where Agent Martin lived.
— The boy lives quite well! — exclaimed Benedetti when he saw the neighborhood they were in.
Martin glanced at him sideways.
The place was a neighborhood where wealthy people lived. Beautiful houses, with green lawns and well-kept gardens, formed a beautiful composition, worthy of appreciation for those less well-off. The young officer pointed out the direction to take for the driver, leading him through the clean streets of the place. When he reached a certain point, Martin told him to park.
—Here, we'd better stop here. — he said.
— Where is your house? — asked Benedetti.
—On the next street. We'd better leave the car here and cross the block.
The rain was still falling, although a little less aggressively. The indomitable cold, however, was an almost unbearable discomfort, especially for the two who were already soaked.
The group entered a backyard on that street, passing by the side of a house belonging to strangers. Cautiously, they crossed the pool and reached the wall, surrounded by bushes. Clooney noticed an elderly man looking angrily out of the window of the house, as they jumped over the hedge.
On the other side, Martin waved everyone down. They crept across the small, overgrown lawn to the back porch. So far, there was no sign of enemy presence in the house. Most likely, if there was surveillance, the killer was waiting in a vehicle on the street in front of the house.
Silently, Martin took his set of keys and unlocked the door. He opened it very slowly, looking through the crack that opened, looking for signs of someone else's presence. Finding nothing, he entered the house. The two followed him.
Benedetti led the way, his revolver at the ready, checking every room in the house, even the top floor. Martin and Clooney peered through the curtains of the front windows onto the street, checking for parked cars.
— Right there, — Martin said. — Unless my neighbor bought that Pontiac, that's a lookout.
— Nice band, man! — said Clooney. — I'm watching the mischief!
—No trace in the house. — said Benedetti returning from the stairs.
— Sure. — Martin replied as he went up to his room.
Within a few minutes, the young man returned with pieces of clothing in hand and a backpack.
— This is for you to get dressed, — he said to Benedetti. — Maybe this will alleviate that smell of nicotine and cologne...
— Don't be such a jerk, kid! — replied the offended old man. — Don't try to be better than me, smelling like talcum powder!
— What do you have there? — asked Clooney.
Martin opened his backpack and pulled out two pistols, cartridges with ammunition and a few wads of dollars.
— Oh, man! — Brad said, surprised. — So cool ! Who keeps money at home like that?
— I've seen that in some movies, — said the young man. — I never thought I'd need it, but it ended up happening.
WHILE THE TWO CHANGED their clothes for dry ones, Martin went to the kitchen to look for something they could take to eat. He passed through the hall of the house and decided to take another look through the window to see if he noticed any changes on the street. However, as he got closer, he noticed a piece of paper on the floor, very close to the crack under the front door of the house. In fact, it was an envelope, like the ones for letters.
Someone had pushed it in before they arrived...
He picked up the document and looked at it carefully before deciding to open it. At this point, he would not have doubted that it could be some kind of trap, such as biological attacks or something else. Looking at it against the light, he noticed that inside it there was another piece of paper, probably a simple sheet, folded in half or in three parts.
What would it be?
On the other side, there was something written that gave him goosebumps.
"What is this?" Clooney asked, seeing him frozen with the envelope in his hands.
After a few seconds, he replied:
— It was here, next to the door.
— Do you often receive letters?
— No more...
— Do you have a sender?
Martin read again the sender's name that was written in the corner of the envelope:
Mary .
— Yes. — he replied to his friend.
Clooney looked at the name written on it and said:
— Hum! Mary! Any girlfriends?
— Yes, yes... — Martin replied embarrassed, but saddened.
— Okay, man, I respect your privacy, but this is not the time to...
— She died four years ago.
Clooney widened his big eyes.
What a strange story...
Martin continued:
— We were on our way to her house after celebrating our anniversary. I took her to an expensive restaurant where I had reserved a table for us. We ate and drank the best! On the way back, I lost control and crashed the car.
Clooney didn't know what to say.
What would you say when faced with a tragic story like that?
— After a few days in the hospital, she didn't make it, — Martin continued. — Since then, I decided to dedicate myself entirely to the Bureau.
— Oh, man. My condolences... But why is this letter arriving now?
— I don't know, my friend. I don't know...
— It's better to open it soon then. — said Benedetti coming from the kitchen, chewing on something he had found there.
Martin sat down on the sofa and opened the letter carefully, still afraid it was a trap. There was nothing there but the folded paper, to his relief. Then he read the following text:
Things got really bad for us, so I didn't care anymore. I still remember our moments, in my house. I still think and listen to our music, which I never had the courage to play again. I can't finger our notes on my piano anymore. Sometimes I wonder why I chose you, why I insisted so much, only to end up regretting it...
At that moment, Martin had an epiphany. He looked ahead in fright and said:
—Wait! There's something wrong here!
— Dude, if you got a letter four years later, there's something really wrong, right? — Clooney said, also chewing on something Benedetti had brought from the kitchen.
— This text, I think, has a message.
Martin remembered the words of Robert Payne, when he said to him:
"That's why I chose Gregory Evans, even though I regret it." The reading continued:
...to end up regretting it so much. Well, I still wanted to give you a chance. To have an answer, you know? I keep thinking about our problems, our fights, our joys. I think that maybe everything would have been solved in my house, when we always found the answers we needed. Prove to me that you weren't a mistake. Please! I just needed this...
Martin closed the paper and looked at Clooney and Benedetti.
— I know where we should go!