Author: Sam

Story: Speed Trap: 2 of 23

Series: Speed-Burn

New character: Ivana Gideon, FBI Profiler, was created by my friend Merrianna. She is used here, with permission.

Setting: Early December, 2004. Maine.

Feedback: Yes, please? Especially constructive. samwise_baggins@yahoo.co.uk

Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/samwise_baggins/index.html

Ivana Gideon was not amused as she fitted the key to the lock. The door, however, swung open of its own accord, never having been fully shut it seemed. Blowing platinum-colored hair from in front of her baby blue eyes, mentally reminding herself that she would have to fix the knot of long blonde hair, the woman gently pushed the door open the rest of the way. She warily glanced around the perimeter of the large room revealed by the opening door, and gasped at what she saw.

Hurrying into the ice-cold, bare room, she pulled out a cell phone and began dialing. There was no connection and she cursed the lack of call towers in this out of the way section of Maine. Help wouldn’t be arriving tonight.

Sliding to a halt, dropping to her knees as she did so, the woman ignored the stench of dirt and sweat. She let her hand play over the clammy skin of the man lying on the sleeping bag before her. Damn! The program was supposed to protect these people, not relocate them then neglect them. “Come on, be alive, damn it!” Her husky voice played out in the chilled air of the unheated apartment, almost startling her as it echoed dully off bare walls.

Questing fingers located a weak, thready pulse in the man’s throat, and relief swept over the agent. “Good boy!” The encouragement was sorely out of place, but she needed to hear something, anything alive in the godforsaken place. She ran her hands down, over the man’s too thin chest, stopping at the dirty, blood-caked bandages wrapped around his torso.

“What the hell?” This man needed medical help! She wasn’t prepared for this, hadn’t the means to help him, transport him, even to pay for the basic life support he would most likely need. The program had failed again.

Not that the public heard of the failures, of course. What honest, hard working citizen wanted to hear that their tax dollars paid for hardened criminals to be relocated to a nice little suburb where their lack of criminal record allowed them to once more hunt for innocent prey? What conscientious voter wanted to know that an innocent victim had been transferred out of a life of danger and deserted like this, to die alone on a cold, hard floor, bleeding and broken? What American wanted to hear that his government had failed, once more, to protect the average man and succeeded in letting criminals walk?

The Witness Protection program wasn’t supposed to fail like this… and yet, it had… again.

Ivana made a quick decision, trying to save a life that should never have been endangered. She slid her hands underneath the man’s shoulders, gripped his arms at the pits, and tugged. It didn’t help, so she let him go and grabbed tight fistfuls of the sleeping bag he lay on. Again tugging, she was panting for breath by the time she’d made any headway. It wasn’t enough.

With a soft grunt of disapproval, she let the anger wash over her, anger at her helplessness, anger at the program, even anger at her superiors for assigning her this ‘easy baby-sitting job’ when she should have been helping catch serial killers and rapists; she was a Federal profiler, after all, not a common social worker.

The anger wasn’t much, but it leant a small strength to her aching arms and fingers. She tugged again and again, inching her burden across the dirty floor, heading for the door and civilization. Not once did it cross her mind to leave the man and run for the help she’d been unable to call for. Her training hadn’t included these rescue efforts, hadn’t really included anything regarding the program actually, and it would be much later when common first aid sense would remind her of the simplest procedures she could have taken.

Someone below must have heard the dragging and grunting and groaning noises coming from the studio apartment, because suddenly two men came charging into the apartment, shooting questions at her concerning her possible need for help. She merely gasped out, “He’s not well,” as she tugged her burden towards the door once more. She was stopped by one man as the other, a large hulking dock worker, knelt down to examine the dark-haired victim.

He examined the man's bandages while his partner asked hurriedly, “Who is he? Your husband?”

Flipping her damp, loosened waist length hair from her red, sweaty face, Ivana shook her head. She mentally cursed her overweight body, knowing it had slowed her down in a critical time. “No, he’s…” her mind raced through the possibilities and she settled on the most harmless explanation she could find. “He’s a friend from work. His name’s Joe… uh… Joe Avery,” Ivana’s memory for details came to her rescue, at least. “He was hurt awhile back and when he didn’t check in, I thought I’d look in on him.”

These good Samaritans accepted her hasty story at face value; God bless generous New Englanders. The larger man gathered the sickeningly slight form of Joe into his burly arms, surprise for the unexpectedly heavy weight of the deceptively frail burden registering on his swarthy features. He grunted as he lifted, with his back not his legs, the bad posture making Ivana wince inwardly. With some effort, the man hefted his burden out the door and down the flight of rickety, weather-beaten wooden stairs, arriving easily at the ground level with barely a pant to show for his exertion. He turned expectant eyes on the blonde agent, looking for further instructions. The other man quickly followed in his wake.

Ivana nodded and hurried down the stairs, heading directly for her SUV. Opening the door, she was conscious that the two strangers exchanged a knowing glance at the whims of an outsider, after all, most rural New Englanders found it completely unnecessary to lock their doors in towns where everyone knew everyone and the largest crimes around were tossed eggs and toilet paper on the night before Halloween. She didn’t care if her actions had marked her ‘outsider’; she knew her expensive tailored business suit and leather briefcase already had identified her as a foreigner to this tight-knit community.

“Put him on the back seat.” Her voice held the crisp edge of authority, and she found herself instantly obeyed. With a quick nod, she headed for the driver’s side door. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” She slid inside and started the car, ignoring further inquiries and offers by the helpful natives. Ivana had to get this guy medical help, and that wouldn’t be found in rural Old Harbour.

The Federal agent put her rental SUV into gear and headed towards the nearest city large enough to boast reasonable medical facilities. She would worry about program funding, and approval, later. She had a federal witness to save.