For better or worse, the fate of this investigation once again rests in your hands, Agent Martin. So let me make one thing clear– this is your last chance. I strongly suggest you make the most of it.
“I’ll make the most of it, motherfucker,” Rick mumbled to himself as he shrugged at the cold, damp air. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and shot a furtive glance at the stairwell behind him before heading down the walkway.
Apartment 1549 stood near the center of the long, open corridor. Rick glanced around nervously as he moved towards it. He was now dangerously exposed to anyone that might appear from one of the apartments or stairwells. His footsteps echoed against the cold concrete, forcing him to slow his pace. As he neared the apartment, he suddenly wondered if someone might be lurking unseen in the recessed entryway. He braced for the possibility and glanced quickly at the rusty steel door as he passed. He then nearly stopped in surprise.
The apartment door was slightly open.
Rick continued down the corridor, his eyes darting rapidly as he replayed the image of door #1549 in his mind. Were there lights on inside? No. Any light coming from inside the apartment would have stood out against the dark recess of the entryway. He stopped and glanced around. The walkway and stairwells were still empty. Before fully knowing what he was planning to do, Rick turned and paced back to the apartment. Without hesitating he pressed both hands against the door and stepped inside. His heart raced as he closed the door and spun around to face whoever might be waiting. He stared nervously into the dark interior of the small room, his senses on full-alert. Rick then exhaled with an overwhelming sense of relief. The apartment was empty.
∞
“Oh Christ, not you again,” Joe Brown said angrily as the old door groaned opened and Tom entered the saloon. “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”
Tom ignored the jeers from the bar owner as he stood in the entrance of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon and quickly stomped the wet snow from his black leather shoes.
“Don’t even think of asking for a drink, agent-man,” Joe growled. “I only serve people who aren’t trying to fuck-over their own fellow Americans. Understood?”
“Got it,” Tom said as he marched past the bar towards the far corner of the saloon. “I’ll only be a minute.”
A handful of young co-eds seated at the bar watched with sudden interest as the heavyset bar owner grunted with irritation. Sitting nearby on his usual stool, Chip watched silently. His piercing blue eyes followed Tom across the room.
“Fine,” Joe mumbled. “Go look at the letters and write your little investigation notes. Then get the hell out of here.”
Tom stopped in front of the shrine and immediately focused his attention on the letter from China that arrived the day before. He scanned the precise, all-too-familiar handwriting, looking for anything that stood out as particularly odd or suspiciously phrased. There has to be something here he thought as he read. Then something caught his eye. He looked again at the first paragraph. When he came to the final sentence, he read it carefully and stopped.
Seriously… have you ever seen The Iceman Cometh?
Tom took a step back as his lips silently mouthed the words. His eyes slowly widened as a new meaning began to reveal itself.
…ever seen The Iceman Cometh?
…The Iceman cometh?
...The ICE man cometh.
Tom suddenly ripped the letter from the wall and began running towards the door, his wet shoes slipping noisily on the old hardwood floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Joe yelled as he watched Tom sprint past the bar with the letter clutched in his hand. “Stop right there you little flat-headed piece of shit!” The bar owner ducked under the counter and popped up on the other side, his thick hands curled into fists, but Tom had already disappeared out the front door. Joe turned and slammed his fist against the bar top, his face red with rage. He glanced over at Chip and shook his head. “Can you believe the fucking nerve of that guy?”
Chip silently shook his head at Joe before staring out the frost-framed window at the front of the saloon. His eyes followed the running figure of Tom Coleman as he ran across the street and quickly vanished behind a white cloak of falling snow.
∞
Rick Martin stood at the entry of apartment #1549 and carefully examined his surroundings. The single-room apartment, no more than ten feet wide and perhaps twice that in length, was dark and unfurnished. A stale mixture of cigarette smoke and mildew hung heavily in the air. On the floor in front of him, a rectangular patch of relatively clean concrete revealed the spot where a rug once laid. Other than that, the only sign of recent occupation was a cook pot left on the small stove in the far corner of the room. A flimsy-looking door leading to the apartment’s balcony stood next to the stove, the small pane of glass in its center covered with torn, age-yellowed newspaper. Rick walked towards it, pausing at the stove and laying his hand on its surface. As expected, it was cold.