“So where are you gonna go?”
“Somewhere far away from here,” she replied as she turned and walked back to her seat in the corner.
“Wait, Jeri… can I please–” Tom stopped at the rough nudge of Chip’s elbow.
“Let it go,” Chip slurred, waving his hand. “You’re not going to get anything else from her. If there’s anything I can tell about Jeri, it’s when she’s made up her mind. Hell, look at her… she’s practically gone already.”
Tom nodded reluctantly and took a sip of his beer. He could feel the older man leaning closer to him.
“So tell me, what was that whole letter-stealing drama all about yesterday?”
“I told you Chip, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course, it’s classified information now, right?” Chip said mockingly. “Come on, Tom, what the hell could be so top-secret, anyway? Have you already forgotten that I was the one who helped you with this whole ridiculous investigation? Does it really even matter now? After all, our little letter-writing terrorist has already killed his last target, and Jeri’s getting the hell out of here tomorrow. What else could you possibly expect to accomplish?”
“It’s not about her, Chip. It’s about the person this guy’s sending mess–” Tom paused and looked over his shoulder at the large man named Max seated next to him. The man appeared to be ignoring their conversation as he quietly drank his beer. Tom turned and grabbed Chip’s arm. “Just drop it, okay?”
Chip raised his eyebrows innocently. “Okay, fine…fine. I was just asking.”
The three men sat quietly at the bar for a few minutes before Chip took a long drink of his beer and sighed loudly. “Well, anyway… it’s a damn bittersweet day for this forgotten old saloon,” he said, raising his beer glass towards Jeri. “Jeri, there isn’t a soul around here who won’t miss you pouring their beer, but we both know this day is long overdue. It took the love letters of a terrorist to make it happen, but I’m damn happy to see you finally going back out in the world where you belong. Here’s to you, my beautiful, intelligent friend. Cheers.”
Tom and the large man sitting next to him raised their glasses with Chip. On the other end of the bar, Jeri bowed her head and smiled.
“Thanks, Chip. I’m going to miss you too.”
Chip nodded and quickly tossed back a good half of his beer. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said, his face breaking into a wide grin “Make sure you leave me a forwarding address. No matter where you end up, I at least want to know I can write you.”
Jeri shook her head. “No promises, old man.”
Tom took a sip of his beer, his mind spinning. What was he going to do now? Suddenly every piece of the investigation seemed to be dissolving and scattering around him. Jack Preston was strangely unreachable. Rick Martin was somewhere in China chasing their terrorist – if he wasn’t dead already. And now Jeri herself was leaving for god-knows-where before… before what exactly? Even that wasn’t clear. For the last few months he’d been pouring over letters full of obscured messages and photos of an obscured face, all in the hopes of catching a man who was killing for an unknown purpose. This wasn’t how investigations were supposed to happen. You were supposed to draw closer to the answers, not drift farther away. As he now considered everything around him, Tom realized the facts of the case were like so many grains of sand slipping maddeningly through his fingers. Chip was right. What could he possibly expect to accomplish now? There was nothing–
Tom suddenly turned and looked at Chip.
“How did you know that?”
Chip glanced up from his beer, a look of confusion on his face.
“How did I know what?”
“How did you know that Jeri’s letter-writing terrorist has already killed his last target?”
Chip gazed at Tom with a blank stare for a moment. “Oh that…well, from the letters of course. He must have said something about it in the last letter.” He paused and glanced over at the shrine of letters on the far wall. “I don’t remember exactly where, but I’m sure that’s where I saw it.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t make any sense,” Chip said defensively. “How else would I know that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve spent hours studying those damn letters, and I can say with absolute certainty that you didn’t learn that from them. Our terrorist refers to his victims as the Brainy Buddies, and in the last letter he says he’s nabbed three of them, but not the last one.” Tom leaned closer. “So I’ll ask you again, Chip. How did you know that the last target was already dead?”