Two Spies Too Many

By Sandra Kostere

Psychologist, employed by the government, turns spy after her husband is murdered. Dr. Rebecca Dylan was fading away until she discovered the hit and run accident that took her husband's life wasn't an accident.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543993752

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©2019 All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54399-374-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54399-375-2

Contents

Prologue

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

Prologue

December 27, 1991

When Dr. Jeffrey Dylan entered the front lobby of The Ranch at 6:35 AM, Mrs. Smithfield was waiting for him. Dr. White wants to see you immediately.

Is there a problem? Jeff inquired even though he knew exactly what the meeting would be about.

I couldn’t answer that, even if I knew. She answered curtly. Come this way. Mrs. Smithfield proceeded to a private elevator and punched a security code number into a pad located next to the elevator. She led Dr. Dylan into Dr. White’s plush office and closed the door. Jeff took a seat in a comfortable overstuffed chair and waited to hear what special assignment Dr. White had for him today.

*****

December 28, 1991

Dr. Jeffrey Dylan jogged through the early morning streets still shaken by the nightmare that woke him – Rebecca was in danger and he couldn’t save her. He told himself to breathe slow and easy, focus on the beautiful Marco Island dawn, and the romantic anniversary weekend ahead.

The serenity of a hazy crimson sunrise helped diminish the premonition of pending doom. He relaxed enough to take on the one obligation left before allowing him the freedom to enjoy the weekend. Slowing, he removed the Wes Montgomery tape from his Walkman, exchanging it for the recording of his psychological evaluation session of the agent referred by Dr. White. Dylan hit play and resumed his run. His taped voice clicked on. Agent Gerard, please sit over here.

No problem, Doc. A scraping chair followed by a thump as the agent swung his feet onto Dylan’s desk. You’re not cleared to use my real name?

We’re required to use your field name during your stay at The Ranch. Please take your boots off of my desk.

Have you reviewed my records? the agent asked.

Somewhat. Why?

Hey, my life’s an open book. So, level with me, Doc. The agent’s voice showed no stress. Why am I here?

We arrange a consultation whenever any agent’s partner is murdered. Dr. White had an added concern because your partner was also your brother.

That doesn’t sound like the Dr. White we agents know and love. Are we talking about the same person…our fearless leader with the reputation of being a brilliant strategist with a persona of ice? It’s hard to believe that between evaluating convalescing agents for deployment and protecting uninformed Americans, he’d have the time to worry about little old me. Gerard’s voice stayed low, even. Truth is, Doc, I’m not overly affected by Johnny’s death. We were half-brothers, not what you would call close. No tears shed here. Gerard paused. Maybe Dr. White’s looking for a fall guy. You know when an agent is killed on a job, it reflects badly on the agency. It wraps things up nicely to blame the partner and avoid any blame regarding government inadequacies.

A car rumbled up behind Dylan and he jogged off the road.

Dylan’s voice on the tape. Tell me what happened the day he was killed.

We were on a stakeout, said Gerard. "It was supposed to be a low-level risk assignment in the Bahamas. There was a building in a remote area that had not been used in years. Some unusual activity was reported. Even as the senior agent, I was not privy to why we were on this stakeout. It’s what’s called, ‘on a need to know basis’ and I wasn’t on the need to know list. The surveillance lasted four weeks without any activity. We were told to pack it in. The last day I left to get some coffee, chatted with the waitress for a bit, and when I returned Johnny was dead.

"As you can probably tell, I’m not overly affected by Johnny’s demise. We only shared the same father and fortunately Johnny’s death leaves me a larger percent of my deceased father’s estate. So, there isn’t any problem for me except if someone decides to interpret that as a motive. But, then that really isn’t a problem because I have an alibi, the waitress at the coffee shop.

Hey, your psychology license shows your address on Marco Island. How do you like island living?

I like it fine…. Let’s get back to Johnny’s death?

Bottom line. His death benefits me financially. Does that make you suspicious?

Should I be suspicious?

People in government work are all paranoid.

So, are you feeling responsible or guilty?

I wouldn’t go that far, but it was a bad scene…Johnny all sliced up… and castrated. Shit, that must have been painful. It was nauseating. His face…Yuk! They needed dental records to confirm an ID. His live-in girlfriend made an awful scene, crying and carrying on. With Johnny gone, the slut’s free ride is over.

A black GTO with tinted windows pulled up alongside Dylan, passing slowly. Then gunned the engine and took off.

Dylan’s voice on the tape. I see in your files that your father also worked for the government and was killed by a hit and run driver. You’ve lost two family members with unexplainable deaths. Do you have some theory about this?

It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I’d say working for the government can be a real hazard to your health. Gerard continued in a controlled voice. Then there’s my lovely stepmother who conned my old man into changing his will. My dad should’ve had more loyalty to my mother. She wanted to will her money to me, not some no-class whore. Gerard’s voice suddenly changed in intensity. My dad was just another sucker who made most of his decisions from the head below his belt…What’s the matter, Doc? Cat got your tongue? Or, are you just surprised when a person is being honest? But, that’s what you want, isn’t it? Honesty?

Do you want a place where you can be honest?

You know, I hate the way you answer a question with a question.

Fair enough. Honesty’s good. With that thought in mind, can you think of anything else significant about the stakeout?

That’ll have to wait. I have a funeral to attend this afternoon. I’ll be consoling my dear stepmother. There’s still her share of the estate to inherit, which as we know, should’ve been mine all along. Also, I’ll need time to review a copy of the report. If I contradict myself, someone would interpret that I was covering up something, or lying.

Are you covering up something or lying?

You’re doing the questioning bullshit again. It’s getting on my nerves. Do you really think that you can trick me into revealing something that could be detrimental to my career, or my reputation?

I’m not your enemy. Remember, we’re on the same team. We both work for the same organization. I’m a licensed psychologist, which means that I must follow ethical codes. My job is to help you.

So, as my teammate and my shrink, what’s your evaluation thus far? Am I distraught enough for you to make the recommendation of time off with pay? I’d truly be in your debt, and I’m the kind of guy who always pays his debts.

Taking time off is a good idea. Why don’t you plan on spending a few weeks at The Ranch? You can recuperate while enjoying the Florida sun. We’ll schedule a few more sessions.

Whatever. You’re the Doc. Gerard paused for a moment. It would be a breech of confidentiality to tape record this session, wouldn’t it?

Of course. The law is very clear on that issue. I must have the person’s permission in order to record a session. Which would be true unless you worked for a secret branch of the Government.

Now the end of the tape, Dylan listened to his dictated assessment about Gerard. Above average intelligence. A controlled façade, but beneath the surface there lies agitation, anger, and emotional lability. Initial impression is that he’s losing control and deteriorating. Administer an MMPI for a clearer personality profile. Need to rule out bi-polar disorder. Suggest inquiry into Gerard’s alibi for both Johnny’s and the father’s deaths. Investigate stepmother’s vulnerability.

He clicked off the tape. Another mile and he’d be home with Rebecca. They were celebrating their 5th anniversary and Jeff had made special plans for a romantic weekend.

Suddenly, a car gunned its engine behind him, its squealing tires shattering the quiet. Dylan spun around. The GTO was barreling down on him. He dove near a huge oak. Not fast enough. The car rammed him, hurtling him into the air. He hit the ground hard, his mouth tasting of bile and blood. He couldn’t open his eyes.

Rebecca.

The GTO idled nearby.

Rebecca.

Dylan felt himself detaching from his body. Floating off.

Rebecca.

Soon, she would worry, come looking for him.

Rebecca. His nightmare had known the truth. He wouldn’t be there to protect her.

Rebecca.

The world faded.

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, December 28, 1993

Rebecca sprawled the length of her bed, pen in hand. Three prescription bottles of Ambien, the newest sleeping pill on the market, were waiting on the nightstand. She had been saving them for the right occasion. Her screwdriver contained just enough juice to add an orange cast to the vodka. With a cocktail in one hand and a pen in the other, she began the nightly routine of writing in her journal. However, this night would be different. Rebecca’s final entry would have a flare for the dramatic. Today’s my seventh wedding anniversary and it marks my second year without Jeff. My life has become an endless parade of indefinable days blurring together. Passion has been replaced by apathy. Stagnation is the essence of my existence. I can’t go on this way. Wrong, I can go on this way, but I choose not to. I belong with Jeff. Rebecca tossed down her drink. The burning sensation brought tears. However, they were not real tears. Real tears had ended long ago.

Christmas had been spent in bed staring at holiday classics on her bedroom TV. Watching James Stewart resolve and conquer a suicidal depression did not conjure hope and she couldn’t fathom A Wonderful Life. The transformation of Mr. Scrooge lacked reality. How could she relate when she had no visions for the future and her only connection was with the past? After three days of screwdrivers, gourmet potato chips, Brie, strawberries and old movies, Rebecca understood and accepted her fate.

A doorbell sounded in the distance. She couldn’t be sure if it was from the television or her front door. It could be the Ghost of Christmas Present presenting the inevitable. Before she could find out, Rebecca stumbled into the bathroom, vomited and collapsed to the floor.

*****

Oh my God! What are you doing on the bathroom floor?

Rebecca opened her eyes just enough to see a blurry vision of her best friend, Monica, standing over her, hands on hips. At this angle, Monica looked much taller that her five feet, two inches. Her wavy blond hair fell lightly on her shoulders. She was wearing a white dress.

You look like an avenging angel. Rebecca’s snigger turned into a groan. Go home, my angel friend. I want to be alone.

I’m not leaving. You’re a mess! Monica grabbed Rebecca’s arm, pulling her to her feet. Get in the shower. Monica arranged Rebecca up against the shower wall and set the water on full blast. Rebecca shivered as the cold water slowly brought her back into the world she desperately wanted to escape. Monica stayed with her, intermittently murmuring encouragements and barking orders. Rebecca surrendered to Monica’s demands.

*****

After a cold shower, a few aspirins and some nourishment, Rebecca slept. When she awoke, the sun poured through her windows and the clock read 2:00 PM. The plastic bottles of Ambien had disappeared from her nightstand.

To Rebecca’s surprise, Monica lounged in the lanai. The thermostat registered fifty-six degrees. A thermos and two cups sat on the table, along with a plate of cinnamon rolls.

They sipped the strong coffee and picked at the rolls. Monica explained her intentions…a long discussion to last until this problem is resolved. Rebecca sat listlessly, hugging the sweater Monica had placed around her shoulders. Aware of the determination in Monica’s voice, she didn’t have the energy to argue.

Rebecca, whatever you’re doing isn’t working. Jeff has been gone for two years. Jeff wouldn’t want you to waste away like this. You need to find a way to get on with your life.

Rebecca stared out at the dreary gray water in the canal behind her house with all the debris brought in by the tide. A plastic coke bottle drifted along side a white plastic boat bumper and an orange paddle.

Come on. Talk to me, Monica yelled.

Have you ever taken cocaine? Rebecca spoke softly, as she continued to stare out at the canal. I’ve read about the withdrawal from cocaine. For a short while, life is exciting and you have all this energy and you feel so alive. And when you come down from the drug, you crash. With discontinued use, cocaine users experience anhedonia. It differs from depression because with depression, at least a person feels sadness. With anhedonia, the person feels nothing. With Jeff, life was a high, and now there’s only the nothingness.

But you’ve accomplished so much with your research on PTSD, and you have so much more to offer. It’s wrong to give up.

Don’t you see, Monica? I’ve tried to move on, but all I do is go through the motions. There’s no joy. It only reminds me that Jeff’s not here to share in the success of our work.

Monica reached across the table and held Rebecca’s hands. Throughout my two divorces and many failed relationships, you were my lifeboat. Now it’s my turn to be there for you. I don’t care how long it takes. You and I are going to talk until we come up with a plan. You have to get well. I need you in my life and I’m not letting you go.

I can’t stop speculating, Rebecca replied in the same soft monotone. If only I had awakened at the same time as Jeff. Then we could have spent the morning celebrating our anniversary. By the time I got up, he was already dressed for his morning run. He asked me to go with him. I should have gone. Then he wouldn’t have been listening to that damn Walkman and we would’ve heard the car.

You could ‘if only’ forever, Monica interrupted gently. You’re the psychologist. You know ‘if onlys’ are common in the grieving process.

Someone should burn all the books on grieving. Knowing the stages of grieving doesn’t prevent any of the pain and loneliness.

You are not alone anymore. I’m staying with you. I kept asking if you were okay. You never let on just how bad you were feeling. Well, it’s time to let me help. I won’t sit by and watch you fade away. We’ll start with you talking about whatever you need to talk about. What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Tell me about your last day with Jeff.

Rebecca contemplated her friend’s advice. Their roles had reversed. Even though Monica was a MIT graduate, a genius on a computer, and well respected at The Ranch for her researching skills, in her personal life she portrayed the personification of a dizzy blond, whose life was always in crisis. This assertive and strong woman was a side of Monica that Rebecca had not known.

Rebecca nodded and took a deep breath. "Okay. There’s this movie in my head that keeps replaying Jeff’s last day. I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. There was a pinkish glow in the sky serenaded by soft splashing sounds from the canal. And I thought to myself, this is going to be a great day. Jeff was already sitting in the lanai drinking coffee. I poured myself a cup and we sat quietly for a while. Jeff started the conversation by telling me about a session with some mysterious agent Dr. White had referred for an evaluation. Jeff said he was baffled. He couldn’t decide if the guy was a psychopath, a borderline schizoid, a psychotic suffering from delusions of grandeur, or if he was judging him too harshly because he was so obnoxious. Jeff described the agent as smirking and talking in circles. The agent sounded creepy. Jeff wanted my impression of the taped session. But he made a point of wanting me to wait until after the weekend because it was our anniversary and he wanted the weekend to be about us, not work." Rebecca stopped talking and stared off into space.

What are you thinking? Monica asked.

I’m thinking how wrong it was that he was killed on our anniversary, Rebecca wiped away a tear on her cheek. And then Jeff started reminiscing about how we met and the beginning of our relationship. Thinking back, it seems like it was important to him to relive past memories on our anniversary, as if he had known…

Tell me about how you met, Monica probed wanting her to keep talking.

We met in college. Jeff worked in the university library. I thought he was a struggling student, but later found out he had a trust fund from his deceased parents that paid for all educational expenses. After his parents were killed in a car crash, he was depressed and wanted to take the money and drop out and live on some secluded island. However, he could not touch the remains of the trust until he graduated. Jeff said if it were not for the stipulations of the trust, we might never have met. I disagreed. I thought we were soul mates and we would have found each other eventually. Rebecca paused and took a deep breath. Then we discussed our plans for our anniversary weekend. Jeff was leaving for his morning run and I told him to hurry back. He kissed me and his last words were, I’m so glad we have the weekend to ourselves. I love you, Dr. Rebecca Dylan."

The reminiscing continued all day and by evening the conversation progressed to preparations for Rebecca’s future. They both agreed that in order to begin the next stage of her life, Rebecca’s needed to get away from The Ranch and all the memories.

CHAPTER 2

The Ranch was a cluster of secluded buildings that housed a self-regulating US Government agency. It consisted of a small but capable group of agents, and a transient group of visiting agents that were convalescing in between field assignments. The Ranch was located on a forty-acre lot positioned at the end of a desolate road on the outskirts of Everglades City, Florida. The main building appeared to be a typical old-fashioned plantation. There was a porch that extended across the length of the building with several wooden chairs and a hanging swing big enough for three people. A sign on the edge of the property near the road leading to The Ranch said, PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO TRESSPASSING. Due to an overgrowth of palm trees and tropical plants, the buildings were undetectable from the road.

No one paid much attention to the goings on at The Ranch. Folks that live in Everglades City are used to people who come to their city in order to drop out and not be bothered. The many years of drug trafficking has set a precedence of looking the other way and minding one’s own business.

The building housing the Behavior Science Unit, where Jeff and Rebecca worked, provided a healing milieu for government agents that exhibit signs of job burnout. The job of being a secret agent inherently has an extraordinary amount of stress, however, Uncle Sam expects that agents maintain the cool, calm, façade of James Bond. A team of experts are available to provide the physical and psychological needs of the visiting agents, with the main purpose of facilitating their return to the field.

Dr. Jeffrey Dylan and Dr. Rebecca Dylan had handled the psychological needs. Both were clinical psychologists specializing in research and the treatment of trauma and stress disorders. All their patients were trained professionals with a license to kill.

*****

Wednesday, January 5, 1994

Rebecca arrived exactly on time for the appointment she had made with Dr. White. Mrs. Smithfield escorted her into Dr. White’s unoccupied office and closed the door. Dr. White’s office was plush and comfortable, contradictory to his rigid