Melodys Silence Pt 03

From Part 2:

My gaze locked onto the thumb drive, lying just inches away on the stage floor.

I reached for it.

Then--

CRACK.

The third shot rang out, and everything went black.

Now Part Three

-------------------

Agent Dexter Marshall -- The Day Before Tanglewood:

I didn't like walking into people's grief, but it came with the job. Beth and Scott McCall's house was the kind of place that had once been warm--a home, not just a house. But six years of unanswered questions had hollowed it out. The living room was neat, too neat, like a place where no one actually lived anymore. Pictures of Melody were everywhere--her college graduation, smiling at the beach, one of those Christmas portraits where everyone wears matching sweaters. But no pictures of Alex. He had been erased from their past, the way grief rewrites history to make sense of loss.

Beth sat stiffly in an armchair, her hands clasped in her lap, eyes wary. Scott leaned forward on the couch, his jaw tight, the kind of man who had spent years holding his emotions in check. I didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I need to know about Melody's last weeks at the firm. Did she say anything about her work? Anyone she was worried about?" They exchanged glances. Beth's lips pressed together, her grip tightening around her own fingers like she was trying to hold something in.

"She was stressed," Beth admitted finally, her voice quieter than I expected. "Not just normal work stress. She was... off." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "She wouldn't talk about it much. Just said she was dealing with difficult cases. I told her to take a break, but she brushed it off." Scott shifted beside her, arms crossed. "And she and Alex were fighting more." His tone was sharp, but there was something underneath it--something more complicated than just blame. "She didn't tell us why, but it was getting bad. He says he didn't do anything, but she sounded... upset. Distant."

I nodded, absorbing the information. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Did she mention any names? Any specific case?" Beth hesitated, then shook her head. "No. But she kept saying she had to be careful. That she didn't want to 'mess things up.' I thought she meant her job, but now..." She swallowed hard, glancing at the framed photo of Melody on the mantel. "I don't know." Scott's jaw tightened. "If you're asking if someone at that firm had something to do with her disappearance, you're six years too late, Agent Marshall." His voice was sharp, bitter. "We asked. We begged. No one cared."

I let the silence settle for a moment before I spoke again. "We care now." It wasn't a promise. It wasn't enough. But it was the truth. Whatever Melody had stumbled into, whatever had made her pull away, it hadn't started with Alex. It had started here. I stood, slipping my notebook back into my coat. "Thank you for your time." Beth looked at me then, really looked at me, her grief bleeding into something closer to exhaustion. "Find out what happened to my daughter." I met her gaze and nodded. "That's the plan." Then I walked out, knowing I was already running out of time.

Beth hesitated when I asked if I could go through Melody's things, her fingers twitching against the armrest of her chair. Scott was the one who finally nodded. "They're in the garage," he said, standing up with a sigh. "Been sitting there for six years." The words hung heavy in the air. I followed them through the house, down a short hallway that led to a side door. The garage smelled of old cardboard and dust, dimly lit by a single bulb overhead. The storage racks along the walls were lined with neatly stacked boxes, all labeled with careful handwriting. Melody's Things. The sight of them made my stomach knot. This was someone's whole life, packed up and frozen in time.

I started going through the boxes, lifting lids, sifting through their contents. Clothes folded with care. Photo albums untouched. Trinkets and knickknacks carefully wrapped in tissue paper. But when I got to the boxes containing her work-related items, something was off. Instead of neat stacks, folders were stuffed in haphazardly, papers bent at odd angles, some of them barely fitting in the box at all. I frowned, shifting a few files aside, scanning quickly. No laptop. No laptop bag. Just scattered notes, some with scribbled annotations in the margins. It didn't match the way the other boxes were packed. Someone had gone through these.

I turned toward Beth and Scott, who stood quietly nearby, their eyes fixed on the boxes like they held ghosts. "Did either of you go through these?" I asked, gesturing toward the mess of papers. Scott rubbed the back of his neck. "I opened them," he admitted, his voice careful. "I was... looking for something. But I was careful. I didn't mess with anything." His answer was reasonable, but my gut told me otherwise. Someone had searched these boxes, and they hadn't been careful. They'd been in a hurry. If Melody's work laptop had been sent with the rest of her things, it wasn't here now. That meant someone had taken it.

Beth's voice broke the silence. "Is there something we should know?"

I shook my head. "Not yet." I could feel their eyes on me as I closed the last box, dusting my hands off. They wanted answers, but I wasn't going to give them ones I wasn't sure of yet. As I turned to leave, I paused at the door, glancing back at them. "I've worked a lot of cases over the years," I said, keeping my voice even. "And I can tell you this--my gut is telling me Alex Brooks might not have had anything to do with Melody's disappearance." Beth inhaled sharply. Scott tensed, but he didn't argue. I didn't wait for a response. I just walked out, knowing I had just shaken the foundation of everything they had believed for six years.

The weight of their stares lingered as I stepped outside, the crisp Boston air doing little to clear my head. As I climbed into my car, I exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. This case had been tangled from the start, but now? Now, it felt like I had just pulled a thread that could unravel everything.

The weight of everything pressed down on me like a slow-moving storm. I should've gone home, gotten some rest. But rest wasn't an option--not with Melody's case clawing at the back of my mind. So instead, I found myself back at the FBI's Boston field office, settling into my desk, cracking my knuckles before pulling up my system. If Melody had found something, I needed to know what it was--before it was too late. I didn't like loose ends, and something about Melody McCall's law firm didn't sit right with me. If she had been digging into something before she disappeared, I needed to figure out what it was. I ran a broad search first--any legal cases tied to the firm in the past six years. Most were routine for a law firm of its size. But one case stood out: a drunk driver, arrested a week after Melody's reported disappearance, who had been accused of killing a superior court judge in a hit-and-run.

The defense strategy was standard at first--plead out, try to get the sentence reduced. But then something odd happened. The law firm didn't file a motion for a change of venue, despite the high-profile nature of the case. Instead, they kept it right here in Suffolk County, where it was overseen by a fellow judge from the same circuit. Even stranger? That judge had ruled in the firm's favor, dismissing the charges after the police failed to read the suspect his Miranda rights. Convenient. Almost too convenient. My gut told me this wasn't just about one case, so I pulled up Westlaw, cross-referencing the cases this judge had presided over in the last decade.

The deeper I dug, the more patterns emerged. This particular judge--Justice Martin Caldwell--had a long history of cases tied to the same law firm. And not just a few, but a lot. In the years leading up to his death, he had ruled favorably in their direction an alarming number of times. Business disputes, corporate fraud cases, even a few high-profile criminal defenses--time and time again, he had sided with them, often in ways that seemed... unnatural. Judges weren't supposed to show favoritism. They weren't supposed to tip the scales. But Caldwell had. And now he was dead.

A judge who consistently ruled in favor of the firm gets killed by a drunk driver. The case gets dismissed under questionable circumstances. And Melody--who had started her job at the firm just weeks before--vanishes without a trace. I rubbed a hand down my face, staring at the screen, my instincts humming. Either this was one hell of a coincidence, or I had just found the first real thread tying Melody's disappearance to something bigger.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. If Melody had found something she wasn't supposed to, something that connected her firm to the judge's death, it would explain a lot. It would explain the stress her parents noticed. It would explain the fights with Alex.

_________________________________

Agent Marisha Baxter - Tanglewood Ambush:

I could still hear the gunshots echoing in my head. The phantom sound of splintering wood, the sharp crack of a round slamming into the stage--it was all there, imprinted on my nerves like a second heartbeat.

But right now, I didn't have time for ghosts.

I crouched behind the overturned drum case, Alex's weight pressing against me. He was slipping--his head lolling forward, breath shallow, his skin too pale. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky against my fingers as I pressed down harder to slow the bleeding.

"Come on, Brooks," I muttered, keeping my voice steady. "Don't check out on me now."

His lips barely moved. "Not... going anywhere..."

Liar.

Another shot whizzed overhead, splintering a wooden beam behind me. The orchestra pit wasn't the worst cover, but it wasn't going to hold for long. They weren't just shooting blindly anymore. They were adjusting. Testing angles. Trying to get a line of sight.

I needed to move.

Fast.

I tightened my grip on my gun, scanning the darkened space around us. The exit was still too far. The only reason we were alive was because they weren't being reckless. They wanted something.

No--they wanted someone. A rustle above. A creak of shifting wood. They were repositioning.

I had seconds.

I took a slow breath and reached into my belt, grabbing my backup mag. With a flick of my wrist, I sent it clattering across the stage.

The sound snapped through the empty theater like a gunshot.

Footsteps shifted. Movement. A pause. A perfect moment. I lunged.

One arm wrapped around Alex's torso, dragging his weight with me as I rolled to the side. Another shot hit the ground where we had been seconds ago, splinters raining down into the pit.

We hit the side of the stage hard. Alex grunted weakly, his fingers twitching, but he was still with me.

For now.

I forced my breath to steady, adjusting my grip on my gun. The emergency exit was still a risk, but it was my only option. My brain ran the numbers fast--six-second dash, minimal cover, but if I moved now--

Then--

Silence.

No more shots. No movement. Just the faint sound of footsteps retreating.

I pressed myself lower against the wood, waiting.

One second. Two.

Then, in the distance, a car engine turned over. A murmur crackled through an unseen earpiece.

"Brooks is down. He's been hit."

A pause. Then, the voice on the other end--cold. Detached. Unmistakably in control.

"Then leave. We need him alive."

I froze. That was it. That was their goal.

They weren't here to kill Alex. They were here to take him. And I had just ruined their plan.

I didn't dare move until I heard the tires screech out of the parking lot. And then, just like that, it was over.

I exhaled sharply, the adrenaline still singing in my veins. My fingers trembled slightly as I finally let go of my gun and turned my full attention to Alex.

He was fading. Fast.

"Hey." I pressed a hand to his uninjured shoulder, shaking him gently. "You with me?"

His head lolled, his eyes barely cracking open. "Bax..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. This sucks. But you gotta hang on."

His lips twitched--something almost like a smirk. "You... like me..."

I huffed out a breath, somewhere between frustration and relief. "Shut up, Brooks."

His fingers weakly curled around my wrist. His grip was almost nonexistent.

Panic crawled up my spine. I had to move. Now.

I adjusted my hold on him and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs, ignoring the burning in my muscles. My ribs ached from where I'd hit the ground, my side bruised from the impact--but none of it mattered.

I had to get him out of here.

By the time I reached the side entrance, the air outside was too quiet. No sirens. No backup. The only sound was my own ragged breathing and Alex's struggling gasps.

I hauled him toward the nearest bench, my hands slick with his blood. I grabbed my phone. Dialed 911.

Ring. "Come on," I muttered. Ring.

Alex coughed, the sound wet and weak.

I pressed harder against his wound, trying to slow the bleeding. "Stay with me."

Ring. The line cut. I stared at my phone. No bars. No service.

What the hell?

A cold chill ran through me. This wasn't a random dead zone. This was deliberate. A signal jam. They weren't just trying to kill us. They were cutting us off.

Alex groaned softly. His breathing was too shallow, his skin too cold.

Screw it.

I reached for my gun, debating firing a round into the air--someone, anyone, had to hear that.

But that would also tell the wrong people where we were.

I swallowed my frustration and turned back to Alex. His lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Did I at least... look cool?"

A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. "You're an idiot."

His eyes fluttered shut.

No.

No, no, no.

I shook him. "Alex."

No response.

I clenched my jaw. Think. I dropped my phone into my jacket, then pulled out my own backup radio. Static buzzed in my ear, the frequency barely holding.

"Agent Baxter to any available unit," I said, my voice sharper than I felt. "FBI agent requesting immediate medical assistance. Gunshot wound, Tanglewood Music Center. No cell service--repeat, no service. Need EMTs now."

For a second, nothing. Then--

"Copy that, Agent Baxter. Units inbound."

Relief flooded through me. Alex was still slumped against me, his breath shallow. But he was breathing.

I pressed my forehead against his, just for a second.

"Hold on, Brooks," I murmured. "Help's coming."

And this time, I wasn't letting go.

I tightened my grip on Alex's hand, his blood still warm against my fingers, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on my chest like a vice. The night felt too still, too quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, in the distance, a sound broke through the silence--a wail, faint at first but growing louder, urgent.

The wail of sirens split the night air, flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the empty stage and the darkened amphitheater walls. The EMTs rushed in first, their voices calm but firm as they surrounded Alex, assessing his condition. One of them pressed gauze firmly against his shoulder wound, while another prepared an IV, hooking him up to fluids. "BP's low," one of them muttered. "Pulse weak but holding." Alex groaned softly as they shifted him onto the stretcher, his face pale, his breath short. My hands were still clamped over his wound, sticky with blood, when one of the EMTs touched my arm. "We've got him," she said, her voice gentle. But I didn't move until they physically peeled my hands away, replacing my pressure with fresh bandages and expert care.

The Lenox PD officers arrived right behind them, one of them--Sergeant Harris--approaching with a no-nonsense expression. "Agent Baxter, we got reports of gunshots. What the hell happened here?" I exhaled sharply, my pulse still pounding, my brain still running through every detail in sharp, fragmented flashes. "Two shooters, maybe more," I said, keeping my voice steady. "They were professionals. Elevated positions. Controlled angles. They weren't just trying to kill us--they were trying to contain us." Harris narrowed his eyes, jotting notes down. "You return fire?" I shook my head. "Didn't have a clear shot. By the time we got out of the pit, they were already pulling back." He glanced toward Alex, still unconscious on the stretcher. "And him?" His tone wasn't accusatory, but I heard the unspoken question anyway. Is he worth all this trouble?

I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed Dexter. He picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me," he said immediately. The moment I heard his voice, my shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out in a way I hadn't expected. "We got hit," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Alex took a bullet to the shoulder. No exit wound. He's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable--for now." There was a pause. A hesitation. "Are you okay?" Dexter asked, his voice measured, but there was something else there. Something careful. He knew me well enough to hear what I wasn't saying. I swallowed hard, forcing my voice back into its usual controlled rhythm. "I'm fine." Another beat of silence. "Bax," Dexter said, softer now. "I'm on my way. Don't let him out of your sight."

I clenched my jaw and turned back to the EMTs. "I'm going with him." One of them, a younger guy with dark curls, hesitated. "Ma'am, we usually only allow--" I cut him off with a sharp look. "I'm FBI. I go with him." The EMT nodded quickly, motioning for me to climb into the ambulance as they loaded Alex in. The doors slammed shut behind us, and as the vehicle sped toward the hospital, I sat rigidly beside him, watching the thin rise and fall of his chest. The moment we arrived, they wheeled him straight toward X-ray, nurses and doctors barking instructions as they rushed him through the ER. I moved to follow, but a nurse held up a hand. "He's going into the OR," she said. "No visitors beyond this point."

And then, just like that, I was left standing in the waiting area, covered in his blood. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile, too indifferent. The sounds of the ER hummed around me--monitors beeping, nurses moving, voices murmuring. But all I could focus on was the weight of everything that had just happened. My hands were shaking. My clothes were stained. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn't let myself feel in years. Powerless. I exhaled slowly, forcing my fingers to unclench, forcing the weight down. Alex was still alive. And as long as that was true, I wasn't done fighting.

Three hours. That's how long I'd been sitting in this damn waiting room, replaying the shooting in my head like a scene stuck on repeat. The gunfire. The blood. The way Alex's body had gone limp for just a second before I dragged him to cover. I had kept pressure on the wound, kept talking to him, kept him conscious--but for a moment, I had thought I was losing him. And now, here I was, stuck in this sterile limbo, waiting for some overworked surgeon to come through those doors and tell me if he was still breathing. My fingers tapped against my knee, restless, tense. I needed something to do, something to distract myself, but all I had were my own thoughts. And they weren't helping.

I inhaled sharply, shifting in my chair. That's when I felt it--the tightness in my chest, the stinging behind my eyes. I cursed under my breath, reaching for a nearby tissue and dabbing at the corner of my eye before anything actually fell. Get a grip, Baxter. This wasn't me. I wasn't the type to sit here falling apart, wasn't the type to--damn it. I tossed the tissue aside, running a hand through my hair. Why was I reacting like this? It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone get shot. It wasn't the first time I'd been in a firefight. But something about this--about Alex--had lodged itself under my skin.