I glanced in the mirror and saw Ezzy leaning against the doorway.
“I don’t know. Just thought I’d put a little effort into it. I really don’t know how it’s supposed to work. I haven’t been...”
“I know, dear. I’m just glad you’re getting out, socializing. Putting that crazy work stuff out of your head.”
I looked in the mirror and took in a breath. While I’d used a fair amount of cover-up, I could still make out a shade of purple on my jawline. The pain was still front and center as well. But I wasn’t about to harp on something that insignificant.
“Something is still troubling you, Alex, even three weeks later, huh?”
I chose not to look at my prying nanny and good friend.
“I’m good.”
“That’s code for something’s not good.”
The lipstick slipped through my fingers and fell into a cup of water. “Dammit, now that’s ruined too.”
Ezzy reached in and fished out the lipstick.
“Alex, tell me what’s going on.”
I could feel tears bubble in my eyes. I huffed out a breath. “Dad called me today. Said he’d spoken with the CIA and another FBI agent.”
“Good Lord, girl, what did he do now?”
I locked eyes with her in the mirror as my hands dropped to the counter. I felt blood draining from my head, and I started to sway.
“He...” I filled my lungs again. “He set me up, Ezzy.” A single tear escaped, but Ezzy was there with a tissue before it dropped from my face.
She hugged me, and I hugged her back as more tears flowed. A minute later, both of us sat on the edge of the bed I used to share with Mark.
“Go on, let it all out.”
I swallowed back some emotion. “Turov contacted Dad the night before. Knew that he was in financial trouble and offered him ten thousand dollars if he’d meet me for breakfast. She also instructed him to casually bring up our fishing trip.”
Her brow furrowed as she set her hand on my knee. “Why in the world...?”
“Pure and simple. Greed.”
“Dear God, Alex, this...I can’t imagine how you feel, girl. I’m just sorry.”
I dotted my face, realizing my makeup was smeared to hell. “He claims he had no idea that she was the killer I’d been chasing, the one who was behind Mark’s murder. Supposedly, she told him we were old friends from our training days at Quantico. He thought she was going to play a joke on me, get me to chase down a make-believe mystery just out of fun.”
“Of all the stories...Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe, Ezzy. I only saw him because I craved knowing more about my childhood, my family life, with Mom and Dad. He was a wreck, and what he told me about Mom just made our lives seem so dysfunctional, bordering on disturbing.”
I heard a stampede up the stairs, and I turned to the doorway and watched Pumpkin rumble into the room followed closely by a buzzing drone. A few feet behind, Luke was shuffling along in his Darth Vader slippers, giggling as his hair bounced up and down.
“Yo, Mom, did you see my drone cut on a dime at the door. It’s as quick as Pumpkin.”
The orange furball leaped onto the bed and buried himself in the mound of pillows.
I cracked up and said, “Pumpkin thinks he’s under attack. Why don’t you put that thing up and give him a treat. Just so he knows you still care about him.”
“I’m just messing around. Ah, okay.”
Ezzy gave me another reassuring hug, and I reapplied my makeup and went downstairs where Erin was vegging on the couch, her hand buried in a bowl of popcorn as a movie flickered on the flat screen.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“It’s scary, so yes.”
“What’s up with the black-and-white movie?”
She tossed a kernel of popcorn, and it landed in her mouth. “Just some director thinking he’s all that, trying to be different.”
I walked into the kitchen and picked up my purse. The doorbell rang.
Ezzy looked into my eyes, and I knew what she saw. Reluctance.
“Can you go tell him I’m sick, and I need a rain check?”
“Not if you paid me a million dollars. Now march to that door, Alex.” She extended her hand and shot me a wink.
Luke zipped by with a treat in his hand, and then I glanced over at Erin.
“But I’d rather stay here, with you guys. Just us. I need my family, Ezzy.” I sounded like a whiner.
She took both of my shoulders and squeezed them. “You’ve been at home for three weeks straight. Your family will always love you and will always be here. It’s time to live a little, Alex.”
Taking in a breath, I nodded like a nervous girl just before performing her first dance recital...or competing in her first tennis match. My heels slowly clipped the hardwoods as I made my way through the living room.
Erin looked at me and held her gaze. Without taking her eyes off me, she walked over and held my hand.
“Mom,” she said, glancing away for a second. “I know you’re apprehensive about taking this step. I know what Dad did.”
“Dear, why, how—”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve cried about it, talked to my friends. I’m good. I just want you to know—” She stopped, smiled at me, and squeezed my hand.
I felt the strangest sensation. When I looked in Erin’s beautiful eyes, I saw the innocence of her as a toddler, and then a flash forward of her as a determined, confident young lady.
A tear came to her eye. “Mom, you deserve to be happy. Please know that you’ll never lose this family. We’ll always be here for you, just like you’ve always been here for us, even on days when it’s tough, you know. I...I love you.”
“I love you too, Erin. And your brother too. And Ezzy. All of you.” We embraced, and then I turned to walk to the door.
“Text us when you’re on your way home,” Erin said as she plopped back on the couch.
I looked over at her, my grinning mouth open.
“Just kidding, Mom.”
I knew she wasn’t, but I let it ride.
With the guilt factor tucked firmly away, I marched to the front door. Tonight, I was going to let the real Alex Troutt out of her cage and have some adult fun. Finally.
22
Six weeks later
The man set down his readers and pinched the corners of his eyes. Fatigue had been his partner for years, a result of hard-labor jobs where he routinely put in grueling twelve-hour shifts six days a week. The seventh day was a holy day.
The man was no stranger to hard work. But as he’d grown older, his attention became more focused on the end result, the ultimate impact he could make on the world.
And what he was working on right now couldn’t be any more significant, about the past or the future.
He rubbed his calloused hands together and eyed the bottle of Jameson sitting on the bar to his right. He could wait. He knew he had to keep his mind sharp, his dexterity on point. At least until he finished this phase of his project.
He lifted to his feet while scanning the crude device sitting on the kitchen table. He felt a flutter in his chest, giving him the burst of adrenaline he needed as time neared one in the morning.
He trekked over to the closet—the hitch in his gait a result of an old work injury suffered years earlier—and pulled from the top shelf a coffee can. He shook the contents. The metal clatter brought a smile to his cracked lips.
As he lowered himself into the wooden chair, he could hear the sound of crushed gravel under his kneecaps. He recalled the routine joke he’d tell his brother, “God gave me cartilage like everyone else. But I guess I was last in line.”
The pain was no joke. Not in his hip and certainly not in his knees. But he now viewed that pain much differently than in years past. It was a constant a reminder of the sacrifice he’d made to be able to make it in this country.
Sacrifice. If only his brethren could understand the meaning of that term
.
“Just don’t fuck this up,” he said. And then he removed each piece of metal from the can and meticulously packed the metal pipe.
An hour later, he completed this phase. The triggering mechanism would be set up the next day, just before the rendezvous.
He stowed away his material in the closet, then poured three fingers of Jameson into a glass. Before he took a sip, he twirled the amber liquid, allowing his true emotions to emerge from their cocoon. A rage began to swell until he felt a fire behind his eyes.
He lifted his glass and recited an old mantra that had new meaning, “You can kill the revolutionary, but not the revolution.”
He started to chuckle. It quickly snow-balled into a wet, hacking cough that lasted a good minute.
He took in a sharp breath. And then another.
With his lungs temporarily clear, he said through a croaky voice, “This revolution is just getting started.”
And then he downed the whiskey in one gulp.
AT ONCE
An Alex Troutt Thriller
Book 3
By
John W. Mefford
1
The Reverend Father shifted his body in the antique wooden chair, wincing as the wood creaked under his weight. How many confessions had that chair interrupted in its lifetime? Thousands?
He cleared his throat and curled his arthritic fingers around the edge of the wood to stop the annoying sound.
Silence.
He hesitated for an extra few seconds, as his thirty-plus years of experience told him the young lad on the opposite side of the booth needed the extra time to find the courage to admit his sins.
Seconds ticked, and all that could be heard was the sputtering grumble of an obnoxious motorcycle passing by the eighty-five-year-old church. While the Father typically didn’t try to peek into the booth, his eyes couldn’t resist the temptation. Through the intricately woven lattice that separated the two sides, he first noticed the faded denim. The man was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. A dark hood covered his head. He must be wearing a hoodie under his jacket. Not surprising, given the recent cold spell.
The Father took in a breath and instantly lurched forward, nearly releasing a wretched cough. Water filled his eyes, and he stuck a finger inside his clerical collar as he tried desperately to avoid a prolonged coughing session, which he knew would sound like a grizzly bear hacking up two lungs. Slowly, air seeped through his throat, a crackle escaping at the same time. He knew he needed to see the doctor about the nagging chest cold that had lingered throughout the winter and now into spring. Actually, he assumed he had walking pneumonia, but he’d never slowed down throughout his entire life—not when he used to run around his mama’s kitchen with a red cape pretending to be Superman, and certainly not since he accepted the role of priest at St. Paul’s Catholic Church almost thirty-four years earlier. Too many people relied on the Father to be the pillar of strength. While a few of his colleagues had suggested that he cut back on his activities, he had no desire to diminish his role, not with so many events to oversee and so many souls left to heal.
A quick intake of breath, and a cough escaped his lungs. The echo off the slate floors and arched walls was palpable. He winced again, not fond of yet another break in the serene setting.
This resurgence of his irritating cough had to be related to the darn Boston weather. Another dip in the temperatures, and here it was May. Some years, he questioned if spring would ever arrive. For a split second, he wondered what retirement might feel like amidst palm trees and warm sand in Clearwater, Florida. He had a friend who’d made the life transition just this last year. His friend, however, had already called the Father, saying he missed the early-season visits to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play, even if the blustery wind numbed their faces.
Out of habit, the Father pulled up his black sleeve and noted the time on his digital watch: 11:52 a.m. He knew he couldn’t rush confession, but in mere minutes, the church would be overrun with a group of young ladies dedicated to studying the Good Book. He took in a shortened breath and managed to finish the process unabated.
“Dear son, you have no reason to hold back. I will not judge you. I am here as an agent of God, to listen.”
The Father could see the man shift and the sound of rustling jeans. Strangely, he thought he picked up a passing scent of charcoal. It didn’t make sense, but time wasn’t his friend at the moment, so the thought drifted away.
“If you do not wish to speak, then know that I absolve you from your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“I, uh...bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The Father nodded, a warm smile splitting his face. “Bless you, my son.”
He crossed himself, and then he could see the man’s hand extend forward. He was reaching for the door’s latch, and the Father spoke up.
“Before you go, I must recite this verse that you should carry with you from now until you join Him in heaven. ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”
The Father’s concentration was broken as the man’s hand jostled with the latch.
“Let me help you with that, son.”
“No!” the man said with urgency. “I...I want to remain anonymous, if it’s okay.”
“That is fine. I hope you’ve found peace in your heart.”
The door unlatched, and the man rushed out, banging the door against the side of the booth. “What do they call them? Millennials, that’s it. They’re always in a rush,” the Father murmured, pushing off his legs.
And then the room exploded.
2
A gust of wind smacked my face, a few loose blond locks blowing wildly, as I turned toward the sea of flashing lights. No sign of Nick.
Corralling the wayward strands and curling them around my ear, I said to no one in particular, “Crap, it’s cold again.”
I turned up the collar of my new Michael Kors double-breasted, khaki trench coat, then blew into my cupped hands. Mother Nature had teased me once again. After a weekend of thawing under crystal-blue skies and a warming sun, winter had returned with a vengeance. Well, at least my version of winter, which was anything under fifty degrees. Adding in the potent Boston wind howling off the harbor and a gunmetal gray sky that felt like it might collapse on the city, it was difficult not to believe some type of Siberian weather pattern had set its ass right on top of Beantown.
Lucky us.
Tapping the street with my stylish leather boot—I picked up the pair for sixty-percent off when I purchased the spring jacket over the weekend—my thin veneer of patience was being pushed to the limit by the frosty conditions.
Nick and I had worked together a good part of five months, ever since I returned to the FBI after wrapping my car around a tree. Well, someone did it for me, and I just went along for the ride. He and I had been partners before the crash as well, but further back in our careers. Apparently, I’d made a big stink about wanting to go solo. While it wasn’t hard to imagine my desire to do things at my own pace and on my own terms, I couldn’t recall the exact set of circumstances that had led to my decision. The memory police still hadn’t released a chunk of my brain from recollection hell. At this point, though, I didn’t fret much when I couldn’t recall something from my past life. I felt like I’d lived about three lives since then anyway.
I checked my phone and guessed that Nick was stuck in traffic. Hadn’t I seen signs that they shut down the Ted Williams Tunnel for some type of maintenance work?
“Screw it,” I said, flipping on a heel just in time to dodge two firemen before marching up the front stairs of St. Paul’s Catholic Church.
When I reached the fifteenth step, I quickly shifted to the right to allow the flurry of first responders to exit through the enormous front door. I grabbed one by the sleeve. “Is it safe to go in?”
“Structurally, I think you’re fine. Not
hing can take down this church. It reminds me of the mighty Ben Nevis.” The fireman removed his hard hat and ran his fingers through his orange mane. His sideburns nearly touched his lips.
I cocked my head to the side and did a quick keyword memory search, but came up blank. My expression showed as much.
The fireman added helpfully, “Ah, my family and I traveled back to the homeland last summer. Lochaber, Scotland. Actually hiked up Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in all the British Isles. Right in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. It felt like the center of the Earth. Awesome views.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson.” I gave him a single pat on his shoulder and crossed the threshold. Almost instantaneously, my shoulders dropped a couple of inches as the building protected me from the weather. “Damn wind,” I said to myself, then realized where I stood—inside the largest Catholic church in Boston.
Just a few blocks away from Old North Church, where one Paul Revere started his infamous ride, warning his brethren about the British invasion—the soldiers, not the Beatles—St. Paul’s had always seemed to be that rock that never changed. Its baroque architecture and weathered stone facade added to its enchanting yet imposing aura.
I untied the belt to my coat and looked up to see two police officers signaling me to stop.
“ID,” one muttered. I could hardly see his lips moving under his thick mustache.
I hesitated for only a second, then shrugged. I wasn’t going to push back. Not in this setting.
I pulled my creds from my coat pocket and opened the leather casing at eye level. “Satisfied?”
“A fed. Shoulda figured.” He flipped his head toward his left shoulder, and I followed behind another uniformed officer. “By the way, they already pulled the body.”
My boot clipped to an instant stop. “Who the hell is in charge of this crime scene?” I could feel my brow furrow to the point it quivered.
“I’m ultimately responsible for this church. Can I help you?”
My eyes shifted another ninety degrees, and I first caught the chiseled chin and warm eyes of a man walking my way. A flash of white beneath his chin, and I noticed his clerical collar. I almost choked on my own saliva.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set) Page 51
