Rick leaped in. “How come you’re a believer?”
His head came up. “What?”
“You were highly skeptical at first. What changed your mind?”
Eyes narrowing, Clay peered first at Rick, then at me. I could see that his mind was working hard, remembering that day in the motel when he first met Rick and me. He had scoffed too—until his wallet kept disappearing and the clip for his pistol loaded and unloaded itself.
“So, I’ll bring the pouch tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Careful, Danni,” Rick said. “You keep saying that you don’t control the pouch. So, what if nothing happens?”
No one had an answer for that. He was right. I kept forgetting that. I kept committing Le Gardien to some form of action, and sometimes Le Gardien fired right back at me and said, “Now, tell me: Who are you again?”
Clay shook his head. “That’s what I thought. I like the idea, but it had better work.”
Grandpère moved in closer and looked him right in the eye. “The truth is the only answer, Clay. Trust me on that.”
Clay stood up, clearly not convinced. “Let me think about it.”
Joel Jamison surprised me a little. I guess after what Clay had said about him, I expected this bulldog-faced, hard-nosed, crew-cut, Navy-Seal-looking kind of a guy. Instead, he was shorter than I expected—probably about five feet ten—stocky in build with a bit of a paunch, partially balding, and had a very forgettable face. I guess plain was the best word to describe him. I glanced at Rick to see what he thought of him, but he gave me one of his I-don’t-know shrugs.
As we filed into the small conference room where he, Clay, and Officer Shayla Blake were waiting for us, all three stood up. Clay came over and shook hands quickly, then introduced us to his boss. Jamison’s handshake was firm, but not quite the viselike grip I had expected. As he greeted the others, I noticed several things at once. There were pitchers of ice water on the table with glasses all around. Small paper plates were in front of where the three had been seated. They were soiled and had crumpled napkins on them. A tray with breads, cheeses, dips, and assorted fruit sat in the middle of the table, which explained the smaller plates. Most notable, however, were the three folders lying side by side on the table in front of where Jamison had been sitting. Two had FBI logos, the third the shield of the Utah Highway Patrol. I assumed the first two were Clay’s two versions of what had happened, and that he had gone with our recommendation to tell all.
Shayla, dressed in her UHP uniform, murmured a greeting but stayed where she was. She looked pretty subdued. I glanced at Clay. It was hard to tell what he was feeling. He was all smiles as he greeted each one of us, but it did seem a little strained.
When we were seated, Clay poured us water and offered the tray to us. All of us, having had a late breakfast, declined. Which kind of ended Clay’s efforts to stall any longer. He returned and sat down at Jamison’s left.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jamison said. “Knowing how far away you live from here, I appreciate you making the effort to come to Salt Lake.”
I was tempted to quip that we had been bribed shamelessly to do so, but decided at this point it was better for the mouse to keep her head down while the elephants were tromping in the meadow.
He took a quick breath, and I thought I saw a flash of anger behind his eyes, but then he smiled. “Let me begin by saying that we are in your debt. What your family has done with this dangerous team of criminals is nothing short of astonishing. I commented to the Director of the FBI the other day that Danni and Rick should be drawing a salary.”
We all smiled and murmured our thanks. He leaned forward. “I really mean that. There are several people in Washington marveling about it as we speak.” He turned to Shayla. “And that goes for you as well, Officer Blake. I am drafting a letter of commendation to the Superintendent of the UHP in your behalf.”
She was clearly taken aback. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that very much. But, as you say, I just kind of hung back and gave backup to Danni and Rick while they did the heavy lifting.”
“Yes.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “Let me give you a quick report on where things stand. As Clay has told you, we are disappointed that our investigation into who is the real force behind El Cobra and his team has not borne more fruit. We think they are connected to this international gang of kidnappers but so far cannot confirm that positively. But one thing is certain: We nailed this gang completely, thanks to you guys. And that relieves us of a great deal of anxiety about your safety. We are hopeful that the capture of the last three will prove to be a significant breakthrough. We are particularly encouraged by the two men who were bitten by the rattlesnakes. Their ordeal left them deeply shaken, and they were furious that the Belgian essentially left them to die. So, thus far, they’re singing like canaries, but they don’t know much. All kinds of information on El Cobra and the rest of them, but nothing on who’s behind it all, or even for sure if there is a ‘behind it all.’”
Mom tentatively waved a hand. He nodded at her.
“Isn’t it a little strange that El Cobra and the others still don’t have an attorney?”
“It is. We’re not sure why that is the case. But knowing how sophisticated this organization is, they’ve probably drilled three things into the heads of all their operatives: One, if you talk, you’re dead. We’ll get to you. Even in prison. Two, if you don’t talk, there’s a large sum of cash waiting for you. And three, if you keep mum, you’ll have the best attorneys in the business. So we expect that one of these days, someone will come forth to represent them.”
“But being promised money is not very comforting when you’re in prison, is it?” I asked.
Clay spoke up. “Oh, you’d be surprised. They can access those funds to some extent from prison. Use them to bless their families. Invest them so they’re earning money.”
That seemed logical, and once again I felt a sense of wonder that little Danni McAllister, the girl with the enchanted pouch, was able to stop such a sophisticated gang as this. With help from Rick, of course. It really was quite remarkable.
Clearly finished with the soft stuff, Jamison picked up the thicker of the two FBI folders. A deep furrow creased his brow. Here we go, I thought.
But then he evidently had another thought, because he set it down again and turned to Clay. “If—or, more likely, when—they get an attorney or team of attorneys, that could change everything. Not only will we not know what their clients are telling them, but there’s no way we can stop the attorneys from making whatever statements they want to the press. Which means it is likely that our drug bust cover story isn’t going to hold up for much longer. So, Clay, I want you and Officer Blake to start working on a joint statement. Perhaps you’ll even have to hold a press conference sometime in the near future.”
“Yes, sir.” Clay made a few notes on his pad.
“Okay.” He picked up the folders again, and from his expression, we sensed that the game was on.
The room was totally quiet as Jamison opened the thicker of the two FBI folders—which I assumed was the “full” report—and quickly scanned down the first page. As he did so, I watched his eyes closely. And this time there was no mistaking it. This wasn’t a flash of irritation. This was hard, cold anger. He glanced at Clay, but Clay was staring at his hands and missed it. Well, I take that back. He may not have seen it, but I’m betting that he felt it. The rest of us surely did.
Finally, Jamison closed the folder and set it down. Then he turned to me, his eyes boring into mine like they were spear points. “Okay, Miss McAllister. Clay tells me that you—and possibly your family—have a statement you would like to make.”
“I do. We do,” I said meekly. Though I had no idea what that statement was going to be.
“Before you start, I need to make two things perfectly clear. First, Clay Z
abriskie is one of the outstanding agents in the Bureau. Obviously, you don’t become a regional AIC otherwise. He has many years of commendable service behind him.” He stopped, glaring at Clay, who finally had looked up and was following his every word.
“But you need to know, all of you, that his career is in serious jeopardy at the moment. What you are about to say could make or break the career of one of our finest agents. Is that clear?”
Perfectly. Does he even have to ask?
“Second, and equally important, is this.” Now he turned and looked directly at me and Rick. I felt like one of those high-powered searchlights had just been focused on us. “This is a federal criminal investigation of a capital crime. We are presently in the process of collecting evidence that we hope will lead to the conviction of the perpetrators.”
He stopped, letting his gaze rake across every one of our faces, stopping again on me and Rick. “Interfering with this investigation in any way is a federal crime with heavy penalties. It doesn’t matter whether this is done by giving false information, withholding information, tampering with evidence, embellishing the facts, adding half truths or untruths to place yourself or your family members in a better light, or just plain, straight-out perjury. Any of these constitute a felony. So be very careful what you say—or don’t say—because you are flirting with felonious behavior. And I will not, and cannot, ignore that behavior, no matter how commendable your actions of these past two weeks may have been. Do you both understand me?”
I tried hard not to flinch as I met his gaze. My heart was hammering inside my chest, my mouth was suddenly dry, and I was finding it hard to breathe. But I managed to answer him. “I understand clearly, Mr. Jamison.”
“Yes, sir,” Rick said.
I glanced down the table at my family. Mom was very sober, but she nodded at me. “It’s all right, Carruthers. Just tell him the truth.”
Right! I think the truth may be part of the problem here, Mom.
Dad also leaned forward and smiled his encouragement. Grandpère was staring at his hands and didn’t look up. I didn’t dare look at Rick because he was right beside me. But I guessed that he was thinking that everything Jamison said to me applied to him as well.
“All right,” Jamison said at last. His eyes bored into me. “I see that you have a purse or a pouch over your shoulder. Is this the pouch I have been reading about this morning?”
I squeezed the pouch with my elbow, pressing it against my body. “It is.” It felt cool. Which was not a good sign. “If I may, Mr. Deputy Director, I would like to begin by—”
His face softened a little. “You may call me Joel, Danni.”
Oh, really? Maybe sometime in the twenty-second century, but not when I am about to become the first felon in McAllister history. No way.
My shoulders lifted and fell as I took a deep breath, my mind racing. There was nothing. I was blank as a board and blind panic was swelling up inside me. Finally, I cleared my throat. “Uh ... perhaps I should start by ... um ... telling you a little bit about how I got the pouch.”
He nodded and sat back.
No! That’s not the answer. I looked at the floor. Then what is? Nothing came.
I got to my feet, stalling for time. I felt a little dizzy, like I might faint. Oh, that will impress him. The lady felon faints on cue.
And then came one simple, little, teeny thought. I reared back for a moment, caught totally by surprise. Then I pushed back my chair enough that I had some maneuvering room and took the pouch off my shoulder. Very solemnly, ignoring the sudden surprise on his face, I walked around to where he was sitting. As he half turned to face me, I reached out and laid the pouch on the table before him. Then I stepped back.
He reached down and picked it up, exploring it with his fingers. Then his head dropped, and he examined it more closely. As he started to unbutton the flap, he saw the embroidered words. “Le Gardien,” he murmured. His pronunciation was perfect.
“Do you speak French, Mr. Jamison?” I asked.
“A little.”
“Then you know what it means?”
“Yes. The Guardian.”
Okay. This was good. No bloodletting so far. So what next?
“You can open it if you like,” I said.
He did so, unbuttoning the flap and looking inside. He held it up and shook it slightly so that if there had been anything inside, it would have fallen out. I wondered then if Clay had included his first experience with the pouch back in the motel that first day Rick and I met him. I guessed no, but I wasn’t sure.
Jamison was waiting, and I could see that his patience was quickly evaporating.
Come on, Le Gardien. Do something before he skewers me and puts me over the fire to roast.
Nothing happened. So I plunged in blindly. “Sir, if I may, I should like to tell you a little bit about how I came to—”
He ignored that. “And this is the pouch that supposedly made you and your brother invisible. That produced a pistol out of thin air? A toy pistol, right? Which then began firing a whole clip of bullets?” He slammed the pouch down on the table. “Don’t you start down that path, young lady. It’s a very slippery slope, and I would advise you to have an attorney present before you make any further statements.”
His warning knocked me back, and I just stared at him blankly. Rick stood and came over beside me. He didn’t say anything, just moved up until we stood shoulder to shoulder.
Fortunately, someone else responded. “Actually, it was more than one clip,” Grandpère said, speaking up for the first time since the introductions had been made. “The clip held eight rounds, I believe. But nearly two dozen shots were fired.”
Jamison swung around, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you start too,” he began, “or I’ll—”
Grandpère shot to his feet, and it so startled Jamison that he stopped in midsentence.
“Is it true you graduated from Harvard Law School before joining the FBI?” Grandpère demanded.
“I ... yes. So what?”
“Since you’re trained in the law, answer me this. In the eyes of the law, how many credible eyewitnesses does it take to get a conviction on charges of unlawful conduct?”
Jamison was glowering at him, not sure what this was all about. Grandpère just waited patiently until he settled back in his chair. Obviously suspicious, he thought about it for a moment. “Technically, only one, if he or she is a credible witness and if he or she actually saw something directly relevant to the charges, with his or her own eyes.”
“You say technically. Does that suggest that two or more eyewitnesses would be better?”
“Of course.”
Grandpère turned to look at us. “Would you each raise your right hand, please?” As we did so, he looked at Shayla Blake. “You too.” Her hand came up slowly. She was as confused as the rest of us.
Grandpère was calm and unruffled, speaking as if he were lecturing a graduate class in French literature. “Do each of you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
We were totally baffled by this, but after a moment, we all said in a ragged chorus, “I do.”
Jamison started to get up. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, Mr. LaRoche, but I’m running out of patience.”
Grandpère merely smiled. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t do that. You’re the judge here, and you are required to hear the evidence.”
He sat back down, grumping something to himself. Grandpère immediately turned back to us. “All right, then. I am going to ask several questions. If you have personal, eyewitness knowledge concerning the question, I want you to raise one hand if your answer is yes, or shake your head if the answer is no. Clear?”
We all nodded.
“All right. First question. How many of you were actually present when Danni and Cody became invi
sible?”
I raised my hand, as did Grandpère, Dad, and Mom. Rick, Clay, and Shayla shook their heads. “If Cody were here, he’d raise his hand too,” I said.
Jamison stirred, but at a look from Grandpère, he sat back again.
“And how many of you were present in the room when the pouch, which had been previously searched and found to be empty, produced a toy pistol that started firing real bullets when El Cobra tossed it on the table?”
Same hands went up; same heads moved back and forth.
“How did you know it was a toy pistol?” Jamison cut in.
“Because,” Dad said, “El Cobra identified it as such, then held it up for all of us to see. There was no hole in the barrel.”
“Ridiculous,” Jamison muttered.
Grandpère went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “And who was present at Cathedral Valley when the man known as Doc had to drop his pistol because it turned red-hot and burned his hand?”
This time Rick raised his hand along with the rest of us. Then he squirmed a little. “Actually, I was about a hundred yards away, but I saw him drop it and heard it all on the radio.”
“As did I,” Clay said quietly.
“Sorry, Clay,” Grandpère said. “You have to have actually seen this for yourself.”
The Deputy Director stood up. “I’m not going to sit here and—”
Grandpère turned and stared him down. “Sir, you said you wanted the truth. As a judge, if the truth doesn’t fit your preconceived notions, are you allowed to cut off further testimony being given under oath?”
He sat back down again. But we all could see he was fuming. I half expected smoke to come out of his nostrils at any moment.
“Just a couple more questions,” Grandpère went on. “Officer Blake, will you explain something to the judge? Tell him how it was that you and Danni were able to communicate with each other about stopping at Leprechaun Canyon when you had an armed man in the car with you.”
Shayla spoke up clearly and without hesitation. “I glanced at Danni in the rearview mirror. The angle was such that our captor could not see us. Suddenly writing appeared on the mirror. It was Danni speaking to me.”
To Run With the Swift Page 20
