Normally he loved the horseradish his mother smeared on the roast beef, but today he didn’t notice. He was too scared and too angry at himself for being such a screwup. Without thought, he took another bite, chewed, wishing there were something he could do to stop the madness, to stop that FBI agent, Hammersmith, but he couldn’t think of anything.
Cyndia said, “Rafer, tell me you believe me, tell me you understand I had no choice but to hurt that FBI agent, to teach them all a lesson.”
Rafer stared at his mother. She was concerned about what he thought, about anything? “Pa said you shouldn’t have attacked her like that, with your gift. He said showing off your powers, and to the FBI, wasn’t smart.” He put down his sandwich, wondering if he’d said too much, looked at the cast on his wrist, winced.
Cyndia sighed, tapped her fingertips on the table. “I suppose your father is right. I should have showed some restraint. But, Rafer, they made me really mad, with all their poking and prodding, and their ridiculous arrogance—their disrespect.” She shrugged, then added, her voice as indifferent as her shrug, “Well, no matter, it’s over and done with.”
He wished he could dismiss the things he’d done like she could. Over and done and forget it. It was only an afterthought. Instead, Rafer felt so guilty, he couldn’t hold it in. “I’m sorry, Ma, look what I’ve brought down on you. But that journalist, she scared me so bad, I panicked.”
Cyndia laid her hand lightly on Rafer’s cast, pressed in just a bit until he winced. He didn’t pull away, didn’t say a word. He understood her need to correct him, and he accepted it. She said, her voice gentle and as cold as the mountains in winter, “I’ve told you and told you, never panic, Rafer. But you did, even though there was no reason to. You should have asked yourself what could DeSilva do?”
“She could have gone to see Uncle Booker.”
She began tapping her fingers again and arched an eyebrow. “Yes. Now picture that. What would she tell him? That she dumpster-dived into your brain and heard you thinking about those girls? Rafer, can you imagine DeSilva claiming she heard your thoughts? Yes, I see you realize how ridiculous she’d sound. Now, Mr. Jobs assured your father and me there won’t be any charges since there’s no evidence. Your word against hers, that’s it.” She took his hand. “You know your uncle Booker called me right away and explained everything. We made certain to clear out all the evidence from your cottage that could possibly tie you to that woman. So everything is all right. The FBI forensic team didn’t find a thing. I don’t want you to worry about this—incident—anymore, Rafer. But you must learn to stay calm and think rationally before you act. Better yet, if something unexpected happens in the future, call me before you act.”
Rafer looked down at his half-eaten sandwich, looked quickly away. No matter what she said, there was no getting around the fact he could have ruined things for them, put them all in danger. The worst was he’d upset his mother. Bad things happened when he upset his mother. His stomach cramped, viciously, then settled again. He looked back at her, wondered why she hadn’t punished him. Because he’d been hurt? She was beautiful, his ma, but now she didn’t look angry, she looked so disappointed, so sad. He knew he wasn’t what she wanted, never had been. He wasn’t much of anything. He tried to justify himself, but knew he sounded lame. “It would have been all right if not for Hammersmith showing up like that, out of the blue.”
“Hammersmith. Yes, he’s worrisome, isn’t he?” Her voice was absent, as if she was focusing on something else entirely.
Rafer said nothing, nor did Cyndia expect him to. She sat back in her chair and studied her son. Rafer was handsome, the picture of her own father at his age. He looked like a man’s man, like her own father had, but her father had been gifted and he’d passed his gift down to her. And she to her daughter, Camilla. She shook her head, to focus on the here and now. There was nothing she could do to change the past. But change the future, she was committed to that. And Rafer was vital. No matter what he was or wasn’t, he was still her son, his father’s son, and he was all they had.
He still looked scared and ashamed, like a little boy who’d peed his pants and had to own it. She lightly patted his arm, well above the cast. “Do you want to make this up to me, Rafer? And to your father?”
His eyes lit up, but even so, she still saw fear lurking. Of what she was going to ask of him? His mind had always been so clear to her, but now she couldn’t be certain.
He said, “Yes, Ma, yes. Anything. I’ll do anything for you. For Pa.”
“You’re a good boy, Rafer, and I love you. Now, there is something you can do for me, something you do very well. You’re recovered enough to act for me, past time, really. In fact, it must be done today. It’s important to me, Rafer, so you can’t fail, you understand? You need to be strong, and brave. I’m going to tell you exactly what to do and you will do it.”
He felt his insides turn to ice. He knew, oh yes, he knew what she was going to tell him to do. Even thinking about it made him sick to his stomach, but she was looking at him with such naked hope. And something more, something he’d felt from her forever, a sort of pressure bearing down on him, a feeling he couldn’t escape, couldn’t begin to fight. Even as his brain screamed at him, he slowly nodded, his eyes frozen on her face. She still looked at him with her own special kind of focus. He nodded again, licked his dry lips, whispered, “Yes, Ma, whatever you say. But what about this?” He waved his cast at her.
“I’ve taken the cast into account. It won’t get in your way.” She rose and he stood with her. She hugged him. “You’re my good son, Rafer. Make me proud of you.”
When Rafer left Eagle’s Nest thirty minutes later, he drove slowly down the narrow road with all its switchbacks. He thought about his life, the plans and dreams he’d had when he was a young man just graduated from high school, the future spread in front of him. Maybe he’d go to college.
Rafer laughed at himself.
None of it mattered now. This was what his mother wanted. He wouldn’t screw up this time.
51
* * *
HOOVER BUILDING
FRIDAY, NOON
Savich slid his Darth Vader jump drive into MAX’s USB port to load his access codes off the decryption program MAX had outsourced from Quint Bodine’s encrypted files. With the program’s massive processing speed, it was possible MAX could, if necessary, break the encryption by brute force. How long would it take? He didn’t know. He watched the blur of scrolling figures, then satisfied, he rose. He looked out his office window at the agents in-house today, talking on their cell phones or typing on their computers, Ruth biting into a chocolate chip cookie from a batch Lucy had brought in. Since his door was open, he heard Ollie and Davis discussing a case they were working on. He saw Shirley, his invaluable secretary and organizational genius, sitting at her large desk as usual, facing the wide windows and glass door of the CAU unit. She fixed their problems, made any arrangements they needed, protected them like their mother confessor. He saw her looking at Sherlock, a frown on her face. Sherlock was staring fixedly at a tablet set up near her laptop on her desk. What was she looking at? In that moment, she looked up, saw him, and started. Slowly, ever so slowly, she nodded to him, not with a smile, but at least it was a sort of recognition. It was something.
He took a last look at the whirling letters and numbers on MAX’s screen, line after line of code, then rose and walked out into the unit. He spoke briefly to Shirley, checked up on the case he heard Ollie and Davis discussing. He took his time, no need to rush, until he reached Sherlock’s workstation. He looked down at her tablet and saw a video of Sean and Marty shooting baskets and making free throws, or trying, both children attempting to copy Steph Curry’s dribbling. They were yelling at each other, laughing. Kid play. Sherlock was staring fixedly at the screen. He saw a tear slide down her cheek.
It nearly broke him. He pulled a Kleenex out of the box on her desk and handed it to her. She didn’t make a sound, merely da
bbed at her eyes. She continued to sit quietly, not looking at him, still staring at the softly playing video of two happy children in a perfect childhood bubble, as they should be, enjoying themselves immensely. He saw Sean make a basket and hoot and holler, and Marty tell him anybody could make that shot, even Astro, and that set them off arguing again. He remembered that afternoon nearly two months before because he’d taken the video. When they’d hit the grass, wrestling, Astro had danced around them, leaped on them, barking his head off. Savich shooed Astro away and let the kids pummel him for a while. He remembered Marty’s fingers touching his face, and her wet kiss, remembered Sean claiming Marty couldn’t make a basket if her spelling grade depended on it, and Marty screeching they didn’t even have spelling grades yet and he was lamer than her little brother, who couldn’t even walk yet.
Savich didn’t say anything, aware every agent was looking at them. They didn’t know how to treat Sherlock, what to do for her. She had no clue who they were when she joined them, but she always tried very hard to put them at ease. It was difficult for the entire unit, but everyone was dealing, everyone was trying to act naturally—good luck with that.
The video stopped with his holding each kid under an arm, walking back toward the house, Sherlock’s laughter behind him. She’d come out of the house, picked up the iPad, and taken over the recording.
Slowly, Sherlock closed the tablet. She looked up at him and tried to smile. “I know I should be writing up Jasmine Palumbo’s interview, but I happened to be looking—” Her voice trailed off.
He lightly touched her shoulder, not quite a pat. “We shot that video this summer. I remember it was on a Sunday, early July. After the kids drank a quart of lemonade and stuffed down a dozen cookies, we took them to the Roosevelt Memorial. You showed them Roosevelt’s sidekick, his dog Fala, and we walked along the Tidal Basin. There were lots of tourists, lots of kids. It was hot. We bought some peanuts. It was a great afternoon.” He paused, waited, but she said nothing. He said deliberately, “After we dropped Marty off at her house and put Sean down for a nap, we made love and had our own nap. You made Sean hot dogs for dinner with mustard and sweet relish, his favorite. You made me the sweetest summer corn-on-the-cob and a three-bean salad.”
She gulped. “It—it sounds wonderful.”
“It was.”
She raised her face to his. “I have this sudden craving for tacos.”
He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Would you look at the time. Let’s go upstairs and get you a taco and me a veggie burrito.” Shirley gave them both a big smile as he escorted Sherlock out of the unit. When they were gone, Ollie Hamish, Savich’s second-in-command, turned to everyone. “She remembers Mexican food is her favorite, at least taco craving is a good start. She’s going to make it back.”
Lucy eyed the three remaining chocolate chip cookies, felt how tight her pants were, and moved the paper plate away. She said, “She asked me how I was feeling several times. She’s trying very hard.”
Ruth Noble said, “I wish I knew what to say to her. I babble about Dix and the boys and this and that case, and she tries to look involved, but I know she has no clue who or what I’m talking about.”
Her cell buzzed. “Agent Noble. Who? Dougie? What’s going on?” A moment, then, “I’ll be right there.”
She stood, looked at her watch. “I hate to interrupt them, but this is about Sherlock’s accident and the missing analyst. I need them now.”
52
* * *
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
WAREHOUSE DISTRICT
FRIDAY, EARLY AFTERNOON
Savich, Sherlock, and Ruth stood over a sleeping Justice Cummings. Dougie sat cross-legged beside him. Sally was leaning against a rotted wall nearby, rubbing dirt off her elbow, her long flowered skirt covering her legs, and Major Hummer was behind them.
Dougie looked up and gave Ruth a sweet smile, fitted his towel closer around his head. “Ruth, I’m real glad you came so fast. I didn’t force Justice to see you, I swear. He said you could come. But I don’t know about these two. Who are they? Do you know them?”
Ruth came down on her haunches beside him. “I trust them completely, Dougie. This is my boss, Agent Savich, and Agent Sherlock. They’re both very smart and very kind and they want to help. Agent Savich, Agent Sherlock, these are Dougie, Sally, and Major Hummer, friends of mine.”
Dougie gave Savich and Sherlock a suspicious look, then looked toward Hummer, who slowly nodded. Then Dougie stared up at Sherlock. “Pretty hair,” he said. “Not really red as fire, but a different sort of red. I think my daughter had red hair like yours, but I’m not sure anymore, it was a long time ago, you know?”
“Yes, I know.” Sherlock went down on her knees next to Dougie, handed him her creds, watched him look at them a moment. Did he see well enough to read? Then he took Savich’s creds, gave them a longer, harder look. “Looks real official, both of ’em, but it’s what Ruth thinks that matters and Ruth says you’re okay.” He handed back their creds. “Like I told you, I wouldn’t ever have called Ruth unless Justice said I could. That wouldn’t be right. He’s a good kid, Justice is, but he’s a mess, doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s hurt, and he’s scared spitless. I told him he could trust you, Ruth, everybody here knows you’re straight, even that day the FBI ran all around our neighborhood to find Manta Ray, carrying guns and wearing those Kevlar things. You made sure none of us got hurt.” He frowned. “Ruth, that wasn’t that long a time ago, was it?”
“Not long ago. You remember it just right.” She patted his arm.
Savich went down on his haunches beside Justice Cummings, pressed his fingers to his wrist, took his pulse. He laid his palm on his forehead. No fever. But he looked a mess, his nose obviously broken, stuffed with Kleenex. His shirt was torn and bloody. A surprisingly clean blanket was pulled up to his waist. Savich lifted the blanket and looked at the paper towels wrapped around a wound on his leg, hoping there was sterile gauze under them. He looked up at Major Hummer in his army fatigues and black boots up to his calves. “What can you report, Major? How bad is it?”
Hummer came smartly to attention, cleared his throat. “The boy made it here, I don’t know how, showed lots of grit. He deserves one of my Purple Hearts.” He paused briefly, a sort of mental reboot, Savich thought. “It was Tuesday afternoon, around six o’clock, I believe. I remember I was hungry. I found him huddled in on himself, pressed against that far wall, just inside the door, near to where Sally’s sitting. He was in a lot of pain. I called Dougie and we peeled off his pants. I saw the cut wasn’t too bad, could do without stitches, but I was worried about infection. I bought some butterfly strips and bandages from Elmwood Pharmacy over on Gleason Street and some antibacterial cream, the kind you get over the counter. Fixed him up. He’d be awake now, but Dougie encouraged him to drink some of his Wild Turkey because the aspirin wasn’t doing the job. The Wild Turkey sure did the job, knocked him right out.”
Dougie said, “Ruth, I told Justice the broken nose would look good on him, make him look a bit tougher. He liked that. He said someone is after him. He’s scared, did I tell you that? You’ll take care of him?”
“Yes, we will. Thank you for calling me, Dougie.”
Dougie reached out, touched her arm. “Really, Ruth, he’s scared, more scared than I was when the FBI came hunting for Manta Ray, even though I gotta say they didn’t roust any of us.”
Justice Cummings opened his eyes, saw three strangers staring at him. His heart stuttered. They’d found him.
Dougie leaned over him. “It’s all right, boy, you don’t want to try to run, you don’t have any pants on. And your boxers have blood on them from your leg. These three folks are FBI agents. That’s Ruth, I told you about her. She’s my friend and I’m her snitch. Remember, I asked you if I could call her? Did I tell you that? Anyways, she brought them with her, swears they’re gonna help you. This here’s Ruth.”
Justice looked up into Dougie’s dirty fa
ce, at the Marriott towel on his head, at his vague, kind eyes. He felt a spurt of hope, swallowed. His voice sounded scratchy. “You’re really an FBI agent, Ruth?”
“Yes, I am. Agent Ruth Noble. And you’re Justice Cummings. It’s a pleasure to meet a friend of Dougie’s.” And she shook his hand, like everything was normal, like he wasn’t lying in a derelict warehouse wearing bloody boxers. “Dougie and I go way back to my days in Metro.” She introduced Savich and Sherlock. They all pulled out their creds and held them close so Justice Cummings could read them. He slowly nodded. “You’re not CIA, and that’s a relief. That might sound crazy, but somebody set me up, they knew where I’d be. I don’t know who, and that’s the problem. I don’t know anything.”
Savich said in an easy voice, “Do you remember running into the street? You hit a spinning car, flew over the hood?”
“I see it over and over. I was running, and looked back to see how close they were, and wham. I thought I was going to die.”
Sherlock took his hand. “I was driving the car, Mr. Cummings. I know, that’s quite a coincidence. I’m very pleased we’re both going to be all right. Dougie and Major Hummer have taken very good care of you. We know you took an Uber here to Alexandria, and you were dropped off not far from here, and you smashed your phone, right?” At his nod, she said, “That was well done. Why did you come here to the warehouse district?”
“I remembered passing by this area several years ago. I knew nobody would come here to look for me. I didn’t know what else to do, who I could trust, so like you said, I had an Uber drop me off three blocks over and walked here. I managed to get inside this building and knew I couldn’t go any farther. Major Hummer found me. He and Dougie have taken care of me. And Miss Sally sings show tunes to me. Major Hummer says the wound on my leg doesn’t look infected what with all the antibacterial cream he’s smeared on me. It looks like I’m going to live.”
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