by Ed James
“When I get out of here…”
“I’ll get my brother to sort them out…”
Never taking responsibility for their actions, never owning up to anything. It wouldn’t likely be a federal crime, but it was always the same story:
I didn’t do it.
Yeah, right.
And still Carter sat there, staring through the glass at the empty table where Holliday should be. Some mysterious message about his daughter’s disappearance, some get-out-of-jail-free card.
Choosing to meet Mason Wickstrom without the cops, against his direct order.
Helping Mason at the Fed Building. Helping him take Delgado, leading him to Olson, to Youngblood. Not stopping him from murdering Youngblood.
Saving his daughter’s kidnapper from being shot.
Helping him kill Vance. Then braining him and running off to meet…
Who?
He still didn’t know. He swore it was Richard Olson, but proving it was a dead end.
Holliday had gone off the reservation so many times. Maybe others would make that decision, desperate to keep their kids alive. Either way, it all added up to a desperate man with something to hide. Desperate because his kids were taken, only increasing as his son fought for his life in the ER.
What was he hiding?
What was worth risking everything for?
It wasn’t just his daughter, it was something else. Was he ready to tell Carter, spill his guts, in the hope of clemency? Two weeks in a cell, losing his career, his wife, his son, was that what it took?
“Sir?” A tap on the shoulder.
Carter looked around at the guard. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Senator Holliday…”
Another interview room, the private place to discuss matters with his attorney, away from the prying eyes and ears of the authorities. Holliday lay slumped forward, blood pooling on the table like Seattle rain. He clutched a red-smeared razor blade, having had just enough energy left to move it away from his throat when he died.
“Do you want to see the wound?”
Carter sucked in a deep breath. “No thanks.” He wanted to see inside Holliday’s head, to walk around the secrets hidden inside those brain cells now losing electricity and dispersing through the ether. Maybe Holliday had a soul. Probably not. “Has Mrs. Holliday been informed?”
“She’s already here, sir.” The guard gestured outside. “She was in the process of leaving when this happened.”
“That didn’t answer my question. Has she been informed?”
The guard just swallowed, all the answer he was giving.
“Let me see her.” Carter took one last look at Holliday’s body, his eyes still open, still half-accusing that he hadn’t found Avery. But hiding some secret shame. Maybe it was all true, and the documents weren’t lies. Maybe Holliday had ordered those deaths, approved the missions, helped cover up the screw up. Or at least didn’t stop those who did.
He went into the corridor—cool, but the air stale.
Megan was in an identical room across the corridor, legs crossed, arms folded, a sour look on her face. She took one look at Carter, then rolled her eyes. “I knew you’d be involved in this somehow.”
At least she was sitting down.
Carter joined her and waited for the door to shut. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your husband has taken his life.”
Megan’s icy expression melted for a brief moment. She looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard, then back down at Carter, drilling into his skull. “And life goes on.”
“That’s a bit cold, Mrs. Holliday.”
“Please don’t call me that.” Another deep swallow. “My Avery is still missing, and that man is the reason. Everything else is secondary to finding her.”
“We’re still searching, Megan. Every day, we get fresh reports.”
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t respond. “Now I’ve got to bury two bodies.” The grief hit her hard, just like that, tears flooding her cheeks. She let down her hair, let it splay across her face, hiding from him.
“I can only offer my deepest sympathies for what you’re going through.”
She tucked her hair into a loose ponytail, moist eyes blazing. “No, you can find my daughter and bring whoever did this to justice.”
“We’ve got Mason Wick—”
“Not him. Her. The woman who has my girl.”
“We’re doing—”
“You’re doing absolutely nothing.” She pushed up to standing and slammed a fist on the table. “Outside our house, two weeks ago, you promised me you’d do everything you can to find our children.”
“And I am.”
“But you’re getting nowhere. I’ve lost my son. Now I’ve lost my husband. And Avery… God knows what’s happened to her. Where she is.”
“This isn’t easy.”
Megan waved at the door, fresh tears streaming down her face. “Go, please.”
Carter could only nod as he got up and walked over to the door. One last look at her, head in hands, rocking.
Chapter Sixty-Six
One week later
Monday, December 23, 2019
Layla
I sit and wait, focusing on the glass partition, the phone next to it cracked and broken. Scarred by years of waiting, years of meetings. Prisoners coming and going, not trusted to be in the same physical space as their partners and lovers and friends without being listened to and watched. They even take that away from them.
And then he appears on the other side of the glass, his beard grown back, but his hair’s freshly shaved. Mason slumps in the chair and grabs the other phone, tugging at the collar of his orange jumpsuit. He’s lost muscle mass and that fire in his eyes. They’ve broken him.
I pick up the phone on this side. “Hey.”
“Hey, Layla.” His voice is sharp and hissy, but quiet like all the life’s drained from it.
“Layla’s dead.” I lean forward, clutching the phone in my hand. “It’s Luisa.”
A smile flickers on his lips. “I’m glad you came.”
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?”
“I heard the news.” Mason curls a few hairs in his beard around his fingers. It’s nowhere near as long as before. “I don’t regret what we did.” And he looks like he means it. A flicker of a smile on his lips, warmth in his eyes. Then something catches in his throat and he coughs. “Except for Brandon. He didn’t deserve to die.”
I can only nod. Almost brings the hollow feeling into my gut. “Are you okay?”
“Just taking it day by day.”
“How are you going to plead?”
“Guilty.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t want to waste public money.” He looks away, smoothing down his eyebrow. “I’ll probably get the death penalty. They offered me a deal if I told them where Avery was.”
I look around. The guards are chatting amongst themselves, but they’re watching us, eight eyes all focused on me, all looking for me. I shouldn’t have come here. So stupid.
But, they’re looking for Layla al-Yasin, not Luisa Hernandez.
Layla wore pants and baggy sweaters, trying to make people focus on her brain.
Luisa wears short skirts and low-cut tops. If they’re looking at me, their focus is on my body, not my face. And my haircut hides most of it anyway, makes them think of screwing that body, not recognizing that face.
“Relax. I said that I can’t help them. Told them I’ll never hear from Layla again.”
I look back and give him a smile. “I’m sure she’d thank you, if she could.”
He leans forward and locks eyes with me. “No regrets. Okay?”
“But Brandon…”
“We did what we did. Forget what happened, okay? I got my answers about Jacob. Took my revenge. Have you…?”
“That’s next. Once I get away again, I’ll find who did this to my son.” A sigh escapes my l
ips. “I’m angriest with Kenny. If he hadn’t done what he did, none of this would’ve happened. But I need to find who killed my son.”
“He could still be alive.”
“Don’t.” The tears might ruin my mascara. “Don’t, Mason.”
“I want you to live a full life.”
“It won’t be easy.”
Mason leans forward, his forehead almost touching the glass. “Do you know who Bob Smith was?”
I shrug. That’s all I can give him. Is he pushing for some information? Something he can use?
“I’m sitting in here, all day, just thinking. The reason I abducted Holliday’s kids is that Bob Smith suspected Holliday was responsible for what happened during the raid. We confirmed it, and we got justice. It’s Richard Olson, isn’t it?”
“Be strong, Mason.” I get up, leaving the handset dangling, and give the nearest guard a coquettish smile.
One last look at Mason, and he’s crying.
I wish I could cry.
The car stops outside the church, dark clouds emptying the rain over Seattle. A few weeks away from it in the Southern California sunshine and you forget all about it. Then you come back and it’s like you never left. I rest my knee on the passenger seat and lean around to the back. “You be good now, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
The little girl looks up at me and smiles, her dark roots showing through the blonde. “Okay.”
With a wink, I get out of the car, don’t say anything to the driver, don’t even look at him. The car drives off and I pull my coat up and hurry inside the church.
I sashay to the front, my black nylons brushing my legs, my heels clicking.
Megan Holliday is near the front, accompanied by family and friends, there for her, not her husband. The church is pretty empty—a disgraced senator’s funeral hardly the hottest ticket in town. Guess she’s discovered who her real friends are. She gets up and looks around, like she expects Avery to just waltz back into her life.
Every day will be like that, looking for her daughter. She’s aged in the short time I’ve been away, but her jaw is set. She’s not going to grieve, not for him.
And I confirm it. Christopher Holliday is lying in the coffin at the front. Dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, red tie. Presidential. Eyes closed, definitely dead.
I thought he’d be the sort of man to blow his brains out, but he got a cut-throat razor from someone in his four-star prison, the downtown Marriott. Different rules for the powerful.
Still, they’ve done a good job on his neck, can barely spot the wide cut.
“How did you know my husband?” Megan’s next to me, looking me up and down, seeing Luisa, not Layla. Focusing on the black skirt and the blouse, the auburn hair, the glasses. Whatever she sees, it’s not Layla.
“I knew him in DC.”
“Oh?”
“We did some stuff together.”
Anger flashes in her eyes. Another nail in the coffin lid. “I see.” She stiffens. She’s refusing to grieve for a man who let everyone down. And I don’t blame her, I’ve been there, worn those shoes. “Well, thank you for attending, anyway.”
“You have my deepest sympathies, Mrs. Holliday.”
“It’s Robinson. Megan Robinson. My husband’s name died with him.”
“I’m sorry I missed Brandon’s funeral.”
She shuts her eyes. “It was much better attended than this.”
I walk away. It’s done. Over.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
And he’s sitting there. Dark shades, dark suit, black tie. Takes a look at me, but doesn’t see the face plastered everywhere, the face from the FBI’s ten most wanted list.
I walk past him and take a pew on the aisle near the back, sitting back, the wood cracking behind me.
The pastor calls the funeral to order. “Dearly beloved…” His words rattle around the church, and I slip off out the door.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Carter
Part of Carter expected a bigger turnout. One of the mourners couldn’t face any more, getting up and leaving before the service began. She looked familiar. Maybe one of the support staff working in Holliday’s office they’d interviewed. Maybe a DC escort sad to see her sugar daddy in the ground. All bets were off when it came to Holliday.
Carter couldn’t follow the words, kept getting pulled back to the last funeral he attended, what was left of his mother lying in the casket.
His cell rumbled in his pocket. He was far enough back to let him chance a look at it.
Emma calling.
His heart thudded as he shot out of the church, answering before he’d even left. “What’s up?”
“Bill’s at the house!”
Carter pulled up next to the Toyota parked diagonally across two parking spaces. Got out with the engine still running.
Bill was over by the door, lurching around, swaying. “I know you’re in there!”
Carter rushed over and grabbed Bill, tugging at his coat. He stank of liquor, seeping out of his pores. “Get outta here!”
Bill swung around to stare at his son, eyes rolling in his head. “You!” He stepped forward, but slipped on flagstones and stumbled forward, then went headlong across the grass. And stayed there.
“Get up.”
Bill was still as the grave.
Carter stepped onto the lawn and nudged him with his foot. Then again. And again. He’d gone too far this time.
But the old goat rolled over.
“What are you doing here, Bill?”
He tried to sit up. Had to brace himself on the grass. “I’ve tried calling you.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Carter grabbed his coat and pulled him up. “You’re shitfaced. You can’t drive in this state!”
“Why don’t you answer the phone?”
“Because it’s you who’s calling me.” Carter got in close to taste the age of the scotch on his breath. “You know, I was going to speak to you, try to build bridges. Let bygones be bygones. But you don’t deserve anything from me, you worm.”
“Son, I need your help.”
“After what you did to Mom, you can burn in hell for all I care.”
Bill looked away. “I’m dying.”
It stabbed Carter in the heart, like a six-inch knife. Even with all the rage, buried deep and packed in ice, those words still hurt. Assuming they were true. Assuming this wasn’t another power game.
“I know you’re thinking, ‘Well, good, he’ll meet Satan soon enough,’ but I just wanted to make amends, son, for what I’ve done.”
“You can’t come here and terrorize my wife and child. You can’t do that.”
“Son, I’m desperate.”
“Get out of here.” Carter pointed away from the house. “I’ll call the cops. You’ll be locked up. And so help me, I won’t get you out.”
Bill got up to standing and set off, looking back at his son for a long moment, then trudged off toward his car. Even he saw sense and walked past, idling up the street.
“Has he gone?” Emma was standing on the front stoop, still dressed for work. Salon-perfect hair despite a probably hellish day. “What was he after?”
Carter joined her on the steps, taking her hand in his and staring deep into her green eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. A bit shaken, but it takes a lot more than Bill Carter to rattle me.” She clenched his hand tight. “Kirsty’s in her room, completely unaware of this.”
“Good. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
“Neither should you, Max. It’s both of our problem.”
Carter felt a flutter in his stomach. He swallowed it down. He pecked her on the cheek and set off toward his Suburban. “I’m going to put a stop to this.”
“Don’t do anything rash, Max.”
“Em, I’m not that kind of guy.”
Carter stomped through the field office, passing the cubicles and the stares, loosening off his blac
k tie as he reached Elisha’s desk. She had her headphones on, locked in to watching some surveillance footage.
He craned his neck around Nguyen’s door, but the room was empty. He went to his own office instead of bothering Elisha or Tyler. He picked up the desk phone and hit 1, letting the machine call Nguyen. Just ringing and ringing. The window looked across to Bainbridge Island. Now that the clouds had cleared, it was a beautiful winter’s day, the sun low, but blue skies all the way.
It hit voicemail and he hung up.
What was he doing here? Going to the boss, getting her to fight his battles, apply pressure to her contacts in the chief of police’s office. Why couldn’t he handle Bill himself?
Because he didn’t know where he’d stop.
Carter rolled his black tie and dumped it in a desk drawer, ready for the next funeral. There was always a next time. He clipped on his service tie and took a seat, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Didn’t know what to do with himself. Check his emails? Go through the Holliday case report again? Update the Amber Alert for Avery with some slight tweak that might trigger a memory in someone? What, though?
He picked up the phone and called Nguyen again. Same result as last time.
A knock on the door frame. Elisha was standing there, forehead creased. “You okay?”
“Had better.”
She took a seat in front of his desk, the frail winter sunlight catching her hair. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Carter settled into his desk chair and toyed with talking to her about it. “Got any fresh leads on Avery’s whereabouts?”
“Wish I did.”
“Figured.” Carter shut his eyes, tight. “Think she’s even still alive?”
“Who knows? Better to hope, right?” She reached into her pants pocket for her ringing cell, then got up. “Better take this.” She left the room at pace. “Thompson.”
Another knock on the door. The mailman, head low, earphones dangling down to his left pants pocket. Always with that same grin. What Carter wouldn’t give to swap for his carefree existence. The guy tossed a document on Carter’s desk and shuffled off again, bap-bap-bapping along to his tunes.
