The Patrick Bowers Files - 05 - The Queen

by Steven James

  It hadn’t been an affair, at least not a physical one, but you can sleep with someone and never fall in love with her, and you can fall in love with someone without ever sleeping with her. From what I’ve seen, the second scenario is a lot harder to get over than the first.

  And a lot harder to know how to deal with.

  I’ve heard people throw around the term “emotional affair,” so maybe that’s what we’d had, but I’m not even sure what the phrase means. How many text messages or phone calls or smiles or secrets do you have to share before you’re having an emotional affair?

  And is it something you should even admit? Do you go up to your brother and say, “Hey, five years ago I fell in love with your wife. But don’t worry, we never actually slept together”?

  As far as I knew, Sean had no idea what had happened, and as time wore on, I could think of fewer and fewer reasons to bring it up. Contrary to the popular mantra of pop psychologists, I’ve always thought that when you apologize it shouldn’t be for your own benefit but for that of the other person. I don’t think you should ask someone to forgive you just so you can get something off your chest or quiet your guilty conscience. If an apology isn’t in the other person’s best interests, it’s not serving to reconcile anything. It’s just a subtle form of selfishness.

  And in this case, I couldn’t see how my true confessions would serve Sean. After all, he’d had one marriage fall apart, and I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of his second one disintegrating.

  But in truth, Amber wasn’t the only issue that stood between Sean and me.

  My gaze shifted from her to the deer heads on the wall, and as Amber tried to navigate Sean and me through the conversation, I became lost in my thoughts.

  Because a deer was what caused the rift between me and my brother.

  Or maybe there was no deer at all.

  22

  It happened twenty years ago on New Year’s Eve when I was seventeen.

  We were driving home from Amy Lassiter’s party.

  A stark and cold and moonlit night.

  Sean was behind the wheel and I’d closed my eyes, exhausted from cross-country skiing most of the afternoon.

  I knew Sean had been drinking a little at the New Year’s Eve party, but we hadn’t been hanging out together and I wasn’t sure how much he’d had.

  I never saw the deer.

  He swerved, lost control of the car on the icy road, and we spun into the other lane, where an oncoming vehicle struck us, smashing into my side of the car and whipping us around toward the shoulder. We skidded toward the side of the road into a snowbank, which was probably the only thing that kept us from rolling over.

  Sean and I both walked away from the crash, but the driver of the other car, a fifty-one-year-old woman named Nancy Everson, didn’t make it.

  I never saw the deer.

  At the time, the responding officers hadn’t questioned Sean’s story about why he swerved and, as far as I knew, hadn’t asked him if he’d been drinking at the party or done a Breathalyzer test. If they had, none of it raised any suspicions.

  In the flickering swathes of emergency vehicle lights, I’d watched the paramedics roll the gurney with Mrs. Everson’s motionless body onto the ambulance. Then, troubled and deeply saddened, I looked away to the side of the road.

  The moon was bright, and I expected to see deer tracks, but the field of snow looked pristine, unblemished.

  Excusing myself for a moment from the paramedic who’d just checked Sean and was now approaching me, I walked closer to the side of the road.

  No tracks.

  I crossed the road and took some time to study the snow stretching beyond the other shoulder but saw no sign that a deer had recently fled across the field on that side either.

  A week later, after Mrs. Everson’s funeral, I’d brought it up to Sean. “Which side of the road did you say the deer came from?”

  “The right.”

  “The right.”

  He looked at me oddly. “Yes. Why?”

  My heart was racing. I had one more question, and though I didn’t want to ask it, I did. “How much did you have to drink that night, Sean?”

  I could tell by his silence that he was reading all the subtext of my words, and for a long time he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice had turned cold. “I only had two beers.”

  I hadn’t replied. What could I say?

  Whatever else Sean might have known about what happened that night, he kept to himself.

  But things were different between us after that. He retreated into himself, and his normally infrequent outbursts of anger became more common, more pronounced. Everyone else believed it was from unnecessary guilt about the accident, but I’d always wondered if maybe the guilt was deserved.

  Since then, the two decades of unwieldy silences had only deepened the rift in our relationship.

  “Pat?” Amber said.

  Her word jarred me back to the moment. “I’m sorry?”

  She and Sean were staring at me.

  “I was telling Sean how you might be teaching at the Academy again.”

  “Possibly,” I said absently, still caught up somewhat in my thoughts. “Yes. I might.”

  We talked for a few minutes about the Academy and how the move to DC might affect Tessa, especially if we left Denver before the end of the school year.

  “She tells me it doesn’t matter, that she’s cool with it if I want to go.”

  “She might be saying that just because she wants you to be happy,” Sean observed.

  “True,” I admitted, a bit reluctantly. “You might be right.”

  At about ten minutes to 1:00, Jake interrupted by calling to tell me he was going into a meeting with Ellory and then had a phone interview with Director Wellington to brief her on what we knew. His press conference must have gone well; he sounded in high spirits. “I don’t think I can make it to the sawmill by 2:00. Maybe 2:15, 2:30 at the earliest.”

  “Okay. I’ll get a ride over there. See you when you get there.”

  After we hung up, Sean, who’d heard my side of the conversation, said, “No ride, huh?”

  “I’m trying to get to the Pine Shadow Sawmill.”

  “Where Donnie worked.” Again, past tense.

  “Yes.”

  Amber spoke up. “I’ll be heading that way. I can swing you by.”

  Okay, this was awkward.

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a snowmobile,” I hinted to Sean.

  He thought for a moment. “Sure, I can give you a ride over there, introduce you to the guys. Sometimes people around here . . . Well, let’s just say you’ll make more progress if they know you’re the brother of someone local.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Randy’s watching the shop this afternoon. I just need to give him a call, let him know where I’m gonna be.”

  “Give him my cell number,” I suggested, but before I could hand Sean my phone, Amber gave him hers. I jotted down my number on one of the napkins sitting on the table. Slid it to Sean so he could pass it along.

  While he turned aside to talk to Randy, Amber turned to me. “I should give you my number too. In case you need to get ahold of me.”

  “Okay.” She’d texted me earlier, but I confirmed that the number I had was correct, then Sean said good-bye to Randy and gave his wife back her cell. “We’re all set.”

  We stood; I reached for my wallet, but Sean held up his hand. “I got it.”

  Although I had the urge to argue, I accepted. “Thanks.”

  “My sled’s right outside. I don’t have an extra helmet, but—”

  “I’ve got one in my trunk,” Amber offered. “It might smell like a girl, but you’re welcome to use it.”

  Sean laid some bills on the table. “All right. Let’s go. I just need to fill up on gas and we can take off.”

  As we walked outside, a few isolated snowflakes drifted through the wind and found their way to the
ground.

  Though still in its infancy, the snowstorm had arrived.

  23

  12:57 p.m.

  Alexei arrived at the Schoenberg Inn for his meeting with the Eco-Tech activists and went to the lower level on the south wing.

  He found the door marked “Authorized Service Personnel Only,” knocked twice, and was greeted by a meaty-fisted heap of a man whose nose had apparently been broken at some time in the past and never set right. Six inches taller than Alexei, he easily outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

  From the videos and facial recognition that Alexei had taken last night, he knew this man was named Clifton White. He’d been a left tackle for the Patriots before getting kicked off the team for physically assaulting a Dallas Cowboys tight end in a barroom brawl, and then, soon afterward, served forty-four months for sexually molesting a teenage girl. Alexei suspected his involvement with Eco-Tech was motivated more by dollar signs than by ideology.

  “I’m Alexei,” he told him.

  Clifton grunted, and Alexei calculated how many moves it would take to disable the enormous man if necessary. Four.

  Three, if he was quick.

  And he was quick.

  He let Clifton frisk him. He had no weapons with him, save the bone gun.

  “What’s this?” Clifton asked.

  “A medical instrument. It’s used by paramedics,” Alexei responded, “for administering medication. In stressful situations I sometimes need it.”

  After a moment’s deliberation, Clifton said, “I’ll hang on to it until we’re done.” A smile. “If you don’t mind.”

  Alexei watched him slide it into the left breast pocket of his jacket. “Of course.”

  Clifton led him into an adjoining room, pine-paneled and dimly lit, where two men and one woman stood waiting. Alexei scanned the shadowy corners of the room, saw no one else. By posture and build he identified the three people as the ones he’d seen the night before, although today they were all wearing dark-colored ski masks over their faces.

  Unwise.

  In a fight, your adversary can simply pull the fabric to the side, thereby moving the eye holes and impairing your ability to see. It puts you at a severe disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat.

  Never wear anything that covers or obscures part of your face.

  Alexei ran down their identities: the man with the black ponytail snaking from beneath the back of his ski mask was named Becker Hahn, the slim man beside him, Ted Rusk, and the blue-eyed woman was named Millicent Alman.

  All Eco-Tech activists, none with military experience.

  No one spoke.

  Alexei placed the duffel bag on a poker table that had been shoved against the wall.

  “The money’s in the bag?” Becker said.

  Alexei reached for the zipper, but Becker held up his hand. “Hold on.” He nodded toward Ted, who opened the bag and pulled out a thick stack of one hundred dollar bills. Slowly, he flipped through them.

  “Don’t worry, they’re unmarked,” Alexei said to Becker.

  “Count it,” Becker told Ted.

  Three dozen more stacks lay in the bag.

  Counting the money at a time like this was another sign of inexperience. It showed a lack of trust, and in these types of transactions, telegraphing a lack of trust was the kind of thing that breaks down relationships.

  Amateurs were unpredictable.

  “My name is Alexei Chekov.” He gazed around the room. “What do you want me to call you?”

  “Call me Cane,” the ponytailed man replied.

  Strike three. Always assume the person with whom you are doing business is a professional. Honesty is a form of respect. And respect is essential.

  So, time for a little honesty. “How about I call you Becker?”

  Alexei watched as Becker froze.

  He pointed to each person in turn as he addressed them: “And I’ll call you Ted, and you Millicent. I already met Mr. White in the hall.”

  Becker stared at Clifton. “You told him our names?”

  Clifton’s face reddened. “No.”

  “How do you know our names?”

  “Research,” Alexei said simply.

  But the mood of the room had gone sour. Instinct told him that things were spinning off badly.

  And they were.

  He saw an almost imperceptible nod from Becker to Clifton, and Alexei prepared himself. Clifton made the first move, but as the huge man reached for him, Alexei stepped deftly aside, then grabbed Clifton’s right wrist and, twisting it smoothly behind the man’s back, drove him to his knees. He had the bone gun out of Clifton’s pocket and pressed against his shoulder blade before the ex-football player could even throw a punch.

  Clifton tried to wrestle free, but Alexei cranked his arm almost to the breaking point, and he cringed and submitted. Alexei took in the room. No one had moved. It appeared that they weren’t prepared for this.

  The whole thing might be a setup.

  “I wanted this meeting to be civil,” Alexei said.

  They didn’t reply.

  “Can we kindly move things in that direction?”

  Becker glanced across the shadows in the corner of the room. At last he nodded. “Okay. Of course. Yes.”

  Clifton was still straining to be free. Alexei said to him, “I’m going to let you go, Clifton, but I need you to behave.”

  He wasn’t surprised when Clifton cussed at him, threatened him. It showed just how little self-control the man had.

  Then Alexei felt tension in the man’s arm and correctly anticipated that he was going to make a move.

  Clifton lurched sideways, trying to break free, and reached for a knife that Alexei now saw was hidden in a sheath strapped to his leg just above his ankle.

  Alexei depressed the bone gun before Clifton could raise the weapon. With a moist but solid crunch, Clifton White’s left clavicle shattered and his arm went limp and useless by his side. His blade pinged to the floor.

  Alexei let go of Clifton’s wrist and the man collapsed, moaning.

  He’d used his bone gun in this way before, and he knew that in the six weeks it would take the clavicle to heal, Clifton would be able to move his arm but not without a bundle of tight pain.

  Earlier, when Clifton had frisked him, Alexei had noticed that his dominant hand was his right one. Now he said, “You still have your good arm, but if you stand up before I leave this room I’ll need to shatter your other clavicle too.”

  Clifton cursed at him again but made no offensive move, just placed his right hand tenderly on his injured shoulder.

  Alexei carefully surveyed the room again. No one else had gone for a weapon. He wasn’t even sure why Clifton had made a move on him, but now he was wary.

  And displeased.

  He retrieved the knife, and then brought it down hard, blade first, embedding it into the table, burying it more than an inch into the wood. From all appearances Clifton was the only one in the room strong enough to wrench it free, and it wouldn’t be an easy task even for him.

  “Now, Mr. Hahn,” Alexei said to Becker, slipping the bone gun into his jacket pocket, “could we kindly continue?”

  Becker remained silent. Ted, who’d stopped counting the money in order to watch the confrontation between Clifton and Alexei, quietly and somewhat nervously resumed his task.

  “The person financing this operation,” Alexei said, “would like my reassurance that everything is in order and on schedule.”

  “Tell Valkyrie it’s all on schedule.” Becker emphasized Valkyrie’s name, perhaps to prove he was better informed than Alexei might have guessed. For a moment he observed his associate finishing his cash count. “Do you have the access codes?”

  Alexei told them what they needed to know.

  Ted set down the last stack of bills, backed away from Alexei. “It’s all here.”

  Alexei thought of Kirk Tyler and the mess he’d had to clean up. “My employer is not happy when people let him down.”
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  “You just let Valkyrie know there’s no need to worry,” Becker said. “It’ll all be taken care of. My team has stopped logging efforts in Oregon, long-line shark fishermen in the Galapagos Islands . . .”

  As he listened, Alexei kept a close eye on the room.

  Millicent still hadn’t spoken.

  Clifton was staring viciously at Alexei.

  Ted looked troubled, his submissive body language telegraphing his unease.

  None of them seemed interested in making a move on him, and Alexei was glad, especially with Millicent present. He was not at all keen on the idea of injuring a woman.

  Alexei waited while Becker recounted his achievements of thwarting whaling efforts by the Japanese, disrupting mountaintop removal projects in West Virginia, and blocking a proposed nuclear waste dump site in Nevada, but none of these victories seemed overly impressive to Alexei, and he wondered again why Valkyrie had chosen to do business with this group.

  What was Valkyrie’s ultimate agenda here? Alexei was usually pretty good at discerning things like that, but so far, in this case, the reasons behind the reasons eluded him.

  When Becker finally finished listing Eco-Tech’s accomplishments, he said, “Give us until 9:00 tomorrow night. Be ready for my call. The timing matters. Not a minute before, not a minute after.”

  “I’ll deliver the rest of the money when I have confirmation from my employer.”

  And then the meeting was over.

  Alexei studied the group one more time to make sure no one was going to pull a gun, planned how he would deal with that eventuality if it occurred, then silently headed for the door.

  But as he left, he noticed someone else, someone he had not seen earlier, standing in the deep shadows recessed at the far end of the room. No doors had opened during their meeting, so somehow this person had managed to slip from view earlier when he’d scanned the room upon his arrival.

  Considering frame and posture, he guessed a woman, though in the halted light it was impossible to be certain. He could just make out that she wasn’t wearing a ski mask like the other three people who’d been waiting for him, and that told him she was more confident and more experienced than they were.