I ain’t had a drink in a year.
The words sounded hollow, but they also reminded Dylan of the words he’d said to Alex. That he would get help. Was Dylan any better than the man who sat on the other side of the glass?
“I’m listening,” Dylan said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I hear you live in New York City now. That you’re going to some fancy college. Columbia? And you’re married. That was in the paper.”
“Yeah, I’m married. I love her.”
“Paper said she’s from a rich family—she the one paying for college?”
“No, Dad. The Army’s paying for it.”
His father’s face fell. “You got hit in the Army. Paper said you were injured real bad.”
Dylan was intensely uncomfortable that anything in the news was about him. Somehow he’d avoided much in the way of media coverage during Ray’s court martial. But now anything and everything related to the Thompson family was being picked over by the media.
“Yeah, Dad. Roadside bomb. I nearly lost the leg.”
“Well, it’s a blessing you didn’t, son. It’s a blessing.”
Dylan just nodded, waiting for his father to get to the point of his visit.
Larry Paris looked down at the floor, then back up at his son. “Son, I’d like to come back into your life, if you’ll have me. I know I don’t live in New York, but you could visit sometimes. I’d like to meet your wife one of these days.”
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t expect to be in this jail much longer. It was self-defense. But when I get out, I’m probably headed back to New York right away. We’ve missed exams and we’re going to have to go beg for a second chance from the university.”
“Well. Will you give me a call when you get out? I’ll leave my number with you.”
Dylan swallowed. He was trying to figure out if he had any feelings for this man other than disdain.
Was this what he was headed for? Was he going to be like his father?
His father spoke again. “Son, I got one other question for you.”
Dylan sighed. “What’s that?”
“Well, you see, I’m not comfortable with this, but I know you’re married into a rich family and all. I’m—in a tight financial spot. You see, I lost my driver’s license last year when I had a DUI. And I haven’t been able to work much—”
“I thought you had a job landscaping.”
“Well, I did until I lost the job. Anyways, I’m just wondering it you can maybe help—”
Dylan stood up. “Dad—”
“Now hold on—”
“Dad—”
“Dylan, I’m just asking for—“
“Dad! Stop! First of all, we probably don’t have any money. If you’d bothered reading more in the papers, you’d know the IRS has been busy seizing everything the family has. And second—you haven’t seen me in ten years. And you show up here asking for money? When I’m in trouble? Why don’t you ask me how I am, Dad? Why don’t you ask me how Mom is? Why don’t you show me you give just one shit?”
Dylan turned away. Behind him, he heard his father shout, “Son! I’m asking you to forgive me. That’s all in the past!”
Dylan looked back over his shoulder. The man who had once seemed so large looked small now. The man who had taught Dylan he was worthless had diminished to the point of ridiculousness. The man who had beaten Dylan and his mother in his drunken meanness was asking for forgiveness.
“Of course I forgive you. You’re my father. But … that doesn’t mean you get to screw up my life a second time.” Dylan turned and walked away.
Anthony. May 9.
As Anthony sank into the backseat of the cab at Dulles International Airport in Northern Virginia, he closed his eyes. Everything was blurring together. It was nine o’clock at night in Washington, and he’d been on the flight for … nineteen hours? He barely knew anymore.
“Where to?”
Anthony shook his head. “Sorry. Um … Bethesda, please. Montgomery and Wisconsin.”
The cab driver put the car in gear and sped away. It occurred to Anthony that he might not be welcome at Carrie’s, at least not for a sudden drop-in. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d been busy as hell Wednesday, including interviewing Prince George-Phillip, then flying halfway around the world for a twelve-hour visit in Afghanistan. Then he flew back. He’d been in the air for thirty-six out of the last forty-eight hours, and he was exhausted. He’d slept some on the flight, but it wasn’t enough. And sleep hadn’t come easily—the story was too much, too intense. He’d spent most of the flight outlining then writing. He’d emailed the story to Jackson Barlow, the executive editor, while on the plane.
Now he just wished he could go to sleep. But there was too much work to do. The story was shaping up—but he had an alarming number of open questions, and he had to have it together by Sunday morning. He badly wanted it to make the papers before the grand jury convened Monday morning.
He took out his phone to call Carrie. It was dead.
Damn it. He just had to hope she was there. He thought through his open questions. In the morning, he needed to talk to Bear and see if they could get at Wolfram Schmidt, the head of the investigation. From what little Anthony had been able to learn about the man—scrupulous to a fault—he wouldn’t likely comment either on or off the record. But it was worth a try. He needed to ask Julia some questions, and Carrie.
His thoughts drifting over the questions, he didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the driver shook him awake. Groggy, he paid the cab driver too much money and walked toward the high-rise condo.
Inside the lobby, building security was reinforced by armed guards hired by Julia Wilson. Anthony thought the other residents of the building couldn’t be happy, because the guards were checking identification for everyone who entered the building.
Anthony identified himself, handed over his passport, and said, “I’m here to see Carrie Sherman.”
“Please wait.” The guard walked into the office behind the desk. Anthony could see him speaking into a phone, but couldn’t hear what he said. When he returned, the guard said, “Arms out to your side, please.”
Anthony swayed on his feet a little, then got his footing. The guards frisked him then searched his bag. Only then did one of them say, “I’ll accompany you to the nineteenth floor, and Mrs. Sherman will step out and identify if you are who you say you are. If she gives the okay, you can go ahead. If not, then the Montgomery County Police will take you away.”
“All right,” Anthony said. He followed the guard to the elevator, then up. Carrie waved him in.
As he entered the condo, she gave him a curious look. “I thought you were in Afghanistan. Why didn’t you call?” She led him in.
“I was in Afghanistan, but only for a few hours. I got what I needed. My phone was dead and I came straight from the airport.” He swayed on his feet. “I’ve got a few more questions for you and Julia.”
“You must be exhausted,” Carrie said. She didn’t mention Julia.
He nodded. “I am. After we’re done, I’ll head home and get some sleep.”
She shook her head. “You should rest first.”
He leaned forward. “Carrie, I can’t. This story is huge. I just need verification from you about a couple of things. Please?”
She nodded. Her eyes were huge. “Yeah,” she said.
“Okay. Um … let me get my notes.” He sank into the couch and opened the bag he’d carried all the way around the world and opened his notebook.
As he was rummaging in the bag, Alexandra came down the hall, already talking. “Carrie, Dylan just called. You’re not going to believe who showed up—” She stopped talking suddenly when she saw Anthony.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”
Alexandra said, “Hello.” Then she looked away from him, toward Carrie. “Anyway … Dylan’s dad showed up at the jail. It’s the first time he’s seen him in ten years and the first thing he
did was ask for money.” Her face twisted in distaste.
Carrie frowned. “Is Dylan okay?”
“Oddly enough—when I went to see him this morning, he looked better than he has in months. And he sounded better when I talked with him on the phone.”
“Weird,” Carrie replied. “We’ll talk more about it in a bit, okay? Anthony’s got some questions he wanted to ask.”
Alexandra nodded. “I’m going to sit on the deck for a bit. It beautiful out tonight.”
After fumbling a couple more minutes, Anthony said, “Okay. Here we go … first … I understand you met George-Phillip one time before.”
“More than that, actually. But I didn’t know he was my father. I met him a couple of times in China, in the mid and late nineties. I was a kid. And—he was kind of sneaky. He spoke at my graduation from Columbia.”
Anthony grinned. “I kind of like that.”
She met his smile with her own. “I do too. It … felt good to think of him … paying attention, even though he had to keep it all secret.”
“Did you ever meet Leslie Collins?”
Carrie shook her head, slowly. “I probably did. Sometimes Dad or Mom had guests over, but they never actually introduced them. We would be paraded out, shown off for a moment then whisked away. Collins looks familiar though, so I think so.”
“What about Prince Roshan?”
She nodded, more firmly this time. “I do remember him. He was here a few times. I was fascinated by his beard.”
“You told me you remember your mother being sick on Valentine’s of 1990.”
“Just barely. I was really little. Julia remembered it though. She was … bruised. Badly. She stayed on the couch for days, I remember that.”
“What was it like growing up with her as your mother?”
Carrie sighed and leaned back, then pulled one knee up to her chin. “It was … sometimes scary. Dad … shit! Richard … whatever … he was always remote. Stayed in his office, or at work. He showered me with things … lessons and instruments and tickets to the opera. Then when I was in college he gave me obscene amounts of money. I never really understood why, except—maybe it was to buy my loyalty. The one thing he had was calm. Mother was … distracted. Anxious. She would break down unpredictably. Scream at us. The worst was when I was … I don’t know … seventeen?”
“What happened?”
“Okay, you know who Maria Clawson is?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she’s making a comeback writing about Richard Thompson and Julia.”
“Yeah, that’s her. Well, back in 2002, when Julia and Crank met—there were sparks. They kissed, near the White House. And it turned out Maria had followed them. She got a photo that clearly showed Julia kissing Crank, and he was all spiked hair and leather jacket and torn up clothes. Mother went insane. See—Clawson was writing about our family for years at that point. Richard’s nomination as Ambassador to Russia was held up, there were Senate hearings, it was ugly.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Anyway … when the photo ran on Clawson’s blog, Mom blew up. I think … I think it was because of the pressure she was under. I don’t know for sure, but I’ve been thinking over a lot of things. How he used to lean over and whisper in her ear, and she’d go pale. Anyway, that day she went nuts. Blew up, started throwing things. She came upstairs, and the twins were misbehaving—well, not really, but Sarah was a smartass—and she just lost it. She hit me. I hit her back. She ran off crying. It never happened again after that.”
Anthony shook his head. The details matched up with what Adelina had told him. He took a deep breath and said, “All right. Almost there.” He took a deep breath. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. But he had to finish this.
“Is Julia around?” he asked. “I had a couple more for her.”
Carrie shook her head, a troubled expression on her face. “Julia’s been in Boston the last couple of days. I think she’s trying to straighten out the mess the IRS left her. I haven’t heard from her at all.”
“Is that unusual?”
She sighed. “We normally talk every day. But things are … different right now.”
He nodded. “When will she be back?”
Pensive, she answered, “Sunday morning. You know it’s Mother’s Day, right? Crazy. Because we’ll all be here.”
“Adelina’s coming back to Washington?”
She leaned forward and said, “You can run this, but not before Monday morning.”
“Okay.”
“She’s been offered immunity. So has Andrea. They’re going to testify for the grand jury.”
Anthony smiled. “So she’s coming back with Andrea, Jessica and Sarah.”
Carrie nodded. Her eyes watered a little bit. “It’ll be the first time we’ve all been together in a long time. Since Ray died.”
He met her eyes. “It hurts, I know. I still miss my mom, badly.”
“Your mom?”
Anthony murmured, “Yeah. Cancer. She passed last spring.”
“I’m sorry. Well, you should just come here Sunday morning then. You can talk to Julia, and I’ll be here.”
“I wouldn’t intrude…”
“No … it’s okay. Crank will be here too, and we’re still holding out hope they’ll release Dylan.”
He said, “All right. That’s it for now. Do you mind if I just email these quotes in from here? Then I’m going to catch a cab home.”
Carrie said, “Go ahead. Of course.”
He typed up his notes as quickly as possible, then inserted the quotes into his draft and emailed it to Jackson. They were small details, but made the story much stronger. The fact that Adelina, Julia, George-Phillip and Carrie’s stories lined up so neatly helped a lot.
As he finished sending it, he leaned back and closed his eyes. For just a second, then he’d hit the road. In the morning he needed to track down Bear.
The moment his eyes closed, he was out. He didn’t even feel when Carrie tucked a blanket around him and set his laptop on the coffee table.
Anthony. May 10.
It was seven on Saturday morning when Anthony woke up to the smell of fresh coffee. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and realized that he had fallen asleep in Carrie’s condo. He was alert instantly—Anthony typically slept well, was an early riser and didn’t drink a lot of coffee. But after the week he’d had, and the long distance travel, he was still exhausted.
The door to the balcony slid open and Anthony realized that Carrie was on the porch with Rachel in her arms. Alexandra had slid the door open. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” he said. He stumbled to his feet, then walked down the hall to the bathroom and washed his face. Only then did he return, make a cup of coffee, then step out onto the balcony to join the two sisters.
“Good morning,” Carrie said as he came out.
Her face looked strained. Rachel was in her lap and looked pale and listless, and Carrie tucked her in a little tighter. Alexandra was sitting across from her, leaning back in her chair.
“Morning,” Anthony said. He sank into one of the cast iron chairs. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. Thanks for the blanket.”
Carrie shook her head. Odd. She seemed to be avoiding his eyes. “It’s fine. You were exhausted.”
“I guess you’ll be busy today prepping for everyone coming into town?”
She nodded. “Alexandra is picking them up at the airport late tonight. I’m … not taking Rachel out today, she’s been running a low fever for a couple days.”
“Is it serious?”
She shook her head. “No … the nurse just said keep her hydrated. But I don’t like seeing her this listless.”
“How long has it been since her transfusion?”
“Just a few days.”
Alexandra said, “I’ll take care of getting everyone here, Carrie. You just take care of Rachel.”
Anthony said, “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No,
I’m fine. What are your plans anyway?”
“I’ve got to put in a call to Bear. I’ve got questions for him, and if we can get in to see him, I want to talk to the guy running the investigation for the IRS.”
She said, “You’re welcome to work out of here until you meet them. We’ve got a lot of room, you know that.”
Anthony smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I really do appreciate you letting me stay last night.”
Carrie studiously looked away from him, instead choosing to fuss with Rachel’s blanket for the fortieth time.
Anthony finished his coffee and awkwardly said, “Well, let me get to those calls.”
He felt extremely self-conscious as he slid the door open again and stepped inside. He picked up his phone. Damn it. He’d forgotten to charge it. He dug in his bag for his USB charger and connected it to his laptop and waited while he checked his email.
He’d received one marked urgent from Jackson.
TO: Anthony Walker
FROM: Jackson Barlow
SUBJECT: Karatygin
Anthony,
Great job on the story. Got your updated notes. We’re going to run this on the front page with a special report insert. The photographs are incredible.
That was good news. Anthony thought that this meant he was definitely out of the doghouse at work. Only a few more loose ends to tie up.
As his phone finally booted up, he saw he had half a dozen messages. He dialed into his voicemail.
Two messages from bill collectors. One from Carrie—that was interesting—wishing him luck in Afghanistan. Two more from Jackson Barlow, demanding to know when he was coming back from Afghanistan. A final message from Bear. It was terse, giving an address in Falls Church, Virginia and a time: nine o’clock.
It was eight now. He jumped to his feet and slid open the door again. “Hey Carrie—can I borrow your shower? And would it be possible to get the concierge to call a cab? I’ve got to get to Falls Church.”
Girl of Vengeance Page 30
