Girl of Lies (Rachel's Peril)

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  “It was my fault,” she said.

  “No, Jessica. Chrys’s mental health—whatever was going on with her isn’t your fault. She made choices. We all do.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Yeah, but if I’d been there for her. I don’t know. I wasn’t. And in August, I went to stay with Carrie and Ray in Washington, along with Sarah. And… we got in the accident. Sarah was in the hospital, Ray died. I was out there for a long time.”

  She sniffed. “Chrys left me a message. Saying she was afraid she was going to hurt herself. She begged me to call her back. And… I didn’t get the message. For days. When I got back to San Francisco she was dead.”

  Kiara closed her eyes. Then she whispered, “What happened to her?”

  “Overdose,” Jessica said. “It was intentional. She took a whole bottle of pills and drank it down with a bottle of vodka.”

  Kiara shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jessica remembered the blinding pain. She’d come home from Chrys’s house that night, her first night back in San Francisco. Her father had left her a note. He’d be out, probably all night, and there was forty dollars to order a pizza or whatever.

  She paid a homeless man ten dollars to buy her a bottle of vodka and took it back to her room, where she drank herself to insensibility.

  The next weeks were the darkest she could remember in her life. Her father was never home, or when he was, he locked himself in his office. They ate three meals together in as many weeks. She went to school, barely, but racked up an impressive number of detentions, stopping just short of what might result in a phone call to her father.

  The house was deadly empty. They’d lived in San Francisco full time since she was six years old, when her father retired from the Foreign Service. The house had always been full of people—her father and mother, Carrie, Alexandra, Sarah, Andrea. But slowly they’d faded away. Carrie went away to college. Andrea went to live in Spain. Then Alexandra left for Columbia. For two years it had been just the twins and their parents, and that seemed awfully quiet.

  But it was nothing like the tomb the house had become now. Sarah was in Bethesda, Maryland, staying with Carrie as they both recovered from the mental and physical injuries of the accident that had killed Carrie’s husband. Her mother had stayed on the east coast, leaving it to Richard Thompson to watch out for Jessica.

  What could happen, after all? Jessica had it together. She was the goody-two-shoes. She had perfect grades. She watched in derision as her sister Sarah got in scrape after scrape. She was better than that.

  Jessica came and went to and from that tomb of a house every day. She called her mother twice a week to let her know she was doing fine, even though it was a lie. She went to school when she had to, she ate when she had to, and she sank into a dull but terrifying depression, her only company the sound of echoes as she walked through the house.

  The week after Thanksgiving, she went out for the first time since Chrysanthemum’s death. A party. Mick Babcock was hosting it, which meant it would be a drunken bash, but she was on the hunt for something more. She wanted to be held. She wanted to be touched. Chrysanthemum’s death had left her disastrously lonely. Jessica Thompson wandered into that party a disaster waiting to happen.

  Forty minutes after her arrival, she found herself sitting on a couch next to Rob Searle, another senior. Rob had shoulder length hair, long in the front and swept back with gel like a pop star, and a ridiculous peach fuzz mustache. She’d drunk three glasses of vodka-laced punch and smoked a joint, and was feeling almost giddy. That’s when he said, “I think we’ve got something, babe,” and grabbed her, bringing his lips down on hers.

  Jessica wriggled her arms and legs in shock for just a moment. Then her hand closed on an irregularly shaped object on the table. A fork.

  In a swift motion, she clenched the fork in her fist and swung it, stabbing Rob in the back.

  He screamed, jerking back from her, his eyes wide.

  “The fuck! Did you just fucking stab me?”

  She stood up, her whole body swaying, and said, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Jesus Christ, and I thought we had something. Agggh, that hurts!” He bent, reaching over his shoulder, trying to remove the fork from his back. It had penetrated his shirt, driven right through, and opened up a wound in his shoulder that was going to hurt a lot worse when he sobered up.

  “Dude, what the fuck happened to you?” It was their host, Mick.

  “Bitch stabbed me,” Rob said. Then he burst out laughing. Mick let out a loud belly laugh, then reached around and grabbed the fork. A little bit of blood spattered when he pulled it out, and Jessica stood and backed away.

  “Fucker,” she muttered. Rob just laughed more. She rolled her eyes and walked away. As she headed for the door, Marion Chen blocked her way.

  Marion was a pretty girl. Or used to be. She’d have been a senior in high school if she hadn’t dropped out in September. Now she worked waiting tables at the Fisherman’s Wharf and was saving money to take her GED and start college. Jessica knew her. Or knew of her rather—they hadn’t moved in the same circles when Marion was still in school, except the last couple of months of junior year.

  Marion didn’t look so good now. She’d always been pretty, but slightly overweight, at least by unrealistic American magazine standards. Now, the Korean-American girl’s face had leaned out, her cheeks slightly concave. Dark circles bordered the bottom of her hollow eyes.

  “Jessica.” Marion crossed her arms over her chest like a couple of drumsticks.

  “Hey, Marion. You doing okay?”

  Marion’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you asking that for?”

  “Just curiosity,” Jessica said. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.” Not to mention, you look like a fucking concentration camp victim.

  “Yeah, I’m doing fine.”

  “I’m glad,” Jessica said. She started to steer around Marion.

  “Hey,” Marion said. “I gotta ask you something.”

  Jessica sighed. This party was a bust. She should just go home. “What?”

  “Chrysanthemum told me she kept trying to call you, and you wouldn’t answer. She was all fucking broken up about it. That was right before she offed herself. Is it true?”

  Jessica closed her eyes. And she couldn’t control it, even though she wanted to. A tear ran down her face. “Yeah, it’s true. I was in a bad car accident, and my brother-in-law died, and my twin was in the hospital for months, and I didn’t return her call for a couple days. Fucking sue me.”

  Marion winced. “Jesus. That’s the fucking breaks. Sorry.”

  “Shit,” Jessica said. “Just… whatever. Anything else?”

  Marion shook her head. “You want to blow this place? Let’s go get high.”

  Jessica blinked. Was Marion serious? She looked at Marion’s full lips, at her pretty, high cheekbones, and said, “Yeah, let’s go.”

  1. Adelina. May 8, 1984

  “SOMETHING'S DIFFERENT about you.”

  Adelina froze. She was in the process of putting away groceries, and had unconsciously been humming Tina Turner’s new hit, What’s Love Got to Do With It? For two days, she’d been trying to shut out her news. Not think about it. The implications were terrifying.

  She stood up straight. Richard was leaning on the doorframe. His face was openly curious and distrustful.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. She set the can of peas down on the counter next to her hand.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been very cheerful lately. It’s nice to see.”

  Bastard. She was cheerful because for the first time in her life she had some vague idea of what it felt like to be loved. To be valued. Cherished. But now—here—she had to deal with him. Her rapist. Her captor. Her husband. She felt a cold chill in her gut, as she always did when he looked at her like this. With lust in his eyes. Richard was rarely gentle, never loving, always contemptuous. Until March, she’d never imagined that making lo
ve could be something enjoyable. Something amazing.

  He’ll kill me if he finds out. Or he’ll kill my daughter.

  That’s crazy, he had responded. Just leave him.

  You don’t know him. He murdered my father.

  You don’t know that for sure.

  I do.

  Adelina swallowed. She felt a pit of fear in her stomach, as she often did with Richard. Because she had missed her period. And—it wasn’t possible that Richard Thompson was the father. She was trapped. She couldn’t leave him because he’d take Julia. Or hurt her. But she couldn’t go on like this. Because she was dying inside.

  “Seriously,” Richard said. “What’s going on with you?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “My class. I’m just really enjoying it. I’ve made friends.” I’m in love and dying because I can’t leave you. She closed her eyes, trying to force back tears. She had too much pride to let him see her cry.

  “Tell me about your friends,” he said, his voice cool.

  Change the subject. “You tell me about yours. You’ve been out with Leslie Collins a lot. Is he really an accountant?”

  “No,” he said, his voice contemptuous. “He’s really a fucking spy.”

  Asshole. “He just doesn’t seem your type,” she replied, ignoring his caustic response. Ever since the night he’d huddled with Prince Roshan and Leslie Collins, she’d realized something was wrong there. Richard Thompson wasn’t the type to ignore genuine British royalty in favor of a jumped up nobody from Saudi Arabia whose only claim to royalty was the recent discovery of oil. She knew him well enough to know that if he paid more attention to Roshan than to George-Phillip, something was suspicious.

  Unfortunately, she’d had little luck figuring out what it was. Richard was, as always, secretive.

  “Leslie isn’t the point. The point is your newfound cheerfulness. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

  His eyes had narrowed, and she felt the temperature in the room plummet from the ice in his eyes.

  Be careful, Adelina. Piss him off, but not too much. She whispered a quick prayer to Mary. Then she shrugged a little. “I turned twenty last month. I guess I realized it’s time to make the best of our situation.”

  Swallowing back vomit, she continued with the words she’d rehearsed. “I guess I’ve been a bit spoiled. I should be more grateful.”

  “You should be more grateful,” he said. “I take care of you, don’t I? Do you ever have to worry about food? About anything at all?”

  Just my freedom, you fucking bastard. “No,” she said. “I just never planned to have children.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?” His tone had a hard edge to it. For a second, she wished the nanny were here, instead of at the park with Julia. He was never violent when other people were there.

  She swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not fucking upset.”

  She knew the next words would set him off. They always did. “Richard, calm down…”

  “Don’t tell me to fucking calm down. If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, I wouldn’t have had to deal with an international fucking incident. The agency made me marry you.”

  “Well, my mother made me marry you.”

  She knew the next words were going to hurt her. Or rather, he was going to hurt her in response to what she was about to say. But right now, she needed him to. Because otherwise, she was going to have no way to explain the pregnancy. So she said the words, quiet, her tone vicious, calculated. “Do you really think I’d ever marry my rapist voluntarily?”

  Richard’s eyes bugged, and he reached out and grabbed her by the throat. Silent, his face controlled, the only sign of his anger those bulging eyes and his hand gripping her.

  For just a second, she started to panic. Had she miscalculated? He was always so controlled. She couldn’t breathe. But then relief swept over when he let go of her throat and muttered in a guttural voice, “You fucking whore.”

  Then he started to tear at her clothes.

  Adelina didn’t cry. She didn’t weep. A tear slid down her face, a desperate, lonely tear, but she wiped it away before he could see it, and inside she closed her heart, she disassociated, she left her body behind and turned her mind and her heart to a prayer to God to deliver her and protect her daughter. Richard Thompson might have her body, but he could never have her soul.

  2. Bear. April 30

  Jesus, Joseph and Mary, Bear Wyden thought as he got out of the cab on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was frazzled. To say the least.

  After his unsatisfactory meeting with Senator Chuck Rainsley that morning, he’d regrouped his team at Diplomatic Security with new instructions. Priority number one was to dig into Richard Thompson’s past, but he couldn’t tell anyone that.

  However, as a matter of routine investigation, he’d detailed investigators to pull every detail they possibly could, not only of Richard Thompson’s private life, but that of every member of his family. Credit reports, FBI files, even college applications. A search of the National Crime Information System database turned up a hit in San Francisco in February 1990, but the file wasn’t actually in the system. Worse, the file, which was on paper with the San Francisco Police Department, was a secured file. He’d had to personally call the chief of police to request a copy, which he’d been told should be faxed to him some time that night.

  It was probably some drug addict with the same name. But Bear knew that in February 1990, the Thompsons were in San Francisco on compassionate leave when Richard Thompson’s mother was dying.

  He felt like he was just getting his teeth sunk into the investigation when Secretary Perry called. It was a short call.

  “Meet me at the White House at 3 pm.”

  It was 2:45, and Bear was being patted down by the Secret Service agents at the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance. He didn’t know why he was here. Other than the Secretary of State he didn’t know who he was meeting. But he knew the fucking White House was so far above his pay grade that he’d gladly go back to Whogivesafuckistan if it meant he didn’t have to deal with this bullshit. Bear was a security agent. A cop. Not a politician. He wanted to retire from the Foreign Service and go look at pretty girls on the beach in Florida—not get retired early because of some stupid-ass political shootout.

  But then he thought about that sixteen-year-old girl, Andrea Thompson, taking out two hardened terrorist fuckheads with her bare hands while her father dicked around behind his desk at the Pentagon. That girl deserved some justice, whatever form it was going to take.

  Forty minutes later, Bear was still sitting in a waiting room in the West Wing, sending instructions to his investigators via text message and email.

  That’s when he saw the email from one of his senior investigators.

  Mitch Filner was a former CIA operative and had been placed with the US Embassy in Singapore in the late 90s. After a rape charge in Singapore, he was dropped by the agency, but had done some freelance work in Iraq and Afghanistan over the last decade.

  Mitch Filner had turned up dead of multiple stab wounds in a dumpster in Northern Virginia. Normally a local crime wouldn’t come to anyone’s attention, except that a real estate agent had walked into a condo in Bethesda that morning, expecting it to be empty. Instead, the carpet was flooded with blood stains.

  The blood was a match for Filner. And the condo had a naked eye view of the Thompson’s condo in Bethesda.

  What the hell did it mean? Why was a former CIA operative watching the Thompson daughters? At the scene of a shooting from the night before. Something stank to high heaven.

  At 3:25, the Secretary of State finally walked into the waiting room. Bear jumped to his feet.

  James Perry looked put together and well rested, which was more than Bear could say after digging through Richard Thompson’s file all night.

  “Bear. Come this way. We don’t have time for a briefing.”

  Bear followed as Perry headed down the hall. A secret
service agent walked along with them and opened a door just ahead. For a panicky moment Bear thought they were walking into the Oval Office. But instead, he recognized the figure behind the desk the moment they walked in. Former Senator Ben Olin, now the National Security Advisor to the President.

  Olin stood up. Also in the room, unfortunately, was acting-Secretary of Defense Richard Thompson, along with his military aide-de-camp, an Army Colonel. To his left, Max Levin, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, flanked by another man with a ruddy, freckled face. In moments, that unfamiliarity was addressed. The freckled guy was Leslie Collins, the Director of Operations at CIA.

  Bear stared openly at Thompson and Collins. Thompson was CIA and had been for thirty years or more. There was no doubt about it. There was no way they didn’t know each other.

  Did Thompson know Mitch Filner? How fucking tied up was he with the people who had kidnapped his daughter?

  The National Security Advisor leaned forward and said, “Secretary Perry, I’ve just received the most interesting briefing from the Secretary of Defense and the Director of the CIA. I understand your department is conducting the investigation into Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping. Why?”

  Perry answered off the cuff and without reference to any notes. “The kidnapping involved foreign nationals who may have been engaged in espionage. One of them we are certain was hired in the past by the Defense Department and CIA for intelligence related activities.”

  Bear coughed. “Two, sir.”

  Perry turned towards him.

  “Two?”

  “I just got the news, sir. A former CIA employee turned up dead this morning. His blood was found all over an apartment which overlooked the Thompson condo in Bethesda.”

  Richard Thompson visibly started. “What?” Then he turned, purposefully, toward Collins.

  Bear thought that was fucking interesting.