“I think you broke my nose,” Tom exclaimed as blood trickled out his nostrils.
“You’re lucky to still have teeth in that head of yours,” Cain said between angered breaths.
“I’ve got nobody on my side, Cain. Not even you anymore.”
“Own it. You made your bed. Now lie in it,” Cain said before turning and heading toward the exit.
Tom yelled out, “We were all off duty! The media is blowing this out of proportion.”
“It’s always someone else’s fault with you. Clean up your mess!”
Chapter 18
Cain stormed out of Old Ebbitt Grill and paused on the wide sidewalk. His blood was pumping, and his hands were trembling. His head swam with frenzy and he felt the effects of his drinks. He looked left and right. Traffic was picking up. He looked skyward and saw several dark clouds hovering overhead. A downpour was threatening. He had completely lost his cool and punched his partner, something he thought would never happen.
He swung his leg over his motorcycle. He dropped it into gear, rolled the throttle, and sped away. He navigated the windy streets and impatiently paused for a group of Asian tourists in the crosswalk at the Lincoln Memorial. There were at least fifty of them, and they were not in a hurry. They were snapping photos and talking with one another. Cain twisted the throttle several times and the Harley-Davidson’s engine roared, frightening the tourists. He then sped right through a narrow opening in the crowd.
He was cranky and full of rage. I’m not supposed to be dodging pedestrians on my bike! I’m supposed to be protecting the president. He relies on me, and I’ve let him down.
He skidded to a halt in his driveway, running into the wall and putting a softball-size hole in the drywall. He flipped down the kickstand and killed the engine. He threw the cover over the Harley and went inside to treat the migraine that was pounding his head like a jackhammer. He wanted to see a doctor about them—they seemed to be increasing in frequency—but he hadn’t made the time yet.
He slung his leather bomber jacket over a kitchen stool, grabbed a glass, and filled it with some water from the tap. He put the glass down and started rubbing his temples to ease the pressure. I need a Tylenol PM.
As he headed to the bathroom, he accidentally kicked over a box. Framed pictures spilled out onto the living room floor. One was a wedding picture—his wedding picture.
He grabbed the picture and marveled at it. In the photo, he wore his naval service dress whites, and Claire beamed with angelic beauty in her lace wedding dress. They were staged in front of St. Louis Cathedral, across from Jackson Square in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He and Claire had been hugging and flirting, to the frustration of the cameraman trying to capture their perfect moments.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. Claire Bear told me it was bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day, but I convinced her that was antiquated foolishness. He closed his eyes and immediately went back to that occasion.
They had secretly met up that morning right before sunrise at Café du Monde, which was open for business twenty-four hours a day. Foghorns blasted through the air as ships navigated the Mississippi River. They heard the chatter and footsteps of a few nearby tourists making their way back to hotels after staying up all night exploring the dark side of New Orleans. They took in the aroma of coffee percolating and the smell of sugar. They snacked on beignets—fresh ones right out of the fryer and doused with powdered sugar. When Claire laughed, her hair blew in the wind, and he’d catch a hint of her shampoo. They had dreams. Dreams to start a family and grow old together.
“I hope I can fit into my wedding dress after eating these little devils,” Claire had joked.
He had kissed her comfortably. “I will always love you.” He was completely in love with her—and had been, from the moment Bonnie first introduced them.
“Promise?”
“To the day I die, and beyond.”
Cain opened his eyes. He found one of the boxes on the floor, the one labeled MUSIC, and pulled out his old record player. When he plugged it in, a light turned on. Great! It still works. He returned to the box and rummaged through the records. He grabbed one of their favorites. He slid the record out of its protective sheath and gently placed it on the player.
A few seconds later, the bass-baritone voice of Johnny Cash singing “You Are My Sunshine” sounded throughout his home.
Cain found himself singing the words and slowly moving to the beat. He went into the kitchen and fetched bowls from the cabinet.
I should have done this a long time ago. He started making shortcut beignets and brewing chicory coffee. Whenever the song reached its end, he’d go back and start it over again. He never grew tired of that song.
He picked the beignets out of the fryer and placed them on a plate, then sprinkled powdered sugar on them. He was supposed to let them cool for a few minutes, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He quickly devoured his beignets, even burning his tongue on the hot doughy sweetness.
He was recovering from his sugar rush and sipping on his black coffee when his cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was Jill, an agent he’d known for just over a year. She worked on the vice president’s security detail. Cain figured he should take the call.
“Hello, friend. It’s good to hear your voice,” she said.
“Yours, too.”
“The rumors are flying around the office.”
“I’m sure they are. Nothing we do is secret, apparently.”
“Surely not even you would think that getting into a fight at a Secret Service hangout was going to stay quiet?”
“I lost my composure today. Tom brought out the worst in me.”
“He brings out the worst in anyone within ten feet of him. He’s completely toxic. All that creep thinks about is himself.”
“Thanks for calling, Jill. But I’m not in the mood to talk about Tom.”
“I want to help, Cain. Let me help you.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“Would you like to at least talk about it?”
Cain chuckled. “Now you sound like the agency’s shrink.”
“I could cook you dinner. When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
Cain felt a smile forming. “You’re always so thoughtful, Jill. But I’m all set for tonight—I just swallowed a bunch of beignets.”
“Beignets? What’s that?”
“A New Orleans doughnut sprinkled with enough powdered sugar to make you forget your worries. They were just what the doctor ordered. They hit the spot.”
“They sound delicious. Maybe you can make me some sometime.”
There was a slight pause as Cain stumbled to find a response. He’d never even considered sharing beignets with anyone since Claire. “Sure,” he replied.
“How about a run tomorrow?” Jill asked. “You can burn off those doughnuts, and I can—”
“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
“I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything, especially a little rain.”
“I’m worried about it messing up my hair.”
Jill laughed. Cain never put product in his hair.
“But I’m game if you are,” he said.
“Great! It’s a date,” she said.
“I’ll see you at the mall at six.”
“I look forward to seeing you,” Jill said.
“Have a good night,” Cain said.
“Sweet dreams,” Jill said softly before hanging up.
Chapter 19
Under a gray canopy of clouds, early-morning runners had already started their exercise around the National Mall. The landscaped park was full of joggers, people playing soccer, and others throwing Frisbees. Unlike Cain’s native Louisiana, this place seemed to prioritize fitness. He always chalked that up to the stress of the jobs in the nation’s capital, as well as all the ambitious interns and type A personalities that were attracted to high-paced jobs for government movers and shakers. His
hometown embraced the Big Easy lifestyle, where everything took on a slower pace and centered around good food and cold drinks.
It didn’t take long for Cain to spot Jill’s blond hair in the distance. She was stretching. Flexibility came naturally to her. She had gone to college on a soccer scholarship and had been hired by the Secret Service right after graduate school.
“It’s great to see you, Cain,” she said, and gave him a big hug. She held the embrace a few seconds longer than Cain thought was usual. “It’s just not the same running without you.”
Cain caught a whiff of her freshly shampooed hair. “You, too! You must be staying busy. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Me? You’re the busy one!”
“Well, you know how it is. It never seems to slow down.”
She nodded in agreement.
“Shall we?” he suggested.
“Let’s do it,” she said. “You think you’ll be able to keep up with me this time?”
Cain laughed. “I can keep up! When I’m running behind you, it’s because I’ve chosen to.” He smiled.
She smiled at his remark, and the two began running along the path. They passed art galleries, memorials, and his favorite: several Smithsonian museums. Recent events weighed heavily on Cain’s mind, but he didn’t want to bring them up. He placated Jill with mostly small talk during the run, and after about thirty minutes, they turned onto the road toward Arlington National Cemetery. Their small talk had come to an end.
“How much longer will you be on admin leave while they finish up their silly investigation?” Jill asked.
“I thought you were enjoying running with me. Now you’re ready to send me back to work?” Cain teased.
“Everyone knows this has Tomcat written all over it.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah, it is. At least for us smart ones, and anyone who has ever met Tomcat.”
They continued running for a beat before Jill went on. “I trust you, Cain. You know that. I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone else. That’s why I’m telling you this.”
“Okay,” Cain said, pacing his breathing. He knew Jill could outrun him by several more miles—even though he’d never admit it.
“I’m leaving the Secret Service.”
Cain stopped running and began a slow walk. “You’re leaving? No. No. No. Please don’t tell me that. We need good people like you.”
“I’m sick and tired of the macho, sexist culture. I can’t take it any longer.”
“If this is about how some of the guys are treating you, I’ll talk to them. I’ll set ’em straight.”
“No, Cain. It’s deeper than just one or two agents. Tomcat is a dime a dozen in the Service. Until they get a female director, nothing is going to change.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I’m transferring to NCIS. You know, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I’ll lose a little pay in the beginning, but it’ll be worth it in the end. There are a lot more women in that agency.”
Cain shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sad to hear you’re leaving us.”
“You make it sound like I’m leaving law enforcement. I’ll still be an agent.” And then, pleading: “Come with me, Cain. It’s a more stable life at NCIS.”
“No. I’m not leaving the Service. And I wish you wouldn’t, either.”
He turned left and started walking toward the gates at Arlington National Cemetery. Jill followed a step behind him. Cain waved at the security guard, who waved back at them. The three knew one another. The president and vice president, along with their Secret Service details, often visited the cemetery for official functions throughout the year. Cain and Jill had coordinated security logistics many times with the security guards.
The sky was still overcast—hiding the sun. The roar of jet engines departing Ronald Reagan airport could be heard overhead. The dew glistened off the sea of white crosses, and the magnolia trees were in full blossom. Birds chirped to one another as they dashed from tree to tree. Cain found the sacred grounds especially peaceful that morning—even majestic.
He started to cool down, just as they arrived at JFK’s grave site. His thoughts were lost in the eternal flame dancing in the wind. Loss is the one constant in life, he thought. He felt deep sadness. He hadn’t even been born when Kennedy visited Dallas that fateful November day in 1963, but he felt a bond with the charismatic president. Cain had spent weeks at the academy studying the assassination and watching the video repeatedly. Unlike investigations in which you knew you were successful when you arrested the suspect and he confessed to the allegation, you never knew what disaster you may have prevented in protection. Presidents Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Kennedy, and Reagan served as stark reminders of what had not been prevented. Their stories serve as a reminder for me to always be ready. And they also remind me why the Service needs sharp agents like Jill.
Jill spoke up. “Just because I’m transferring to NCIS, it won’t change anything between us.”
Cain locked eyes with hers. Before he could respond, his phone rang. He looked down and saw that his supervisor was calling. He had been expecting this call.
“You’re up early, boss,” Cain said quietly, out of respect for the cemetery’s rules.
“Why are you whispering?” LeRoy asked.
“I’m at Arlington,” Cain replied.
“You spend your mornings at a cemetery? That’s awkward.”
Cain started to explain but was cut off.
“No judgment from me, and no explanation necessary. Let’s just hope it’s not a sign of things to come.”
“What?” Cain asked.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
“I need some good news.”
“Your polygraph is today. At fourteen hundred.”
“My polygraph? You never mentioned anything about a poly.”
“Just tell the truth and you’ll be fine.”
“You know how I hate those things.”
“Everyone does.”
“If that’s the good news, what’s the bad news?”
“The examiner is Cynthia Gorst.”
Cain exhaled. “That’s not such bad news. She’s a nice lady—very professional.” Cynthia had conducted his agent applicant exam to determine his eligibility for a top secret security clearance.
“Things have changed since your last polygraph to get hired with us. Cynthia is now divorced. I heard it was a nasty split. Husband was cheating on her with her best friend.”
“Ouch,” Cain said.
“Yup. Ever since then, she’s been tougher. Good luck.”
Jill put her arm on Cain’s shoulder. “They’re putting you on the box?”
“Appears so. It’s ironic, huh? They trust me to stand next to the president with a gun, but they don’t trust my statement.”
“Cain, you’re the most honest guy I know.” She reached up and touched his face. “I like this new stubble look on you, but I’d shave before your poly. You know the Service is all about appearances, and they’ll judge your honesty on something as superficial as how you look.”
Chapter 20
The polygraph room was spartan, like an isolation cell in a psychiatric ward. The walls were bright white and devoid of any pictures. The ceiling had a small air-conditioning vent and a long rectangular fluorescent light fixture. What is with the government and their fluorescent lights? Cain wondered. The room was strategically designed that way; the focal point, after all, was the large black leather chair with straps and buckles. That looks just like Gruesome Gertie, Cain thought. I’ll never forget seeing that electric chair at Angola. Professor Foster, his criminal justice teacher, had taken the class on a field trip to the legendary penitentiary.
Cain instantly recognized the short woman with blond curly hair that stopped at her shoulders. Cynthia looked the same, he thought, with the exception of a few gray streaks in her hair and perhaps a few
extra pounds that naturally came with age and a sedentary government position. She wore black suit pants and a loosely fitted red blouse, which she had covered up with a black sweater jacket.
Cynthia was a special agent like Cain but had been with the polygraph division for years. Many of Cain’s colleagues on the president’s protective detail referred to agents in the technical services division as desk jockeys or, collectively, the rubber gun squad. But Cain tried to shy away from that kind of talk about others. I have enough faults of my own, he figured.
“Hi, Cynthia. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Good afternoon, Agent Lemaire,” the examiner said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Cain shook her hand and found it to be unnaturally cold. “Wow! You must be freezing in here.”
“I keep it cold in this room so that I get better readings on my equipment. Plus, if I see you start sweating, I’ll know something is amiss.” She seemed more formal than usual, certainly more so than she’d been during Cain’s initial polygraph many years before.
“Well,” Cain said with a natural smile, “I don’t plan on sweating. But if anybody could make me sweat, it’d be you.”
His joke was lost on her. She seems to have lost her joy, he observed. Maybe the divorce? He ran a few other possibilities in his mind. Burnout from the job? Government bureaucracy could beat down almost anyone.
“Before we start,” the examiner said, “I have to hook several of these instruments to your body. They will monitor your heart rate, perspiration, and pupil dilation.”
Cain sat down, and as she connected the gadgets to his body and the cable to her laptop, he tried to break her hard exterior. “Your perfume smells nice.”
“I’m not wearing any perfume,” she replied.
“Huh,” he remarked. “Must be your natural scent, then. It’s very pleasant.”
There was an awkward silence for a moment before she answered. “I just had mixed vegetable masala from the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant near the office. Maybe you’re smelling that on my fingers.”
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