Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  Perry said, “All right, Davis, that’s not enough. Tell me more.”

  “Keep the graffiti under your hat, Black. Consider it confidential. Okay, for dinner I had myself delicious lasagna with crispy garlic toast, lots of Parmesan cheese on top, prepared for me by a neighbor, Janice. Unfortunately, she’s a vegetarian, like Savich, so I had to cope with spinach.”

  “No, you fool, tell me more about the teenage boy.”

  “Angela’s description wasn’t much help, but she remembered he was wearing a green work shirt and khaki pants. We went over the security video in the Post building lobby, and there he was—she confirmed it. I invited Angela over to dinner with me for helping out, but she said her thighs were allergic to lasagna.”

  “Angela’s on a low-carb diet, claims she’s lost seven pounds in three weeks. You’re driving me nuts. Come on, Davis, who is he?”

  “Don’t know yet. Wow, look at that. Carmelo Anthony shot a three-pointer. Swish.”

  He was watching a basketball game with a shaggy dog named Smack on his feet? “So why’d you call me?”

  “To see if you like popcorn.”

  “I don’t know of a single soul in the universe who doesn’t like popcorn.”

  “Well, then. Could you pick some up on your way home?”

  “I’m out with Day. Gotta go, Sullivan. Thanks for the report.” She punched off. She was still smiling when she returned to the table, the waiter standing back to hold out her chair for her. She thanked the waiter, took a sip of chardonnay, aware that Day Abbott was looking at her closely; he wasn’t laughing any longer, he looked worried. She said, “You know I was speaking to Agent Sullivan. He told me to keep the graffiti quiet, and keep the details to myself. I’m sorry.”

  He cocked his head at her. “But how could that include me? I mean, we’ve known each other forever. You even trust me to drive your Harley.”

  “All true. However, when the FBI talks, I listen,” she said, cutting up a cold shrimp and eating it. That had sounded righteous; she wondered if Day would buy it.

  At least he smiled. “You told me the guy with your mom last night is an FBI agent, and he was protecting her. My mom told me his boss is Agent Dillon Savich. I’ve always wanted to meet him. Do you remember how he managed to capture Ted Bundy’s crazy daughter? Don’t you think I deserve to know about some graffiti at the Post a guy like Savich is involved in?”

  He was right. But still, she shook her head. “I’ll tell you as soon as I’m cleared to, Day.” How had he known Dillon was Davis’s boss? His mother had told him. Aunt Arliss knew all the players. She chewed on a green bean that was as cold as the shrimp.

  “Okay, tell me this. Did the graffiti have anything to do with why you were at the Hoover Building this afternoon?”

  However did you find out about that? I know, your mom told you. I’m convinced she knows everything about everyone in Washington. Yes, all right, it was about the graffiti.”

  “I’m waiting for you to break, Perry. Come on, you’ve never held out on me before.”

  She looked at the man she’d known since forever; she remembered his yelling at her when she was six years old when she forgot to wear panties on the seesaw, then saw him red-faced, yelling at her when she’d been a junior in high school and he’d caught her smoking marijuana behind her garage with some girlfriends. She realized he’d never yelled at her since.

  Day speared a piece of lobster, waved it at her.

  “Tell me when you can, okay? You know I’ll worry until you do. There’s been so much happening, all the talk about your mom; you’d swear people had half a brain. Fact is, she’s been a great ambassador, people really like and respect her, and she’s done absolutely nothing wrong. People are morons.

  “I had a prospective client a couple of days ago. You want to know how he tried to break the ice, joke around? About whether the president and your mother were lovers.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I threw my napkin down on the table, told him we couldn’t do business, and I was out of there. What do you think I’d do? Kiss him?”

  Day had always been in her corner, and in her mom’s corner as well. She reached over and took his hand. “You’re a prince, Day. You know I’ve always thought that; it’s time I said it.”

  He clasped her hand. “It’s a nice beginning. I wouldn’t mind if you keep saying it for a very long time. I only wish I could do something that really mattered to help her.”

  “Just being who you are and what you are, it’s enough. Do you know, while you were talking I remembered when I hurled on you at that picnic when I was four years old—”

  “And your mom scrubbed my shirt so hard with a wet tablecloth I was bruised for a week.”

  “And dad wouldn’t stop laughing.”

  They laughed, drawing benign attention.

  He gave her a twisted smile. “I remember when you were maybe five years old and you had your skinny little arms around your dad’s waist, hanging on for dear life when he gunned the engine of that big Kawasaki Ninja of his and took off; your mom was standing there on the front porch, yelling at him to slow down, was he crazy? But you, Perry, you were laughing, your face pressed against your father’s back.”

  That beautiful stark memory—she felt the joy of those moments again, the exhilaration. Tears stung her eyes. Her father had been gone five years now, and the Redskins had had two other team doctors since his death. She was still riding her motorcycle, but she was no longer clutching his back, shouting with the joy of it.

  She felt the tears sounding in her voice. “Good times. I think I was six or seven.”

  “I remember thinking it was crazy he was taking you to the stadium to watch the Redskins practice, and on the back of his motorcycle, of all things. You were a little girl.”

  “Why would you say that, Day?” For a moment, there was a look of pain on his face.

  “Your dad never took me with him, and I was a boy and my dad had walked out.”

  What was all this about? She said, her head cocked to one side, “I honestly don’t think it occurred to him, Day. Why didn’t you simply ask to go with us? He liked you, he would have said yes gladly.”

  He shook his head, as if surprised at himself, and looked down at his plate. “You’re right, it’s ancient history.”

  He looked up at her again. “Your mother is very well liked, Perry. This will all turn out right, you’ll see.”

  “Tell me, Day, do you think my mom was at fault for George McCallum’s death?”

  He drank some wine. “I don’t know what happened, no one knows. But the fact is your mom’s one of the most honorable people I’ve ever met. She wouldn’t do anything purposefully to hurt someone, particularly someone she loved.”

  She wanted to kiss him. “I guess someone doesn’t agree with you,” she said.

  Day shook his head. “And that must be why the FBI is all over this. To protect your mom.”

  “Yes,” she said. Why couldn’t she keep her lips zipped? But she knew. It was a matter of trust, of lifelong affection. She was twenty-eight years old. That was a whole lot of years of trust. She’d trust him with her life, her mother’s life as well.

  She said, “I don’t want dessert. Do you think we could leave now? Believe me, it’s been a very long day and I’m nearly ready to fall on my face.”

  “I guess that means you’re not going to give up your sources about Tebow’s girlfriend tonight?” He saw her surprise and patted her hand. “Good job, Perry. You’ve got the universe quoting your blog. I’ll bet the Post is selling out newspapers faster than they can print them. You need to ask for a raise.”

  They were still talking about her story in his new BMW on their way to her condo. She said, “What about you, Day? You told me you walked out on a prospective client a couple of days ago. Do you have any other irons in the fire?”

  His eyes lit up, and he puffed up his chest a bit. He leaned toward her, Mr. Discreet in the flesh, and told her about sev
eral crucial congressmen who’d agreed to coauthor a bill that would greatly increase future profits for CONSOL coal mining, Day’s biggest client. As he talked, she remembered how proud he’d been when he was accepted to West Virginia University for a degree in mining engineering, like his father, and not an Ivy League school. His father had remarried a sweet young thing—that was the only name Day ever used when talking about his stepmom. They were living outside of Denver, his father working on the board of a mining conglomerate. His father’s name still counted, and he’d helped Day meet the right people at CONSOL. It had been the perfect springboard for him.

  She listened as he laid out what the proposed bill would do for his client, tried to share in his budding excitement, but her mind kept going back to a big shaggy dog named Smack sleeping on Davis’s feet.

  When he pulled into the driveway of her condo on Vanderbilt Street, he turned in the seat and said, “Sit tight. I’ll get the car door.”

  She waited for him to open her car door for her, as he always insisted on doing, and walked with him to the glowing porch light she always kept on. She yawned as she stuck her key into the front door.

  “May I come in for a while?” he asked.

  “Goodness, I’m sorry, Day, I’m stressed out, I guess, and—”

  He took her shoulders in his hands, turned her, leaned down and kissed her. She stilled. Oh, no, she thought. Oh, no, this can’t be happening. Not Day. She’d sensed he’d been hinting at this, but she’d ignored it. She’d foolishly thought he would understand she wouldn’t follow him there. He lifted his head and looked down at her as he splayed his hands on either side of her head. He rubbed his cheek against hers and clasped her shoulders.

  “Day, please, no, I—”

  “Why not? Perry, you know I’ve been patient. You know I’ve wanted this. I’ve given you plenty of time to see me as a man who loves you. We’re not playmates any longer. It’s time, really, it’s time. I want you to marry me. Let’s go inside.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Years ago, as a teenager, she’d have thought about it, maybe, but that was a different world. She’d rather cut off her arm than hurt him, but she had to stop this. Day, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way. You’re my dear friend, you have been for my entire life, but I simply don’t love you, not in that way, not the way a woman loves a man.

  She couldn’t get the words out, simply couldn’t. Maybe what she felt for him could shift and change and evolve, maybe. But tonight, she couldn’t handle it. She kept her voice calm and smooth. “Day, there’s so much going on right now, I simply can’t think of this, of us. We need to wait for this mess with my mom to get resolved, then maybe we can talk—”

  He pulled back but kept his hands around her shoulders. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, Perry. Even my mom knows how I feel about you. Do you know she tried to convince me it wouldn’t work because we were raised together, like brother and sister, that all these feelings I have for you will go away when I meet the right girl? She loves you, though. You’ll both change your mind, you’ll see.” He stepped back, sighed. “I told her I was going to ask you to marry me tonight. I have the ring in my pocket.” He stopped, sighed again. “At least you’re not turning me down flat.” He gave her a twisted smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like to see the ring? No, I guess not. We’ll talk again when you’re ready, Perry, when all this is cleared up, all right?”

  She nodded. “I think my mom would agree with yours.”

  “All three of you are wrong.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead, stared down at her for a long second, and turned away.

  Perry watched him as he walked to his car, watched the car cruise slowly down her quiet street. She stepped inside her condo, punched in her alarm code, and took off her heels, her toes breathing a sigh of relief. She walked into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge, and looked out over her darkened driveway as she slugged it down.

  She froze. She couldn’t believe it. Her beloved Harley was lying on its side, bashed to pieces.

  Cranford Motel

  Outside Mallardville, Virginia

  Wednesday night

  Blessed could walk now, his steps steady and smooth. He could even run if he had to, but not far, no, not too far yet. He was getting stronger by the day, though it was slow and hard going. But what was even harder to bear was realizing the part of him that was missing, a power that had bathed his very being with light and strength for as long as he could remember.

  He was common now, only an ordinary man, no longer even young or strong. He wanted to howl with the loss, and with the fear he would remain common and powerless for the rest of his life.

  It was cold. The old vagrant’s coat he’d stolen after he’d stuck a knife in his heart smelled musty, with a layer of fruit and chewing tobacco, probably from the old man’s crib. Blessed marveled at how easily the knife slipped between his ribs, directly into his heart. Of course, Blessed knew exactly where to slip the knife. His father had shown him and his brother Grace, pointing his old fingers with his sharp curved nails at what he called the X Spot. He remembered his father telling him and Grace, “If you boys can’t use your gift, then you will do what you have to do, but never forget, do it kindly.” He’d wondered whether how you killed someone would matter that much to that person, but he’d never asked. His father wasn’t one to ever question. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Father was dead now, as was his precious mother. And his brother Grace. And Martin. Only Autumn, Martin’s daughter, was alive, but that child of his blood would have killed him, if she could, and very nearly did.

  He tasted the remembered fear, cold and acid in his mouth, and swallowed. A little girl had left him hollow, a shadow, a man of no account at all.

  The old vagrant had given out only a short sigh, then slumped forward in Blessed’s arms. He’d gently pulled out the knife he’d bought at a pawnshop for five dollars, most of the money the orderly had had in his wallet. He felt a leap of energy fill him when he’d walked out of that cold, bleak state hospital filled with crazy people and blank-eyed orderlies and nurses and doctors who looked through you, never at you. He’d wiped off the knife, slipped it back into its webbing at his waist, laid the man against the alley wall and took the heavy old coat.

  Blessed missed his father. Had he smelled a whiff of him on the old man whose coat was now on his back? No, maybe that was how old people smelled. Blessed would have preferred sending the old man walking off an overpass on Highway 75 with a look, but he couldn’t do that any longer. He wanted to curse until he remembered the old couple in Georgetown who’d seen him leap away from his down motorcycle and limp away. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, but he’d looked at them and said quickly, “You did not see me.” And he’d seen something in their eyes, something that reminded him of his old self. He wondered what they’d told the police, what they’d told Agent Sherlock.

  She’d shot the motorcycle right out from under him. She was still alive and walking around and his mama was dead, with only him left to care, to remember her and his family, and what they’d all been to one another. Now both that damned agent and her husband were looking for him, he knew it to his belly. But did they know who he was? They would soon, he would see to that.

  He thought again of that old couple and felt his pulse leap. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe his power was coming back. Maybe. But now that he thought about it, was it possible they hadn’t seen him clearly enough because they were too old?

  Blessed walked back to his end motel room, unlocked the door, and closed it quietly behind him. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fried chicken. He tossed the motel room key on the bed. He didn’t even have his stolen motorcycle now. Tomorrow, he’d steal a car, maybe an old Chevy Camaro. His daddy had loved the old Camaros. But it had to be close by. He rubbed his legs, raising one, then the other. They wobbled a bit. He had to work them more, but not tonight. He’d done enough for tonight.

  H
e didn’t take off the coat, simply stretched out on the stingy mattress, crossed his arms over his chest. He remembered his mama stroking his head in her last moments on earth, whispering to him that she loved him.

  “Blessed, Blessed,” she’d said, her voice wispy and soft, “I knew I would see you again. But I will have to leave you soon, Blessed, I don’t have much time. My heart feels like it’s slogging through thick mud and it’s hard to breathe. Those two terrible people who put us here—you must promise me you will make them pay for what they did. You kill them for me. You will give me revenge and peace. Will you promise me?”

  He had cried, beside himself, the pain was so great. “No, Mama, don’t go, don’t die, you’re all I have left. Martin is gone. Grace is gone, Father’s gone. Don’t leave me. Don’t.”

  The wispy old voice grew softer, as if drifting away from him. “I wish I could stay with you, Blessed, but I can’t. Your little niece, Autumn, is the only one who will be left of us, but I won’t send you after her again. She’s dangerous to you because she doesn’t understand. After you’ve taken our revenge, you must find a woman of power, have your own children. Make us continue. They will have your gift, and you can build our family again. You can become the Father.”

  Blessed had whispered, “I will, Mama, I will, I promise.”

  Now he whispered again into the dark air of his motel room, “I will, Mama, I will.”

  Perry’s condo

  Vanderbilt Street, Washington, D.C.

  Wednesday night

  Perry was standing in the middle of her living room, barefoot, still wearing that black glove of a dress she’d worn to the restaurant. It hadn’t taken him long to get there, not after she’d yelled into the phone, “My Harley! Someone trashed my Harley!”

  Before he’d come into the condo, he’d gone around the side to see another officer with a Maglite standing over the remains. The beautiful machine wouldn’t see life again; something like a sledgehammer, he thought, heavy, repeated blows. Rage in those blows. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it one bit. This was a serious escalation from the note in the Post’s men’s room.