A Shameless Little BET

by Meli Raine

My personal phone rings. I look. Mom.

  “Silas? Honey? You there?” she asks when I pick up.

  “Sure. I’m working, but alone in a car now. What’s up?”

  “Kelly. She wants to talk to Jane.”

  My heart sinks. “I – I can’t do that. Not now. We just had an incident.”

  “Is Jane okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She knows my silences. “And you can’t talk about it.”

  “No.”

  “Kelly wants to have a meeting of the Dead Mommies Club.”

  “Oof,” I say, trying not to give in to emotion. I can’t. Work is work. Jane is work right now. Jane is inside me, too, but that part cannot be present right now. It needs to rest quietly inside the Jane box in my body, in my heart, in my mind. A closed box that isn’t ready to be opened right now.

  Same with my Kelly box. My Mom box.

  One box at a time.

  Work is open right now.

  “She’s really having a hard time adjusting, Silas.”

  And... there goes the lid on the Kelly box. Blown right off into the wind.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t help now. Can I call her later and talk?”

  “She wants Jane. She bonded with Jane.”

  I know the feeling.

  “Let me talk to Jane and see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, honey.”

  “Don’t call me honey when I’m working, Mom.”

  “You’re my child, Silas. My only living child, now. I’ll call you honey if I need to.”

  “Okay,” I concede.

  “I love you, Silas. Having Tricia die has been atrocious. I made assumptions about life. I always thought that if one of my children died before me, it would be –” Her words dissolve into a sob.

  “I know. You thought it would be me.”

  “Don’t die, Silas. My heart couldn’t take it. Kelly can’t lose another adult in her life.”

  “I won’t die, Mom.”

  She sobs quietly into the phone and my heart turns into violently yanked taffy. I don’t have the bandwidth for this conversation.

  I also don’t have a choice.

  “Look,” I say, asserting control. Comfort can come in many forms. “I’ll have Jane call Kelly tonight.”

  “Promise?”

  “I swear.”

  “She’s a good one, you know, that Jane. I don’t know what’s between you two, but she’s exactly the kind of woman you could spend the rest of your life with and be happy, Silas. The media has smeared her something awful, but that’s not reality. The reality is that Jane is good. Loving. Kind. And Kelly has a radar for that. I’m seeing it more and more. Kelly seeks out the most compassionate person in a room and soaks up their attention. It feeds the good parts of her.” Mom clears her throat. I can envision her squaring her shoulders. “Not that it’s any of my business who you date.”

  Her words ring in my ears.

  “Right.”

  She sniffs. “What time can I tell Kelly to expect the call from Jane?”

  I look at the clock. “Seven?”

  “Seven it is. Don’t disappoint your niece, Silas. She can’t take another person not coming through for her.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe that’s why she trusts Jane so readily. Poor Jane’s been through all that, too. And yet she just keeps turning toward goodness.”

  Mom’s words are an uppercut to my heart.

  “Gotta go, Mom. Love you. Jane will call.”

  Beep.

  If I weren’t driving, I’d bang my head against the steering wheel.

  Crumpling my emotions into a ball like a discarded piece of paper, I shove them all into a box marked Not Now and take a deep breath. Clearing the mind is a matter of practice and skill. In seconds, I’ve done it.

  The same process used on the heart isn’t as precise.

  I do it anyhow.

  A few weeks ago, I was just a guy who did a job. A hard job. A good job. An intense use of a set of combat-honed skills that added up to a brilliant sort of functional dysfunction. Learning to become a killing machine, a strategist, a protector, doesn’t exactly translate into civilian society.

  Cops use a different set of skills. Bodyguards in entertainment are eye candy and more about harassment management.

  Political protection, though – that’s closer to combat. Especially the psy ops part.

  Psychological manipulation in politics is more dangerous than physical threats. In the twisting and turning of people against each other comes an elegant, almost divine, kind of power. It costs nothing. It uses no materials, no tangible resources. Collecting a catalog of people’s indiscretions and fears is a reverse honor roll. A demented Dean’s List.

  A Nobel Prize for scandal.

  Sure, we protect people’s bodies. None of us can protect a mind, and yet it’s the mind that is the most dangerous. Manipulation pushes people to the edge. It’s the edges that are the line between life and death. You can nudge someone from madness to action.

  How much does it take?

  Every day I find out.

  And I’m about to find out even more as we pull into the beach parking lot to find Mark Paulson standing there.

  Wearing surfer shorts, flip-flops, and holding a picnic basket.

  I look down at my suit.

  I’m overdressed.

  Jane

  “He has no right to be mad at me,” Lindsay fumes as Duff drives us along the ocean, the waves crashing like it’s no big deal. Like no one got fake-shot a few hours ago. Like my heart is floating on the salt water, a piece of driftwood being smashed against rocks with the tides.

  “No. He doesn’t.”

  “It’s not like I told you anything you didn’t have a right to know.”

  “I think there’s a lot of stuff I have a right to know that isn’t being shared.”

  “Well, that stops now. If I know something, it’s yours to know, too.” She casts a sidelong glance, a little shade thrown at me. “You never extended the same courtesy to me when I was on the Island.”

  “I couldn’t.” She has a good point. My throat tightens. “If I had, things could have been worse for you.”

  “I know. I know in my mind. But the friendship part of me is still pissed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sighs.

  “Drew has asked me to keep some stuff private, but ask away.”

  “Is there proof my mom really was part of Nolan Corning’s network?” I ask her directly.

  She closes her eyes. “God.”

  “You said ‘ask away.’”

  “I did. And I wish I knew. Everyone swears Anya was part of it, but they’ve sworn you were, too. So... I don’t know. I wish I had a better answer.”

  “Me, too. Because we’re about to see Mark Paulson, and my mother handed you off to ‘Mark Paulson.’” I use finger quotes on purpose.

  “Mark had nothing to do with that.”

  “I know. It’s just... hard.”

  “I understand. He’s actually a nice guy. Smart. We get along well. It’s kind of weird, actually. He’s comfortable to be around in a way I can’t quite pinpoint,” Lindsay elaborates. “I’m not trying to sell you on the guy,” she says with a laugh, mouth twisting into a funny smile. “It’s just kind of weird. I don’t warm up to people easily. I like him.”

  “Drew must be jealous.”

  She laughs. “No. Drew has no reason to ever be jealous. Besides, he and Mark go way back. Combat. Drew saved Mark’s life.”

  “Didn’t they all save each other’s life at some point?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a bond forged in pain.”

  “Like ours,” she says softly, looking at me. Her eyes are raw emotion, unfiltered.

  I can’t breathe.

  We give each other sad smiles, my lips almost numb but moving anyway.

  Duff pulls into a beach parking lot, weaving the SUV into a spot at the end, next to a long
RV. He gets out and opens my door. I climb out, Lindsay stepping into the sun as Drew appears by her side.

  Silas is here, too.

  And then Mark comes into my line of sight, looking like a beachcomber, a surfer, a California blond dude who beach bums for a living.

  He fits the part perfectly. You’d never know. You would never, ever guess he’s a deep undercover agent, a DEA guy, a – whatever agency he really works for.

  And then my breath gets stolen by realization.

  Because what agency do Silas and Drew actually work for?

  This meeting is supposed to give me answers.

  All it’s doing so far is provoking more questions.

  “Hey!” Mark says to Lindsay, dropping a picnic basket, giving her a warm hug. Drew and Silas scan the horizon. Duff has climbed back in the SUV already.

  I look at Silas, who is closed off. Face tight. He’s gone back to being like he was the first day on my detail. Cold. Flat. Polished. He’s far from the man I saw thirty minutes ago at the inn.

  Something has happened.

  Before I can ask, Mark Paulson approaches me, hand extended, a wary smile on his face. I know he’s playing a part, but there are too many layers to this encounter for me to just set my emotions aside and be polite.

  He’s done nothing wrong.

  The part of me that pines for my mother can’t quite accept that.

  “Jane. Good to see you again.”

  I nod, shaking his hand. That’s all I can give. He seems to understand, breaking contact fast, but with a friendly, perceptive look in his eyes.

  “I thought we’d find a good spot close to the water, where we can chill in private. The closer to the water, the better,” he says as we start to walk on the sand, looping us around a pick-up truck with five camp chairs in carrying sacks propped up against the grille. The guys grab the chairs easily and we make a line, the five of us snaking over the thick, grass-speckled dunes.

  I’m wearing easy slip-off shoes. Silas and Drew trudge along in their work shoes, while Lindsay’s heels come off easily. Once we hit the wet sand, it’s easier to walk, my calves adjusting fast to the uneven, then more-even terrain.

  Humans are designed to adapt.

  We’re not, however, designed to over-function.

  Mark picks the spot, the guys open the chairs, and soon we’re in a tight circle, Mark handing out snacks of cheese, fruit, and bottled water. No alcohol is offered.

  Our senses cannot be dulled.

  After this meeting, the alcohol can flow. We will need it, to escape from the morbid truths we’re about to learn.

  Reality, though, needs to be absorbed head on, eyes wide open.

  Drew and Mark sit next to each other, Lindsay on Drew’s right, then me between her and Silas. I lean toward her.

  “Let’s get to the point,” Mark says, eyeing me. “You’re part of this investigation. You’re in a precarious position, because we’re simultaneously protecting you, suspecting you, and trusting you.”

  “I’m a Jill of All Trades,” I shout.

  No one laughs. Especially not me.

  “We’ve collectively made a decision to trust you. You proved yourself this morning, according to Drew,” he continues.

  I glare at him.

  The roar of the surf makes it hard to hear. That’s the point, I know. Our location is all about thwarting surveillance. I shiver at the thought.

  “Drew and I uncovered a connection between Nolan Corning and our parents’ deaths,” Mark says, the words brutal and elegant.

  Lindsay gasps, grabbing Drew’s knee. “What?”

  “Your parents’ deaths? But I thought Drew’s parents died in a car accident,” I ask Mark, puzzled.

  “They did. So did mine. My mother and father.”

  “Adoptive father,” Drew adds, holding up a pre-emptive hand against Mark’s protests. “It’s only important given who your biological father is.”

  This is so confusing. “Can I get some background information on this? I feel like you all know a lot I don’t.”

  Mark takes a deep breath, elbows on his knees, head down. He looks up at all of us, but focuses more on me. “My biological father is a deep undercover agent. DEA, CIA, whatever – the alphabet he works for doesn’t matter. He spent the last thirty-plus years bringing down drug networks around the world, but mostly focused on the conduit of drugs and humans between Central America and Mexico and the U.S.”

  “But he’s not the one who died?”

  “No. That was my adoptive father. My parents split when I was little.”

  “And your mother was Senator Thornberg’s daughter?” I ask, knowing the answer.

  “Yes. So I’m the biological child of a deep cover agent and the grandson of Thornberg.”

  “Your pedigree is impeccable for politics,” Lindsay says in a dry tone.

  Mark smiles at her. The grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “So I’ve been told a thousand times by your father.” He frowns, then looks awkwardly at me. “And... yours.”

  “Oh, Daddy loves Mark Paulson,” Lindsay says with an eye roll. “Until, you know, you handed me off to my rapists.”

  Mark and Drew close their eyes and sigh. “How John impersonated me is still one of the stranger pieces in all this,” Mark says, opening his eyes and looking at me. “And one of the hardest details in the Anya question.”

  “What is ‘the Anya question’?” I ask.

  “Whether your mother was part of Lindsay’s kidnapping and torture or not.”

  “Of course she wasn’t!”

  I’m met with silence.

  “If you trust me, then you have to trust me when I say I know my mother wasn’t part of this. She was set up, too. Like me.”

  “Right now, it looks like everyone around Harry, Lindsay, and Monica was somehow dirty in all this. The only people officially cleared are them.”

  “And me,” I add. “Officially. I know plenty of people think I’m guilty, but it’s all circumstantial.”

  Clearing his throat, Mark takes a sip of water and continues. “Back to Corning. We know he pulled Stellan, John, and Blaine into the plot to ruin Harry via Lindsay. We also know he had dirt on Tara, Jenna, and Mandy’s parents. Enough to get those three to turn against Lindsay and whip up the slut-shaming.”

  Lindsay winces.

  “Sorry,” Mark says. “It’s just easier to be blunt.”

  “I know. Go ahead,” she says, jaw set with steely resolve.

  “It was all done to ruin Harry. Derail his presidential ambitions. But there was more. Much more behind it.”

  “And our parents got wrapped up in it all,” Drew says softly. “Corning killed them all.”

  “My car!” Lindsay gasps. “Your parents died in a car accident. So did Mark’s. Single car.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when I came back from the Island, my car was tampered with.”

  “Yes,” Drew says. “We’ve known they had to be connected for a while.”

  “But your parents died a while ago,” I say to Mark. “And so did Drew’s. Not at the same time, though.”

  “A bit apart,” Mark replies.

  “You’re sure they’re connected, though?” Lindsay presses.

  “Yes. It’s crystal clear now, damn it,” Drew grinds out.

  “Why? Why would he want to eliminate them? What did your parents – both sets – have to do with Nolan Corning? Or Harwell Bosworth?” I inquire, trying to put it all together and failing.

  Silas turns to me, so serious, and asks:

  “Ever heard of a guy named El Brujo?”

  Chapter 5

  Jane

  “The drug kingpin? The one from my university?” I am more confused than ever.

  For a long minute, no one says a word.

  “You went to Yates.” Mark looks at Silas. “You told me she did,” Mark says, suddenly focusing more attention on me.

  “Yes. It’s a top university. What’s wrong with it?” Mark’s pretens
e is cute. I know damn well they know everything about me already.

  “Other than the El Brujo scandal, nothing.”

  “That was awful, but – what does it have to do with, ohhhhhhhhhh....” I connect the dots. “Oh, my God. Nolan Corning had some kind of deal with El Brujo? And Harry got caught up in it?”

  “Harry refused to go along with it. Corning strong-armed Harry to force through some last-minute changes to a law as part of a budget amendment. Harry somehow found out it was to clear the way for El Brujo to smuggle in drugs and women for sex-slave trafficking. Harry wanted nothing to do with it. Talked to my mom and told her the whole thing shortly before she died,” Mark explains in a sour tone.

  “And my dad,” Drew adds.

  “And they both died in suspicious car accidents,” I say slowly, realizing the power of what they’re putting together.

  “Exactly. Nolan Corning has a lot to hide.”

  “But killing people! And having Lindsay attacked like that!”

  “People like Nolan Corning and El Brujo don’t consider other people to be fully human. They are objects to be used to get what they want,” Silas explains.

  Objects.

  “What does this have to do with me? With my attack? Why would Nolan Corning have John, Stellan, and Blaine do that to me? Were they working for El Brujo?” Lindsay asks, peering intently at Mark, as if his face alone could answer her.

  Mark’s expression fills with righteous anger. “We don’t know. We haven’t connected those threads yet. But El Brujo has a long, nasty history of hurting people. Including my fiancée, Carrie.”

  “I still can’t believe your fiancée is Carrie Myerson. That Carrie. The one with the friend she rescued who lost her arm because of El Brujo’s fetish,” I say to him.

  “That Carrie. Yes.” Mark frowns.

  “It was all over the news! And you think El Brujo was involved with the attacks on Lindsay and me? But he was dead by the time John, Stellan, and Blaine came after us the second time.”

  “Right,” Drew says. “Which is why it all doesn’t add up. There has to be something more. Has to.”

  “Monica,” I whisper.

  Lindsay’s neck jerks as she startles and stares at me, wide-eyed.

  “Your mom. There’s something there,” I say apologetically, feeling awful for openly saying it, and yet I have to.