Felix cultivated the look of a Latino Kriss Kringle. His broad, brown face was ringed with curly white hair and a white beard that came down below his shirt collar. In public, he was forever smiling, as if someone had just told him a wonderful joke. Being around him in private was a whole different thing. He was a lot more complicated than he looked—and a lot more sharp-tempered.
“I’ve got something on the stove. Let’s go inside.” He clapped his hands. “Inside Coop! House!” Coop sat down, staring dumbly at him. Felix sighed—“Idiot dog.”—and tossed a treat onto the porch. Coop bounded after it, not such an idiot after all.
The house was a stone Tudor, tall and imposing on the outside. Inside, the rooms were small with lots of dark wood. On a nice day, it felt cozy. In the dead of a Washington winter it was like an overfurnished prison block. Felix didn’t care one way or the other. He’d lived there for over thirty years and swore they’d carry him out feet first someday.
We went to the kitchen, where a pot of pasta sauce was simmering. He dipped up a spoonful for me. Before I could swallow it, I started coughing. “Too much oregano?” he said.
I shrugged.
He turned to the spice rack and dumped in a heavy tablespoon of garlic powder. “That’ll cover it.”
“Or add to the mystery,” I said, taking the spoon to the sink.
When I turned around, he took hold of my hand and looked at the scratches on my wrist. “What’s this?”
“Tori told you,” I said.
“She said something about it.” His eyes had lost their twinkle.
In his younger days, Felix would have approached the subject more carefully, giving me some small talk, a few easy questions. Now he didn’t have the patience. He told me that was why he retired, a constant feeling he was treading water and running out of time.
“I had a new patient today. He used a fake name, so I didn’t spot it from the file. He was my friend when I was a kid, the guy my mother shot who survived.”
Felix didn’t show a lick of surprise. “Sure. That could do it.” He turned the burner off under the sauce and pointed at the sunroom across the hall. “Go play with the dog. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Coop was asleep on the sofa. I let him be and flipped through the newspaper from a couple of days ago. Felix wasn’t a tidy housekeeper, but that added to the lived-in feel of the place.
He came in with two steaming mugs and set one in front of me. He settled into the rocking chair opposite. “So what’s this kid’s real name?”
“Scottie Glass, and he’s not a kid anymore.”
“You both are to me.” He adjusted his gut over his belt and took a noisy slurp of coffee. He was old and maybe worn-out as a therapist, but he had some real strengths. He was absolutely comfortable in his own skin, and he didn’t care one bit what anybody thought of him. Of course, that was probably why he never married.
Another slurp of coffee. “He came to talk to you because of the anniversary.”
October 3rd, a month away, was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the night my family died. “I thought of that, too. But we didn’t get to talk about it.” I looked down. “I didn’t react very well. Actually, I froze up, got defensive. It scared him and he took off.”
“What the hell should he expect, showing up like that?” He set his mug down on the table between us. “Tell me the rest of it. Your blackout.”
“There’s not much to tell. I was out looking for Scottie and spotted him about a block away. I called to him but he kept going. Next thing I knew—” I clicked my fingers. “I was out of it.”
“How long?”
“I—” Suddenly I didn’t want to make more of this than I already had. “A minute, no more. I feel fine now.”
“The first episode in what—five years? I’d say that’s no reason to celebrate.”
“Nobody’s celebrating, Felix.”
We stared hard at each other. Then he sighed and slouched back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to push your buttons.”
He meant the anniversary. We’d talked about it—how it would put stress on me in ways I didn’t realize. So far I just avoided thinking about it.
“There’s another thing Scottie may have wanted to see me about. Two FBI agents came to the office looking for him.”
“What did they want him for?”
“To interview him, part of some investigation. They wouldn’t give any specifics except to say it was about some threatening messages.”
Felix had had his practice in DC for a long time. He had nothing but disdain for official Washington. He said it was like life on the reef: the big fish ate the small, and the smart ones stayed the hell out of the way. “Tori mentioned something about the FBI. But OK—you didn’t tell them anything, right?”
“Basically, right.”
“So your friend Scottie has gotten himself in a bind. Maybe he wanted your help with that. Maybe it was something else—like giving you a load of grief about what your mother did to him. Either way, you shouldn’t be treating him, not with the baggage you two have.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” It was pretty much textbook advice.
“Tell me what you did after your episode.”
“I took a train ride. Tried to process.”
I was rubbing my wrist, and I sighed and pulled my hand away. Felix just stared at me.
“I thought about the old days. Lancaster. The hospitals. Moving to Arlington.”
“How did that go for you?”
I looked into my coffee. “Not so well.”
Felix bided his time for a change.
“Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Think forward, not back.”
“That’s a start.” He tapped his mug on the table, a signal we should move on. “You had other appointments today. What’s looking up there?”
I told him about couples therapy with Michelle and Henry, how they were getting on.
“Concentrate on them,” he said. “Looks like they’re ready for a game-changer. How’s that sound?”
“Like a plan,” I said.
We both glanced at the clock on the bookshelf and laughed. It had been exactly fifty minutes since I arrived. Therapists’ hours always are fifty minutes long.
“Look at us,” he said, standing up. “We are what we do.”
We went back to the kitchen, and he put the mugs with the pile of dirty dishes on the counter. “I’d ask you to stay for dinner, but even I can’t eat that slop.” He sniffed the pasta sauce and dropped the pot in the sink.
He followed me to the front door. Coop trotted along with us. We stopped on the porch, enjoying the evening air.
“How are you doing, by the way?” I said.
For a moment Felix looked off across the street, and I thought he might say something serious. Instead, he gave one of his Kriss Kringle smiles. “I’m tip-top. Who wouldn’t love living without an alarm clock?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Take care of yourself. Tori says cash flow is down at the office. I count on your payment every month to keep me in good scotch.”
“And we couldn’t have you drinking the cheap stuff.”
“No, we couldn’t.” He let his hand slip down my arm. “You’re a great therapist, Cal, but you can’t help anybody if your own head isn’t on straight.”
“I hear you, Felix.”
I was halfway to my car when he called, “Tori said one of the FBI agents was a woman. Real looker. What’d you think of her?”
The first thing that came to my mind was she’s a damn sneak. But that would have started a whole new conversation about trust and women, not my strong suit. My friend Tim’s wife, Anne, had set me up a few times on blind dates. She soon gave up and liked to joke that I operated on a one-date limit. That wasn’t fair. It was more like three. What would anybody expect, given what happened with my mother and my family? Still, a lot of those women I’d dated ended up as friends; if not, they caught the next train with no harm done. And me—I tried not to think about a long future of c
ooking solo meals and using only half the bed.
Felix was staring at me. “She’s got quite a smile,” I said.
“I’ve been around those people. Justice Department lawyers, FBI. They’ll use anybody to get what they want. Don’t care about the wreckage they leave. You steer clear of them.”
From what I’d seen so far, that might be a pretty accurate description of Agents Weston and Cade. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“And steer clear of Scottie Glass.”
That was one piece of advice too much. He saw the annoyance in my eyes. “It’s been too many years, Cal. The guy can only bring you grief, so let him solve his own problems.”
I quickly got behind the wheel and cranked the engine.
Felix watched me drive away while Coop dug a pit in the petunias.
FIVE
I couldn’t stay angry with Felix. He cared a lot for Tori, for his old patients, and for me. By warning me away from Scottie, he was only trying to do right by all of us. I caught a last glimpse of him in my mirror. He was going back up the steps, steadying himself with the handrail. He’d gained weight lately, and I didn’t like the look of his eyes, moist and bloody as rare steak. Retirement wasn’t easy for him. Pay more attention to him, I thought. Take him to a ball game. The Orioles had a home stand coming up. After a long dry spell, the Birds were even playing some good baseball these days.
My apartment was a couple of blocks from Dupont Circle, a three-mile straight shot down Massachusetts Avenue. I rolled to a stop at a red light. It was a gorgeous evening, and I put the window down. On the passenger’s seat, I had a stack of files. The top one was labeled with Tori’s red felt-tip pen, in bold, curvy letters. Could handwriting actually be sexy?
I flipped the file open. Edward Gaines. Where did he get that name? And why the hell didn’t he just call me up and say he wanted to get together? He hadn’t listed an insurance company or an emergency contact person. There was the address in Mount Pleasant. He said he’d lived there for eight years. That wasn’t likely a lie, not the way it came out so easily.
I set the file aside. A mockingbird chattered somewhere nearby; a silky breeze drifted through the car. This kind of evening was the best Washington had to offer. I glanced at Scottie’s address again. There was another hour of daylight left. Mount Pleasant was an interesting neighborhood, always a lot going on. I hadn’t been there in a while—maybe too long. As I turned east, I remembered Felix’s warning. But what the hell. I was just out for a drive, right?
16th Street NW is the big north-south thoroughfare in Mount Pleasant. The address Scottie had given was a block over on 17th. I expected tidy row houses braced by an occasional apartment building, and that’s what I found until I hit the last block. The street narrowed and pitched down, winding toward Rock Creek Park. The houses were scruffier, treed in. His was last in line, a pale-yellow frame house badly in need of a coat of paint. The park ran right up to the doorstep, a gloomy place of huge beech and oak trees with spindly hollies and dogwoods in the understory.
As I nosed into a parking spot, the curtain moved in the front window of the house. A woman was there—wispy, white hair, and round, thick glasses. I put her somewhere in her seventies. She was looking down the street and kept her head partially behind the curtain as if she didn’t want to be seen.
From my vantage point, I could see all the way to the end of the street and beyond that the traffic flowing on Piney Branch Parkway. Something moved in the passenger’s seat three cars in front. A hand came up and dropped, the way someone would gesture while telling a story. Shifting a little, I could make out the top of a head to go with the hand. There was another head on the driver’s side. His eyes came up to the rearview mirror, and I ducked down.
It was Tyson Cade, and with him, Jamie Weston, the storyteller. She turned sideways so I could see her profile.
This wasn’t hard to put together. They’d come here looking for Scottie. All they found was the old woman. They decided to stick around, see if he came home later. The woman was keeping watch on them.
I didn’t want another go-round with the FBI, trying to explain what I was doing there. My business with Scottie would have to wait.
The street there was too narrow for me to turn around, so the only way out was past them. I stayed low in my seat and cruised by, then checked my mirror. Weston was laughing, talking a streak; Cade was staring straight ahead, as serious as the Pope. Good cop/bad cop, just the way they’d played it at my office.
Seeing that look on Cade’s face reminded me of a question he’d asked. He wanted to know if Scottie had mentioned something called Braeder Design Systems. I’d said no, but the name seemed familiar. Now it came to me. Braeder was in the newspaper from time to time. Some sort of government contracts outfit. And there was something else about that name, something from way back . . .
A horn blasted behind me. I was out on Piney Branch, straddling both lanes. I swung over and gave the other driver a sheepish wave.
Braeder Design. I’d have to look that up when I got home.
I lived in a 1930s-era building that had been converted from a large house to six apartments. There was a small parking area in the rear. The rent for my spot there was almost as much as my apartment lease. Nights like this, it was worth the price. The Dupont Circle neighborhood was always buzzing with people, come to check out the boutiques and art galleries and restaurants. When the weather was fine, it was impossible to find streetside parking.
I wedged my car into my spot and got out juggling the stack of files and a bag of Chinese food. After I left Scottie’s place, I stopped for carryout in Adams Morgan at a place called Cho’s Temple Garden. I’d never been there before, but it looked clean and smelled fabulous.
An alley led to the front of the building. I was halfway down it when my phone buzzed. By the time I got to the front stoop and put the files down, the call had switched to voice mail. It was a number I didn’t recognize.
I tapped in my access code, and the first thing I heard was background noise, rushing traffic. Then her voice, starting out confident but quickly losing steam. “Dr. Henderson, this is Jamie Weston. With the FBI. I, um . . .” I imagined her back in Mount Pleasant, standing outside the car. Maybe she and Cade had had an argument. “I wanted to apologize for listening at your office door. I was only wondering if you were going to call Mr. Glass. Still it was . . .” I thought she was going to say “unprofessional” or something like that. Instead she said, “really stinko.” I laughed at the phone. “Anyway,” she continued, “no hard feelings, I hope. Let us know if you hear from him. We only need to talk to him, give him a warning. Everybody can come out a winner.”
I put the phone away. There was a lot to think about there. They wanted to give Scottie a warning, so he was in trouble, not just a source of information. And her next line: everybody can come out a winner. There was tension with that. A lie? Or just uncertainty? Anyway, one thing was certain. They didn’t have Scottie yet. But Scottie wasn’t the only thing on my mind. I had this absolutely clear picture of Weston—head tilted, hair swept aside, talking and laughing. I realized I hadn’t heard her laugh yet. Then I shook my head, wondering where that thought came from.
I held the bag of food in my teeth while I unlocked the building access door. There was no lobby, just a small alcove. Lucinda and Chelsea in 1B were blasting their stereo again, Barry White from the thump of the beat. They worked as policy analysts for the IRS. If their sex life was anything like the music they played, they must have been masters of stamina. I was glad I lived two floors up, where the noise didn’t keep me awake at night.
The light at the top of the stairs had been out for two months. The other apartment on my floor was being renovated, and somebody in the construction crew had smashed the fixture. It was only a minor annoyance. I had my issues, but being afraid of the dark wasn’t one of them. I was a lot more unhappy about the stack of drywall against the railing. It must have been delivered during
the day. I’d have to call the landlady about that, or they’d start leaving tools and paint and trash and who knew what else out there.
I turned sideways to squeeze by and something crashed to the floor. I spun to the open spot at the end of the hall.
Dim light, odd angles. All I saw was a big man moving fast. He had his hand out to grab me. I shoved back, hard. It wasn’t until I made contact that I saw the hat and, as that flipped away, the red hair. My hand hit flush on the top of his head, the wine-dark divot there.
Scottie dropped as if he’d been shot. Again.
SIX
It was Scottie’s bicycle that had fallen and made all the noise. I shoved it away and dropped next to him. “Mmm,” he mumbled. He sat up, licking the corner of his mouth. “Is that General Tso’s?” There was chicken sauce smeared from his cheeks to his chest.
“I guess it is,” I said with a laugh, and helped him up.
I collected my files and the rest of the food. The General Tso’s was the only casualty. Scottie took a napkin and wiped his face and got his own things together. Along with his bicycle there was his backpack and a tablet computer. “You scared me half to death. Do you always sneak up the stairs that way?”
I handed him a set of earphones he’d missed picking up. “You were listening to music. That’s why you didn’t hear me.”
“Maybe.” He sniffed the air. “That stuff smells great. You going to invite me in?”
I was more than surprised to find him hiding there in the dark. Still, I had scared him off once already; I didn’t want another round of guilt from doing it again. “Sure, Scottie, I’m going to invite you in. As soon as I can find my keys.”
The Survivors Page 4
