by Meg Gardiner
The door hadn’t blown shut. The tide hadn’t taken him. Gabe was on this side of daylight.
She didn’t believe that prayers worked as magic, or as a tether to keep people from sinking into the realm of the dead, so she hadn’t said any prayers. But right then she leaned her forehead against the wall, felt the cool plaster, and shut her eyes.
Slam that door, she said to the universe. Lock it, throw the key away, and keep it sealed until Sophie has grandchildren. Until Gabe knocks and says it’s time.
Tang stood in the center of the waiting area, small and isolated. Without a word, she turned and left. After a moment Jo went to find her. She rounded the corner and nearly tripped.
Tang was crouched against the wall, hands over her face. Jo held back. Tang inhaled.
Jo sat down beside her. Amy Tang, who tried to let nobody see past the briars, who wanted the world to think she was nothing but nails and tar, wouldn’t look up. For her, the only thing worse than feeling pain was showing it. And letting anybody soothe her was anathema.
“I’m upset about the ATF raid on my parents,” she said.
“I’m upset about the Giants losing to the Cubs,” Jo said. “I don’t think I can be alone right now.”
Tang lowered her head. Jo leaned close to her.
“You did good, Amy. You’re my hero.”
For a long moment Tang held herself motionless. Then her shoulders shook. She pressed her fists to her eyes and let out a heaving sob.
“If you tell anybody, I’ll tear out your tongue with needle- nosed pliers.”
Jo put an arm around her shoulder. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
61
THE NEXT MORNING, JO WALKED DOWN THE HOSPITAL HALLWAY toward Gabe’s room. The corridor was hushed and bright with sunlight. As she approached the door, the SFPD’s mutant twins, Bohr and Dart, came out.
Dart’s hand went to his chest to smooth his tie, even though he wasn’t wearing one. Bohr smiled.
It humanized him. “Doctor.”
“Gentlemen.”
“The department wanted to express its gratitude to Sergeant Quintana for his actions yesterday.” He tipped his shaven head. “And to you.”
“Thank you.”
Dart said, “Have you submitted your psychological autopsy report?”
“Monday.”
“I presume you’ll conclude that Tasia McFarland was the victim of homicide.”
“Judging from the evidence I’ve seen, I conclude that at the time of her death Ms. McFarland was in fear for her life, and had an overwhelming desire to preserve it. She was not suicidal. And she had legitimate reason to believe that Ace Chennault wanted her dead.”
“Chennault killed her,” Bohr said.
She gave him a thoughtful look. “You found him on CCTV footage from the ballpark, didn’t you?”
“Wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, but we think it’s him. The hallway outside the stunt team’s hospitality suite is full of people, but he crosses in and out of view four times. Then the stunt coordinator runs out and tells security to go through the adjoining suite to reach Tasia on the balcony. The guards race next door and in the confusion, Chennault ducks in behind them.”
“He followed them straight onto the balcony and grabbed Tasia in the chaos. He twisted the gun against her neck and squeezed the trigger,” Jo said.
Bohr nodded.
“It was an opportunistic attack,” she said. “Which still doesn’t answer the question of whether Tasia knew the Colt forty- five was loaded.”
Bohr couldn’t stifle a satisfied smile. “Remember the guy who grabbed the gun when it fell into the crowd? We had another talk with him. And surprise, surprise, he changed his story,” he said. “Turns out he had a drawer of cartridges at home. He’d unloaded them from the weapon before he handed it in to us. When her death proved to be part of a conspiracy to assassinate the president, keeping them as souvenirs suddenly seemed too risky to him.”
“Tasia loaded the weapon to protect herself,” Jo said. “And it backfired on her.”
They were all quiet a moment.
“Last night a long screed by Tom Paine was posted online,” Bohr said. “It had been written ahead of time and set up to post automatically. Paine says Tasia betrayed the cause, and met the fate of collaborators worldwide.”
Dart said, “He claims responsibility for the attack on the memorial service. He’s vague, because he couldn’t count on killing the president. But he clearly intended to do so. It’s a declaration of war.”
“Amazing,” Jo said. “Keep digging. I think you’ll find that he believed he was destined to reshape the country’s political landscape through violent spectacle.”
“Modest guy,” Dart said.
The phrase that came to Jo’s mind was paranoid narcissist with delusions of grandeur.
“We’re still going through his computer files. He had dossiers on his accomplices, Keyes and Ivory Petty. He knew that Ivory was using her sister’s identity.”
“So he learned what he did about Noel Michael Petty through Ivory,” Jo said.
Bohr nodded. “Knew Noel was nuts, an obsessed fan of Searle Lecroix. He wrote the e- mails to her pretending to be Lecroix. We think he sent Noel travel money and concert tickets, too.”
“He set her up. She was a scapegoat, just waiting in the wings,” Jo said.
“Amy Tang says you’re the one who discovered that Chennault used Tasia to gain access to the president.”
Jo nodded. “The clues were in her music. Chennault groomed her. He wormed his way into her entourage and got her to hire him as her ghostwriter. He persuaded her to set up the secret meeting with McFarland.” She paused. “Maybe you can answer this question. There’s a line in ‘The Liar’s Lullaby’—‘unlock the door, he dies in shame.’ Do you know what that could refer to?”
Bohr looked thoughtful. “Tasia’s credit card records show that she reserved connecting rooms that night at the Reston Hyatt.”
“Chennault was hiding in the second room,” Jo said. “She was supposed to unlock the door so he could get in. Did she know what he intended to do?”
Dart grunted. “Not beforehand. But she must have figured it out that night. Something tipped her off that Chennault was up to no good, and she locked him out.”
Jo said, “Chennault thought he could kill them both that night, lay it at Tasia’s feet, and stay in the shadows.”
Both men eyed her. It fit, but they all sensed that something was missing.
“But when she got cold feet, why didn’t Tasia warn McFarland?” Jo glanced back and forth between Dart and Bohr. “Did Chennault have something on her?”
Bohr raised an eyebrow. Yes. “He secretly recorded his conversations with Tasia.”
“I’m not surprised. He recorded everything,” Jo said. “He recorded me.”
“He caught her saying, out loud, that she would take the Colt forty-five to the meeting to be sure McFarland talked to her. If McFarland held back, she was going to threaten suicide. She was going to ‘make him talk’ for the record, and for ‘closure.’ ”
“Closure. Right. Permanent, for both Tasia and the president.”
“Chennault convinced her that if she ever breathed a word about the gun, or him being next door, she would be arrested for conspiracy and imprisoned for life—either in a federal prison or a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane.”
“And she probably would have been. Christ.” Jo ran a hand through her hair. “Tasia was terrified, so she kept quiet. But she knew Chennault considered her a loose end. So she wrote songs and recorded her ‘If you get this, I’m dead’ message.”
“Makes sense,” Dart said.
“Not completely.” A thread of uncertainty crept across her. “Chennault was an extremist, but he was also a pro. He intimidated people for money. It’s hard to see him coming up with something like this on his own, and sacrificing his life for it.”
Dart and Bohr both stayed quiet.
“Have you checked to see why Chennault might have been in Hoback, Wyoming? What’s near there?” she said.
They said nothing.
“And Chennault had dossiers on right-wing extremists, including an ex-mercenary for a government contractor. He apparently sent airfare and concert tickets to Noel Petty. Where’d he get the information? And the funds?”
Neither man answered.
“He had too much official information on Keyes and Ivory. I think he’d been fed government intelligence from an inside source.”
They continued to stare silently at her.
“Who hired him?” Jo said.
Dart again smoothed his nonexistent tie. “That question, Dr. Beckett, belongs in the realm of conspiracy theory.”
Jo’s smile was sour and hot. “In other words, you’ll never answer it.”
Dart shrugged, and shifted gears. “Edie Wilson contacted my office. She wants an interview.”
Jo blinked. “With me?” She giggled. Covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Snorted. “No.” She burst into laughter and couldn’t stop, until the nurses at the desk shushed her and she had to wipe her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Thanks. I haven’t felt so good all week.”
Bohr extended his hand. “We’ll let you know if we find anything else.”
They walked away, looking like men who’d plugged the hole in a dike.
Jo called after Bohr. “And good luck with that IRS audit.”
He shot her a wary look over his shoulder.
62
JO WATCHED BOHR AND DART TURN THECORNER. WHEN SHEWASSURE they were gone, she opened the door. “No way. You may not play Halo Three.”
Gabe was on the phone, his voice a rasp. To her utter surprise he was sitting on the edge of the bed, pale, with ash-gray smudges under his eyes. He was wearing jeans, half-zipped, a swath of white gauze around his chest, an IV line, and nothing else.
“Because I say so, cricket,” he wheezed.
He looked exhausted, and Jo guessed it wasn’t simply from having had a bullet tear through him, but from putting his jeans on. His old scars were visible near his hip. Cuts and stitches stippled his right side up into his hairline; more spots for the leopard.
“Aunt Regina’s going to bring you over after lunch. I’ll see you then, mija.” He smiled, weakly but warmly, and said good-bye.
Jo crossed her arms. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I couldn’t get dressed lying down. And no way am I walking into Dave Rabin’s room with my ass catching a breeze in a hospital gown.”
With a finger, Jo gestured for him to stand up. He did, barely. Pain striped his face, but he swallowed it.
He wouldn’t be able to take two steps on his own. And he’d never admit it.
But she didn’t call him on it, not then. “Hold your breath.” She took hold of the zipper. “This is going to hurt.”
He didn’t inhale, which would have been excruciating. Jo caught his eye, silently asking, You sure?
He put his hands on her shoulders. She pulled the zipper up.
Under his breath, he said, “Dios.”
Jo touched his chest. Could they get anywhere with their eyes closed and histories buried, or were they headed for a cliff?
Gingerly, he sat back down. “Bohr and Dart seemed genuinely pleased that I’m alive.”
“They should be. You took a bullet for the president. Probably saved their jobs.”
He looked pensive. “Do you think we know the whole story?”
“No, I don’t. The official story is not the whole story, and all kinds of people will be happy if it stays that way.”
“You going to let it lay?”
“Possibly,” she said. “But not yet.”
He eyed her for a long moment. She took his hand.
“I’ve been told you’re like crack and I’m an addict,” she said.
“I think of myself more as eye candy.”
“That I seek out dangerous situations and throw myself into them.”
“And I jumped this time without a chute?” he said.
She shook her head. Spin the barrel. Pull the trigger, one more time. She had urged him to risk his life. How lucky had they been?
“You’re redeemed, Gabe. You don’t have to put yourself in hock for me.”
“Johanna Renee.” He said it softly. “I may be a slow learner, but I get there in the end. And I do what I want. You don’t push me.”
“I—” Her voice cracked.
“I’m sorry I worried you.” He cleared his throat, but his voice remained a rasp. “The look on your face, when you got to me outside the cathedral, it was . . . it told me there were depths of loss I had never touched.” Sorrow crossed his face like a breaking wave. “I’d seen it once before. I saw it on your face the day Daniel died.”
Jo went cold. She tried to speak. Gabe put a finger to her lips.
“You don’t always have to say something.”
“It’s what I do. I talk to people for a living.”
“No, you listen to them. So listen to me.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “We’re going to be okay.”
She held him, her heart beating with fear and love, and prayed, please.
63
THE SUN HUNG GOLD IN THE WESTERN SKY WHEN JO HEARD MUSIC float on the air outside her house. She was cross-legged on the sofa holding a plate heaped with tempura and sashimi from the sushi bar down the hill. The Sopranos was cued up on the TV. Tina was on her way over with popcorn and a five-pound box of Ghirardelli chocolate.
She pushed Play, but again heard a melody thread the air. It sounded ancient and Asian. She carried her plate to the bay window. And she froze, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. In the park, a portable stereo was playing traditional Japanese Shakuhachi bamboo flute music. Ferd, dressed in basketball shorts and a headband, was practicing—kickboxing? The hustle?—against Ahnuld the robot. He spun, saw her, and erupted in a grin.
“Hi, partner!” He gave her two vigorous thumbs up.
“Oh dear God.”
She was still standing there, horrified, when two black Suburbans pulled up at the curb. The knock on her door a moment later was sharp and imperative.
When she answered it, the man in the dark suit stared as though seeing through her with an X-ray scanner. His black jacket fit well, but didn’t disguise the holster beneath his left arm. The earpiece and sunglasses completed the look.
“Doctor Beckett?” he said.
His companion stood three feet behind him so she had his back and a clear view of the street. She was the same model, decked out in smaller sizes.
“Can I help you?” Jo said.
Inside, music pulsed from the television. Woke up this morning, got yourself a gun . . .
“Could you come with us?”
“What’s going on?” Jo said.
The woman suspended her surveillance of the street and looked Jo up and down. “You’ll probably want to change out of sweatpants.”
Jo held on to the doorknob.
“Maybe brush your hair,” the woman said.
“You can wait out here, or you can watch The Sopranos while I change.”
“Season Six?” the woman said.
Forty-five minutes later, the Suburbans swung off the Bayshore Freeway near San Francisco International Airport. Through smoked glass, Jo watched the road race by. A gate rolled open, granting them access to a remote operations area of the airport.
Jo held her phone to her ear. “Thanks, Vienna.”
She said good-bye and put the phone away. What Vienna had just told her finally clarified things. It focused all the bizarre and disturbing moments of the past few days into a coherent picture, even as it burned Jo’s nerves like lye. She inhaled, her mind racing, and pondered what to do.
The Suburbans rushed past parked corporate jets and coast guard aircraft and JAL cargo 747s, toward the bay. Parked on the tarmac beyond the runways was Air Force One.
They
parked at the foot of the stairs outside the 747. Mr. Special Agent Dark Suit opened Jo’s door. She got out and smoothed down her skirt.
“You look fine,” said Ms. Special Agent Dark Suit.
Jo climbed the stairs between the agents. A salt breeze blew off the bay. In the cockpit two pilots were going over checklists.
She stepped through the jet’s forward door. The dark suits led her through the aircraft, past uniformed airmen and women, past wonkish types slouched in first-class seats, sleeves rolled up, reading fivethirtyeight.com. The carpet was plush. They stopped outside a door, and knocked.
“Come.”
Mr. Dark Suit opened the door. “Doctor Beckett, sir.”
The agent stepped aside and let Jo enter. He closed the door and left her standing on even plusher carpet that bore the presidential seal.
Robert McFarland stood up from behind a desk and came around with his hand out. “Doctor Beckett. A pleasure.”
Jo shook his hand as if in a trance, taking in his cassock-black hair, his runner’s ease, and his cool, cowboy stare. “Mr. President.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” Because I missed you at the cathedral yesterday, she nearly blurted.
He gestured to a sofa and chairs. “Please.”
She sat down. He walked to a sideboard where liquors glittered inside crystal decanters. “Drink? The Secret Service is your designated driver tonight.”
He was taller than she’d imagined, and slighter. And far more intense. He radiated . . . mastery. If Air Force One ran out of fuel over South Dakota, she thought, it would continue flying to Washington under the power of McFarland’s self-confidence and energy. He poured himself a Jameson, and glanced at her.
“Scotch,” she said.
He poured her a finger of Glenmorangie. Brought the glass.
“Thanks,” she said. “Sláinte.”
He raised his glass, and sat down across from her. “Thank you for what you did yesterday. That comes from me, personally, on behalf of myself and my wife.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I owe my thanks to Sergeant Quintana as well, and to Lieutenant Tang. Their bravery was exemplary.”
