by Steven James
And sometimes we enjoy them.
Yes. Sometimes we do.
You do.
You don’t always keep the demons at bay.
Sometimes you invite them in.
I pushed that thought aside.
No, it’s not hypocrisy to have high ideals and fail to live up to them—it’s called being human. Even saints have their imperfections and flaws. The only people who aren’t hypocrites are those whose morals are so twisted, whose consciences are so seared, that they don’t believe in any ideals higher than those they actually live out.
Like Mason.
Yes, when it comes right down to it, psychopaths are the only people you’ll ever meet who aren’t hypocrites.
There was a thought to carry you through the day.
With that at the forefront of my mind, I passed through this apartment where everything looked so normal.
Until we came to Kurt Mason’s bedroom.
53
Photos printed from a high-quality ink-jet printer were taped on the east wall, nearly covering it.
There were hundreds of pictures of Uptown Charlotte, the four statues on Independence Square, the Mint Museum, the open-air Bank of America Stadium, the textile mill Mason had used.
There were photos of railroad lines and highway overpasses and a house that, based on the visible address on it, was Corrine’s. Also, a tightly cropped picture of a street address: 669. Just an address, nothing else visible to indicate where it was.
He had photographs of the NCAVC building, Cole’s house, his body, the inside of the mine tunnels, and the interior of a break room that I didn’t recognize. Corrine tied to a bed. Cuffed in the van.
And there were many more—some obviously related to this crime spree, others that may have been, but at this point there was no way to tell for sure.
The printer sat on the desk near the bed. No computer. One window was missing its glass. I guessed that was the one Ingersoll and his team had used to send the THROWERS in before they accessed the apartment.
I turned to one of the ERT guys. “I want to know if any of these photos are online anywhere. And all those locations, we need to know where they are and when the photos were taken.”
“When? How are we going to tell that?”
“Sunlight. Shadows. Do what you can.”
“Why does it matter when they were taken?”
“Because you can’t be in two places at once. He might not be working alone.” I punched my finger against the photo with the 669 address on it. “And I want to know where this is taken. Every 669 address in the country.”
“That’s going to take us a while to scan and check.”
“Then we better get started.”
* * *
Ralph and I spent the better part of the evening with the Evidence Response Team at Mason’s apartment, analyzing the photos. While we were there we received updates on the case:
(1) There was no evidence that any other pieces of art at the Mint Museum were marred or damaged in any way.
(2) The analysis of the NCAVC staff’s incoming and outgoing calls was finished. Nothing really jumped out at me. Nothing suspicious. Mostly relatives calling in, as Lien-hua had done, presumably to see if their loved ones were safe.
(3) Handwriting analysis of the writing in the column of the book and on the back of the painting was inconclusive. The samples could have been written by the same person or two people. At this point there was no way to tell.
(4) Voss’s people confirmed that Mason’s DNA was in the van he’d driven for NVDS.
A few minutes after hearing about the DNA, an officer delivered a new phone to me, a standard-issue Glock 22, keys to a Field Office car, and a new Mini Maglite.
Well, Voss really did aim to please.
The Glock was a dependable, sensible gun, but I knew I was going to miss that SIG. We’ve been through a lot together over the years. Even if they could recover it from the bottom of that mine shaft, it would certainly be damaged beyond repair.
I made arrangements to return the phone I’d borrowed earlier from the officer at the textile warehouse. Then, even though it was after hours, Ralph and I met with the team at the Field Office to regroup and finish up some paperwork.
We patched into a video call with Gonzalez and he gave us the details on the Semtex that had been stolen.
It was being shipped from Tallulah, Louisiana, a twelve-hour drive to Fort Bragg. The transport had stopped twice: first in Birmingham, Alabama, and then in Augusta, Georgia, to refuel.
The transfer papers appeared to have been in order when the drivers left the processing facility. We checked the video footage of businesses and gas stations in both areas where they’d stopped and caught sight of Mason’s white van near the Augusta gas station. Agents were looking into how anyone would have known when the transport would pull over there, but it might have been as easy as intercepting a radio transmission.
At least now, little by little, we were untangling the threads of the case. Mason’s path through time and space was becoming evident.
Unless that was a partner there.
I wasn’t ready to disregard the possibility that he might have someone working for or with him.
After we’d wrapped things up with Gonzalez and finished our reports, Ralph and I left for the hotel.
It was already starting to get dark when I called Lien-hua.
“Hey, Pat. I’m driving. What’s up?”
“You’re not home yet?”
“On my way. Maybe ten minutes out. Why?”
“I just . . . I don’t know. I wanted you to know I love you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” I realized that I said it a little too quickly. “It’s . . . just all of this. It’s got me thinking about how thankful I am to have you—both you and Tessa—in my life.”
And how I don’t deserve you. How I’ve kept secrets from you to protect you, secrets about how the darkness calls to me.
A double life.
“Yes.” She sounded distracted but not curt. “I’m thankful too. Listen, I’m in traffic. Can we . . .”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll talk to you later.”
+ + +
FBI Director Wellington was at her home on the outskirts of Washington, DC, trying to relax with a cup of tea, but it wasn’t working.
It wasn’t just the case that was on her mind, it was how information regarding it was being released to the press and how that was affecting the investigation.
She reviewed what she knew: Earlier this week someone had leaked details of the attack at the NCAVC building to the press. And now, today, it’d happened again when Agent Bowers’s name was released as being the one who’d tried to stop Kurt Mason when he killed Corrine Davis in the shaft.
There weren’t too many people who had the information in both cases prior to its official release to the press. In fact, only five came to mind: Bowers, Ralph Hawkins, Brandon Ingersoll, René Gonzalez, and Pierce Jennings, the National Security Council representative.
She knew and trusted Hawkins, Ingersoll, and Gonzalez. Bowers annoyed her sometimes, but he was principled and hated working with the press. He wouldn’t have leaked anything to them.
Kurt Mason liked to get his stories out there to the world, so it was always possible he had shared the news himself. But Margaret had her doubts that it was him.
Right now, Jennings seemed like the most likely candidate.
However, before she could confront him or before telling anyone else about her suspicions, she needed more information.
With this case on her plate and with Mason still missing, she was already planning on working all day in her office tomorrow, even though it was a Saturday.
So, as she sipped her now-cold tea, she decided that while she was
there she would find out as much as she could about Mr. Pierce Jennings.
54
“I know the story,” Beck said.
Tessa looked at him curiously. “What story?”
“About what happened to you last spring. About when Richard Basque attacked you.”
She was quiet.
The two of them were alone in the living room. At eight o’clock he’d taken over for his partner. With all that was going on, Lien-hua had still not made it home from work. Tessa had invited Beck inside. He’d accepted the invitation and they’d been in here talking since then.
“You were brave,” he said. “You fought him off.”
“I wouldn’t say I exactly fought him off. He locked me in the back of a police car and then ran off the side of the road into the Potomac. I basically drowned. If it hadn’t been for my dad getting there when he did, I wouldn’t even be alive.”
“He’s pretty legendary at the Academy. Your dad is. You know that, right?”
“I . . . I mean . . . I guess. Since you graduated in January I guess you never had him?”
“Just missed him.”
After a brief pause she said, “So, you know my story. What’s yours?”
“My story?”
“What did you do before going to the Academy? Where did you grow up? What was it for you—sports or video games? Did you ever have to fight off any serial killers?”
But she was thinking, Do you have a girlfriend? What kind of women do you like to date?
She didn’t say that. Didn’t dare.
He was slow in responding.
Yes, they were moving into personal territory now.
She didn’t know if he would reply or not.
He did.
“Well, I grew up in a small town in Illinois. My parents had a dairy farm. For me it was sports—basketball mainly. Never got into video games too much. Never met up with any serial killers. I studied criminology and political science in college.”
“That’s what I’m going into—well, close. Criminal science.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Starting in a couple weeks—University of Maryland, College Park. Why did you join the FBI?”
“When I was a boy I always liked reading mysteries and spy novels. I wished I were a part of them, that I could step into them, you know? I guess this is the closest I could get to living all that out.”
“Huh. Ever dream of spending your life filling out paperwork?”
“And, see, that is a point well-taken.”
Silence, but it didn’t seem awkward like it had earlier in the day when it’d settled between them during their conversation.
“I’m gonna grab a smoke.” She gestured toward the door. “Wanna join me?”
“I’ll come with you, but I don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t either. It’s just one of those things. It’s like I get stressed and, well, I have these self-destructive tendencies. I was into self-inflicting for a while.”
They passed outside into the deepening twilight. “Self-inflicting?”
She pulled up her sleeve to show him her scars. “Cutting.” She tugged the sleeve back down. “You should feel privileged. I don’t show too many people my scars.”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“Feel privileged.”
“Right.”
She shook out a cigarette, but then on second thought she realized it might turn him off and that was the last thing she wanted to do, so she slid it back in and put the pack away. A neighbor must have mowed recently because she could smell the freshly cut grass.
The sound of crickets was alive in the deepening shadows of the neighborhood.
Beck stood beside her on the lawn.
“Let’s try something,” she said. “Sometimes, when I’m making up a poem, I’ll kind of brainstorm one line after another, like I’m having a conversation with myself. Only this time, I want you to be the other part of the conversation. So I start a line, then you add one, and I go after that.”
“Oh. I don’t know. I’m not very creative.”
“Just try.”
“I’m not really—”
She touched his arm lightly. It wasn’t on purpose, it just happened. “Humor me.”
She lowered her hand.
He didn’t step back. “Okay.”
“I’ll start.”
“So, I’m just supposed to . . . ?”
“Follow up on what I say. We’ll do it on scars. You’ll be fine. Just say what comes to mind.”
She thought for a moment. “I have this dreadful scar on my heart from the wound of my friend.”
He took his time answering. “And I have this terrible scar on my soul from the wound of my enemy.”
“I believe mine will heal faster,” she said, “because it is from a friend.”
“And I believe mine will heal faster,” he replied, “because it is not so deep.”
“Where does the truth lie?” she said.
Oh, man. Do not look into his eyes. Do not . . .
But she did.
She shouldn’t have, but she did.
Where does the truth lie?
Scars.
So many scars that needed healing.
He might have looked away. He might have averted eye contact, but he didn’t.
Time hesitated, wrapped them in its arms. Everything was about to pass. Everything was about to be lost.
She took a small step toward him through the dusk-damp grass. She was lost in his eyes. “I think I came up with it.”
“Came up with what?”
“The superpower I wish I had.”
“And what’s that?”
“To not be invisible.”
“To not be invisible?”
To you, she thought.
“To you,” she said.
Then Tessa leaned up on her toes.
And she kissed him.
55
Beck kissed her back. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, running wild, wild, wild, like a colt that had been penned in for far too long and had now, finally, finally been set free.
But the kiss lasted only a few seconds and then Beck was placing his hand gently on her shoulders and easing away from her. “Tessa, I’m . . . I can’t do this.”
A car turned onto the street.
“I’m not too young,” she said. “I’m almost nineteen.”
“It’s not that. Um, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“There’s someone else—is that it? You’re not . . . You’re not married, are you?”
The car slowed.
He let go of Tessa’s shoulder. “No, no, it’s . . .”
“Okay, so you’re supposed to be protecting me. Does that mean you can’t feel anything toward me?”
It was Lien-hua.
She pulled into the driveway.
“I should probably go.”
“Okay, I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Tessa said, trying to recover, trying to salvage things. “I guess I was . . . I thought you wanted me to. I just thought we were—”
Lien-hua stepped out of the car. “Hey.”
“Hey,” said Tessa.
“Hey,” said Beck.
Lien-hua’s gaze went from Tessa to Beck, then back to Tessa. “Everything good?”
“Yes,” Beck answered. “Did you need me to stay outside, or . . . ?”
“We should be fine. Thanks.” Lien-hua was still looking at Tessa. Perceptively. So perceptively. “I’ll contact you in the morning about my schedule,” she told him.
She knows something’s up.
“Okay. Great . . . Well, good night, then.” Beck glanced somewhat uneasily in Tessa’s direction. “Goo
d night, Miss Ellis,” he said to her.
“Good night, Agent Danner.” Her words were thick and distant and felt heavy in her throat.
Without looking back, he went to his car, slipped inside.
Started down the street.
Carrying her computer bag, Lien-hua walked toward Tessa. “Did I disturb something?” There wasn’t judgment in her voice, but still, Tessa didn’t want to answer her.
“No, it’s . . .”
Tell her.
No, don’t! You shouldn’t have kissed him. It’s your fault.
“Are you okay?” Lien-hua asked.
“Yeah.”
No!
“Um,” Tessa said, “I’m gonna go get ready for bed. Cool?”
Lien-hua glanced at her watch as if to say, “Isn’t it a little early for that?” But she didn’t comment about the time. “Of course.”
She was right beside Tessa now and before Tessa could leave she laid a hand lightly on her forearm. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m . . .”
Don’t cry, Tessa. Do not cry.
She turned away before Lien-hua could see the tear forming in her eye. Hastily, she made her way through the living room and then escaped down the hallway to her bedroom, where she covered her eyes and dropped to the bed and made sure she stifled her tears enough so she wouldn’t attract her mom’s attention.
56
Back at the hotel, Ralph stepped outside to call Brineesha to see if she’d started having any contractions yet.
While I was alone in the room, I stared at the toy helicopter I’d salvaged from the dirt at the base of the playground this morning during my jog.
That run seemed so long ago.
I thought again of not arriving until too late to find that boy in Wisconsin, before that man who kidnapped him had stolen his innocence from him.
A lost childhood.
A shattered life.
And you were too slow today too.
Too slow to save Corrine.
Over and over I replayed that moment when Mason jerked her backward into the shaft. I kept wondering if there was something more I could have done.
I crossed the room and picked up the helicopter.
