Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  Can I?

  I leave the file number in the search bar and open up a new screen, navigate to the Bureau’s internal encyclopedia and search for the Freedom Solidarity Movement. It brings back an article, a long one. More than I’d find online; this one includes information from FBI case files.

  I start skimming. FSM, a shadowy network of radical anarchists, established five years ago. Members dispersed throughout the country, connected through online forums, some on the dark web. Leadership structure unclear; those running the group have used encryption to maintain their anonymity online. A single confidential source reported that the group’s leaders aspire to conduct attacks against government targets, but there’s been no evidence to substantiate that claim, and very little specifics. It’s enough to make sure the Bureau’s monitoring the group, and it’s enough to get the courts to let agents access certain email accounts and telephone records, but it’s not enough to charge anyone.

  I navigate to the intelligence report about the plot. It’s brief, barely any text, barely any detail. And if there were any detail, it would be included. The source was no doubt peppered with questions. Everything he knows is in that report. And there isn’t much.

  The Bureau doesn’t have anything that suggests there’s a specific plot, that it’s moved beyond the aspirational phase. No indication targets have been selected. The source that reported the threat is a new one, with questionable credibility. Analysts assess the threat from FSM to be low. I can feel some of my tension begin to loosen.

  I’m just starting a piece on recruitment when light floods the bullpen. I look up, startled, to see Wayne arriving, ambling toward his desk. He joined the division long before I took over, shunted to internal affairs when he could no longer pass the Bureau’s fitness test. He looks up at me through the window, waves hello. I raise my hand in greeting, force a half smile, and turn my attention back to the article.

  Most FSM members seek out the group online, and on their own. They initiate contact after finding the recruitment email address—one that changes each week—on extremist forums. If FSM recruiters choose to respond, which happens about half the time, they direct the prospective recruit to an encrypted forum for further discussion. At that point, the Bureau loses access to the communications.

  And recruitment is growing. I reread the numbers on my screen. A year ago, the Bureau estimated FSM had around two hundred members. Six months ago, three hundred. Now, over five hundred.

  Email. Internet. Radicalization. Recruitment.

  I look back at the other open window on my screen. 3-7659.

  It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? It’s not like I’m impeding an investigation, or trying to view something above my security clearance level, or something like that. This is just viewing a file. Trying to determine what they have on my son.

  I move the cursor to the search button.

  It’d be a disciplinary report, at worst. I’ll accept the consequences. It’s worth it if I can figure out what’s going on, why that gun was in Zachary’s room.

  I click, hold my breath.

  Access denied.

  The words are red and bold, and they’re all my brain can register. I’ve seen the screen before, when I’ve come too close to a particularly sensitive case, one with ties to the CIA, to foreign adversaries. But this is domestic terrorism; Scott must have gone in and manually removed my access. He must have known I’d try to look.

  Shit.

  I look up and see that Parker’s arrived. The youngest on my squad, bright-eyed and eager. Garcia, too—the only fifty-year-old I know who still sports a nose ring, and the attitude to match. They’re at their computers, logging on, joking about last night’s basketball game. The three of them are almost always the first to arrive. In about five minutes, as soon as Garcia’s skimmed her email, she and Wayne will leave on a coffee run. Then it’ll just be Parker until they get back.

  I close the search window. I stare at the screen. Access denied.

  * * *

  —

  I bolted from Halliday’s office as soon as I could, shaking with terror, face wet with tears. Halliday had been calm when I left; too calm. “If you breathe a word of this, little girl,” was all he said. His tone was a warning, his look was a threat. Then he took a step closer, pressed a hand against the small of my back. His touch sent a torrent of fear rippling through me. I flinched, certain he was going to hurt me again.

  But he merely leaned in close to my ear. “No one would believe you,” he whispered, and his voice turned the blood in my veins to ice.

  I stumbled through the halls of the Senate office building, needing to bolt, to get as far away as possible from him. My footsteps echoed from the high ceilings; his jeer echoed in my brain. Was he right? This was Senator Halliday we were talking about. He had no shortage of women in his life. Beautiful ones, powerful ones. The truth would sound crazy.

  No one would believe you. I could feel that hand on my back, the confusion and terror that ran through me at his touch.

  The officer on duty that night was Ronnie, a familiar face, friendly guy. My first week on the job, I caught him watching Jeopardy! on the portable television at the guard post. I love that show, I’d told him. You’re too young, kiddo. This here’s an old folks’ show, he’d said with a grin, and he teased me about it from there on out. He was at the exit that night, in his usual folding chair, beside the metal detector. He smiled as I approached.

  “I need to report something,” I said, coming to a stop in front of him, swiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands, willing the rest of the tears to stay put. “I was…,” I fumbled. The word stuck in my brain, not reaching my lips. I couldn’t stop trembling. No one would believe you.

  “You okay?” His kind eyes were instantly full of concern.

  “I’m—” And then I heard footsteps. Men’s footsteps. I turned, and there was Halliday, approaching.

  He didn’t slow, didn’t even hesitate as he approached. Flashed his trademark grin. “Night, Ronnie. Night, Steph.” His voice was light, utterly untroubled.

  Like nothing had even happened. Stunned, I watched him push the door open, disappear outside. He never even looked back.

  “Sweetheart?”

  I choked back a sob, turned to Ronnie. He watched me with concern.

  I needed to do this. I needed to tell the truth, ugly as it was.

  “I was raped.”

  Ronnie blinked, like that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear, not in the least. He glanced up at the corridor behind me, instinctively, like he was looking for the predator. Then he reached for his radio transceiver.

  Tell him, Steph.

  “…by Senator Halliday.”

  The hand reaching for the radio stilled. Ronnie turned to glance at the door, the one Halliday had just pushed through. When he faced me again, something had changed in his eyes. Concern had morphed into suspicion. “Halliday.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes.”

  There was something else in his eyes now. Judgment, for sure. Maybe even a hint of sympathy.

  “Senator Halliday.” His hand dropped back into his lap. His voice was brimming with skepticism.

  “Yes.” I was battling tears; once they started again, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop them. I had to get through this, telling the truth. Later I could curl up and cry.

  He looked me up and down, ever so briefly. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed shut. “I don’t know what happened up there. Maybe the…situation…spun out of control. But if I were you, kiddo, I would not make an accusation like that.”

  He didn’t believe me.

  “Ronnie, I—”

  He held up a hand, stopping me. “Let it go.”

  Fresh tears stung my eyes. I thought I could trust him. I thought he would help me.

  But Hallida
y was right.

  No one will believe me.

  * * *

  —

  Finally I see Garcia lean back in her chair, say something to Wayne. He nods. They both stand, Garcia stretches, laughing, and they head for the door. Then it’s just Parker, alone.

  Now’s my chance. I walk over, and he rolls his chair back as I approach. “Morning, Chief,” he says. Parker’s about my age, but most of my agents have at least a decade on me. That’s internal affairs; one of those sleepy, ride-out-the-clock assignments. But Parker’s an anomaly, always eager to help. And that makes me feel even guiltier for what I’m about to do.

  “Morning, Parker.” I hesitate, and then I say it. “I’m having computer issues this morning. Mind printing a file for me?”

  I see the briefest flash of uncertainty, one that passes quickly. We all learned at Quantico not to do this. You can never assume anyone else is authorized access. But I’m his boss. Of course I’d have access to everything he does, and more. And our computer systems are notoriously frustrating, so it’s not exactly unusual that I’d be having trouble. “Sure thing, Chief.”

  I read him the case file number and hold my breath as he runs the search. There’s always the chance they’ve denied access to my whole squad. If that’s the case, Parker’s going to get suspicious.

  I see the file open on his screen and exhale softly. He navigates up to the print button and double-clicks. “There you go,” he says cheerfully.

  “Thanks.” I try to keep my voice measured, my expression disinterested. Then I head to the bank of printers at the rear of the room.

  I listen to the hum of the machine and try not to think about what I just did. But I’ll make sure Parker doesn’t get in any trouble. I’ll take full responsibility, and I’ll accept whatever disciplinary measures they see fit. What matters right now is finding out the truth.

  The printer goes silent. I gather the stack of paper in the bin and head back to my office. Then I close the door and start reading.

  The language is technical, and it’s dense. It takes me a few minutes to get through the jargon. By the third page, it’s becoming clear.

  Our home IP address was used to send a message to FSM’s recruitment email address. Fifteen days ago, on a Wednesday.

  From an email address I’ve never seen before, one that includes my son’s full name. ZacharyMaddox345.

  I flip to the next page, heart pounding. There’s a screenshot of the message itself.

  I’d like to join, it reads. I have access to targets.

  Signed Zachary.

  Chapter 13

  I have access to targets.

  I reread that line. Stare at it until my eyes blur, like it’ll somehow make sense. But it doesn’t. None at all. I can’t for the life of me picture my son typing that message. No more than I can see him holding a gun.

  This isn’t Zachary.

  Stomach in a knot, I struggle to focus, put myself in investigator mode, detach myself. I continue skimming the file. There was no response to the email. Nothing further.

  Okay. I need to think about this rationally. The email, on its own, isn’t enough to charge anyone with a crime. It’s free speech. It’s a request to join a political group, one with no history of violence. And a sentence that could be interpreted in different ways, at least by a good defense attorney. Access, targets—that could mean anything, really. It’s not an explicit threat.

  It’s not like Zachary was threatening violence.

  My eyes drift back to those words. I have access to targets. It’s certainly enough to warrant an investigation. No wonder Scott came to my house.

  My mind flashes back to last night. To finding the gun in Zachary’s closet.

  Three swift raps on my office door startle me. Instinctively I turn the page over, hide what I’m reading. “Come in,” I call.

  The door opens just enough for me to see Parker standing there. “Sorry to disturb you, Chief.” His cheeks are flushed.

  “No problem, Parker. What is it?” I say, even though I already know what it is. Who it is. Scott. He must have placed an alert on the file. Shouldn’t I have anticipated this? It’s what I would have done.

  “There’s an agent on the phone. Scott Clark, Washington Field Office. He wants to know why I accessed that file, the one I printed for you.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I put him on hold.”

  “Transfer the call in. I’ll talk to him.”

  Parker just stands there, wringing his hands.

  “It’s okay, Parker.” I give him a tight smile, one I hope is reassuring. “You’re not going to get in any trouble. I promise.”

  He backs away, and as soon as the door shuts, I flip the page back over and continue reading, more urgently now. The IP address resolves to our home; no surprise there. There was some activity that morning; Zachary and I each checked our respective email accounts, our social media accounts, news sites. Then nothing all day, until 4:34 P.M., when the new email account was created. At 4:36 P.M., the message was sent. I have access to targets. Nothing else until 5:21 P.M., when Zachary checked his normal email account, his social media accounts.

  My phone rings, a shrill blast. I ignore it and keep skimming, faster.

  The email account, the new one. There was one outgoing message. No incoming messages. Only one log-in.

  Why would Zachary send a message like that and then not check for a response? Why would he send a message like that, period?

  Another ring. I glance out the window to see Parker staring at me, wide-eyed, no doubt wondering why I haven’t answered. I reach for the receiver, hold it to my ear. “This is Maddox.”

  “It’s Scott. You want to explain to me why you ordered a subordinate to access a file to which you were denied access? Or would you rather wait and explain it to the disciplinary board?”

  His fury catches me off guard. “I want to explain it to you,” I shoot back, even though I have no idea what I could possibly say. No way to make sense of what’s happening. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Be here in twenty.” The phone goes dead.

  * * *

  —

  Mom hated that I wouldn’t tell her who had gotten me pregnant. It doesn’t matter, I told her. He’s not going to be part of the baby’s life. At first, I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me, either. Then I was afraid she would. She was already looking at me with disappointment. How would she look at me if she knew the truth? Like it was somehow my fault? Like I was as damaged as I felt? I didn’t want to find out. It was better to stay quiet, even if it built up a wall between us.

  I’d fantasized, repeatedly, about going to the police, trying again. But I couldn’t get Ronnie’s reaction out of my head. Halliday was right, wasn’t he? It would be my word against his about what happened in his office. He was a senator; I was an intern. The more time that passed, the less likely anyone would believe me. And so I didn’t tell a soul.

  But late one night, when Zachary was just a few weeks old, the truth slipped—part of it, anyway. I was sitting in front of the television, Zachary in my arms. The news was on. It was Halliday, giving some fiery speech about some topic I couldn’t focus on. Hearing his voice brought me back to that night, the one I’d been trying so hard to block out. But the terror still felt fresh; a familiar wave of nausea crept over me. In my mind I was back in that office, reliving that terrible night.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” Mom said softly, like she could read my mind. And my eyes filled with tears. She knew. I could finally say something, share this burden with someone, share the truth.

  I nodded.

  “And the relationship…it’s definitely over?”

  Relationship?

  Shit, she didn’t know. Of course she didn’t know. She thought it was a relationship, an inappropriate a
ffair. I nodded again.

  “Does he know about Zachary? Does he know he’s the father?”

  Father. The word made me ill.

  “No,” I said. I looked down at Zachary. This tiny person who I unexpectedly loved more than anything, and had since the moment I first laid eyes on him.

  I’d considered abortion, when I first learned I was pregnant. Made an appointment at the clinic and everything. But part of me wondered if I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And if Halliday forced me into a lifelong regret, wouldn’t it almost be like a second assault? Like he was winning, again?

  Keeping the baby, in my mind, had been my own small way of standing up to him. Of showing him he couldn’t hurt me again.

  Zachary squirmed in my arms, opened his little mouth in a yawn. I watched his lips curl into a sleepy smile, and I had the overwhelming certainty that I’d do anything for this baby. My baby.

  I’d heard stories in the news, about men like Halliday who somehow managed to gain parental rights. There was no way I’d ever let that monster be part of my son’s life.

  And I couldn’t ever let Zachary know the whole truth, either. What would it make him think about himself, and the sort of DNA that ran through him? Wouldn’t it make him question my love for him? I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.

  I stood, tucked Zachary’s blanket snug around him, and turned off the television. Halliday disappeared. “And I never want him to know. I never want anyone to know.”

  I’d thought, when I decided to keep the baby, that I was standing up to Halliday. That I was fighting back, that I had won.

  It wasn’t until that moment that I wondered if I’d handed Halliday another victory. Because even if someone might believe me, even if I decided that I had an obligation to tell the truth about what he’d done, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him know about Zachary.

  I knew in that moment, holding my son in my arms, that I would stay quiet forever.

  * * *

  —