“How we proceed here is up to you.”
I knew what he meant. I could stand my ground, brush off the threat, be more aware, and hope for the best. Or I could leave. Take a transfer, get out of town. Let them settle me at a desk somewhere where I’d be invisible, out of their reach.
I knew the right answer. The one he was looking for. “I’m staying,” I said. I was strong; I could fight.
He smiled. “Attagirl.” Then his face grew more serious again. “I’ll put a couple of agents on your house at night, at least for the next week or so. Have them follow your son to school, if you want.”
Your son. Zachary’s face filled my mind. The way he looked clambering onto the bus in the morning, so small, so determined and vulnerable. Holding tight to his plastic dinosaur, the one he was bringing for show-and-tell. “Okay,” I said quietly. Some of the fight had suddenly drained out of me, and uncertainty had filled the spot where it had been.
“And I’d recommend making sure your affairs are in order. Just to be on the safe side. I know you’re a single parent and all…”
The uncertainty was expanding, pushing out the remaining defiance. What would happen to Zachary if they got to me?
What if they came after me when he was around? And what if he was caught in the crossfire? Or if he was the one who found my body?
“Okay,” I said, more softly.
He cocked his head to the side, studied me. I felt like he could see through me, like he knew the fears running through my head. “I talked to headquarters already. We can get you a position in D.C. Internal affairs.”
Internal affairs. I’d be out of Chicago, away from Torrino and his men. In what would essentially amount to a desk job. It would be the end of my ambitions, a dead-end job.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he added, and I knew what he meant. If I quit investigating the mob, Torrino would leave me alone. Change the green light to red.
But I’d be giving up. Letting him win. Sacrificing a promising career, everything that I’d worked so hard for.
“I don’t know,” I said.
He nodded. Waited for me to say something else, but I didn’t. I couldn’t; I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know what the right decision was.
“Tell you what,” he said, leaning forward. “How about six weeks in D.C.? A short rotation. We’ll let things cool down here, see where we stand.”
I reluctantly agreed, and when I spoke to Mom on the phone later that morning, I told her the plan.
“Washington, D.C.?” She sounded incredulous. “You’re picking up and moving again? When?”
“Now. Today.”
“Today? You’ve got to be kidding me, Stephanie.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re telling me you’re picking up in the middle of the school year and moving to another city for six weeks? What about Zachary?”
“What about Zachary?”
“He’s in school.”
“There are schools in D.C., Mom, believe it or not.”
“This is serious, Stephanie. For once, you need to think of your son.”
“I am thinking of my son,” I exploded. I couldn’t win. I thought I was doing what was best for Zachary. Was I wrong?
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“I don’t have a choice, Mom.”
“You always have a choice.”
“I don’t!”
“So leave this damned job! Find something stable. Something safe. For pity’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Put Zachary first for once, Stephanie.”
Tears of frustration stung my eyes. I couldn’t leave the job. I couldn’t give up, let Torrino win. I couldn’t let Halliday win. This was my purpose. If I didn’t have this job, I was nothing but a victim.
I could do what was best for Zachary and make something of my life.
That afternoon, with unmarked government cars dotting my street and armed colleagues guarding my house, I packed our suitcases. Clothes, shoes, books, and toys, what we’d need for six weeks, at least. In the back of my mind, I wondered if we’d return at all.
I quickly loaded everything I could into our car. Picked up Zachary from school, saw his face light up with happiness when he saw me standing there. The grin stayed on his face even as I strapped him into his booster seat. And then I said the words I’d been dreading. “Honey, we have to leave here.”
I watched his face crumple, happiness giving way to confusion. “We’re coming back, right?”
Were we? “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I watched the confusion morph into disbelief. Saw the truth slowly dawn. His eyes filled and his chin quivered, but my wonderful, brave kid was using every ounce of his strength to keep the tears from spilling.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, and the apology seemed so inadequate. I wished I knew what to say. I wished I knew what to do.
We got on the highway, with one black Suburban in front and one behind, a caravan driving much too fast. The escort lasted until we reached the county line. The SUVs peeled off, and then it was just us. I watched in the rearview mirror as they did U-turns across the median of the highway. Then they were gone, and we were on our own, just the two of us.
I continued speeding down the highway, my eyes searching the road around us, committing each car to memory, keeping a list in my head. I wanted to be sure we weren’t being followed.
I was watching a set of headlights in the rearview mirror when I heard his small voice from the backseat. “Are we safe, Mommy?”
I shifted my gaze over to him, saw his face white with worry. My heart was breaking. And in that moment, I knew. This move was permanent. The realization filled me with a confounding sadness, a sense of longing for what could have been that was as stunning as a blow.
“We’re safe, sweetie,” I answered, my throat tightening.
I watched in the mirror as the fear faded from his face. He twisted in the booster seat and looked out the window, and didn’t ask any more questions.
Eventually his blinks became slower, the lids taking longer to rise again with each flutter shut.
By the time he was asleep, there was not a doubt in my mind, and the wave of sadness had ebbed, replaced with a sense of peace. We were going to stay in D.C. I was going to work in internal affairs. We’d never go back to Chicago. And Zachary and I would no longer be in danger. My job wouldn’t put him in jeopardy, ever again.
“I’ll always keep you safe,” I vowed, as much to myself as to him. “I promise.”
Chapter 21
The man walks through the airport terminal. Washington National this time. Third flight in as many days, all under different names.
He’s in dark jeans and a dark gray sweater, a black leather overnight bag on his arm. Has dirty blond hair, closely cropped. Nondescript features, a forgettable face.
He bypasses baggage claim, walks straight outside to the curb. There’s a car there, a massive black SUV, darkly tinted windows. He opens the back door, slides inside.
A partition, also tinted, separates front seat from back. It stays closed. The car pulls away from the curb.
There’s a black messenger bag sitting on the backseat. He reaches for it. Opens the flap, unzips it. Rifles through. Finally pulls out a manila folder, opens it up.
There’s a photograph on top. Five-by-seven, black-and-white. A surveillance shot. The man focuses his attention on it. Stares at it, intently.
It’s a boy. Backpack slung over one shoulder. The camera caught him just as he was turning his head. A shock of hair falls across his forehead. He’s looking off to the left, completely unaware that anyone was there, that anyone was photographing him.
The man closes the folder. Then he turns and looks out the window. They’re crossing over the Potomac now. The Jefferson Memorial’s just up ahead. Beyo
nd that, the Washington Monument.
The rest of the city is mapped in his head. The Capitol dome. The White House. FBI headquarters.
A smile creeps to his lips.
The game has begun.
Chapter 22
I’m the first of my team to arrive in the morning, like usual. I make my way through the darkened bullpen to my office, turn on the lights. Start up the computer. Swivel toward the coffeemaker on the file cabinets, start that up, too. My gaze settles on the stack of folders on the corner of my desk. The to-do pile, reports from my agents that I need to review, investigative actions that I need to approve. Usually there are two or three items awaiting my attention. There must be a dozen folders in that pile right now. I can’t force myself to concentrate.
Someone sent that email, tried to make it look like it was Zachary. Someone’s using him to get to me.
And someone put that gun in Zachary’s closet.
Which means someone got past the alarm. Someone broke into our home, the place I’ve always felt safest.
Who?
Who’s doing this to us?
The faces appear again in my mind, that lineup of men from my past.
Halliday. He has so much to lose. Senior United States senator. Chair of the Foreign Relations Committee. In line for a leadership post. Chatter, even, about more than that.
But it doesn’t make sense. Halliday thinks if I come clean about my past, he’d easily cast me as a liar. A disgruntled employee. That no one would believe me. And when I brought up the gun, he seemed genuinely confused.
Just like Zachary.
But he also showed no signs of deception when he suggested he’d claim we’d had a relationship. He’s clearly a superb liar.
Like Zachary?
Torrino. He swore he’d make me pay. But now? The timing doesn’t make sense. It’s been too many years. Now, at the same time Halliday’s back in my life?
What if it’s someone else? What if it’s him? In my mind I see that hand, on her back, the swirling red and blue lights….Why can’t I let that go?
There’s a rap on my glass door and I spin my chair toward the sound. Then I force myself to take a deep breath. I rise and open the door.
“You look like hell, Steph,” Scott says, brushing past me.
“I’m living there,” I answer honestly.
We sit, me behind the desk and Scott on the other side.
“What is it, Scott?” All of my nerves shriek. I don’t know what’s coming. I’m not the one in charge of this situation and it scares me.
“It’s odd that Zachary would send that email and then never check for a response. You’re right about that.”
I feel a surge of hope. “It shows—”
He shoots me a hard look and gives his head the briefest of shakes, like I don’t get to ask questions. “Unless he was contacted offline. Unless they met in person.”
He watches me closely. I wonder how my face looks. As bewildered as I feel? Because he has something; obviously he has something. Maybe there’s more tying Zachary to this plot than just the email, the weapon in his closet. What if there’s more?
“I did some digging into the other email accounts that contacted FSM,” he goes on. “Looked for a similar case—an account that sent a message, wasn’t checked again.”
“Did you find one?” What if the answer’s yes? What would that mean?
“I did. One case.”
“And?” I press. I need to hear the answer and at the same time I’m terrified.
“The email address was created just before the message was sent. No future log-ins. Long lulls in Internet usage on either side of that particular activity.”
It’s just like Zachary’s case. But why? What does it mean?
There’s more. I know Scott so well: I can see it on his face. He clears his throat. “The user’s IP address. It’s in this area. And his message was sent just before Zachary’s. His name’s Dylan Taylor.”
I stare at him in stunned silence. I search his face for some explanation, but I find none. He’s uncertain, too. He doesn’t understand, either.
* * *
—
Dylan Taylor is twenty-one. He lives in Arlington, Virginia, in a rough section of town. Dilapidated houses, plastic lawn chairs on crumbling front porches. Overflowing trash cans, littered beer bottles, and a cloying shadow of despair.
There’s a loose board on the steps to Taylor’s house; we step over it. A calico cat’s watching us from the corner of the porch, green eyes glowing intently.
Scott knocks. Moments later, a young man swings it open. He’s tall and bony, with stringy blond hair that falls to his shoulders. T-shirt and shorts, bare feet, even though it’s forty degrees out. “Yeah?” He eyes us warily.
“Dylan Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“Special Agent Scott Clark, FBI.” He flashes his credentials. “And this is my colleague.” He doesn’t introduce me by name, and Taylor doesn’t seem to notice, or care. His bleary gray eyes strain to focus on Scott’s credentials, then land back on Scott’s face. He looks nervous, but that’s normal. He doesn’t look panicked.
“We just have a few questions for you,” Scott says.
“Okay.” Taylor doesn’t invite us in, doesn’t step outside, just waits, his hand on the door. A pulse has started to jump in his cheek.
“Can you tell us what you know about the Freedom Solidarity Movement?”
“The what?” he asks. There’s not a spark of recognition in his face. His voice is reedy, like a teenager’s.
“Freedom Solidarity Movement. FSM.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s an anti-government group.”
A half smile comes to Taylor’s face. I’d swear he looked relieved. “Sorry, man. Think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“You’re not a member of any anarchist group?”
“No. Don’t even know what anarchist means.” He says it with a snigger.
“Never sought to join one?”
The smile fades. “No, man. Hey, I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the afternoon of the twelfth? Around four-thirty?”
Taylor’s expression shifts. “What day of the week was that?”
“A Wednesday.”
“At four?”
“Four-thirty.”
“On my way to work, I guess. I work Wednesdays and Thursdays. Usually leave around that time, or a little before.” His hair falls across one eye in a way that reminds me of Zachary’s. He swipes it away.
“How do you get to work?”
“Drive.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Alone in his car. Same alibi as Zachary.
“Do I, like, need a lawyer?” He’s finally realized this is serious. His anxiety has become palpable.
Scott’s about to respond; he’s going to shut this down, I know. And I can’t blame him. It’s what I’d do. Taylor mentioned lawyering up; safest thing is to stop talking. But I’m not ready for the conversation to be over. It’s obvious to both of us he didn’t send that email, that he’s never heard of FSM. What isn’t clear, in the least, is how he’s connected to this. To my son.
“Do you know a Zach Maddox?” I ask. “Zachary Maddox?”
“Okay, okay,” interjects Scott. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shoot me a warning look.
I ignore it. “Do you?”
Taylor looks from me to Scott and back again. He blinks. “No. I don’t.” He shuffles his feet. “Hey, guys, it’s freezing out here,” he whines.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Taylor.” Scott says it firmly, then gives me a pointed look. He’s done with this, cutting off any further questioning on my part. “We’ll
be in touch.”
He turns to walk away, and I know I’m supposed to follow. But I don’t want to leave, not without figuring out how he fits into this.
“Am I, like, in trouble?” Taylor asks me, and in his voice I hear my son’s. The same helplessness, the same confusion.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. Then I turn and follow Scott, and I don’t look back.
* * *
—
“He’d never heard of the group,” I insist as we drive away. “You could see that.”
He doesn’t respond, but I see his jawline tense.
“Zachary had the same reaction, Scott. He’d never heard of FSM, either.”
“I don’t know that, Steph,” he snaps. “You wouldn’t let me talk to him.”
I should let him do it. Talk to Zachary. I know that’s what he wants. It’s standard procedure. But at this point it seems dangerous. He’d be skeptical of anything he hears. He’d assume Zachary had been briefed on the situation. Coached. And the truth is, Zachary doesn’t know about any of this.
It’s just too much of a risk to let the FBI interview my son.
I watch the sun glint off the Potomac as we cross the bridge back into D.C.
“Are you saying someone’s setting them both up for a fall?” Scott finally asks. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know,” I reply bleakly. I don’t have the faintest idea how Dylan Taylor fits in. God, I wish I did. It would make everything so much easier. Right now, though, it doesn’t matter. What matters is proving to Scott that Zachary isn’t involved, and this helps make that case. “But we both know Taylor didn’t send that email. And neither did Zachary.”
“Who’s doing this, Steph?” he asks quietly. And for the first time, I feel a surge of hope.
Halliday. Torrino. I want to say their names, want to spill everything, the whole story, but I can’t. He doesn’t even know Halliday is Zachary’s father. My refusal to share that truth was one of the reasons our relationship failed. I can still hear the hurt in his voice: You’re never going to trust me enough to tell me, are you? But I couldn’t risk opening a door that might let that monster into our lives. Couldn’t risk that Scott—this man I trusted more than I’d ever trusted anyone—might not believe me.
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