The kitchen has gone quiet. Vivian sets down the doll, almost tenderly, takes the card from me, then looks toward the kitchen, briefly. The sounds resume again, the rattle of cereal poured into a bowl, a stepstool being dragged across the floor, but when Vivian looks back at me, the confusion in her eyes has deepened.
There’s music playing in the kitchen now. “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” Three kids clapping in unison, someone giggling.
“Take care of yourself, Vivian,” I tell her, rising. “And those gorgeous kids of yours.”
Chapter 48
I spend a few hours at the office, but I can’t concentrate. Can’t think of anything but my conversation with Vivian, which plays in a loop in my brain. Vivian Lane. She has a new identity. That’s why I was never able to track her down.
She was out of the country, and now she’s back. Working on Russia for the CIA.
Nothing about our conversation makes sense. She still seemed haunted by that night. But she sounded genuine when she said she trusts Jackson. Trust him with my life.
Around lunchtime I leave, drive to CIA headquarters. I need to find Marta. After my conversation with Vivian, I’m even more concerned about Marta’s safety. She won’t pick up her phone, won’t answer her door; if there’s any way to find her, to get answers, this is the place to do it. I flash my badge to the armed guards at the security checkpoint and drive into the sprawling, wooded compound.
The afternoon is cool, and I cinch my coat tighter around my waist as I walk from the parking lot to the building. Wind whips in, bringing a biting chill, making me shiver. Will spring never come?
I push through the doors at the entrance and see the famous seal emblazoned on the floor. There’s a row of electronic turnstiles ahead, a handful of employees scanning their ID cards and keying codes into readers. And another security station off to the right; I head there, tell the guard I’m here to see Marta. Pull my credentials from my pocket and hold them up for the guard to see.
She gives a curt nod, then turns her attention to her computer screen. A moment later, she picks up the phone and dials. Turns her back to me slightly, and I take it as my cue to step aside, look away.
There’s a television in my line of sight, off to the side of the guard post. An image of Wall Street is on the screen, with scrolling text about interest rates and unemployment numbers. I pretend to be fascinated.
The guard hangs up the phone and turns back to me. “Why don’t you have a seat. We’ll see what we can do.”
I thank her and take a seat on a bench along the wall. Facing me are framed pictures of the CIA leadership team. The director, Harrison Drake. Two deputies, one for intelligence, one for operations. The former looks familiar; I remember reading an article about her once, feeling a little nip of envy. Elise Brandt. A woman, barely older than me, already the Agency’s number two.
There’s a steady stream of people coming through the doors, making their way through the lobby, toward the turnstiles. I watch them, and then I glance at the clock on the wall. With each passing minute, I’m more unsettled. My palms are clammy. I can feel dampness on my forehead.
I turn away and another section of the wall catches my attention. It’s a quote, etched into the marble. And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.
I stare at the words, read them silently, hear them echo in my mind. For the first time, I find myself questioning them. I’ve always believed that the truth would prevail; deep down, I still do. But it’s not so black-and-white anymore. I know the truth about Jackson. And it’s done anything but make me free. Knowing the truth means I’m trapped.
On the television, a segment on the recent earthquake in Turkey runs. Images of people standing among the rubble. In an instant, their lives crumbled around them. Their world will never be the same.
I look back at the clock, feeling the steady creep of anxiety. I’m losing the upper hand. The element of surprise is gone. And that might not be all. The longer I sit here, the more likely Jackson will find out what I’m doing.
I’m about to walk over and ask the guard for an update when her phone bleats. She picks it up, listens, then glances in my direction, and I know the call is about me. “Yes,” she says. “Right here.” I don’t even try to hide that I’m listening. I watch her, and out of the corner of my eye I see the television screen go red, Breaking News flashing in white.
“Yeah,” the guard says. She casts another hasty glance in my direction. On the television, the anchor’s face appears. Plot! More Details Emerge. Fear is starting to simmer inside me.
Another guard walks over to the TV, turns up the volume.
“…according to the unnamed government source, terrorist targets include the directors of the CIA and FBI, as well as the Senate majority leader. The majority leader has reportedly requested enhanced security for the named targets—”
“Agent Maddox?” I hear, and I turn toward the voice with a start. It’s the guard.
“Yes?” I get to my feet.
“I’m sorry, but the woman you’re looking for won’t be able to see you.”
Won’t be able to see you. Not won’t be able to see you now. Won’t be able to see you. Did they get to her, too? Did they hurt her, the way they hurt Mom?
This was a mistake. Whatever it means, this was a mistake.
“Vivian Miller, then. Sorry, Vivian Lane. I need to see Vivian Lane.” Maybe here she’d tell me something about Marta. Maybe here I’d know if she’s really, truly safe.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not authorized to be here. You’re going to have to leave.”
Not authorized to be here? More strains from the news bulletin reach me. “…CIA director…FBI director…Senate majority leader…”
“Agent Maddox?” the guard repeats, and I blink, refocus on her face. And it might be my imagination, or it might be my training, but I can see the hand at her side rising ever so slightly, like it’s getting into position to draw her gun quickly, should the need arise.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I mumble, turning, gathering my bag, completely unsettled now. “I’ll be going.”
My eyes light on the quote on the wall again as I walk past it. And ye shall know the truth…
If only I didn’t. If only I never saw Jackson’s hand on Vivian’s back, never let it haunt me the way it did. If only my past hadn’t convinced me there was something more there.
I start walking quickly toward the exit, like I can’t get out of here fast enough. The place suddenly feels dangerous; everything feels dangerous.
That breaking news. Naming the targets. It wasn’t a coincidence that it happened while I was here, waiting. While the guard was on the phone.
It was another warning, and I suddenly realize it might be the last one. Because what else can Jackson release? All the other pieces are there now, out in the public. The identity of FSM. The threat of violence. The targets. It’s a solid plot. The only piece that’s missing is Zachary’s name.
I push my way outside into the icy air, desperate to be out of that building. And as I do, I see a black Suburban pull away from the curb, where it had been idling, close to the entrance. As it passes by, I catch a glimpse of the man in the backseat.
And I’d swear it was Jackson.
Chapter 49
The rest of Monday drags by, then most of Tuesday, too. I spend a few hours both days at Mom’s bedside. Mostly we watch television together, or chat with Zachary when he stops by. Conversation between the two of us is stilted, awkward.
I don’t try to contact anyone else, don’t do any more research. I’m convinced that doing so would be reckless. That my activity’s being monitored. That nothing’s private, nothing’s safe. Will there be more warnings? Or is the next step releasing Zachary’s name?
Yesterday morning, I dug through my desk drawers until I found the picture
Barker gave me, the one of Vivian. I placed it in front of me on the desk and stared. And irrational as it was, it made me angry. This is all because of her. If I’d only let it go, none of this would have happened. My son would be safe.
I’ve continued to wear the recording equipment, review the tapes from inside the house, check the security system almost obsessively. It’s surveillance, really, like those countless, mindless hours I’ve spent sitting in cars over the years, watching houses, waiting for someone to appear. Patience is the nature of the job. Be patient, and the criminal will slip up.
But so far, no one’s slipped up. I haven’t seen Jackson again, and I haven’t heard from him. I look at my phone compulsively, the text. Have you made a decision? Sometimes I touch the screen, bring up the keyboard, imagine typing a response, telling him I’ll do it. It would be so simple.
We did Chinese takeout last night, Zachary and me, then we sat on the couch together and watched TV—that competition show with the obstacle course. “Gonna be weird not living here anymore,” he said, out of the blue, catching me off guard. “I mean, if I get into any schools,” he adds miserably.
“You will,” I say. And then, more gently, “It’s going to be weird for both of us.” What I really meant was, I’m going to miss you, too.
Pizza delivery tonight, followed by chess, finally. He moved his rook, just like I thought he would. And I took it. Then he moved his queen, sacrificed her, because it was the only way to protect the king. And so we were at a stalemate, once again.
At least I’m putting up a good fight. I haven’t lost yet.
Zachary says good night and the dull thump of bass begins reverberating overhead. I open an IPA, drink it while I sit in the living room, staring at the chessboard. Why don’t I know what the next move will be?
When the bottle’s empty, I drop it into the recycling bin, open another. I sit back down on the couch, and my thoughts turn to Scott. I close my eyes and picture him here, beside me.
What would have happened if I’d let Scott interrogate Zachary that day? He’d have seen the truth, that Zachary wasn’t involved, that my son had never heard of FSM. And then, maybe, we’d have been in this together. Fighting this, together.
God, how I wish I had someone on my side. How I wish I wasn’t in this alone.
Inexplicably, my thoughts turn to Vivian Miller. To her smiling husband, spatula in hand, corralling the children for breakfast.
I take the last sip of beer and bring the bottle to kitchen, drop it in the recycling bin. It clatters against the last one, almost violently. Drowns out the thumping bass from upstairs, if only for a moment.
What if it’s not too late? What if I talk to Scott, tell him everything?
What if we can fight this together after all?
* * *
—
It’s unseasonably cold in Nebraska, wintrier even than D.C., three or four inches of crisp, fresh snow on the ground. I rent a car at the Omaha airport and drive to Scott’s house, the address I found in his personnel file.
It’s a boxy house, two-story, roof glistening white. The lights are off, the driveway shoveled and empty. I sit idling in my car and watch the street, watch the house, wait for Scott to appear.
At twenty past five, a black sedan approaches, pulls into the driveway.
I step out of my car just as Scott’s stepping out of his. He’s in a long wool coat, his breath crystallizing in front of him. He goes still when he sees me.
“We need to talk, Scott.”
“I told you I don’t want to be part of this.”
“Just hear me out.”
A snowplow rumbles onto the street. Scott watches it briefly, then turns and heads toward the front door, his boots crunching the snow. I follow, and he doesn’t try to stop me.
He slides his key into the lock, and I focus on his hair again, that streak of gray I first noticed that night he arrived at my door to question me about Zachary.
My eyes drift down to his left hand. It’s bare.
He catches me looking. Meets my gaze, holds it. Then, without a word, he opens the door, gestures for me to step inside. I do, apprehensively.
He follows me inside, flips on the lights, shuts and locks the door behind us. I pull off my coat and hang it on a hook beside the door. The house screams bachelor pad, short-term rental. It’s sparsely furnished, the living room nothing more than couch and television, a cardboard box doubling as a coffee table. Kitchen appliances look decades old; the countertops are bare. He’s been in Omaha more than a week, but you’d never guess from this empty house.
Scott looks at me like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Finally he holds up his left hand, looks at the spot where the ring should be. “Feels weird without it….It’s been over for a while. The move to Omaha…” He shakes his head, quirks a smile. “That was the nail in the coffin.”
“I’m sorry, Scott,” I say. And partly, I am. I’m sorry for the role I played in it. Sorry he’s hurting.
“Said she wasn’t leaving her job, wasn’t pulling the kids out of school.” He sinks down into the couch, a threadbare one. “So who is it, Steph? Who’s doing this?”
I need to say the name, even though everything’s telling me not to. “Jackson.”
“The deputy director?”
“Yes.”
He’s watching me, frowning. But there’s something else on his face now, a strange mix of emotion. Curiosity and anger. Frustration.
But the doubt is gone. And my heart starts to race. I’m so relieved I have to bite back laughter.
He believes me.
“Why?” Scott wants to know.
I can do this. This is why I came here.
I think back to that conversation, all those years ago, when things ended between us. I can’t be with someone who won’t open up to me. Who won’t trust me.
I trust Scott; I do. More than I’ve ever trusted another man—another person—in all my life.
So I tell him everything. The whole truth. From the very beginning to the very end.
* * *
—
By the time I’m done, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel freer than I have in days, since this all began. In years, really.
He’s listened, asked a few questions, nodded. But I can tell from his expression that he believes me, as insane as this all sounds.
I’m not sure he’s ever meant more to me than he does right now.
But whatever weight I’ve lifted from myself, I’ve placed on him. I can see it. His eyes are haunted; his voice is hollow. “Shit, Steph,” he says when I’ve finished. “I wish you’d told me about Halliday. A long time ago.”
“I wish I had, too.” God, I really do. Life might be so different right now if I’d never kept that secret.
“Is he part of this?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s got to be Jackson. But the timing…it’s just too much of a coincidence.”
His eyes rake my face, a gaze as intimate, somehow, as a caress. “So what do we do now?”
The words bring a smile to my lips, one I don’t try to stop this time, can’t repress.
We.
* * *
—
Scott and I talk through our options, what few there are. Try to figure out our next move. How we’re supposed to stop a corrupt FBI deputy director, one who’s working for a foreign adversary, one who’s already proven he has the reach to affect our lives, personal and professional.
The answer isn’t clear, not in the slightest.
At around seven, I realize I’m starving. He suggests Thai, says there’s a great restaurant downtown. “Panang curry and pad Thai?” he asks, with a smile.
I smile back, feeling wistful. How different my life might have been if he’d stayed in it. We could have been
a family, the two of us and Zachary.
We still could.
I catch myself looking down at his left hand again.
“Beer, too?” he asks.
“The hoppiest you can find.”
He grins again, and this time I swear he’s the one who looks wistful. He’s the one who looks full of regret. And the realization fills me with anticipation. With hope. And it’s strange, because I don’t even remember the last time I felt this way.
He grabs his coat and leaves, and I call Mom. She’s asleep, but I speak briefly to her doctor. They’ll be sending her home very soon. I’ll need to convince her to stay with Zachary and me. I don’t tell her I’m in Omaha. Then I call Zachary, let him know I’m spending the night here, will fly home in the morning. “You in for the night?” I ask him.
“Yep.”
“Did you eat? Doors locked?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Give your grandmother a call. And call me if you need anything. Love you.”
He mumbles an I love you, too.
I turn on the television, mute the sound. There’s a commercial on, for life insurance. An older couple strolls along the beach, smiling and laughing, while text below urges viewers to Call today for a free quote!
Scott’s married. It’s a line I won’t cross, ever.
But he won’t be married forever.
I turn my thoughts back to Jackson, and our options. Trying to figure out our next move. I raise the volume on the TV to keep myself awake. I’m half listening when a phrase cuts through my thoughts.
“…Vice President Sam Donnolly was asked about the threat this afternoon….”
The threat?
The screen changes, and footage of the vice president appears. He’s standing on a factory floor, at what looks to be an impromptu press conference. An off-camera question is audible: “The majority leader called for more robust protective measures….Are you saying it’s not necessary?” The camera zooms in for his response.
Keep You Close Page 22
