“I’ve seen the intel,” Donnolly answers, “and frankly I think it’s a load of malarkey.” Bulbs flash around him; the sound of the shutters is audible. He pauses dramatically, a born politician, looks around, then his gaze settles straight on the camera. “I give the American people my word that this attack will not happen.”
Somehow, hearing him say it gives me another surge of hope. Because he’s right; this chatter about an assassination plot is nonsense. The press is blowing it all way out of proportion. I see it, Donnolly sees it. Soon everyone will see it. The truth will come out. And the truth is that the FSM plot is bogus.
Chapter 50
The next thing I know, light is streaming through the windows, glittering off the fresh snow.
The television’s on, but now it’s one of those morning shows. Cheery hosts, a brightly colored set, lots of chatter about the snowstorm that hit the Midwest.
Shit. How long did I sleep?
I struggle into a sitting position, look around for Scott, but I’m alone in the room. I fumble for my phone and check the screen: 7:34 A.M.
Dammit, Steph.
The house is quiet; Scott must still be asleep. All I can hear is the TV and the whoosh of the furnace. I get to my feet, wander into the kitchen. Look for coffee, don’t see any. He was never a coffee drinker, was he?
My stomach growls. Curry and pad Thai—I’m hungry enough that it sounds good, even for breakfast. I open the fridge to find the leftovers.
There’s a carton of juice, a bag of deli meat, an unopened package of sliced cheese.
No Thai leftovers, no beer.
Concern starts to creep through me, but I tamp it down. He said he was hungry, didn’t he? He finished the food he brought home.
I look for the trash can, peer inside.
No food containers. No beer bottles.
Still I try to reason with myself. The restaurant was closed, because of the snow. He came home without dinner.
I walk quietly upstairs. Peek through one door; the room’s empty, not a single piece of furniture. Then another—the bathroom. There’s a third door, closed. I listen, hear nothing.
I tap softly, push it open, just enough to see inside. Scott’s bedroom, I think. Queen bed, unmade, sheets askew. There’s a biography of J. Edgar Hoover open on the nightstand.
“Scott?” I call cautiously. “Are you here?”
Silence.
“Scott?”
Downstairs again, I open the door to the basement. I flip on the light, peer down the stairs. The faint smell of mold wafts up at me. “Scott?”
His car’s not in the driveway. There are no tracks in the snow. Unease is running through me. But there’s got to be an explanation. Scott was here, and had to leave. He’s already at work.
I find my phone, pull up his number, dial.
Four rings, then voicemail. I end the call.
I pull up another number. Zachary answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. Everything okay there?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, good.” Be careful, I have the urge to say.
But he tells me he overslept and he’s going to be late for school and ends the call.
My unease is spiraling into something more. But it shouldn’t be. Zachary’s fine. Scott’s just at work.
I walk back upstairs, into the bathroom. Start the shower, turn it as hot as it’ll go. Undress, test the water, still not hot.
A thought hits me. If he’s at work, I can reach him there.
I pull a towel off the rack, wrap it around myself. Head back downstairs for my phone. Search for the number for the field office, call the main number. A woman answers. “Special Agent Scott Clark, please,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” comes the reply, crisply. “Agent Clark’s not here.”
“Can you transfer the call in?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
I end the call. Dial his cell again.
Straight to voicemail this time.
Something’s wrong.
I navigate to my email, the work one. Not even sure why; it’s instinct, really.
Scan the subject lines, and then my eyes stop.
A heartbreaking loss.
Sent nineteen minutes ago by the head of the Washington Field Office.
I double-click, read the words. My hand is trembling. Everything inside of me is screaming this can’t be what I think it is, what I know it is.
It’s with a heavy heart that I’m forced to report the tragic death of an agent who was, until recently, one of our own.
This can’t be.
…one-car accident last night…snow…road conditions…
Please, God, no.
…Special Agent Scott Clark…
My eyes stop. My heart feels like it stops, too.
Scott.
Chapter 51
I’m reading the words, but it’s not real. This is all a bad dream, some terrible nightmare.
…icy road…died on impact…
No.
This isn’t happening.
…no witnesses…investigation ongoing…
Not Scott, no.
The phone falls from my hands. Panic and nausea cascade through me in waves.
In my mind I see him. Back when we were first dating, when we were young and ambitious and ridiculously in love. I see him with Zachary, playing baseball at the park, always hitting those pop-ups he knew my son could catch. And last night, before he left for food, the teasing grin on his face, the light in his eyes.
I’m the one who got him into this. Who dragged him back into it, pleaded with him to help me, flew all the way out here to Omaha. I’m the one who got him killed. If I hadn’t said I was hungry, he’d never have gone out.
I realize too late that my legs are giving out, buckling. I collapse to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
Scott. My Scott. Dead.
While I was here, sleeping, Scott died. The police found his body, notified his wife, the Bureau, and the whole time I was sleeping. I feel like I’m going to vomit.
How can this be happening? How can Scott be gone?
Jackson did this.
The thought is a spark at first, one that catches and spreads until it’s a raging firestorm.
Jackson did this. Because I told Scott the truth.
Because he was willing to help me.
After an eternity, I struggle to my feet, cinch the towel tighter around myself, swipe the tears from my face. The shower’s still running. The bathroom door’s half open. I push it wide, and I’m met with a wave of steam, like a sauna.
The first thing I see is the mirror.
All steamed up, except for a message:
Z’S NEXT
Chapter 52
Steam is already starting to fade the words, condensation dripping through them like blood, blurring them, even as I watch. In moments, they’ll be nothing. The message will vanish.
I bolt toward the shower, lunge for the faucet. The gush of water stops; the house goes quiet, except for the drip of the last drops swirling down the drain. I strain for any sounds of the intruder who left this threat.
My gun. My gun’s in the living room, on top of the mantel; that’s where I left it last night. Is it still there?
I fumble for my clothes, yank them on. Then I step out of the bathroom, heart racing, ears still tuned for any whisper of sound in the house, any way of knowing where this person is.
I creep downstairs, stealthily. My Glock’s on the mantel, still there. I quicken my pace, reach for it, check to make sure it’s still loaded. Grip it tight in both hands.
The back door. It’s wide open. I walk closer, feel the chill surge in from outside.
I look out, gun
raised. There are footprints in the fresh snow, leading away, into the woods.
The icy air cuts through my clothes, and I can’t stop shivering.
Whoever was here is gone.
Z’s next.
* * *
—
I’m in the car minutes later, on my way to the airport, foot pressed down on the gas, much too hard. The roads are plowed, but slippery. I text Zachary. Call me. My phone rings seconds later.
“I need you to be extra careful today,” I tell him. I know I’m scaring him. But I’m so far away from him right now, and I know he’s in danger. I know what these people are capable of.
“What’s going on?”
What am I supposed to say? Violence? Murder? “You were right. It’s like Chicago, only worse.”
He swears softly. A week ago, I could have scolded him for using that word. “It’s him, isn’t it? Halliday?”
It might be, at least partly. But the truth—the depth of this—is even more terrifying. “Zachary—it’s complicated.”
“Are you in danger, Mom?” He asks it bluntly.
I picture Scott’s car, that black sedan, crumpled and twisted. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to force out the image, but it won’t go away. Am I in danger? “I’m concerned about you. So you need to promise me you’ll be careful.”
“He can’t get away with this—”
School. D.C.’s an hour ahead of Omaha; Zachary’s at school, and they’ll know exactly where he is. Fear hits me like a body blow. “I need you to skip school today.”
“What?”
“Leave school.” I’m racking my brain for some safe place for him, and in my mind all I can see is my mother. “Go to the hospital. Stay with Grandma today.”
“Really, Mom?” His voice wavers with fear. I’m scaring him.
“Zachary. Do as I say.”
“I love you, Mom.” I can picture the worry on his face. But it’s not his face now. It’s the face of that lonely, scared child, in that rearview mirror all those years ago.
“I love you, too, Zachary.”
* * *
—
The weather snarled air traffic in Omaha, delayed my flight home by hours. I’m finally back. It’s cold in D.C., but blissfully free of snow. I head straight to headquarters. I’m not going to wait any longer for Jackson to approach me. I’m going to do something I should have done days ago. I’m going to go after him.
He killed Scott. My Scott. He took Scott away from me. He hurt my mother, and now he’s threatened my son. I won’t be terrorized any longer.
I stride into the lobby, past the security guard, take the elevator up to his floor. I swing open the door to the anteroom and his secretary looks up from her desk. Surprise flickers across her face, then confusion.
“I need to see him,” I say brusquely. I don’t wait for her to reply, but cross the anteroom, toward the closed door to his personal office. I’m there before she can respond, and I swing it open.
The office is empty.
“He’s not here,” bleats the secretary, trailing after me. I breathe deeply, needing to slow my pounding heart, and glare at the vacant desk, like my anger can somehow make him reappear. Then I turn on my heel.
“Where is he?”
Her look changes instantly from confusion to fear. Not surprising; I’m certainly acting unstable right now. She returns to her desk, turns her attention to some papers in front of her, shuffles through them. Pauses, reads something.
“Agent Maddox, right?” she asks, without looking up.
“Yes.” She knows damn well who I am, and she can report me to security if she wants. I’m going to get the recorded admission, and I’m going to come clean, and it’s going to happen today.
“The deputy director’s due at the Grand Ambassador Hotel this evening. Charity dinner—” she begins, and I’m out the door without listening to the rest.
* * *
—
The Grand Ambassador is a stone’s throw from the White House. It’s a storied nineteenth-century landmark turned modern luxury hotel. There’s a wide circular drive in front, and I pull into it now, bring the car to a stop along the curb. A valet greets me just as I’m opening the door. “FBI,” I say quietly, discreetly flashing my badge. He glances at it and backs off.
I can’t stop thinking about Scott. Picturing his sedan, crushed. Fury is making it hard to breathe. I know I need to think clearly, but I can’t.
The bank of glass doors leads into an oversized atrium, one with marble floors and crystal chandeliers and heavy gold drapes framing huge windows. There’s a tall clock tower in the center. A reception desk and a grand piano off to one side, a sitting area off to the other. At the far end of the room is a set of huge double doors, the entrance to the ballroom.
I scan the room, don’t see Jackson. There’s just a scattering of people. I eye each individual as I stride through the room, as if any one of them could be a threat.
I make my way quickly to the double doors at the back of the atrium. There’s a gilded sign in front. I recognize the name; it’s one of those events that always draws a handful of cabinet members, some senators and representatives, and the people willing to shell out big bucks to mingle with them.
A harried-looking man in a tuxedo hurries past, a tablet in his hand like a clipboard. One of the organizers, no doubt. I stop him, show my badge.
“Is Jackson here?” I snap. “The deputy director of the FBI?”
He looks first at my badge, then at my face, blinks. “Jackson? No.”
He scurries away and I walk back into the center of the lobby, then over to the sitting area. I take a seat on a small tufted bench that offers a clear view of the front doors, all the way through the atrium and down to the double doors of the ballroom.
More people are coming, dressed to the nines. But all I can see in my mind is Scott. His grin. His arms around me, the way it felt to rest my head against his chest. Watching Zachary race toward him, giggle with him, ride on his shoulders.
Died on impact.
There’s a window behind me, covered with heavy shimmery curtains. I pull one aside slightly so I can see out. The view is of a service door, the concrete landing in front of it, surrounded by white rails. Two men stand outside, kitchen staff by the looks of them. Both in black pants and shirts, white aprons over top. One has a cigarette, dropping ash, the other holds a cup of coffee. They’re leaning against the rails, huddled against the cold, chatting.
I turn away from the window and scan the lobby again, focusing on the area near the entrance. Still no Jackson. I lay my hand on my shirt, discreetly feel the recorder underneath. I’m ready to go. When he arrives, I’ll get an admission. And I’ll take it directly to Director Lee, tell him everything that’s happening. Zachary will be in the clear. Mom will be safe. And Jackson won’t hurt anyone again. He’ll be locked up for the rest of his life.
Men in tuxedos, women in rainbow-colored gowns, warm coats over top, arrive. They float through the atrium back to the ballroom, chattering and smiling. The man with the tablet greets them, ushers them inside.
On the hour, a woman in a long dress of black lace takes a seat at the grand piano, starts playing show tunes. More guests pour in. There’s still no sign of Jackson. My nerves are starting to fray.
A silver-haired man with a security detail arrives. He looks vaguely familiar; a member of Congress, I think. Then another congressman. A senator from Tennessee. The number of people in the lobby grows. More arriving guests, more hotel patrons stopping to watch the spectacle. I glance at the clock in the center of the atrium, then settle my gaze on the bank of glass doors. He has to arrive soon.
More dignitaries. Some saunter through, smiling and nodding to the onlookers. Others walk resolutely, their heads down. In between arrivals, I’m watching the accumulating clust
ers of hotel guests in the lobby, the gaggle of reporters gathering near the clock.
I glance again out the window behind me, but the landing is empty now. The kitchen staff are gone, no doubt preparing to start serving dinner. Time crawls by, and Jackson still hasn’t arrived. I take out my phone, wonder if I should call his secretary, try to pinpoint exactly where he is.
Then I glance back at the doors, and my heart stutters. A familiar face is there, walking into the atrium, holding his wife’s hand. The director of the FBI. J. J. Lee, accompanied by three men in crisp white shirts, suits, one in front and two behind. The group moves briskly through the lobby. Lee flashes a smile at one of the senators.
I’m on edge now, completely so. This isn’t the first time I’ve taken down someone powerful, but this feels different. My eyes dart from face to face, looking for anyone suspicious, anyone who might be doing surveillance of their own, someone who’s watching me. Everyone seems innocuous, but I don’t let my guard down.
I glance back out the window behind me, and what I see makes me take a sharp breath.
There’s another man outside now. Same black uniform, no apron. He’s leaning against the railing, staring off into the distance, taking a drag from a cigarette. And his face is familiar; I know him.
Dylan Taylor.
* * *
—
He blows a lazy stream of smoke from his lips, taps some ash off the end of the cigarette. Hunches his shoulders against the cold, but otherwise looks at ease, calm.
There’s a tingling sensation at the back of my neck, a strong instinct that something is terribly wrong. It feels like all the pieces are there in my mind, but they’re not in the right order, haven’t snapped together, refuse to make sense.
Dylan’s a waiter. Surge staffing for special events. Hotels. Works Thursdays. It shouldn’t be strange that he’s here; it makes sense. So why does it feel so wrong?
Keep You Close Page 23
