by Hunt, Angela
“So…” Judson says as I watch Renee Carey step into the hallway for a quick look around. “Can you see inside her room, as well?”
“That’s classified.” I watch as the door to my aunt’s room closes, leaving me fixated on an empty corridor. “If I did have a camera in her room, I don’t think I’d use it. A woman’s entitled to some privacy.”
Judson laughs. “Not here, she isn’t.”
“As long as she’s not under investigation, she can close her door. I wouldn’t want anyone snooping on me without cause.”
“Girl, what do you think we’re doing here at the convent?”
I ignore him. If he can’t understand the vast difference between monitoring crucial communications and peeping into someone’s bedroom, he’s being deliberately obtuse.
“So.” Judson’s smile widens. “You’ve planted cameras all over this place, haven’t you?”
“A girl has to keep busy. Besides, Dr. Mewton wants me to sharpen my skills.”
“Have you bugged the conference room? The chapel?” He lowers his voice and leans closer. “Don’t tell me you’ve even bugged Mewton’s office.”
“If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Jud slaps the armrest of his wheelchair. “I can tell you didn’t come up through the system. Somebody forgot to drum a healthy fear of the brass into you. So what are you going to do if she finds one of your little cameras?”
I exhale in a sigh he’ll be sure to hear. “Passive transmitters aren’t detectable until they transmit. I’m not even sure a bug is a bug if it’s not doing anything. Maybe it’s just a bit of unobtrusive decoration.”
“That kind of decoration is going to get you into trouble if it’s ever discovered.”
“I doubt it. Dr. M will probably congratulate me on my ingenuity.”
When it becomes clear that Dr. Carey is not going to come out of her room again, I lean back and lock my hands behind my head. “So…what do you think, Jud?”
He snorts. “About your camera work?”
“About my aunt.”
“You’re the one who saw her. You tell me.”
“What do I know about other women? Besides, I described her to you.”
“‘Short hair, medium height, and symmetrical features’ doesn’t do it for me. If you’re going to be my eyes, you’ve got to start sprucing up your adjectives. Add a little pizzazz to your descriptions.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I was afraid of that. Okay, tell me—did she have a pleasant face?”
“What’s a pleasant face?”
“Did she have a nice face?”
“Do you mean was she nice-looking, or did she look nice?”
“Good grief, you’re frustrating. You’ve got to give me something useful.”
“Give me a minute.” I shift my gaze to the photograph still displayed on my monitor. I could try to describe this woman, but words like symmetry and purity cannot begin to describe the aura of loveliness surrounding this face.
And I’m not sure I can speak of it without my voice breaking.
So I close my eyes and remember details of what I saw on the dock. “She brought one suitcase. And she had a handbag on her shoulder.”
“What about her face?”
“I told you, she had eyes, ears, a nose—”
“Her expression. Did she look nervous? Excited? Happy?”
“I have no idea.”
He sighs heavily. “Okay. Let’s go back to the luggage. What does one suitcase and a purse tell you?”
“How should I know? I’ve never packed a suitcase in my life.”
Judson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, at this point it’d be convenient to have a camera in her room because everything depends on what’s inside the suitcase. Did she bring lots of clothes? Then she’s a fashionista and possibly self-centered. Did she bring a couple of family photo albums? That would tell you she’s considerate. If you opened her bag and found bottled water, protein bars, and packages of sunflower seeds—meet your aunt the health food nut. But only one bag? That means she’s not planning an extended visit.” He chuckles. “My wife never went anywhere with only one suitcase. Juanita would have packed one bag with nothing but shoes—stilettos, maybe, sandals, a pair of loafers, and something suitable for dancing. She had a real thing for shoes.”
His voice softens, and so does his face. I watch, fascinated, as a tear seeps from his sealed eyelids and falls onto his dark cheek. “If you miss her,” I whisper, “you could contact her.”
“No, I can’t.” He swipes at the tear, then jerks on his wheels, edging the chair backward over the tile floor. “I died, she mourned, my son has a new daddy. I can’t go back.”
“But you didn’t die.” I feel like a moron pointing out the obvious, but Judson won’t hear it.
“I might as well be dead.” The tendons in the backs of his hands stand out like a bas-relief as he grips his wheels. “Scarred up, legs gone, blind, half a man—even if the agency had been able to come up with a reasonable cover story to explain why I was at that warehouse, I wouldn’t want to face Juanita like this.” He lowers his head. “No, she’s better off thinking I died in that bus crash. Better for my kid to visit an empty grave in Lubbock than learn I’m living like this.”
Because his voice has gone all jagged and hoarse, I remain quiet and wait for the storm to pass. I pull my keyboard closer and deactivate the screen saver so I’m again looking at the symmetrical features of Dr. Renee Carey, who has traveled across an ocean to see me.
Would she be better off thinking I died with my mother?
Chapter Nineteen
Renee
I awaken to the sound of insistent knocking. For a moment I don’t remember where I am or what day it is, but then the sight of my waiting suitcase sends a jolt of adrenaline through my bloodstream.
“Just a moment,” I call, struggling to move legs that feel like deadwood. I glance at the nightstand, wondering why no one has called, then I realize there’s no phone in the room. No alarm clock, either. Only an intercom panel on the wall, and it’s silent.
I open the door, expecting to see one of the guards, and am startled by the sight of a woman in white: white hair, white blouse, white slacks, white smile. She’s holding a white book, and for an insane moment I’m certain my imagination has conjured up Sister Luke, Mother Superior of the Convent of the Lost Lambs.
“Dr. Carey? I’m Glenda Mewton.” The vision extends a hand, the white tips of her nails gleaming in the space between us. “I’m sorry—did I wake you?”
She’s real; I feel the warmth of her skin when I shake her hand. I give her a dazed smile. “I’m sorry. I only meant to close my eyes a few minutes, but I must have dozed off.”
Dr. Mewton takes a step back and gestures down the hall. “I wanted to speak to you before you meet Sarah. There’s a small chapel at the end of this corridor. Will you join me there in a moment or two?”
Apparently I’m in no condition to join her now. I run my hand through my hair and wonder if I have a trail of dried saliva at the corner of my mouth. “Let me splash my face and change clothes, then I’ll be right out.”
“Thank you.”
She moves away, her figure casting a regal shadow on the wall. I retreat to my room and hurry to unpack my toiletries bag. After a less-than-efficient encounter with toothpaste, hairbrush, and deodorant spray, I toss my travel clothes onto the bed and pull on a yellow blouse and navy slacks. This place could use a little color.
I head for the hallway, but hesitate at the threshold. My hands feel empty, but I can’t think of any reason to carry a notebook or my purse. Finally, I grab my wallet and step into the hall. I carry a picture of Kevin in my wallet; perhaps Dr. Mewton would like to see it. If that doesn’t prove my connection to Sarah, I can always flash my passport and birth certificate.
The chapel stands at the end of the hallway, just as Dr. Mewton said. The narrow room, which still contains
an altar and four pews, looks as though it hasn’t changed since the last nun vacated the premises. A carved crucifix hangs above the altar, and though the bowed head of Christ is fuzzy with dust, I can feel the pressure of those unblinking eyes as I walk forward to meet Dr. Mewton.
She stands when she hears me approaching. “We thought about turning this room into an operations center,” she says, taking in the entire chapel with a sweep of her hand. “But on the off chance we’d need to maintain our cover, we decided to keep it.”
“Along with a chest filled with habits and cassocks, I suppose.” I smile, but Dr. Mewton must not see the humor in my statement, because she doesn’t smile. She has a politician’s face—almost anything could be going on behind that facade of bland cordiality.
I step into the pew where she stands and notice that she’s still holding the white book, which appears to be an album of some sort.
“I wanted to meet you here,” she says, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, “because it’s one of the few rooms not monitored by surveillance cameras. When we’re in here, I can be reasonably sure Sarah isn’t watching us.”
I drop my jaw. “She could be watching?”
“I’m sure she’s already checked you out. The girl is exceptionally bright, and I’ve never known her to remain stymied by anything for long.”
“Really?” I force a laugh. “Her father would be so proud.”
“Would he?” Dr. Mewton lifts a brow and gestures toward the pew. “This may feel a little awkward, but since Sarah’s already seen you, I don’t feel it’s unfair to let you learn about her before you meet her. If you’ll have a seat, I’d like to show you these pictures.”
We sit. But before opening the book, she smiles and gives me a sidelong look. “I must apologize for what might seem like overprotectiveness on my part. But Sarah has been in my care since infancy, and I have resolved to protect her as best I can.”
“Protect her from what?”
“Anyone who would harm her. Those who would persecute her because she doesn’t fit into a predetermined and artificial mediocrity.” The woman’s face bears a look of deep abstraction, and for a moment I’m not sure she’s even aware of my presence. Then she stares directly at me. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? I understand that officially you’re here to report on Sarah’s well-being.”
I smile and shrug. “We both know that directive is pretty much smoke and mirrors. I’ll write a report, of course, but my primary purpose is to meet my niece. The psychological evaluation is a secondary priority unless—” I hesitate “—I’m not going to find a problem, am I?”
“With Sarah?” A faint trace of humor slips into the woman’s expression. “The girl is probably better suited to her job than either of us. Very well, then, let’s review the basic facts of Sarah’s case. What do you know of your brother’s assignment in Spain?”
I spread my hands. “I don’t know anything. I didn’t know Kevin worked for the CIA until I discovered a letter from you in my mother’s storage unit.”
Dr. Mewton nods. “That’s how it should be. Extended family members rarely know about NOC personnel.”
“You’ll have to explain; I don’t speak acronym.”
“Nonofficial cover officers. Everyone on the outside thought your brother worked for a chemical company. In reality, he had been trained and placed by the CIA. His mission remains classified, but I can assure you we were sorry to lose him.”
“His wife, Diane—did she know what he really did?”
Dr. Mewton tilts her head. “I can’t say. Some spouses are fully informed. Others make it clear they’d rather not know the entire truth. But I suspect Diane knew something.”
“Did you know my brother?”
Amusement flickers in her eyes. “We took out his appendix not long after he was posted. I remember him as a charming young man, devoted to his wife and his work.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t know he’d been sick.”
“He wasn’t, not really. We had him in and out in a matter of days. Most of his friends thought he and Diane went away for a brief vacation.”
I glance at the wallet in my hand and remember the many steps I’ve taken to reach this point. “At Langley, as you enter CIA headquarters, there’s a marble wall with stars on it…eighty-three, I think, when I was there. Does one of them represent my brother?”
The woman caresses the album on her lap. “Thirty-five of those stars are unnamed. One of those belongs to Sarah’s father.”
“So he didn’t commit suicide. Kevin died on a mission.”
The woman’s lips compress into a thin line. “I can’t discuss details with you, Dr. Carey. I am eager, however, to tell you about Sarah.”
I hesitate, torn between pursuing news of my brother and wanting to know about the girl I’ve come so far to see. “Fine, let’s talk about Sarah. Why weren’t we given more information? We would have taken her in. My mother or I would have—”
“We did contact your mother with news of Sarah’s condition. At birth she had severe disfigurement caused by Treacher-Collins—”
“Your letter said her prognosis was poor, and you asked for power of attorney. I’m assuming my mother gave you that.”
“Your assumption is correct.”
I lift my hand and close my eyes, stumbling over the problem that has troubled me for months. “I don’t understand why she did that. I’ve researched Treacher-Collins, so I know Sarah was a normal child.”
“Mentally normal, yes, but she suffered from significant facial defects. The craniofacial surgeon we brought in said he’d never seen such a severe case.”
“How bad could it—”
“Why don’t I show you Sarah’s first pictures? They speak for themselves.”
Dr. Mewton slides the album onto my lap and lifts the cover. On the first page, beneath a protective plastic sheet, is a photograph of a healthy baby with strong arms, chubby legs…and a head shaped like a matchstick. I can see no hair, no ears, and no discernible forehead. A mouth occupies the center of the shape, and three bulging sacs protrude above a lolling tongue.
“How on earth?” The exclamation slips from me before I realize I have spoken.
“Most babies,” Dr. Mewton says, her voice gentling, “are born with the features people consider attractive—big eyes, long lashes, oversize pupils, chubby cheeks, small noses. Falling in love with a baby is as easy as two plus two. Loving a genetic mutation doesn’t come as naturally.”
I look up, the muscles of my forearm tightening beneath the book. “Are you saying my family didn’t love this child?”
“I have no idea what your mother and brother felt, but I know your family faced a definite challenge. As you can imagine, the physicians’ immediate concern was maintaining the child’s airway—with no developed nostrils and only a small mouth, she needed a tracheotomy immediately. The feeding tube was another necessity, so the agency airlifted the baby and brought her here. We flew in a British surgeon from London who probably saved Sarah’s life. We know he saved her eyesight.”
She turns the page and shows me another picture of the same baby. In this shot, a stiff collar surrounds her neck, and dark lines of stitches mark two of the bulging sacs above the flat tongue.
“The eyelids had not formed.” Dr. Mewton taps the page with a fingernail. “The doctor had to cut an opening to admit light, or Sarah’s eyes would never have functioned properly.”
I stare at the photographs in stunned silence. I have seen pictures of other children with Treacher-Collins, but none of them looked like this.
Somehow I draw enough oxygen into my lungs to speak. “Was Diane—was she aware of this?”
Dr. Mewton shakes her head. “Unfortunately, your sister-in-law began to hemorrhage. She died at the Spanish hospital before the doctors could stop the bleeding. Your brother remained with her while I took charge of the infant.”
I close my eyes, unable to imagine what Kevin must have endured in those
awful hours. And where were Mother and I during that time? At home, blithely watching Cosby and Family Ties?
“We didn’t know,” I whisper. “I can’t believe we didn’t know about any of this.”
Dr. Mewton’s eyes soften. “You couldn’t have been old enough to do anything.”
“I was fifteen. But Mother could have done something. She should have done something.”
Even as I say the words, I know I’m not being completely truthful. A sudden heart attack took my father six months before Kevin died, and Mother wasn’t herself in those days.
Even before my brother’s death, I remember looking at mother and thinking that she was like a helium balloon that had lost its buoyancy. She went through all the motions of daily life, but she appeared slightly shrunken, and all her energy had drained away.
“While the baby was recovering from surgery,” Dr. Mewton says, lowering her voice, “your brother had to complete a task on his covert assignment. I’m sure that seems extreme to you, but I suspect he pressed on because it was easier to live in alias than to deal with his grief. Something went wrong, though, and he died two days after Diane. That’s when I wrote your mother about the power of attorney. I also sent her a picture of the child.”
A lump rises in my throat, a knot born of certainty. I know how my grief-stricken mother must have responded, but still I have to ask. “And Mom said?”
Reluctance struggles with indignation on the doctor’s fine-boned face as she looks toward one of the sunlit windows. “She wanted us…to let nature take its course. She asked us to withdraw the feeding tube, but after some consideration, I decided I couldn’t do it. Legally, ethically, morally, it would be wrong to starve that child. So, because I had custody and power of attorney, I approved the surgeries Sarah needed to live and to function more like normal people.”
When Dr. Mewton looks back at me, I see no pride or judgment in her eyes. She is simply stating the facts.
“Sarah had those operations here?”
“Don’t let our rustic appearance mislead you. For more than twenty-five years, the Convent of the Lost Lambs has served as an emergency hospital for CIA officers and allied contacts. We’re a black site, so we keep a low profile, but we have contract surgeons and other medical personnel on staff. Though most of them live in Britain or France, we can usually assemble a surgical team in a matter of hours.” Her eyes flash. “Of course, you can never divulge any of this to anyone.”
