You Can Run
Page 12
“I have no intention of doing that, Ruth. I just want to find the truth.”
She turns to look out the window. I follow her gaze. The branches of large oaks sway in the breeze.
“If you’re asking, you must not have seen the video,” she says.
“No, I haven’t.”
I wait for her to say more about the video, but she doesn’t. It’s silent, except for the methodical tick of a clock somewhere in the room.
“What video?” I finally say. Can’t help myself.
The hint of a smile crosses her face. Seems like a reaction to my bluntness. Not a permanent frown after all. “There was a message. A video. He sent it to his fiancée right before he died. Blaire was her name.”
The message. The one Blaire mentioned. “What did it say?”
“Did you know she’s married? Has a child, too.” It’s like she didn’t even hear my question. Or ignored it completely. “Got engaged not six months after A.J. passed,” she adds bitterly.
“Too damn soon.” The words slip out before I can filter them.
There’s that shadow of a smile again. “I certainly thought so.”
Silence descends again. Filled with that relentless tick of the clock. I wait for what seems like an appropriate interval before switching topics.
“The message—what did it say?”
The frown returns. Deepens. “That he was sorry for what he was about to do. That he made a mistake.”
Sounds like a suicide message.
“That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”
Been told? “You haven’t seen it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “He sent it to Blaire. She says she turned her phone over to the government, never got it back. And no one ever shared it with me.”
“Did you ask?”
“Of course.” She says it harshly. “CIA. State Department. I exhausted every avenue. One roadblock after another. Never got it.”
“He’s your son.”
“That didn’t make a difference. If I had been mentioned in the video”—her voice breaks, and she turns again toward the window—“I was told it might be a different story.”
Well, this is awkward as hell. I have no idea how to respond.
“He was raised Catholic,” she says quietly. “I just…it’s hard to believe he’d have done that. Taken his own life.”
I nod.
“But it’s hard to imagine him doing drugs like that, too.”
“I’m sure. You know, the stories I read—they only mentioned an overdose…”
“You mean they didn’t say it was suicide.”
“Yes.” I leave the why? unspoken.
“It didn’t come out. The government has a way of putting a lid on things.”
An orange tabby cat saunters into the room, rubs up against Ruth’s legs. She doesn’t seem to notice. The cat eyes me suspiciously.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
God, I hate that question. “No.”
She gives a brusque nod. “Good.”
Well, that’s a new one. Especially from a mother.
“Don’t look so surprised. Kids become everything too easily. Next thing you know, you don’t know who you are anymore without them.”
The tabby cat sits down by Ruth’s feet, its eyes still locked on me, and begins purring.
“That saying—‘ ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’—whoever came up with that never lost everything.” She fixes me with a stare and adds quietly, “Losing everything changes you.”
I feel a pang of sympathy. Almost makes it hard to think about anything else.
“The CIA shipped me a box of his belongings, months after he passed,” she says, back to business. “His phone was in there.”
“And you weren’t able to see the video?”
“Couldn’t get into the phone. Don’t know the password, and Blaire didn’t either. I tried the cellphone company, the manufacturer. No one would help me.”
She reaches down and pets the cat. “I found some people on the Internet who said they could unlock phones. But apparently not that one. It had some extra encryption or something.” She leans back in her chair and shrugs helplessly. “I just wanted to understand, you know?”
I do, too. “Do you still have the phone?”
“Of course. I still have everything of his.” Her eyebrows rise. “Can you get in?”
“I can try.”
I can see the wariness on her face. “If you do, what will you do with it? I don’t want—”
“Mrs. Graham—”
“Ruth.”
“Ruth, I want to understand, too. I’m not going to smear your son. I just think there’s more to the story.”
“I do, too.”
She turns toward the window again. This time, I watch only her. She looks deep in thought. The sound of the cat’s purr fills the room.
Finally she turns back to face me. “Come on.” She rises to her feet. “Let’s get you that box.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alex
I carry the cardboard box into my loft late that afternoon. It’s one of those small white ones, meant for files. A.J.’s name is written on the side in black marker. There’s a shipping label attached to the top, addressed to Ruth. Remnants of the original packing tape on the sides. New packing tape wrapped around, to keep it closed.
I set the box down on the table in the center of the room and walk over to adjust the thermostat. It’s hot as hell in here, and stuffy. I’d turned down the AC before I left for Florida. Hadn’t expected the temperature to rise as much as it did. Must have been too damn preoccupied to check the forecast.
I lower the dial, and it kicks on a moment later. The hum is the only sound in the room.
I make my way over to the junk drawer in the kitchen. Dig around, pull out a box cutter. I slice through the tape on the box. Lift the lid, look inside.
There’s a gallon-size Ziploc on top. I pull it out. A bunch of old receipts, some spare change, a phone charger, a tube of ChapStick. The contents of his nightstand, maybe. Or his glove box, something like that.
Books, underneath. Thick nonfiction tomes about Syrian history. Conflict in the Middle East. A couple of dog-eared paperbacks, too. Crime fiction. I take them out one by one, flip through them. Just to make sure nothing’s inside.
Next, the cellphone. A bit battered, a long crack in the screen protector. I press the power button. The screen stays black. No surprise there. It’s been years.
I open the Ziploc and pull out the charger. Plug it into the bottom of the phone—it’s a fit—and then into the wall.
The last thing in the box is a framed picture of A.J. and Blaire. I set it on the table, standing up. They’re on a beach with turquoise water and white sand. In swimsuits. They have their arms around each other, and they’re both smiling broadly. Not fake smiles, either. Real, honest, natural ones. They look genuinely happy. She’s holding out her hand to the camera. Showing off a diamond ring.
This must be when they got engaged.
Now she’s got a new ring. New partner, new life.
A.J. was replaced, just like I was.
Does she have a copy of this picture? If so, it’s probably in a box somewhere, in storage. Maybe she’s thrown it out.
I glance at the phone, charging. Then I walk over to the kitchen, fill a glass with ice water.
When I sit back down at the table, I pull out the receipts from the Ziploc. Start looking through them. Can’t decipher most of them, but nothing looks particularly odd or out of the ordinary.
I reach for the phone, try the power button. This time, it works. It powers on. I take a sip of water and wait.
A lock screen appears. A prompt to enter a passcode. Room for six digits.
I try the obvious, 1-2-3-4-5-6. Then the reverse.
Doesn’t work.
I reach for my own phone. Scroll through the contacts until I find the name I want. Damian.
I press the green button. As the phone’s ringing, I put the call on speaker and set the phone down on the table.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Damian, it’s Alex.”
“Hey, Alex.”
“Listen, I need help getting into a phone.”
“Do you have permission to get into this phone?”
“Of course.” It sounds like I’m snapping, but come on. I don’t need that from him.
“Read me the serial number on the back.”
I slide the phone out of its case—it’s much thinner now—and flip it over. Look closely for the number—there it is. I read the string of digits to Damian.
“Got it,” he says, and I can hear the clack of keys on his end, like he’s running a search on the number.
I take another sip of water while I wait.
“No dice,” he finally says. “Won’t be able to get into this one.”
Dammit. “For real?”
“Yeah. This series has an added layer of encryption. Only way you’re getting in is with the passcode or a fingerprint.”
That’s not what I want to hear. But it explains why Ruth couldn’t find anyone to unlock it. “Absolutely nothing we can do?”
“Nothing. Sorry, Alex. Wish I had better news.”
“Thanks, Damian.”
I disconnect the call and look down at A.J.’s phone.
Another dead end.
I’m so sick of dead ends.
I push the phone aside and pull out my own laptop. Open it up. Navigate first to ClandestineTips. Nothing from my source.
I’m out of leads.
A. J. Graham—sure looks like it was suicide, but what if it wasn’t? If I could see that video message—the suicide message—maybe it would help answer some questions.
Blaire’s moved on. His mother never will. And I can’t get into that damn phone.
Then there’s Jill. Clearly she’s hiding something, but I don’t know what it is.
I scan the rest of my inbox. I catch sight of a name that’s familiar and roll my eyes. But I double-click nonetheless.
To: Alex Charles
From: Timothy Mittens
Message: Hello, Alex! I have a critical update for you. CIA spook Langston West is in his new house AND HE BROUGHT IN TWO LARGE BLACK SUITCASES. Why??? Check it out!! 1457 Mountain Bluff Road!! All my best, Timothy Mittens.
Another picture, unbelievably. The same blond guy with the goofy grin. Standing in front of a house, pointing to it. Inexplicably using a system set up for anonymous tips. I close the message and scan the inbox.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, opening another message.
To: Alex Charles
From: xxxwxyzxxx
Message: They’ve taken over my brain. They’re controlling my thoughts. Research Albuquerque before it’s too late. I can’t say more.
No shortage of messages from the crazies, but nothing from my source.
I look over at the photograph of A.J. and Blaire. I focus in on her. In my mind I see her in the house in Bethesda. The new diamond, the new husband, the new baby.
And then I see Miles. On a beach with a woman—
I turn back to my laptop. Start typing a new message:
To: Afriend123
From: Alex Charles
Message: Your information has been invaluable. Please, do you have any more tips?
I need something. I’m stuck right now, and I hate being stuck. I need this story. This is the story. I rack my brain, try to figure out something I could offer the source. Some quid pro quo.
I look over at the picture again. This time my gaze falls to the bottom. There’s a date stamped there in the corner. Almost covered up by the frame, but not quite. 05/22/16.
My gaze drifts to his phone. A tingle of excitement runs through me. Birthdays, anniversaries, someone must have tried those dates already. But an engagement day?
I reach for it, touch the home button. The screen with the numbers appears. Enter passcode.
0-5-2-2-1-6
That screen disappears, and rows of colorful icons take its place.
I’m in. Oh my God, it worked.
Finally I caught a break.
I press the text message app. Blaire’s name is on top, the most recent conversation. I open up that chain—
A video. The last thing he sent. All I can see is a black screen. I press the play button—
There’s movement, but it’s still just a black screen—
There’s A.J.’s face. A close-up, a selfie. His eyes are bloodshot. The camera wobbles.
I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of anticipation—and fear.
He starts speaking.
“Blaire, babe, I’m so sorry.”
His speech is slightly slurred.
“I couldn’t reach you, so I’m sending this instead.” The picture shakes, like he’s moving around. “I need to talk to you before…before anything happens.”
His eyes are glassy.
“I’ve made mistakes. I just wanted so badly to protect you.” His voice breaks, and a tear leaks from each eye, runs down each cheek. He wipes them away with the back of his hand.
“People aren’t always who they seem.”
He turns his head, toward a window. Then looks back at the camera.
“It’s time for me to find a way out. Before I do, I want to tell you I’m sorry, Blaire. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. Just know…know that I’ll always love you.”
The picture freezes. That’s the end. I stare at the screen, the frozen image of his face.
It could be a suicide message. Recorded right before he killed himself.
But my gut tells me it wasn’t. That it was shot by a man who knew he was being hunted—
A noise, outside my door. A loud clap. Like something falling, hitting the ground with force. My heart leaps in my chest, and I spin toward the door. But it’s closed, and nothing’s out of the ordinary. Everything is silent once again.
Thoughts of the story suddenly take a backseat to something else. Fear. A sense that I’m in too deep.
I look back at the phone, at A.J.’s frozen face.
A chill runs through me.
Why was he being hunted?
And who was doing the hunting?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jill
Tuesday passes like any other day, even though it’s not like any other day. Because I’ve met with Vaughn Craig; I know what sort of intelligence we’re getting from Falcon. And I’ve talked to Jeremy, suggested Falcon might be a double agent, asked his opinion on who might be behind it. Both of those things—they’re the closest I’ve come to talking, to breathing a word.
But Owen still needs to go to preschool. Mia needs attention. And Drew’s at work, poring over contracts no doubt, making judgments about what’s right and wrong, with all the information he needs right there in front of him, in black and white. So it’s up to me to pretend that life is normal.
It’s almost dinnertime now. Owen’s playing with plastic dinosaurs, one gripped tight in each hand, tilting them toward each other and talking in two exaggerated voices. Mia’s absorbed with her electronic dancing unicorn, the one that scoots around the floor, plays the most annoying tinny song on a loop.
When Drew walks in, I’m at the stove, stirring pasta into a pot of boiling water.
“Hi, honey,” he says. He walks over and gives me a kiss on the cheek, peeks into the pot. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Rough day?” He rolls up his sleeves, goes to the sink, turns on the faucet.
I turn toward the counter, where my glass of water sits. I take a sip, my back to him.
“Honey, are you okay?”
I turn toward him. “Can you stop asking me that?”
He keeps his eyes on me a moment longer. Then heads to the utensil drawer, starts setting the table.
I shouldn’t snap at him. He’s just trying to make sure I’m okay. He’s done nothing wrong.
I’m the one who has. And I’m about to ruin everything.
“There’s something we need to talk about,” I say to him.
The words fill me with a strange combination of fear and relief. Fear because I don’t know how he’ll react, because I’ve kept this secret from him for so many years, and he might not forgive me, and I couldn’t blame him for that. Relief because I have to do this, and I just committed myself to it.
He looks over expectantly.
“Tonight,” I say. “After the kids go to bed.”
“You’re not leaving me, are you?” He says it with a devilish grin.
“No,” I say, forcing a smile.
I’m not leaving him. But we’re all going to need to leave here, one way or another.
* * *
—
I give the kids baths while he cleans up the kitchen. Then it’s on to story time—Mia picks The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the umpteenth time, insists I read it three times, and Owen chooses The Book with No Pictures, laughs uproariously. I tuck them both in, give them good-night kisses, and head back downstairs, dread settling over me.
The kitchen’s clean. Drew’s picking up toys in the family room, tossing them into baskets. I walk into the room.
“Time to talk?” he asks.
I wish it weren’t. I wish I could avoid having this conversation.
But I need to do this. These people will kill. They’ll come back for Owen. For Mia, too. Our kids aren’t safe.