“We haven’t told anybody else,” Sarah said.
Edith took a lengthy sip of tea, breathing in the steam and contemplating. “I have no place to go now,” she said. “And I’m not leaving Belmore. Even if they do come after me, they’ll never find my son.”
“Son?”
“Yes, my son, Ian. He’s the reason I ran,” Edith said. “After they blinded me, I knew they were capable of anything, including using my son to get at me.”
“So he’s safe?” Sarah asked.
“Nobody knows his real name or where he lives. Not even Bruce. Ian’s a college student now, but he was just fourteen when all this happened. I had him when I was twenty-two. His father was what you could generously call narcissistic and possessive. He didn’t want anything to do with us as a family, he wanted me all to himself, so he panicked and took off before I gave birth. Ian and I did better as a duo anyway. He became everything his father wasn’t. Although he wasn’t living here, he encouraged me learn how to see without eyes. Even helped me to stop feeling sorry for myself and learn Braille. Without him, I never would have had the confidence to take over this rag.”
“Who did this?” Sarah asked. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know exactly. What I do know is that I was working on an investigative piece on the handling of weapons at the Reddy Creek Armory when a young soldier named Mike Fitz arranged a secret meeting with me, claiming no one would believe his story.”
“What story?”
“According to him, two marines from Mantis Company—each had the tattoo of a mantis on his forearm above a ring of barbed wire—tried to rob the armory. Mike was on guard duty. There was a gunfight, and he shot and killed them both. His commanding officer took an extensive report, medical corps hauled away the bodies, and then everything disappeared. Somebody covered up the whole damn thing. The marines were reported as AWOL. The families put up a fight, but no one paid any attention.”
Sarah’s eyes widened and her hand went to her chest as she bit down on her bottom lip. She wondered if Edith could sense the tension in her face—the shock and surprise in her body language.
“Did this Mike know what they trying to steal?” Sara asked.
“Weapons, naturally. Only the weapons they were after made little sense to him. There were better weapons to take—larger, more sophisticated ones. But they left those alone. Why? They took assault rifles and some rocket-propelled grenades and ignored a clearly marked crate of Bushmaster ACR assault rifles—one of the absolute best weapons in the world. That was a big red flag for Mike.”
“How so?”
“Because it meant they weren’t looking, unless, of course, they were killed before they could get at the Bushmasters. It seemed they knew what they were after from the get-go. They knew exactly what weapons to take. They were doing what marines are trained to do.”
“And what’s that?” Sarah asked.
“They were following orders. These weren’t a couple of lone wolves after a thrill. They were on a mission.”
“How did they get inside the armory in the first place?”
“Good question,” Edith said. “According to Mike, they couldn’t have gotten in there without having access. There were no alarm wires cut. No automatic locks disengaged. Somebody arranged it. At least that’s what he believed.”
“An inside job,” Sarah said.
“Exactly.”
“Who is this Mike?”
“Was,” Edith corrected.
“I’m sorry.” Sarah looked confused.
Edith held up a finger, wagging it from side to side. “The word sorry is not in my lexicon, remember?”
“Got it,” Sarah said, thinking how much she was growing to like this woman.
“I used the word was,” Edith went on, “because my informant, Mike Fitz, is dead. He died when the car I was driving was forced off the road and over a cliff. He was in the passenger seat. His neck was broken and my face was so horribly smashed in that I lost my sight.”
“You were forced off the road?” Incredulity strained the pitch of Sarah’s voice.
“In retrospect, it was clear we were being followed,” Edith said. “Whoever it was waited until we were on a particularly winding stretch of road before making their move. Three good sideswipes were all it took to force my car off the cliff. Of course, it was night and there were no witnesses, but I swear it was a military truck that hit us. From what I heard, as far as the police were concerned, I lost control of my car. I had no way of proving otherwise.”
“But they took you to a hospital,” Sarah said. “Wouldn’t whoever was trying to kill you be able to find you there?”
“I was secretly transferred to another hospital.”
“Secretly?”
“My boss Bruce is a man of great influence and boundless resources.”
“Why would he put himself at risk for you?”
“Guilt,” Edith said, wistfulness in her voice. “Bruce wouldn’t run the story about Reddy Creek when I brought it to him. He insisted on more proof, but we didn’t have a credible source. Still don’t.”
Sarah shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it,” she said. “You had Mike.”
“Not exactly. After the cover-up at Reddy Creek—surprise, surprise—Mike was dishonorably discharged on a trumped-up charge. In a random urine screen, he tested positive for a large amount of cocaine. One hastily conducted court-martial later, and my informant had lost all credibility with my boss. Bruce wouldn’t run the story. Not for anything. He thought Mike was just out for revenge and didn’t believe there was any cover-up.”
“Your blog,” Sarah said. “You wrote the blog because you couldn’t get your article published.”
Edith removed her dark glasses again, displaying the scarring that marred what Sarah sensed might have once been very beautiful eyes.
“Guess I found a way of convincing Bruce that Mike was legit.”
“So while you were being stonewalled by your boss, you and Mike went out on your own, didn’t you?” Sarah asked. “That’s why you were together. You were still investigating Reddy Creek.”
Edith nodded. “How’d you know?” she asked.
“Because that’s what I would have done.”
“We were together because somebody wanted us to be,” Edith said.
“Who?”
“We had a new informant, or so we thought. A marine contacted Mike anonymously. Said he had proof that Reddy Creek was an inside job. He wanted to meet in person.”
“But it wasn’t a real tip?”
“No, it was a setup, luring us onto the road where Mike was killed and—” For the first time, Edith was unable to continue.
“We can’t let this go,” Sarah said. “We’ve got to find out who did this to you and why.”
“Let me ask you something,” Edith was finally able to say, “why do you care so much?”
“Because Elias Colston, the congressman whom my client is in jail for allegedly murdering, was asking questions about Reddy Creek before he was killed. I suspect if we connect the dots, we’ll find a link to whoever killed Mike and came close to killing you.”
Edith stood quickly and turned her back to Sarah. “I’m afraid our ten minutes ended a while ago,” she said softly.
Sarah stood as well. She came around front and took hold of Edith’s slender wrists. The newspaper woman did not pull away.
“Please,” Sarah said. “What happened to you is beyond horrible. I can’t possibly imagine what you’ve gone through. But an innocent man is going to be sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit. Nothing can be done to take back what happened to you, but you can still fight. You can still hurt these people. You can still help me get to the truth.”
“Why me? I’m just a blind reporter from a small-town paper. You have the power of a major Washington law firm at your fingertips.”
Sarah took hold of Edith’s hands now. “No, I’d be blind if I thought I could do this with
out you. You know it, too. But if you feel you’d be putting Ian at risk in any way, just tell me, and I’m out of here. I mean it.”
“No, he’s with cousins. He has tremendous spirit. I risk Skyping him every couple of weeks. He’s the one who’s kept me going when I started coming apart. If he hadn’t pushed it, I never would have learned Braille.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
“A little fresh at times, but I sort of like that. He also encouraged me to find a way to protect myself.” She reached in the pocket of her cardigan and extracted a small pistol—a derringer, Sarah knew from her courses at the firm—with piggy-backed barrels and a jewel-inlaid handle. “A man in town taught me how to shoot this derringer Snake Slayer. Give me a noise, and I’ll give you a hole. Wanna see?”
“No thanks, Edith. I believe you.”
Edith broke into an intense smile.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“Ever since I was blinded, I’ve been waiting for two things to happen.”
“Tell me.”
“First, for my boy to grow up to the point where he can go out in the world and live his life.”
“Sounds like that’s happening,” Sarah said. “So what’s your second thing?”
“For my eyes to show up here in Maine so I can get some revenge on the bastards who did this to me. Sarah Cooper, will you be my eyes?”
“You know I will,” Sarah said.
Edith dropped the derringer back into her pocket. “In that case, I have more to share with you.”
CHAPTER 32
It was a Wednesday morning.
From the moment Steve Papavassiliou lifted off the frozen fairway of the Sharpton Hills Golf Club, Lou had been obsessed with finding out where Wyatt Brody was going nearly every Wednesday. Papa Steve claimed he had done what he could to follow the Mantis commander, but the Palace Guard, covering Brody’s back, made it dangerous to the point of impossible. If Papavassiliou’s suspicions were right, four Wednesdays ago, during a military parade, Brody had veered off his usual destination and shot Elias Colston to death.
Today, Lou’s problem would be to keep Brody in sight without ending up in Palace Guard handcuffs again. From what Papa Steve reported, the guard returned to camp after an hour or so, leaving Brody to tend to his business alone.
Weather was no problem. Freezing or just above. Bright sky, scattered clouds. Patches of frozen snow. Lou’s front-wheel-drive Toyota, though dependable, was not the best in the winter mountains. With memories of his deadly trip to Hayes never far from the surface, he had spent the night at a motel an hour east of the town. After a better-than-average mushroom and Swiss omelet, he had positioned himself down a cross street with his third cup of coffee, not far from the entrance to the road leading to camp.
Papa Steve had not been easy to read. It certainly seemed as if the two of them were on the same page, but Lou could not shake the notion that Mark Colston’s godfather was holding some things back. His story, including the role of the Palace Guards in protecting Brody’s Wednesday forays, had been persuasive. The man was confident and tough. He had stepped in when Lou needed it, and probably saved his life that night in Brody’s office.
Lou wanted to believe the story of how Papa Steve lost Brody on the day of the Marine Day parade. Why not? He struck Lou as supremely competent. He was a guy who flew helicopters for fun while disarming bombs for a paycheck. It seemed that tailing Brody would be a piece of cake for a guy with his abilities. Was there any reason for him to lie? Lou struggled with the question. Was there something about Brody’s Wednesday jaunts Papa Steve didn’t want Lou to know?
Having made the decision to tail Brody, Lou turned to the source he knew he could trust for the best and most up-to-date information on how to do it. He turned to Google.
How to follow someone in a car.
Lou felt foolish at first, typing in the request, but that was before more than twenty-five million results were returned in about three tenths of a second. Lou clicked on the first link—a wikiHow article that listed eight tips for following somebody without getting caught. The tips were basic but helpful, starting with knowing precisely who you are going to follow. Seven more tips to go:
Stay alert and avoid distractions.
Use a crowd whenever possible.
Avoid sudden turns or quick moves.
Stay four to six car-lengths back.
Where more than one lane is available, stay in the one to the target’s right—the less-used mirror side.
Keep a clear view of your target at all times. Don’t give in to any distractions.
If you lose contact, don’t give up. Become even more vigilant and keep going, checking convenience stores and gas stations in case your target has turned off.
The road from the Mantis base was two lanes wide, and it emptied into State Route 10, soft-shouldered and well paved. Lou’s first problem might well be his worst: He had no idea what Brody might be driving. If he had stronger trust in Papa Steve, he would have asked. Probably he should have.
Too late now.
Nine forty-five … ten …
No Brody.
Traffic out of the base was light. Even without knowing what Brody was driving, it was hard to believe he could miss the man and the Palace Guards backing him up.
Gradually, Lou’s thoughts drifted to Sarah. Late yesterday, she had phoned from Belmore, Maine, having made contact with Edith Harmon. The reporter—who had tried to blow the whistle on the Reddy Creek shootings and ended up sacrificing her sight—sounded like an amazing woman, with every reason not to get involved in this case. But Lou was not at all surprised to learn that Sarah had convinced her to join their efforts to replace Gary McHugh with Wyatt Brody in a jail cell.
Sarah was continuing to pile up points in Lou’s head like a pro basketball team. More and more, he found himself wondering what it would be like to spend time together—and more and more, he warned himself to keep his notorious impatience in check. Sarah hadn’t kept her feelings toward him a secret when they first met, and he felt confident that when she had something more to say, he would hear it.
Again, Lou checked his watch. Five minutes past. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept his eyes locked on the access road.
Come on!
Ten fifteen came and went. Lou slumped down in his seat, defeated.
Why did you lie to me, Papa Steve? You were Elias Colston’s best friend, Mark’s godfather. What don’t you want me to know?
At that moment, through the half-opened window, Lou heard an approaching car. Seconds later, a glistening, silver BMW sedan came barreling out from the access road, and rocketed past, down Route 10. Behind the wheel, wearing aviator sunglasses, was Wyatt Brody. Lou put his Toyota in gear, and suddenly realized he was about to violate the main tip for successful tailing. He was about to lose his target. The BMW was already accelerating south, and in seconds would be out of sight. To Lou’s left, there was no sign of the Palace Guards.
He kept his foot jammed tightly on the brake pedal. Five seconds more, he decided, glancing at the now-empty highway to his right. Four … three …
The roar of a truck engine filled the air, and a military Range Rover with two men in the front rumbled out of the access road. Both men wore sunglasses similar to Brody’s, and one of them was speaking into a two-way.
Clearly these guys knew what they were doing. Lou was outmatched, and was lucky to have gotten this far. He grinned at the notion that the Palace Guards might have read the same Web sites as he had, then waited until the Rover had disappeared after Brody, and pulled out onto Route 10, checking to his left to be sure he wasn’t about to be sandwiched between the Rover and yet a second car. The chase was on. He adjusted his target from Wyatt Brody to the Palace Guards and stayed six car-lengths back.
Piece of cake.
Gradually, traffic increased, and Lou risked a calming breath. The military SUV was easy to spot.
He could do this.
S
tay alert and avoid distractions.
Half an hour passed. They were going fifty-five now. Route 10 had expanded into four lanes. Following tip three, Lou shifted to the right one. The Range Rover was a reasonable distance ahead, but Brody’s silver BMW was nowhere. That was when Lou saw the blue strobes flashing in his rearview mirror. A Statie!
Fuck!
Thirty minutes on the road, and the game was already over.
Lou slowed, signaled right, and began searching for a place to pull over. There was still the chance that the trooper would flick on his siren and zoom past, but Lou knew in a second that wasn’t going to happen. For years, he had meant to change to MD plates—not because he wanted protection against getting a ticket while making a house call, but because he wanted people to see that not all docs drove a Mercedes or Lexus. Now it was too late.
The entry to a small strip mall provided a safe landing area. As always when he was stopped, Lou debated whether he’d be better leaping out to meet the trooper halfway or whether he should slouch meekly, license and registration in hand, and wait.
Well, Officer, I was following the man I believe murdered Congressman Colston. No, not the philandering doctor, but the highly decorated marine colonel. I was going exactly as fast as he was, but I guess I’m the one who got caught.
Lou tried out the truth, rejected it, and was searching for a substitute when he was asked for the usual documents.
None of your witty repartee, he warned himself. In his less mature days, he often managed to convert a minor traffic encounter into a trip to the station. The trooper, an impressively buxom white woman with a pretty enough face, probably would have looked sexy-tough in any garb, but she looked especially so in the black-tie, broad-brimmed hat, and stately olive of the West Virginia State Police. She spent a few minutes in her cruiser checking him out, then returned bearing papers. Four words, “License and registration, please,” were all she had spoken. Now she added a few more. Quite a few.
“You’re not in line to make the drivers’ hall of fame, Doc.”
(2012) Political Suicide Page 19
