Convenient Lies

by Robin Patchen

  But the thing that bothered her most was the location of the bombing. It was the restaurant where she and Julien had met.

  The news report said no specific target had been identified.

  The whole thing made no sense.

  She learned nothing else of value. She ought to let it go. She didn’t live there anymore and never would again. So why did she care?

  Because it was too much of a coincidence.

  She dialed a number from memory.

  He answered on the third ring. “Walter Boyle.”

  “Hi, Nate. It’s me.”

  “Rae? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for—”

  “It’s a long story. Listen, what can you tell me about the bombing in Tunis?”

  A long pause. “I don’t hear from you in months. You don’t return my calls. You fall off the face of the earth.”

  “I didn’t. I just—”

  “You stopped sending stories,” Nate said. “You just disappeared.”

  “Look—”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been...” She thought of the events of the previous few weeks, months. There was no time to explain. “Tied up.”

  “Literally? Because anything less and you could’ve returned my calls.”

  “I don’t have my phone.”

  “They sell phones on every street corner.”

  “Look, I’ll tell you, but—”

  “You married that guy from the market, right? Moreau?”

  Rae froze. Swallowed. “How did you—?”

  “They way you talked about him, when you quit calling, I did some checking. It’s not like it was a state secret.”

  “I know. I—”

  “You could’ve told me.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair and paced. “I should have. It was awkward.”

  “And this isn’t? You disappear, then call for information as if nothing happened.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rae collapsed on the sofa. “You’re right. I’m just...I need your help.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “That’s not fair,” she said, though she knew Nate was right. She had no right to expect anything from him.

  “Is he...?” His voice softened, and he started again. “Is he good to you?”

  His concern nearly brought tears to her eyes. “You and I have been over for a long time, Nate. You ended it.”

  “Because I was the only one really in it.”

  She thought of him then, not just as her conduit to information, but as her friend. As more than her friend. She’d blown it with Nate like she’d blown it with everybody she’d ever loved. She’d been so focused on protecting her heart over the years, she’d trampled on other people’s. Especially Nate’s. She’d always believed she’d be able to make it up to him someday. But now, she had to leave. There was no fixing it.

  The regrets were piling up like bags of garbage on the curb. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  Nate sighed. “Are you worried Moreau was at that cafe? I can check the names.”

  “He’s in Paris. I think.”

  “You think?” Nate paused. Seemed to be waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he said, “I guess it is a long story.”

  Rae couldn’t handle more verbal volleyball. She needed information, not the third degree.

  “So you’re not in Tunis,” he said.

  “I’m home.”

  “Home as in...?”

  “Your dad is handling Gram’s estate.”

  “Her estate?” He blew out a long breath. “I’m so sorry, Rae. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So what’s so important about this bombing?”

  “Do you have any more information?”

  Finally, she heard him typing.

  “Here’s the latest.” He blew out a long breath. “One of the dead was a five-year-old.”

  She closed her eyes. A child. They’d killed a child.

  Walter said, “What kind of people—?”

  “The message the terrorists left, can you find out if there was any more to it?”

  “According to this—”

  “I know what the story says. Can you make some calls, find out if the reporter left anything out?”

  Another short pause. “It’ll take me some time. This number works for you?”

  “Yes. Please don’t share it.”

  Another pause. She heard him take a deep breath. “Who are you hiding from?”

  “It’s just—”

  “Rachel?”

  She bristled at the name. “It’s Reagan again.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Things really have changed.”

  She thought of Johnny, asleep upstairs. “You have no idea.”

  He paused, seemed to process that, and said, “Okay. I’ll call you back.”

  Thirty-One

  Rae ended the call and slipped the phone in her pocket.

  Her hands were shaking. It was stupid. The bombing had happened thousands of miles away on another continent, in another world.

  So why had the impact hit her all the way in New Hampshire?

  She walked past the bookshelf she’d been searching just a few minutes before and looked out the window beside the front door. Nobody there. She was safe here. Julien didn’t know where she was.

  But soon enough, he would find her.

  She returned to the bookshelf. She yanked each book off and looked at it before tossing it on the floor. There was no secret hiding place. Nothing heavier than it should be. Nothing at all. She studied the shelves. Just old wood and glass doors. She slid the shelf away from the wall to look behind. Maybe there was a secret hiding place back there.

  How could she have forgotten?

  A small door opened to the tiny space beneath the stairs. This house did have a secret compartment. Secret because the bookshelf had blocked the door as long as she could remember. The door was old and ugly. Barely a door, really. Just sheetrock painted the same butter yellow as the rest of the wall. It was attached with two-by-fours and rusted hinges. Gram had hated it.

  There was no handle. Rae pried it open with her fingers. This had to be Dad’s hiding space. He’d said something about stairs, hadn’t he?

  She crawled inside. Boxes everywhere. The first looked like it was filled with more books. She pushed it into the hallway, past the other books, and dumped it over, just to be sure. Hardcovers fell all over the floor. Old spy novels and mysteries, Dad’s favorites.

  She rushed back in. This was definitely his stuff.

  She grabbed the next box, pushed it beyond her previous mess in the foyer, and dumped it.

  More books. Nothing else.

  That old metal box had to be here somewhere.

  She did it again with the third box, then the fourth. Dumping piles of books and other mementos of her father’s life all over the floor. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that she was losing it. But she couldn’t stop.

  One box left. She was just dumping it when her phone rang.

  She snatched it out of her pocket, saw the caller ID, and answered. “Did you find anything?”

  Nate sighed. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  She stood in the foyer, surrounded by the wreckage of her panic. “Nate.”

  “I have a contact at the State Department. There was one thing in the message they didn’t release to the media. They didn’t know what it meant. He’d only tell me off-the-record, and I promised—”

  “I’m not working on a story. It’s just a hunch.”

  “Okay.” Nate paused. Rae heard papers shuffling. “Want to tell me your hunch?” he asked.

  “It’s personal.”

  “Personal? A bombing in Tunis is personal?”

  “It’s a long—”

  “Story. Right. So you’ve said.”

  She resisted the urge to scream. “So can you...?”

  The doorbell rang
. She stared at it. It wasn’t Julien. He wouldn’t ring the bell. Still...

  “Rae?”

  “Just a sec.” She peeked out the window.

  Brady.

  Crap.

  She pulled it open and stepped aside.

  Brady entered, looked at the chaos of her entry, and gave her a what the heck is going on look.

  “Just a sec, Brady.” She picked her way over the mess of books and into the living room. “Nate, please tell me the message.”

  Nate said, “Brady Thomas? What’s he doing there?”

  “I have no idea. The message?”

  A pause. “Fine,” he said, irritated. Nothing she could do about that. “It wasn’t a message. Just a string of numbers. Let’s see.” She heard paper again, then, “Here we go. Eight-one-seven-one-five.”

  There was a moment, as if she’d drifted out of her body. As if she were living someone else’s life. Because how was she supposed to react to that message? Four people had been killed. Seventeen wounded. Some critically. A business destroyed.

  And it had everything to do with her.

  Should she scream or faint? Should she cry?

  She should run.

  Nate’s voice filtered through her thoughts. “Rae. You still with me?”

  She swallowed. “Yeah.”

  “I take it those numbers mean something to you.”

  She shook her head. She had to think. Now. “Nate, listen. It’s—” A trap, she wanted to say. But was it? What did it mean? “It’s very important that you not tell anybody we spoke. Don’t tell anybody my real name or where I am. Even a cop or a federal agent.”

  “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “I haven’t done anything illegal. But you can’t trust anybody, okay? It’s very important.”

  “Who are you hiding from?”

  She sat on the sofa, leaned forward. Nausea overwhelmed her, and she breathed in slowly through her mouth, then blew it out.

  “Rae?”

  “He has contacts. If the FBI or somebody contacts you, just... I’m not asking you to lie, Nate. I just need a heads-up. Okay? Can you promise me? Put them off until you can warn me?”

  “Is it Moreau?”

  “I’ll call you back in a couple of days, okay?”

  “What did he do?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Rae, you’re scaring me.”

  “You’ve been a good friend to me. I couldn’t have asked for more. Please, just this one last thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “I have to go.”

  She ended the call, then shut off the phone. She fumbled with shaking fingers to get the back off. She opened the battery compartment and shook the battery to the floor.

  Then she rolled over and held her stomach and wondered what in the world she was supposed to do now.

  Thirty-Two

  Julien stared at the photograph on the screen. Definitely the man Rae had introduced him to. He walked to the window and allowed himself to remember.

  They’d only been together a few weeks, and Rae already seemed at home at his estate in Tunis. His wealth and social circles were foreign to her, but she adjusted quickly. He’d bought her a few clothing items, which she accepted only when he insisted. Those shabby rags she went around town in would not do if she were to fit in with his friends. And though she’d seemed comfortable in ghastly khaki cargo pants and T-shirts, when she wore the designs Farah picked out for her, she looked as if she’d worn them all her life.

  They were enjoying a day together in the medina, wandering the old city through a labyrinth of vendors, their booths so colorful and bright, it was nearly an assault on his senses. Scents from the spice vendors and the souks serving mint tea and snacks only seemed to energize her. She was charmed, stopping at booth after booth to converse with the locals, purchasing items for far more than their value and laughing at him when he told her she was a terrible negotiator.

  “In the States,” she said, “we pay what they ask.”

  “This is not the States.”

  She only giggled and continued, like a child in a toy store.

  She’d chosen to wear her horrible khakis that day, because she’d met with a source that morning. The very idea of it set his nerves on edge. Were these dangerous people? And if they were, what kind of information might they be giving her? He wasn’t ready for her to know the truth about himself. He was falling for her. Already considering marrying her. Of course, if he married her, she’d have to give up investigative journalism. And he would have to somehow make it her idea. That was the downside of falling for an American with such a free spirit. But that was a problem for another day. This day was for simply enjoying her company.

  She stopped at a booth so she could admire the pottery. Cheap stuff made for tourists, but she didn’t seem to care. He was standing a few feet away to watch her, his new favorite sport, when a man approached her and spoke in her ear.

  The fear and fury surprised Julien, and he was about to intervene when she turned and threw her arms around the stranger.

  Julien froze, but Rae disengaged from the stranger and waved Julien over.

  “Julien, I’d like you to meet Nate. He’s an old friend.”

  Julien shook his hand and forced a friendly tone. “What brings you to Tunisia?”

  The man was tall, slender, about Rachel’s age. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and carried himself with confidence as he glanced around the market. Finally, his gaze settled on Julien. “Working on a story.”

  Rae stepped nearer to Julien. “Nate works for the New York Times. We’ve known each other a long time.”

  Julien kept his smile firmly in place when he nodded to the man. “Maybe I can help. I know a lot of locals.”

  Nate laughed. “I suspect you don’t run in the same crowds as the people I’m talking to.”

  Obviously this Nate fellow had no idea who Julien was. A good thing.

  Julien shook off the memory and stared out the window at Central Park. Millions of people were down there. Was Rae one of them?

  “Monsieur? Is this him?”

  He turned to Farah, then back to the laptop. The photograph filled the screen. The face was right, though the name below it read Walter Boyle. Apparently Walter was a pen name. “That’s him.”

  She lifted the computer and stood. “I’ll let Hector know we found him.”

  “Where is Hector?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Julien bit back his remark. It wasn’t Farah’s job to watch his guard. Still.

  “Do you know if he’s heard back from Carson?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” she said, eyes lowered, “even if he had.”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you, Farah.”

  She left the suite, and Julien picked up the phone to call Hector, but it rang before he could dial. He looked at the screen before answering. “Bonjour, Maman.”

  “Dieu merci! Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “You’re not in Tunis, correct? Your father told me you were in the States, but I know how you loved that cafe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you not heard? That cafe you like so much. There has been an explosion. It is on the news.”

  He flipped on the television set, found BBC, and watched in horror as bodies were carried out of his favorite cafe. He caught a glimpse of the owner’s son. “Mon dieu. I had no idea. Have you heard what happened?”

  “Terrorists, of course,” his mother said. “I am just thanking God you were not there.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Be safe.”

  He hung up and dialed Hector. The man didn’t answer, but a moment later, a knock sounded at his door.

  Julien looked through the peephole, then swung the door open.

  Hector passed him, stepped inside, and stared at the television.

  Julien slammed the door, followed Hector into the sitting room, and poi
nted at the TV. “Tell me you had nothing to do with that.”

  “I told you, your wife is sentimental. This will smoke her out.”

  “Do you know how many were killed?”

  Hector shrugged. “You told me to use whatever means were necessary. This was necessary.”

  “How does killing innocent people a half a world away draw her out?”

  Hector’s lips twitched in a smile. “Trust me.”

  Thirty-Three

  Books were scattered all over the foyer. Brady stood in the midst of them and watched.

  Rae had forgotten him.

  After she ended her call, she took its battery out of the cell. Worried someone would trace it? Through that person on the phone?

  Nate.

  Must have been a different Nate.

  Rae tipped onto her side on the sofa and held her stomach.

  Brady picked his way over the books into the living room and sat down beside her.

  She startled, and he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s just me.”

  Her breath hitched.

  “Rae, what happened?”

  She shook her head.

  He brushed her hair away from her face. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Rae sat up and wiped her eyes on her sweatshirt. “Why are you here?”

  “I left my phone.” He stood and looked around. There it was, on top of the entertainment center. He slid it in his pocket, then sat. Not too close. She was like a deer. Any sudden movement, and she’d spook.

  Whose crosshairs was she trying to avoid?

  He kept his voice low, soothing, as if he were interviewing a victim. “It’s Julien, right? Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, then nodded. “Not like that.”

  “Okay.”

  “You already know, right? That we’re not married?”

  He nodded. “He was already married when he married you. You didn’t know?”

  She sat up and moved out of his reach. “Of course not.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “No. Just. No. He was a liar. He lied about everything, from the first moment I met him.”

  She paused, and Brady resisted the urge to press her.

  She kept her gaze on the floor. “I started to suspect something was wrong last spring. I was pregnant. Our first few months of marriage were sort of a blur. We took a lot of trips together. When we were in Tunis, it was like one big party, all the time. People at our house, going in and out. Rich and famous people, you know? I was still working, but not like I had been. I think he was trying to keep me busy, so I couldn’t work. And I let him.”