“Yeah,” he said. “Everything can go back to normal.”
She took his hand and led him upstairs. “That was the worst thing for me, too, not knowing what happened to you,” she said. “When I woke up, two of those . . . those men . . . were here. They told me they were FBI and they wouldn’t tell me where they’d taken you. They wouldn’t tell me anything, just asked me all sorts of questions. What I knew about the plane crash, what I knew about all sorts of things, none of which I knew anything about. They took all the papers you had in the living room, all the files. And your computer. They told me not to say anything to anyone. I said I had to say something, you were the fucking chief of police, and one of them said he’d take care of it, he’d talk to the mayor and take care of it.”
They were in the bedroom now and she sat on the bed.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she told him. “I thought you were dead.”
“So what did you do?”
She looked embarrassed. “I called your father.”
Justin looked surprised. “That was smart,” he said. “That was good.”
“Well, you’d told me a little bit about him, and I’d seen some background when I Googled you. I knew he was rich and I figured rich people would have connections.”
“What did he say?”
“He was very calm, he made me feel better. He said he was going to talk to your friend in the FBI, the one up in Boston.”
“Wanda.”
“Yes. He said she could help.”
“She’s all right? Wanda’s okay?”
“I guess she is. She must have gotten involved.”
“Did you talk to Leona?”
Reggie nodded. “Yes. She called me, came to my house, said she’d talked to the FBI, said the one who’d talked to me was named Schrader.”
“What else did she say?”
“She said you were involved in something to do with national security. That you’d be okay, but that you were going to be kept in custody for a while. I was going crazy, Jay. They said I couldn’t say anything, if I did I’d be arrested, too. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t until your friend, the big one, came and told me you were okay . . .”
“Bruno.”
She nodded. “He wouldn’t give me any details, said he couldn’t. But he came and said you were all right, that I shouldn’t worry, and that you’d be back soon. How did he—”
“I don’t know,” Justin said. “But I’ll find out.”
“Jay, what happened? Why were you arrested? I just couldn’t believe—”
“That’s the right thing,” he said. “Don’t believe anything. Just believe me.” He touched her cheek lightly, ran his finger down to her neck. “How was it handled? What do people think happened?”
“No one knows a thing. At least I don’t think so. I mean, you’re not the most social person in town. So we told the other guys at the station that you were called away for a family emergency.”
“They bought that?”
“They seemed to. No one asked too many questions. Occasionally, they’d ask if I’d heard from you or if everything was okay. But I just said that Leona was the only one in touch with you.”
“Nothing in the paper? No media?”
“No.”
“So no one really knows what happened. Or knows I’m back.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think anyone knows.” She took his hand in hers and now she kissed the tip of his fingers. “I was going crazy,” she told him. “When I woke up and you were gone, I didn’t know what to do.”
“There was nothing you could do,” he told her.
“But now there is.”
“Yes,” he said. “Now there is.”
They made love very gently this time. There was none of the passion or the physicality that was there the first time they’d been in this bed together. She gasped when she saw his body—the bruises, how much weight he’d lost—and she kissed him lightly, careful not to hurt him. She made no demands on him, just held and kissed him and touched him until she coaxed him inside her and they came together, shuddering. She held him tightly for a long time after they came. She thought he was asleep in her arms but then he spoke quietly.
“Who was in charge?” he asked. “Who did Leona put in charge?”
He felt her shift her weight and he heard, rather than saw, her smile, could tell from the quiet way she breathed in and exhaled. “Me,” Reggie told him. “I’ve been the acting police chief. It’s a miracle there hasn’t been a crime wave.”
They both started to laugh. He kissed her on top of the head.
“I’ve never been so happy to give up a job,” she said.
But Justin immediately shook his head. “No,” he told her. “Not yet.”
“Why not? You’re back, Jay. No one has any idea what happened. It’ll be fine.”
“I’m just not ready yet. I’d like to stay quiet for a while.”
“Why?” she asked.
He glanced away from her. Instead of answering, he said, “You and Gary getting along?”
“Sure,” she answered. “He’s a nice guy. I mean, he doesn’t like having to report to a woman, but he’s been pretty professional about it. Yeah, we get along fine.”
“He’s the only one you can tell. In the morning. Ask him to come over here around noon. But make sure he doesn’t tell anybody else that I’m back. Okay?”
She raised her head. In her eyes he saw a bit of confusion, an equal amount of suspicion.
“You said it was over,” she whispered.
“I know I did.”
“But it isn’t, is it?”
“It’s almost over,” he told her.
In the morning, he sent her home. Asked her to go about her business as usual, reminded her to say nothing about his return except to Gary. He knew it wouldn’t be a secret for long, someone would drive by his house, someone would spot him through a window, someone would call him up, and it’d be all over town. That was fine. He didn’t need to keep hidden for long. He just wanted a brief period of peace and quiet. All he needed was a little bit of time.
The first thing he did was call Bruno Pecozzi. Bruno didn’t sound surprised to hear his voice. Didn’t seem surprised about anything.
“Bruno,” Justin said, “you remember that envelope I mailed you? From Washington?”
“It’s already in your house.”
“What?”
“Hey, if you’re mailin’ me somethin’ from D.C., I figure it’s somethin’ important. Who knows what these sick fucks are gonna decide to do, maybe they’re gonna search my house just ’cause I know you. I figured they already searched your place, they wouldn’t be lookin’ for nothin’ new after that. So I did a little B and E and put it someplace safe for when you came back.”
“Where is it?”
“The table to the right of your couch. In that drawer. You should find someplace safer to keep your grass, Jay. I mean, Jesus, you’re the chief of fuckin’ police.”
Justin said he’d think about it, then asked if Bruno could come over in the afternoon. All Bruno said was, “Be there,” and hung up.
His next call was to Wanda Chinkle. He tried her at the office, was told she wasn’t around. He didn’t leave his name, hung up, tried her Boston apartment. He didn’t leave a message on her phone machine, decided to next try the number Wanda had given him for emergencies—the gym in Boston. This time Leyla answered herself. He gave his name, she said, “Oh, okay. What’s the message?”
He told the woman what he wanted Wanda to do. She said she’d pass it along, and agreed to call back to confirm.
Five minutes later, Leyla called back. All she said was, “You’ve got the okay. Wait fifteen minutes, then go ahead. But Wanda said she has a question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“She said to ask you, ‘Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?’”
He said, “Does she want an answer?”
“No,” the woman at the g
ym said. “She said I didn’t have to get the answer. She said she just had to ask the question. She also said to give you a message.”
“Okay.”
“She said . . . Hold on, I wrote it down ’cause she wanted me to give it to you right . . . Okay, this is an exact quote: ‘You’re in some serious shit. Try to remember that no matter how it seems, when the time comes I’m on your side.’”
“That’s it?”
“Except for the number you wanted.”
“Okay. Let’s have it.”
“Here’s who you’re supposed to call . . .”
After she gave him the information, he hung up, waited exactly fifteen minutes, as instructed, called the number of a north shore police station. He hadn’t wanted to call Southampton. He was too paranoid to go that close to home. No, not paranoid, he thought. Too smart to risk it. “I’m calling for Wanda Chinkle of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said when he reached the officer whose name Wanda had given him.
“Right,” the voice said. “I just got off the phone with her. How would you like us to handle this?”
“I’ll get you the two objects that have to be dusted.”
“Two? She said one.”
“You must have misunderstood. Does she need to call you back to verify?”
“Nah. One, two, what difference does it make?”
“Great. Someone from the East End PD’ll bring it over,” Justin said. “We’ll need a match for both sets of prints—names and addresses.”
“If they’re in the system, we’ll get them.”
“One of them should definitely be in the system,” Justin told the cop. “He’s probably military. Might be military intelligence.”
“What about the other one?”
“Strictly a guess, but I think it’ll be in Immigration.”
“How deep am I supposed to look?”
“As deep as you can.” Justin gave the officer his home fax number. “You can fax the info there.”
“Hey, as long as the FBI authorized it, you got it, pal,” the cop said. “You get me the things, I’ll get you the info.”
“They’re on their way,” Justin said.
He looked at the small paper cup he’d carried with him from Guantanamo Bay. He’d already wrapped it carefully in bubble wrap and placed it in a manila envelope. He went to the end table to the right of his couch, opened the drawer and, sure enough, found the envelope he was looking for, the envelope he’d mailed from a mall near Theresa Cooke’s house, the one he’d addressed to himself, care of Bruno, with the words “hold for pickup” written across the front. Justin put that envelope inside the manila one, stuffing it under a fold of the bubble wrap. He wrote out a simple list of instructions, added his fax number to be on the safe side, taped the note to the bubble wrap, and sealed the envelope.
A few minutes later, when Gary Jenkins arrived, Justin handed him the package, told him to take it to Riverhead, gave him the cop’s name to whom he should hand-deliver it. He could tell that Gary was a little hurt that he was being so curt, so professional after all the time he’d been away and with all the unanswered questions about his disappearance. He softened a bit, said, “Gary, this is really important to me. You’re about the only person I can trust to do this and keep quiet about it. When it’s all over I’ll take you out to dinner and fill you in and answer all your questions, but right now I need you to shut up and get the fuck over to Riverhead.”
The young cop smiled. “Already starting to feel like the good old days,” he said.
“Thanks,” Justin said.
Gary gave him a mock salute, flipped the envelope in a “don’t worry” manner, started to leave.
“Gary,” Justin said. And when the young cop turned back to him, he said, “You know a lot of kids at the high school, right? Through your brother.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You know any of the teachers?”
“Sure. A few of them coach Little League and I help out when I can.”
“After you hit the north shore, I want you to go to East End High. I need the best artist in the school.”
“Artist? You mean, like, painter?”
“I need someone who can draw. Ultra realism, that’s what I’m looking for. I want the kid who can draw the best portraits in the school. You got that?”
“Yeah, sure. Except school’s closed. Christmas vacation, you know?”
“Damn. My sense of time is a little off right now.”
“Don’t worry about it. When I went to the school play before graduation, they had an art show, in the admin building. They got people who can draw pretty damn good. Somebody’ll know who they are. My brother, one of the teachers. I’ll find him.”
“Remember: I need the best. And bring the kid here as soon as possible.”
“I’ll bring you the best who’s still hangin’ around town. That’s all I can do.”
“Fair enough.”
“Whoever it is is gonna want to know—”
“Just say it’s the same deal that Ben got. Whatever the hell he wants, that’s what he’ll get. As long as he can draw what I need him to draw.”
“Got it.”
And clutching the envelope, he was out the door.
Leaving Justin to think, Jesus, I’m taking on the United States government with a bunch of high school kids.
He went to his fridge, realized that everything there had spoiled except for several bottles of water. He took out one plastic container, drank deeply from it. He was still dehydrated, figured he had plenty of other things wrong with him, too, knew he should go to a doctor soon, but he didn’t have time. When it’s really over, he thought to himself.
What he wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep. Instead, he began to poke around the house, taking inventory of what was missing. The FBI agents had been relatively neat and extremely thorough. The hard drive on his computer was gone. His fax machine had been left behind, but he was certain they’d checked his log of incoming and outgoing faxes. They hadn’t bothered to take his phone machine, although he was certain that if he’d actually had any calls, they’d been monitored and traced. There were no messages waiting for him. They’d gone through his mail and, he was sure, found absolutely nothing of interest. Neither did he, for that matter. As he thumbed through the envelopes, there were two solicitations from a chimney repair company. A curt note from Visa telling him he was late paying this month’s bill. Nothing but junk mail and bills. At least nothing’s changed, he thought.
He went to the phone now, reached down to dial the number for his parents—he knew he should relieve their worry and tell them he’d made it home. But before he could grab the receiver, the phone rang. His caller ID said the call was coming from Washington, D.C. Justin clicked on the talk button and said hello.
“This is Martha Peck,” the voice on the other end said, although Justin hadn’t needed to hear her name to recognize that passive-aggressive tone that had driven him so crazy when they’d met in her office. “From the Federal Aviation Administration. I . . . I know what happened to you . . . I mean, that you’ve been . . . away . . . but I heard that you’ve been . . . that you’re back home. I hope you’re okay.”
“I’m just great,” he said. “It was just like a vacation.”
“It’s important that we talk,” Martha Peck told him. “Mr. Westwood . . . Chief Westwood . . .”
“Try Jay. It’s easier, Ms. Peck.”
“Then please call me Martha.”
“Deal,” he said. “Is this just a social call, Martha? Just checking up on my health and well-being?”
He let her silence go on until she decided to end it herself. He had a feeling she wouldn’t need much prompting and he was right. “I . . . I believe I may have been partially responsible for what happened to you, Mr. . . . Jay.”
“Responsible for what exactly?”
“For where you’ve been. For what’s been done to you. I think it may be my fault.”
Ju
stin ran his free hand through his beard. He decided to cut it off the moment he was off the phone. It suddenly made him feel filthy and degraded. “Why do you think that, Martha?”
“Because I called someone. After you left my office. I couldn’t believe what you were telling me, and yet some part of me knew that what you were saying was accurate.” She hesitated. Again, Justin waited out her silence. “I removed Martin Heffernan’s file from the computer,” she said.
“But not on your own,” he said.
“No. I did it because someone asked me to.”
“Who?”
“You have to understand the mood in government these days, Jay. After 9/11, particularly after the findings from the 9/11 Commission, and the recent bombings . . . we all felt so put-upon. My agency took a big hit. And there was so much criticism that a lot of it happened because there was no communication between government organizations . . .”
“I understand,” he said.
“So when I got a call, it seemed . . . it seemed important to cooperate. And once I did, I couldn’t believe I might have done the wrong thing.”
“Who called you?” he asked softly.
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Martha Peck said. “It’s an old friend. We met at a White House function and we’ve been friendly for years. When she called, she said it was a very delicate matter, that it had to do with a terrorist alert.”
“She?”
“She said she was involved because the threat involved protected land that fell under her domain. She was working with the FBI and with Justice, she said.”
“Stephanie Ingles. From the EPA. That’s who called you.”
“Yes,” Martha Peck said. “She called me that day and she called me after Heffernan was killed to say that it had nothing to do with me or the file. She said that Heffernan had done nothing wrong but that I was never to tell anyone what I’d done, that it was a matter of national security. Do you know what kind of panic it causes when anyone says the words ‘national security’ these days?”
“Yes, I do,” Justin said.
“Stephanie called me again yesterday. To tell me that the FBI knew you had talked to me and to tell me you were being released. She said that I was not to speak to you under any circumstances. It wasn’t just a friendly piece of advice or even a warning. It was a threat. Not an overt one, but I know a threat when I hear it.”
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