“You’ll have to give me your email or Facebook. I’m going to be dying to know if you are okay. I mean, this whole thing is crazy,” he said to her as they drove past the “Welcome to Bristol” sign.
“Of course. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” She looked back out the rear window.
“You think we might have been followed?”
“I’ve been checking. I don’t think so. I still feel some paranoia like I’m being hunted and watched. I’m sure I’m fine.”
Ben asked her where she wanted to be dropped. She was silent for a moment after he asked. He could tell she was conflicted. “Hey, I’m not hitting on you here. Honest. If you need a place to crash, my mom’s place is—”
She interrupted, “No, thank you. I’m just not sure. I don’t think it’s safe for me to go home. I’d get a room, but I don’t have my wallet. You know what’s crazy? I don’t have cell numbers memorized. The numbers are just programmed into my cell. It’s not like I even look at them. I just push buttons. The phone dials itself. Crap.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. I’m the same. You sure you don’t want to just crash at my mom’s place? You’ll be able to think better in the morning. I can give you a ride after you wake up.”
“Maybe. You think I can use your phone? I’ve got one number memorized. My parents’ place. I’m going to have to call them anyway. I might as well get it over with.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.
~ Arthur Miller
Peter isn’t perfect but he’d never betray me. I wish he and Drew got along better. I’ve never understood her animosity towards her father.
~ Monica Stirling
Drew Stirling used Ben’s phone to call her parents’ home number. She’d escaped from the cabin with nothing but what she was wearing. She was lucky enough she’d kept her boots on. She’d have died if she’d been barefooted.
Ben said he was going to California to get an advanced degree in bioengineering. He planned on going to the University of California San Diego, and his face lit up when he talked to her about his plans and his speech accelerated like a child discussing plans to visit Disneyland. Besides working on his graduate degree, he told her, he was going to learn to surf.
Drew had vivid memories of California and mixed emotions about it. She loved the warm weather and the ocean. She’d spent time working in Hollywood and Los Angeles. It hadn’t been long enough to decide if she’d like to live there full-time, but she thought the climate was wonderful. And some of the people were too.
A few hours ago she was being hunted down by a killer. Now she was riding in a car with a decent good looking guy. Single and intelligent. He was just a little nerdy too which made him more desirable to her because the alpha male jocks that usually hit on her tended to be jerks.
The home phone rang until the machine picked up. Drew hung up and dialed again.
“Hello, Stirling Residence.” It was her mother.
“Mom, I need to talk to Dad.” Drew tried to sound as serious as possible without causing her mom to panic. She didn’t want to explain the situation to her mother. She’d worry, and she wouldn’t be able to help. Her father would.
“Drew, it’s late. Do you realize how late it is?”
Her mother’s scolding sounded like she was talking to a twelve-year-old. She didn’t say, “Oh my God. Have you been in an accident?” She instead chastised her for the lateness of the call.
“Yes, Mom. I know it’s late. Get Dad, please. It’s important.”
Drew’s father came on the line. “Drew.”
“Yes, Dad. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s serious. Can you not talk in front of Mom?”
“Goddammit, Drew. This better be—hold on, I’m going to my office.”
Drew heard him tell her mother to go back to bed and that he’d handle it.
“Alright, explain why you are calling this late. And why you haven’t called me sooner.”
She started to cry, but stopped herself. “Dad, we need to talk. It’s serious.”
“It certainly better be serious—”
“I was nearly killed tonight. It’s Boyd. He’s been involved in some illegal stuff, and he had a reporter killed and—and, God. Dad, he had my friend Marc killed. I’m sure. Well, I’m not a hundred percent positive about that. But he’s missing, and he tried to have me killed.”
“Wait a second, hold on. You’re talking like a crazy person. Slow down and explain. What do you mean you were nearly killed?”
She explained the incident at the cabin: Marc had not come back. A man came to the door, shot the door open, and then chased her. She had to defend herself with a shotgun.
“Okay. So you’re saying a hired killer came up to this cabin and tried to kill you? But you escaped because you had a shotgun and you defended yourself. And then you ran through the woods, and a stranger picked you up. Is that what you are telling me?”
“Basically, yes. And it all has to do with Lance.”
“Lance?”
“Congressman Boyd.”
“Drew. Are you on drugs?”
“I’m not lying, and I’m not exaggerating. Dad, we were having an affair. That’s how I got the thumb drive. And I didn’t mean to look at the files that were on it. Oh, God. Marc. I know it sounds crazy, but Dad, why would I lie about this? You don’t think I’d make up a story this crazy, do you?”
“So. You’re telling me you had an affair with Congressman Boyd, my friend. The man our family has supported now, for what? Over a decade? That’s the story you’re telling me?”
“It’s true.” She sounded like she was ten years old and defending Santa Claus.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Drew. You really disappoint me. You know that? I hear from the Congressman that he’s trying to help you. He’s got some work for you, some respectable PR work, something that would do some good in the world. And he told me that you ended up with some files by accident. No big deal, I tell him. It’s no big deal, my girl’s responsible. She’ll get them to me. I’ll get them up to you right away I say to him. No need to worry. That’s what I told him. Not to worry. You made a liar out of me. You embarrassed the family. And now this? Some bullshit story about him wanting to kill you? And Jesus Christ, Drew. You coming up with a story about having an affair. My God. That’s too far. He has a wife and kids.”
Drew held the cell phone to her ear, but remained silent. She knew there was no arguing with him at this point.
“Drew, are you still there?”
Drew was fighting two impulses. The first was to start crying uncontrollably. The second was to start yelling, screaming, and calling him a lot of ugly names. The first would gain her no sympathy. The second would only be saying things he would refuse to hear. Truths that her mother had learned a long time ago weren’t worth speaking out loud. At least not to him.
“I’m telling the truth. You don’t have to believe me. I have to go.” She ended the call and handed the phone back to Ben.
“Your offer still stand? It turns out I need a place to crash after all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
People should either be caressed or crushed.
~ Niccolo Machiavelli
I reread The Prince every January.
~ Congressman Lance Boyd
Lance Boyd was still awake when Peter Stirling called. He was in his Georgetown condo watching recorded news programs. He already knew the stories, but it was entertaining, and often infuriating, to watch how the networks portrayed events. Everyone had their own unique version of reality.
Boyd was prepared to act surprised, no matter what news Peter Stirling announced. He calmly answered his cell. “Peter.”
“Congressman. We need to talk.”
“We need to talk” were words dreaded by everyone. The Congressman wanted him to just get on with it. Boyd controlled his breathing and stood. He wanted to be able to pace while he t
alked. Walking while talking on the phone projected strength, power, and confidence.
“Okay, Peter. I assumed it was important. Go on,” he said. Still calm. In control. Powerful. He was a powerful man. He could handle whatever needed to be handled.
“It’s about Drew. She’s gone a little nuts. I just got off the phone with her. I’m not even sure where she is. She called me from a strange number. I’m sorry. I think she might be on drugs. She’s not herself.” Peter’s tone was apologetic as if his daughter’s behavior was his fault.
This is good, Boyd thought. Better that he was feeling guilty and not angry.
Peter continued to explain. “I’m not sure why, Lance, but she’s claiming she was having an affair with you. That you tried to have her killed. And, well… Obviously, she’s not well. This isn’t like her. Making up crazy stories. I’m sorry. I’m going to try and talk some sense into her tomorrow. That’s assuming I can get her to answer her phone. Maybe I’ll have her mother try. I think she needs to see a doctor. Have you heard anything?”
Boyd’s true power wasn’t from his political position or his wealth. He possessed a charismatic gift of transferring his certainty and enthusiasm to others. If he believed it would be sunny tomorrow, others would leave their umbrellas at home.
He told Peter that Drew had not contacted him. He was only mildly concerned about the information in those files, he explained. They were sensitive, sure, but nobody thought Drew was a threat to national security. Just a misunderstanding. Not a big deal.
“Peter,” he said in his reassuring voice. “I’ve had this problem with impressionable young women in the past. They can be smart and capable, and yet they’re still women. Peter, you understand?” He explained how one time several years ago, he had to get a restraining order against an intern. This woman had made up all kinds of stories and lies. It was an occupational hazard for those in power. “It’s something I try to avoid. I mostly stick with male interns these days. I didn’t think twice about working with Drew. She’s an old family friend, after all.”
Boyd laid on guilt like a Catholic mother speaking to a teenager who had misbehaved. This was all about a starry-eyed young woman with an infatuation. An infatuation that was leading nowhere, he promised him. She’d come up with a story. Just a crazy story. Nothing else. Boyd continued to lay on guilt. He implied that part of this situation was Peter’s fault because if he was a better father he’d have seen this coming. None of this would be happening, he implied, if Peter and Monica had sought help for their broken and emotionally damaged child. None of the guilt trip or the accusations were explicitly spoken. That wasn’t done. Not in these circles. But it didn’t have to be spelled out. Boyd knew Peter got the message as plain as if he’d put up a billboard with the message “You’ve failed as a parent.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Peter spoke with resignation. “You try to raise them to value things. Really. My poor wife. When she hears of this it’s going to kill her.”
Boyd now reassured him that he wasn’t to blame. Of course, it had the opposite effect. He needed Peter and Monica to be feeling as guilty as possible. He needed them to rein in their daughter.
He needed a new plan of action. He needed to talk to Hull.
Acting like a best friend again, Boyd told Peter that he’d be in Bristol the next morning. “I’ll come by. If that’s okay? We’ll talk. Maybe we can get Drew to meet with us? Maybe, together, we can talk some sense into her. We can stop this madness before it hits the news and we all look foolish.” Boyd wanted Peter to think that Drew could be helped. If they worked together, if they were a team, if the Stirlings joined forces with him, they could stop this madness from spreading.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Pete. And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out together. By the way, do you have that number she called you from?”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
As I come to understand Vietnam and what it implies about the human condition, I also realize that few humans will permit themselves such an understanding.
~ Alan Moore
I don’t think Vietnam affected me the way the pundits, and the fucking talking heads that were never there, claim. I’m perfectly fine.
~ Brandon Hull
Brandon Hull quickly realized that he couldn’t risk chasing a car all the way to Bristol. He stopped and turned around. She escaped. Good for her. Fucking bitch. He drove back to the cabin.
This whole affair was going to get really messy. It was time to start covering his tracks. No evidence could lead back to him. That was imperative. Drew hadn’t seen his face and she couldn’t identify him. All she had was a story.
On his way back down from cleaning up the mess, he paused at the bridge. There was no reason to rush. Think. Double-check. Triple-check.
It was good that the photographer was dead and hidden underwater. It was a plausible story. The body wouldn’t likely be found until long after the story blew over. There was nothing else to do there. He headed back to Glenley. It was time to come up with a new plan.
His cell picked up service when he entered Fallen Oaks. There were a couple of text messages from the Congressman. One simply asked for a status report. Boyd just wanted to know what was going on. The second one was more serious.
Incoming text: Just got off phone w/ P.S. Call Back.
“Call Back” was code for call immediately regardless of the time and regardless of whatever else he happened to be doing. Hull knew that Boyd was livid. He also knew it was completely understandable. He’d fucked up in a major way. This wasn’t going to be an easy mess to clean up. Hull needed time to think and decided to wait before calling Boyd.
All the businesses were closed in Glenley. Hull was able to wake up the night receptionist at the only motel in town and book a room. He found a vending machine and bought potato chips and a Dr. Pepper. He lit a cigarette.
Think. She started to talk, so I have less than twenty-four hours to make her go missing or it’ll no longer look like a coincidence. I need my leg examined. I need to get back to Bristol. I need to control the Congressman’s fears. This whole situation could still be salvageable. I’ve been in worse.
He crushed his cigarette and went to his room. He showered and cleaned the open wounds on his leg. The punctures were minor, but the swelling was troublesome. The leg probably wasn’t broken, but it hurt like hell to put any weight on it. He took more ibuprofen and wrapped the injury. It was time to call Boyd.
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Hull continued to play the role of stupid and incompetent employee. It was easy. He’d been in the military for many years. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I understand, sir.”
Boyd finished his tirade. He had to blow off steam. Calmly and directly, he asked for Hull’s assessment. He also asked for suggestions. “What next?”
“Sir, I think we go with the assumption that she’s not going to feel confident that her story is believable. And it’s not. So that’s in our favor. She’s got this conflict with her father. How can you exploit that?”
“I’m heading there tomorrow morning to go see the parents.”
“So, my first thought: After you meet with them, try to get her there next. Meet with her and her parents. If you can meet together, you can explain how all this is a misunderstanding. Certainly nobody is going to believe that you tried to kill her. With her parents on your side, perhaps she’ll be resigned to accept that nobody is going to believe her story. And nobody is going to believe her. It’s an insane story.”
“I should hope not. Don’t fuck up like this again. I told you not to hurt her. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?”
Hull expressed his apologies and left it at that. Plausible deniability and the ability to act in the field were both important. If Boyd really wanted to ensure that Drew Stirling was protected, it was simple. All Boyd had to do was terminate this assignment. That was it. Hull wasn’t trying to kill her for his own pleasure
.
Congressmen always had problems that needed under-the-radar and off-the-books solutions accomplished by untraceable contractors. Hull knew this. He knew that Boyd knew this. Most importantly, he knew that Boyd knew he knew. Many things were said by not saying anything.
“Take down this number,” Boyd instructed. He repeated the number that Peter Stirling had given him. It was from the phone Drew had used to call her father. She didn’t say where she was. She hadn’t told her father who she was with or what her plans were.
“I’ll check it out.”
Hull needed a few hours of sleep. It wasn’t going to be helpful to drive back to Bristol only half-awake. Even if he knew where she was, he’d just advised Boyd to try and reason with her. He really didn’t have a reason to find her yet. He’d wait. Maybe Boyd would work his magic and get this storm to blow over before it became a hurricane. With luck, the photographer’s body and the car that was his tomb would stay hidden for months. It wasn’t an overly optimistic hope. The forest was a maze and the search for lost people often created more lost people.
He took some painkillers and fell asleep.
Hull was in Vietnam. He was walking the point. It was hot and his leg was throbbing. He thought he saw movement in the distance and held up his left fist. He stopped and dropped to the ground. He was lying there, hot, sticky, sore, and looking for the enemy. All of a sudden, a sharp pain hit his leg, and he turned and saw a large black snake. Its fangs had sunk into his thigh.
Undressed To The Nines: A Thriller Novel (Drew Stirling Book 1) Page 19
