by Adam Hamdy
“The families of America have lived with this menace for too long,” she said excitedly. “Our children have been exposed to filth and violence, and we’ve given the worst kind of people a place to meet and hide. I can’t walk down the street without people seeing my face. Why shouldn’t people have to say who they are on the internet?”
On screen, the image changed to show the anchor, a thirty-something black man in a dark suit, sitting behind a glass counter, as a lower third ticker scrolled the latest news. A title in the top corner of the screen identified the program as “Bob Mundy’s News Review.”
“With the vote imminent, emotion is running high on both sides,” he observed. “In other news this week, Congress has been considering an emergency infrastructure investment budget . . .”
Wallace switched off the television, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen, wondering whether a man with the gravitas of Steven Byrne could possibly have been involved in the attempt on his life.
43
Large sections of the grayish-pink wallpaper were peeling away from the cracked plasterboard. Ragged purple zigzags ran along the paper, reminding Ash of an ECG readout. She sat on one of a pair of sagging sofas covered with an old patchwork pattern that might have once matched the ECG zigzags. The faded colors were marked by dark stains, and both couches were so frayed and dirty that it was hard to believe they’d ever been consciously designed. A splintered, shabby tallboy stood beside a heavy eighties television that was encased in a cracked veneer cabinet. A framed photograph of Mike Rosen in his dress uniform had pride of place atop the tallboy and looked out at a room that had clearly seen better days. A pair of prints hung on the wall opposite, anonymous paintings of high mountains that might have been beautiful once, but that were now edged by dark, encroaching mold. Ash glanced through an archway into a similarly dilapidated kitchen and saw the old woman leaning over Edward Rosen, who sat at a chipped table. She was embracing him and whispering into his ear. Ash looked away, uncomfortable to be intruding on their grief.
“He’s just having a glass of water,” the old woman said, entering the room.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Your son—”
“He wasn’t our boy,” the woman interrupted. She sat down on the couch opposite, her movements labored and slow. “We’re his grandparents. Michael’s father was our son, Edward Junior. Eddie, we called him. I’m Martha, but there never was no Martha Junior, Eddie was our only child.”
“Is Eddie . . .” Ash left her question hanging.
“Nah. Maybe. I don’t know,” Martha sighed. “He and his girl were a couple of junkies. Lived in dark places. Took us down with ’em sometimes. They skipped town one day. Left little Michael with us. We ain’t never heard from ’em. Raised the boy as our own.” Martha’s voice was hollow and flat, as though the vibrancy of life had been ground away by years of trauma. “I never wanted him signin’ up. But Ed Senior was an Army man, engineer, and Michael idolized his grandpa.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Ash began.
“Go ahead. I’ve had nightmares ’bout this day for years. I knew it was comin’,” Martha revealed.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s in the Army. Front line. Not the engineerin’ corps. Those boys die for this country,” Martha observed.
“Do you know what Michael’s been doing these past few months?” Ash asked.
Martha shook her head. “He never tells us nothin’ ’bout his missions.”
She didn’t know her grandson had been discharged, Ash thought.
“We didn’t see him for around a year an’ a half,” Martha continued. “He said he was deep cover. Then he paid us a visit. Stayed a few weeks, an’ then split. Said he was on a mission that would make the front pages.”
“Did he ever talk about his unit?”
“This benevolent fund . . .” Martha hesitated. “You think it up before you got here, or on the spot when you saw us?”
Ash felt her face redden.
“I spent too much time around lyin’ junkies to be hoodwinked, Miss . . .”
“Ash. Christine Ash,” she admitted. “I’m with the FBI.”
“I see,” Martha said, without giving anything away.
“How’d he die?” Edward asked, shuffling into the room. His throaty voice crackled with every word and the rims of his eyes were a shiny crimson.
“There was an incident in Afghanistan. Kabul,” Ash replied. She saw no point in telling these poor people that their grandson had killed a number of innocent people in an attempt to murder John Wallace.
Martha nodded and took Edward’s hand as he sat next to her.
“When?” Edward’s face contorted as though the single word pained him.
“A few days ago,” Ash replied. “I assumed you’d been informed.”
“Nobody’s told us nothing,” Martha said.
“Did Michael ever talk about his friends?” Ash asked.
“He never had anyone besides his unit.” It took a moment of pointed silence for Martha to realize that was exactly what Ash meant. “Like I said, he never talked about what he did for the Army.”
Ash stared at the bereaved couple, trying to figure out how she could persuade them to let her examine Michael’s belongings.
“What you asking all these questions for?” Edward’s voice was suddenly full of aggression.
“We’re hunting a killer, Mr. Rosen,” Ash replied honestly. “We believe that he might have been part of Michael’s unit.”
“This is . . .” Edward began angrily. “How do we even know he’s dead? Huh? Who are you? Where’s your ID?”
“She don’t need ID,” Martha said calmly. “I remember her. There was that Nightfile report. And then the Pendulum case. I didn’t recognize you at first. You look thinner. An’ your hair’s longer.”
Ash was full of admiration for this smart old lady. Life might have beaten her down, but the relentless run of misery hadn’t dulled her mind.
“I got something you might wanna see,” Martha continued, heaving herself to her feet with a sigh.
“Martha, don’t you do anything stupid,” Edward cautioned.
“Why don’t you mind your grievin’, Ed? Let me do what’s right,” Martha replied, her voice edged with steel. “Follow me,” she told Ash.
She led Ash up the creaking stairs, pausing for breath every three steps. The banister was loose and wobbled every time Martha leaned on it. Ash had visions of the rail giving way and the old woman tumbling over the edge, her tatty floral dress cascading as she fell head first. But the rail held and Martha didn’t fall. Instead, she struggled to the top of the staircase and along the landing to one of four closed doors, then pushed it open to reveal a small boxroom with a steel-framed single bed. The thin mattress had been rolled up and placed against the baseboard, exposing a mesh of springs. A chest of drawers stood beneath a small window that overlooked a large, wild backyard.
“This is Michael’s room,” Martha announced. “He didn’t much care for creature comforts.”
There were no paintings, no trinkets, no photographs, no awards, nor trophies, just the bed and dresser.
Martha shuffled over to the window and groaned as she bent down to open the bottom drawer. Ash peered over her shoulder and saw a metal canteen, a dog-eared James Patterson novel, and a journal, which Martha extracted. She placed the thick square book on the rolled mattress and brushed some dust off its gray fabric cover.
“He wasn’t one for writing, but he kept pictures,” she told Ash, flipping the book open.
The first image was of a young Rosen in camo trousers and boots, top off, with a group of young soldiers who were all grinning up at the camera, full of youthful dreams of glory.
“This was when he was in training,” Martha said. “I never blamed Ed,” she continued as she turned the pages. “I asked him to talk to the boy, encourage him to find a different path. But Ed loved servin’ his country, and when he talks about it
, he lights up, even now.” She looked up at Ash and smiled sadly. “Best years of his life. Well, Michael never had a chance with all those stories fillin’ his head. It was only ever gonna be the Army, but he didn’t have Ed’s cunning. Front line, first in, guns blazin’, that’s what Mikey wanted.”
Ash noticed that Martha’s eyes were moist with tears.
“I knew how it’d end,” Martha said. “Doesn’t make it any less painful.” She began to sob.
Ash put her arms around the old woman. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Martha pressed her hand against Ash’s. “I appreciate it, honey.”
They stood there for a moment, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house.
“I’m not doing much good standing here gettin’ all nostalgic.” Martha had regained her composure and her flat, matter-of-fact tone had been restored. “Why don’t you have a look? I’m gonna go check on Ed.”
As she watched the old woman slowly leave the room, Ash wondered how many people had seen her true emotions. Her very being seemed covered in hard calluses, as though her soul had been toughened by a lifetime of misery, but, for a brief moment, she’d revealed the raw tenderness that lay beneath, and Ash was moved, not only by Martha’s grief, but by the solitary existence such strength demanded. No one, not even her husband, would ever be allowed to see how things really affected her. Martha reminded Ash of herself.
When she heard Martha’s labored footsteps on the stairs, Ash turned her attention to the journal and started flipping through the pages. There was at least one photo on each page, sometimes two or three. Most featured Mike Rosen posing with his comrades, weapons up, deployed overseas, on R&R, hanging around base. Ash felt she was seeing a time-lapse of a man’s career, and as she neared the middle of the book, Rosen transformed from a wide-eyed wannabe hero to a jaded soldier, his face mapped by furrows and lines that reflected his experiences. He was no longer a naive recruit, he’d seen combat, and had taken on the serious quality of people who’d lived through war. Further on, and the faces around Rosen changed. He’d moved to a different unit, and the black, red, and white shoulder insignia indicated he’d joined the Seventy-fifth Rangers. These were some of the toughest men in the world. They trained . . .
Ethan. Ethan Moore.
That was the name the man had given. Ash looked at the photo in shocked disbelief. Mike Rosen was posing with a group of Rangers. There were fifteen men in the picture, and judging by the easy atmosphere, this might have been Rosen’s platoon. They were standing outside a tent, squinting in the blazing sunlight of a desert nation. Rosen had his arm around Max Byrne, and the two of them looked so similar they might have been brothers. But Ash wasn’t interested in Rosen; her attention was fixed on the man two along from them, the man who’d been working at the Cromwell Center, caring for Rosen as he impersonated Max Byrne, and who’d introduced himself as his nurse, Ethan Moore. All three had been in the same Special Forces unit: Byrne, Rosen, and Moore. She closed the journal and hurried from the room, her body tingling with a rush of adrenaline. She was holding incontrovertible proof that Max Byrne had not been working alone: the killings were part of a bigger conspiracy.
44
“Edward Rosen, what have you done?” Martha exclaimed.
“What Mike told us to do,” her husband replied coolly.
Ash heard the exchange as she hurried downstairs, and glanced across the hallway to see them both staring out of the parlor window.
“This is nobody’s business, Ed. Nobody’s!”
As she crossed the hall, Ash saw what had made the old woman so angry. A late-model silver Chevy Tahoe blocked the driveway. Black letters emblazoned on the side of the vehicle proclaimed it belonged to the Summersville Police. Ash leaned into the parlor and craned her head to look into the front yard, where she saw two uniformed police officers approaching the house.
“What’s it matter? If she’s tellin’ the truth?” Edward asked pointedly, glaring at Ash.
“You bitter old man,” Martha muttered. “Mikey gave us a number to call if anyone ever came askin’ for him,” she told Ash. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna need to explain this to them.”
“I can’t,” Ash replied hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect you from the truth, but your grandson was involved in all this. He was part of—”
“You’re lying!” Edward yelled. “She ain’t no FBI!”
“I am. And there have already been two attempts on my life,” Ash protested, focusing on Martha, who was studying her intently, sizing her up. “I don’t know who you just called, but if it was a number Michael gave you, it probably wasn’t the good guys.”
“You’re lying,” Edward countered angrily.
“Your grandson got involved with some bad people. I’m sorry about that, I really am,” Ash responded. “But I need to go. Please help me.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Edward said, clasping Ash’s wrist, but his grip was so feeble that she easily yanked her arm free.
There was a loud knock at the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rosen, it’s Officers Doyle and Perry. Open up, please.”
Ash stepped back and looked along the hallway to see the two officers through the screen door, a muscular young man with close-cut dark hair, and an older colleague with a head of gray stubble, jowly cheeks, and a paunch. They looked at Ash uncertainly.
“Come with me,” Martha told Ash, bustling her into the kitchen.
“Officers . . .” Edward began, moving toward the front door.
“Edward Rosen, don’t you dare!” Martha yelled sternly. “Open that door, and I’m leaving you!”
“Mrs. Rosen, we can’t help you if you don’t let us in,” Ash heard one of the officers say, as she watched Martha open a battered kitchen drawer.
“Are you in danger, Mr. Rosen?” the officer asked. “Let us in, sir.”
Ash looked toward the front door and saw Edward hovering nearby, glancing from her to the police officers as he tussled with his conscience.
“Can you handle a motorbike?” Martha asked, rifling through the drawer.
“Not well,” Ash replied. “But I can ride.”
“Here,” Martha said, dangling a key in front of Ash. “It’s Mikey’s. It’s in the yard just out back. Ed starts it every day, so I know it runs. Take it,” she added, thrusting the key into Ash’s hands.
“Thank you,” Ash nodded gratefully.
“I don’t care what Ed thinks. If our boy did wrong, I want to know the truth,” Martha assured her. “I’ve had too much lying in my life. You’d best go. He can’t stop from being a son of a bitch for more’n a minute.”
Martha knew her husband well. When Ash glanced into the hallway she saw that Ed’s dilemma was over and he was trudging toward the front door.
“Woman in here claims to be an FBI agent,” he told the officers through the screen door. “Says Mikey’s dead.”
“Go,” Martha commanded, as Edward pushed the door open.
As the officers entered the house, Ash escaped through the back door and found the motorcycle, a KTM Duke, in a lean-to beside the kitchen. She placed the journal in one of the panniers and pushed the key into the ignition, then wheeled the bike off its kickstand and jumped on. She hit the starter button as the back door swung open and the two police officers ran into the yard.
“Freeze!” the older man yelled, his voice almost lost beneath the roar of the engine.
Ash kicked the gear pedal and turned the throttle, and the bike shot forward. She glanced behind her to see the young officer draw his pistol, but he decided against pulling the trigger. His older colleague spoke furiously into his radio. Ash sped across a strip of dirt that ran alongside the house, crossed a patch of grass, and skidded on to the rough driveway. The bike almost came to a halt as she turned toward the road, and she glanced back to see Edward standing in the porch, glowering at her. The two police officers came bursting out of the house, pushed past the old man and ran toward
their patrol vehicle as Ash sent the bike lurching forward.
She turned right on Walker Avenue, and the powerful machine threatened to buck free, but she fought gravity and shifted her weight in the seat to bring it back under control. She kicked into second gear and twisted the throttle, gaining speed as she heard the sound of a siren wail behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and squinted as sunlight gleamed off the hood of the silver Tahoe.
Hearing another siren, she looked to her left, and through the high trees of the adjacent garden, saw a silver Ford Fusion in black Summersville Police Department livery racing along a road that intersected Walker Avenue. Ash kicked into third and sped on, beating the Fusion by a matter of yards. She turned right and accelerated with the Ford almost kissing her back wheel.
The Tahoe swung in behind the Fusion, and as the road straightened, Ash turned the throttle and the bike roared clear of the two police vehicles. The houses that lined the road fell away, and after a short stretch of open country, Ash found herself riding into a cemetery. High gravestones flanked both sides of the road, cutting off any chance of escape, forcing her on. Ahead of her, the road ended in a turning circle which was surrounded by a thick forest where the trees were packed so tightly that their branches intermingled. Ash’s only escape was a steep chalk rise that bisected the forest like an old scar. Over one hundred feet high, the incline was almost steep enough to make Ash want to call it a cliff, but her flight wouldn’t be served by making herself more afraid, so she ignored the thought and rode the bike toward the exposed soft rock. As she raced across the turning circle, she heard the familiar throbbing of a chopper, and looked up to see a helicopter approaching.
She kicked down into second gear and forced the bike up the incline, hitting it on a diagonal to give herself the best chance of coping with the gradient. The heavy off-road tires chewed the soft rock and propelled the bike forward. The rutted landscape made the ride choppy and erratic. Ash felt out of control as the KTM climbed, but when she glanced down she saw that the chasing vehicles had stopped at the edge of the turning circle. The cops were running toward her, and one of them was shouting something, but the growl of the bike’s engine was too loud for her to hear. Ash reached a small outcrop and banked left, climbing at an angle in the opposite direction. She was almost halfway to the summit when she looked up and saw the West Virginia State Police helicopter hovering above her.
