“Nick will be okay, Alex. Let’s be positive,” Ozzie said, turning back from looking out the window.
My phone call had been cut short because the doctor had just walked into the waiting room; Stan said he’d call me back.
A full damn minute had passed, and no call. Of course, patience wasn’t one of my strong suits.
Ozzie was staring out the window again. The grounds at the Devens Federal Medical Center, which was attached to a minimum-security federal prison facility, were plain but well-kept. What should have been a one-hour westward ride from Boston to the prison had instead been a two-hour trek from hell, thanks to multiple checkpoints coming out of Boston. These checkpoints had been set up to identify “anyone who looks suspicious”—Randy’s exact words.
What I’d learned during my ten-minute stint inside the war room earlier was that Randy and his team of investigative savants had made almost zero progress in their investigation of the bombings. They’d confirmed only the obvious so far—that the bombs were shrapnel bombs, built to create the most casualties possible.
Randy’s management approach swung from dictatorial and belligerent orders that didn’t make much sense all the way to delegating the simplest of decisions, like how many updates should be provided to the public in a given day.
Up to that point, no entity had claimed responsibility for the attacks. This was unusual for organized terrorist groups. Most had a chain of command, an entire network of people dedicated to maintaining and growing their financial position, people who worked in operations, recruitment, research and development, and communications. The only thing these larger terrorist groups didn’t have was an HR department.
Randy’s team had just started reviewing video footage from security cameras along the course. I tried to ease my way into a meeting he was holding with reps from each of the major law-enforcement agencies on the task force, when he made a snide comment about me not being on the invite list—he’d said it where everyone could hear him.
Belittling others. The sign of a bully. He was damn lucky that we were in crisis mode, or I might have followed through on what I was thinking—basically, giving him a swift kick to his crotch.
I set my cell phone on the conference table and hovered over it, staring at it, willing it to ring or text or do something.
“It’s not going to run away,” Ozzie said.
I looked up. My expression was not one of humor.
“Sorry. Just lightening it up a little.”
My expression didn’t change.
“Moving on,” Ozzie said, shifting in his chair. “So, they should be in here any minute to take us to Maya.”
I nodded but went back to staring at the phone. After a few seconds, I finally admitted to myself that I could be waiting a while. Time to focus on the reason we were here. I pushed up from the table and crossed my arms.
Interviewing Maya Sherman—the person who’d been arrested and ultimately charged with plotting a terrorist act a week ago—was the first and best step we could take, given what I’d seen out of the task force. Maybe I’d get a chance to pick Brad’s brain or even Gretchen’s, once they were fully immersed in the investigation—at least to the extent they’d be allowed to share. I’d already traded text messages with Brad on the possibilities, and his opinion was: if we shared the same pillow, we could share anything. Gotta love that.
Of course, that comment only made me question our relationship, as I was prone to do on occasion…and ever more frequently.
Do we still have a strong connection? Or is it more like one of those July fireworks shows…lots of ooh and ahhs and then it flickers out just after the crescendo?
The door opened to the conference room. A bald man wearing a uniform and badge stuck his head in. “The doctor is finishing up his daily exam. Maya will be ready for your visit in five minutes.”
When I didn’t respond—because what was there to say, really?— Ozzie jumped in and said, “Thank you for the update.”
Well, there is that.
The door shut. “Thanks,” I said to Ozzie.
“No problem,” he said, and then we turned our attention to our silent phones. Maya was being held at this particular facility because she had scurvy. Such a weird thing, getting a disease that I’d heard of only in history books—you know, what the people in the 1800s would get when they stayed on a ship for too long. Maya was going to survive, we’d been told, but for now she was still in pain.
Break out the sympathy violins. Even though Maya had been incarcerated during the bombings, Ozzie and I both felt like she could have a secret cell still operating, with or without her.
My phone rang and rattled across the table.
“Yes, what is it, Stan?” I said the second I tapped the green button.
“The old goat is still with us, Alex.”
My shoulders dropped, and I took in a breath. “That’s good news.” Ozzie and I locked eyes as he walked over to me, leaned his ear toward the phone. I put it on speaker to make it easier on him.
“He survived the surgery,” Stan said. “Dr. Thai said they almost lost him twice on the operating table. But he said Nick just had this fighting spirit. Must be his Brooklyn roots.” He chuckled, but it had emotion behind it.
“Thank you, Stan, for the news and for being there.”
“But we’re not home free yet,” he said.
“What? Why?”
There was a sigh, or maybe it was more like a growl. Hard to tell. Ozzie and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“The surgery took a lot out of Nick. Lost even more blood. It stressed a lot of his organs, including his kidneys and his intestines. The doctor said putting all that back in place was like sewing through wet spaghetti.”
Just the visual I needed. “But he’s stable right now?”
“Stable, but in critical condition. Next two days will be crucial, Dr. Thai said.”
I could feel the pit of anxiety take hold again. Two more days? I had to remind myself to take a breath. I felt a longing to be there at Nick’s bedside. Two years ago, he’d been at my bedside after I’d suffered a concussion from a car crash. At first, I remembered nothing of my life. But it was his face, his kind eyes that triggered my first recollection, and suddenly I wasn’t a stranger on a strange planet. He’d given me my foothold to regain my life and my memories—and I’d never forget that moment.
“Let me come and relieve you, Stan. I want to be there when he wakes up.”
“I’m not stopping you, but didn’t we talk about this with Jerry? Nick would want you to find the gutless fuckers who did this and put them behind bars. Not just for him or for the FBI, but for Boston, the country—”
“I get it, Stan.” Just then, the conference door opened, and the prison guard gave us the signal. “Stan, we’ve got to run, but please keep me updated. Good news is always welcome.”
“I’ll contact you as soon as I know something. And, Alex?”
“Yeah, Stan?”
“I don’t know if you believe in some higher power, but if you do, now would be the time to call in the favor. I’ve put all my chips on the table. He could take my other arm, as long as Nick is okay. Take care.”
He ended the call, and tears welled in my eyes. I turned, searching for an anchor. Ozzie was right there, so I wrapped him in my arms and squeezed, trying to squelch what would be an endless flood of tears.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered in my ear. “Round One is over, and Nick won. He’ll win the rest of the rounds, too. I know it.”
“Thank you,” I said, pulling back a step, releasing a deep breath. The guard was waiting at the door. “Let’s go talk to our favorite prisoner.”
10
Ozzie
During our five-minute walk through the facility, I tried to refocus Alex by reviewing our discussion on the drive up to FMC Devens—mainly, Maya’s past and what had motivated her to plan the bombing that had led to her arrest. The short version? She was highly agitated with ho
w this country had done her wrong. Her catch-phrase on the message board in which I’d found her was “America—the land of no opportunity.” She was quite talented with the written word and had unleashed several rants that skimmed the edges of endorsing a violent retribution.
Once I gained her confidence by acting as though I was just as appalled with the state of affairs, she eventually brought me into her close-knit group, which totaled five people, including her. It soon became apparent to me that this group was not simply into delivering online tirades—they had tangible goals and showed a strong determination to meet said goals. Once I learned definitive plans were in place to detonate one or more bombs during the Boston Marathon, the FBI technical operations specialists located Maya and the four others in her group. Two were able to avoid charges completely—they were just curious, zit-faced teenagers who believed this was some kind of joke.
The other two men, however, were charged with “conspiring to provide material support to terrorists.” From what Alex had shared previously, the U.S. Attorney’s Office believed they would strike a plea deal with those two, maxing out their prison sentences to fifteen years in exchange for turning over all evidence against Maya.
Given her degree of hatred combined with a calculated calmness about how to carry out the plan, one might think Maya was a religious radical, maybe a Muslim extremist who wanted to wipe out all the filthy Americans. Maybe she’d traveled to Afghanistan or Iraq or even Saudi Arabia and, at some point during that time, had been pushed toward terrorism as “the answer.”
But none of that described Maya’s world. If anything, Maya was an atheist, although her parents had raised her through the Presbyterian church in her hometown of Westfield, New Jersey.
We’d been told by our prison escort that the facility normally housed men only, but because of Maya’s health and the fact that the FBI wanted her in a federal unit until her trial took place, she would be a guest at FMC Devens.
There was a guard positioned at the doorway leading into Maya’s room. We stopped a few feet from the door, which had windows situated on either side, and peered into the room. She was lying on the bed, her eyes closed, tubes crisscrossing her body. I’d never met her in person, but I’d seen plenty of pictures since her arrest. She was petite, with ruddy skin and a pixie hairstyle. Her high cheekbones and naturally long eyelashes reminded me that she was really just a girl—all of twenty-three years old. She had been a college student at Berklee College of Music until a year ago, when she’d dropped out. Since then, according to her parents, she’d been “wandering, trying to figure out who she was, what she wanted to do.”
“Domestic terrorist” probably wasn’t on Mom and Dad’s list of possible vocations for their daughter, but that was how Maya Sherman would forever be remembered.
The guard at the door cleared his throat as we entered, which woke Maya from her sleep. She reached for a cup, but couldn’t quite get there. Without thinking about it much, I walked to the side of her bed and handed her the cup of water. She sipped it without taking her eyes off me. For someone who looked sickly, no more than a hundred pounds, and whose future probably would have her confined to federal prison for decades, her dark eyes carried an air of boldness. I wondered if she was completely sane.
“Which one are you—Troutt or Novak?” she asked, handing the cup back to me. I set it on the table as Alex walked in.
“He’s Novak, and I’m Troutt.” Alex set her feet shoulder-length apart, both hands at her waist. She looked like she was ready for a brawl.
Maya nodded, looking back at me. She reached out and tapped her finger against my cast. The kids had scribbled numerous comments and artwork on it, including one gem by Luke: “Texas sucks! Boston rules!” I recalled Alex’s response to her son’s written comment: “You are not going to grow up to be a rude, disrespectful man.” Luke had shrugged as he walked away, as if to say, “I am who I am. What are you going to do about it?”
Wrong move on his part. Alex made him handwrite the sentence, “I will not be a rude young man,” five hundred times. When he balked, she added five hundred more times. I was cringing at that point, willing him to keep his mouth shut. He was smart enough to end it there and trudged up the stairs to complete his punishment.
Kids.
Maya, while technically only five years my junior, really did look more like a kid than an adult. She looked tiny and fragile there in the hospital bed. But I knew that she was no pushover. Quite the contrary. She was cunning and manipulative, a sign of a true leader.
“Novak, you’re the one who was going to help us make history.”
I wasn’t sure how she knew I’d been the one to infiltrate her group—I’d used an alias on the message boards. I didn’t respond.
“As you know, Maya, we’re here to ask you some follow-up questions,” Alex said.
Maya kept her eyes on me the entire time Alex was speaking. I even turned to look at Alex, but when I turned back, Maya was still eyeing me. She bit into her lower lip and gave me the once-over…as if she were about to make some type of seductive move.
That whole sanity question popped back into my mind. At the least, her creepy factor was off the charts. I casually moved to the foot of the bed, next to Alex.
“Could this have anything to do with this morning’s bombings at the marathon?”
Alex and I traded a quick glance. We were both wondering the same thing: how would she know that? There was no TV in her room, and she had no access to the Internet. Had to be one of the nurses or doctors who’d mentioned something. Unless…
We turned our eyes back to Maya.
She put a hand to her lips, feigning distress. “Oops. Was that supposed to be a secret? Well, all’s well that ends well.”
What an attitude. She not only had no remorse over her own crime, but she was applauding today’s horrific events.
“Maya, let’s cut the crap, okay?” Alex said. “You’re up against some very serious charges. You’ll likely be spending your entire life in prison. Or worse than that—you could very well be looking at the death penalty.”
She got still for a second. “If you think you’re going to scare me…well, you’re not.”
“Now is the time to admit to any additional crimes, Maya. For example, if you were to admit that you set up a secret cell to take action in the event of your arrest, then I’ve been authorized to tell you that we could make a plea deal in exchange for your testimony against those who carried out the bombings. Basically, you flip on your friends, and you get to live. They don’t.”
She smirked. “You think I’m behind the bombings today? Wow, you guys must be desperate if you’re talking to me.” She looked off into the corner of the room for a moment, her eyes narrowing. She returned her gaze to Alex. “Wait…you guys have no other suspects, right? You wouldn’t be talking to little old me if you did. Well, hot damn, I had no idea how clueless our government agencies were. How I failed is beyond me. But I guess Novak is to blame for that.” Her eyes were blazing and focused on me again.
It was my turn to grow still.
“Right, Novak?” she said with a grin that lifted her cheeks a full inch.
She was having a raucous time at our expense.
And it was pissing me off. Time to change the approach. “I’m curious, Maya, why you look so happy. Yes, a terrorist attack was carried out today. And if we’re to believe you, the people who did it had nothing to do with you.”
“You catch on fast, Novak. There’s hope for you.” She tried to smirk again, but her cheeks weren’t quite as perky.
“Yet, the way you spoke of your little group…well, it sure seemed personal to you. How you’d been screwed over. How no one at your school or in the music industry would ever cut you a break. How they didn’t take you seriously as an artist. How you wanted to make sure they took you seriously at something.”
She twisted her lips, but she kept her steely gaze on me.
“So, you actually failed.”
This time, she looked away and moved her shoulder slightly. Might have been the beginning of a shrug, as if to say she didn’t really care. It was unconvincing.
I continued to poke the bear. “So, Maya, you don’t feel good about today at all, do you? Be honest. Because it’s not about someone killing innocent people. It’s about you doing the killing. You getting the recognition. You getting retribution on a society that didn’t give two shits about you and your so-called talents.” I punctuated the last few words, my voice growing louder with each one.
“I do have talent, dammit!” She smacked her hand against the mattress.
Aha.
A doctor appeared at the door. He gave each of us a long look, and then he walked in and checked the machines. “Her stress level needs to stay low, or her health will suffer.”
I saw Alex extend a finger in his direction, as if she were about to go off on the doctor, Maya, or anyone else who got in her way. But she held back and holstered the finger.
I nodded at the doctor. “We understand. Thank you.” He left the room.
Back to Maya. Her eyes were cast downward, her lips moving just slightly. Was she saying something? With my hearing deficiencies, I’d learned to read lips quite well. But her movement was so subtle, I couldn’t pick it up.
I waited for Alex to jump in with some choice words for Maya, but she didn’t. No questions, nothing. So, that made me think she was okay with what I had been doing before the doctor entered.
“Remind me, Maya… What instruments do you play?” I asked.
She started counting on her fingers. “Let’s see. Piano, flute, clarinet, violin, cello, and…oh, your ass. Stop playing games with me, Novak. Well, unless you’d like to ask everyone else to leave and climb under the sheets with me.” She popped an eyebrow and smiled until her eyes were mere slits.
This girl was certifiable. I instinctively scooted closer to Alex. I was completely creeped out. Still, Alex said nothing.
“Oh, wait!” Maya threw her hands up. “Novak is married. Did I offend Mrs. Novak? You could always ask her to join in. I’m all about free love and experimentation.”
AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19) Page 5
