Heather rolled her eyes. “Spanish is more useful.”
“Ha!”
“I’m just wondering why Evan was dumb enough to send you all her picture. Why didn’t he just keep it to himself?”
Jordan snorted. “Mom, are you kidding? Did you see her? If I got a girl who looked like that, I’d send it around, no doubt.”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Chief Brubaker continued, “We have taken into custody Ms. Courtney Shank Wheeler, the younger sister of the Shank brothers and a teacher at Central Valley High School in Central Valley, Pennsylvania. We also have in custody a seventeen-year-old junior at Central Valley High School. Neither Wheeler nor the minor have been charged, as yet. We are investigating their participation in the plot and it is unclear at this time.”
Jordan looked over with a worried frown. “What does that mean? Why don’t they say his name?”
“Privacy, I guess? Because he’s a minor? Anyway, it means they haven’t figured out what Evan did yet.”
Jordan grimaced. “Do they really think he’s one of the bad guys? He doesn’t know Madame Wheeler’s brothers. They beat him up. You could see his face in the videos.”
“Shh, let’s listen.”
Chief Brubaker continued, “There are many details of this Operation Varsity Letter that we do not have or cannot make public for security reasons. We are holding this conference before we have the totality of the facts because we want to inform the press and public, giving correct information rather than the rumors circulating online or in social media.”
Jordan turned to Heather. “He has to say that. Twitter is blowing up.”
Heather kept looking at Chris/Curt. She wondered if he was even single. Maybe that had been a lie, too. Her gaze went to his left hand, but she couldn’t see if he had a wedding ring. Maybe he kept it at home, with his wife. And seven children. Also a dog and a cat.
Jordan listened as the spokesman continued, but Heather kept her eye on Chris/Curt, trying to read his mind. He was probably thinking that he was a hero, that he did his job even if it meant telling a whopper. He may have served the greater good, but still, she didn’t like being lied to. The lesser good still mattered, and she and Jordan were the lesser good. She wondered if she’d ever hear from Chris/Curt again, then if she wanted to hear from him again.
Suddenly she realized that the odor of salmon was permeating the apartment, and the fish was burning.
“Dammit!” Heather said, jumping up and running into the kitchen.
Chapter Sixty-two
It wasn’t until midnight that Curt got home to his spare, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a row home in the Italian Market, a city neighborhood of open-air stalls selling fruit, produce, and fish, packed cheek-by-jowl with old-school Italian restaurants. The air always smelled like fresh basil and rotting food, but the neighborhood suited him. He could pick up prepared foods anywhere, and it was easy for him to blend in, since the Market bustled with employees, shoppers, and tourists.
He’d come home tonight completely unnoticed, the shops closed, tarps drawn over the stalls, and the few tourists inside the restaurants. He’d kept his ball cap on just in case, after having spent the day feeling like a celebrity poseur, being clapped on the back, congratulated, and even hugged by a pretty lawyer in the U.S. Attorney’s office, who reminded him of Heather.
Curt flopped on his bed, which was made by the cleaning lady who came in every other week, whether he was home or not. There was nothing on the white walls of his bedroom because he’d never had time to decorate, nor had he truly cared to, but tonight it looked lame, beyond bachelorhood into psycho hermit. Oddly, he missed his apartment in Central Valley, and by now, other ATF agents would be routinely fingerprinting, taking photographs, collecting his laptop and going through his videotapes and audiotapes for the government’s case against Evan. None of the possessions in that apartment belonged to him, except the clothes, but he would leave them behind, shedding the Chris Brennan identity like a snake does its skin. It had never been a problem before, but now, he felt vaguely like a real snake.
He picked up the remote, turned on a news channel, and watched the coverage of the operation on mute. There was one talking head after another, then the screen played the video of him flying upside down, with Evan hanging on.
Curt felt odd. He had never seen himself on television before. The camera focused on the sheer terror in Evan’s battered face, and Curt’s heart went out to the boy. He thought of the text that Evan’s mother Mindy had sent him earlier today, thanking him. It made him feel good inside, but still he worried about Evan, and of course, Jordan and Heather.
The TV screen changed to a replay of the press conference, and Curt watched himself on the dais, knowing that he had been thinking about Heather the whole time. He wondered if she had been watching and what she must be thinking of him. He thought about calling her, then glanced at his watch. It was 2:15 A.M. He’d lost track of time with so much going on.
A wave of exhaustion swept over him, and Curt let his eyes close, thinking about her. He wanted to apologize to her, and to Jordan, and to all of them—for the first time ever, he felt guilty after an operation was over, even though by any objective measure, it had been successful. But he didn’t feel successful, he felt like a jerk. He had gotten justice for the murders of Abe and Courtney’s husband, Doug, but justice never was an eye for an eye, not for him. All that was left was death and destruction, leaving him feeling more alone than ever.
Curt drifted to sleep, knowing that it would never be any other way—unless he changed something. And so three nights later, after the hoopla was subsiding and he was returning to a normal schedule, with his new position as yet unspecified, Curt found himself lying on his bed again, looking up Heather’s phone number online in the Boosters’ directory, pressing in the numbers, and waiting while the call rang.
“Hello?” Heather answered, her tone vague, probably because she didn’t recognize the number of his new phone, since he’d turned in his old one as evidence. Still, hearing her voice brought him back to Central Valley, and knowing she was on the other end of the line made him feel different, too. Better, the way he had felt back then.
“Heather, it’s Chris, I mean, Curt.” Curt thought he had gotten used to using his true name again, but evidently not.
“Oh, hi.” Heather’s voice sounded cold, which he had expected.
“I waited a few days but I wanted to call you to say, well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I lied to you about who I was. I hope you understand—”
“I get it.”
“It’s my job. It was my job anyway.”
“I said, I get it.” Heather paused. “Jordan gets it, too. Team player, greater good, seventeen inches. Got it.”
Curt didn’t, but let it go. She sounded unhappy talking to him. “I wanted to apologize to Jordan too, but I didn’t want to contact him without asking your permission first.”
“Fine with me, if you call him.”
“Good, thanks.”
“You should. You lied to him, too.”
Curt felt a pang, hearing the sting in her words. “I’m sorry. I know it must’ve been really strange for you, both of you, to find out I was undercover.”
“It was.”
“Is there anything you want to ask me? I mean, you’re entitled to know the truth.”
Heather didn’t answer except to chuckle, not in a good way.
“I mean I never contacted anybody after an operation before, but this is different.”
Heather didn’t say anything.
Curt felt he should explain further, especially because she was saying so little. “I usually work undercover with drug dealers and thugs, but this time, I was infiltrating good people, like you and Jordan.”
“So?”
“So—” Curt hesitated, unsure what to say next. “So it’s unusual for me, and I know it must be for you too, finding out that I’m not a coach or a
teacher.”
“Yes, it was. It was for Jordan too, although mostly he’s concerned about Evan.”
“Sure, right.” Curt had been relieved that both Evan and Courtney were negotiating plea deals to a whole list of charges, since circumstances had shown that they had voluntarily and completely renounced their participation in the conspiracy.
“School is just now getting back to normal.”
“Did you ever get a new job?”
“Actually, yes. I start at ValleyCo as an administrative assistant next week.”
“That’s wonderful!” Curt thought he heard a softening in her voice, or maybe he imagined it. “Well, I was wondering if you ever wanted to have dinner with me.”
“Why would I do that?” Heather asked coldly, which gave him his answer. It had been a terrible idea, calling her. He had lost her, as he feared. But he couldn’t ignore his feelings for her. He’d been thinking about her all the time and he wanted to give it his best shot.
“Heather, I really liked meeting you and getting to know you, and I have more of a normal life now.”
“I have to think about it,” Heather interrupted. “I’m not sure that’s something I want to do.”
“I understand,” Curt said, disappointed, and the sad part was, he really did understand, completely.
“Now, excuse me, I have to go. I have something on the stove.”
“Sure, but can I give you a call again in a few days?”
“Try a month,” Heather said, hanging up.
Curt hung up, defeated.
Luckily, he had a Plan B.
Chapter Sixty-three
Curt waited a month to put Plan B into action, wanting to show Heather that he respected her wishes. He put the time to good use, hammering out his job description with a ridiculous number of bureaucrats and filling out a ton of paperwork, and serving as the de facto assistant to the new head of Philadelphia Field Division, the Rabbi himself, David Levitz. Curt couldn’t have been happier that the Rabbi had finally received the promotion he deserved, and they were both delighted that Alek had gotten kicked upstairs to JTTF, never to be heard from again. At least until the next terrorist attack, which gave them an ulterior motive to keep the country safe.
Curt couldn’t look out the window since the shades were down. Central Valley was finally returning to normal, and the story had just begun to fade from the headlines. He turned down the requests for interviews, as well as offers of movie and book deals. Evan and Courtney had begun serving their sentences—Courtney for twelve years, and Evan for five.
Curt had spoken with Raz, who was doing better than ever, taking over Evan’s position as catcher for Jordan, who was pitching a winning season for the Musketeers. Curt had even gone to a game, and Coach Hardwick had greeted him with a completely unexpected bear hug, thanking Curt for his service and inviting him to come to practice anytime he wanted—even if he had to come late. Curt and Jordan texted each other all the time, and Jordan had helped arrange this date tonight. Or at least, what Curt had hoped would be a date.
“Mr. Abbott, can I get you anything besides the water?” the waitress asked, hovering over him with a smile.
“No, thank you.” Curt smiled back, having gotten used to being sociable, as a matter of necessity. He’d met more people in the past month than he’d met in his entire life. He couldn’t remember the last drink he’d bought himself and he wasn’t complaining. Everywhere he went, people shook his hand, thanked him, and wanted a selfie with him. It was forcing him to come out of his shell, and Curt was learning that he actually liked the people he had sworn to protect.
In fact, his fame was one of the reasons that he’d been granted this favor tonight. He’d asked the restaurant to close to everyone except him and Heather, because he knew that if the regular crowd were here, they wouldn’t get a private moment. He’d offered to pay for shutting down the place, but they’d done it as a personal favor, living up to their name.
Friendly’s.
Curt checked his watch. It was 6:30, and according to Jordan, this was the exact time that Heather would be coming home from her new job and heading into the kitchen to start dinner. He couldn’t look out the window so he didn’t know if she was coming. They’d closed the shades so no one would see that he was inside, and he kept them closed. He had asked Friendly’s to take down the usual promotion on their sign in favor of something special, and he wondered if Heather had read it yet:
H, PLEASE MEET ME HERE FOR DINNER TONIGHT? CURT
Curt checked the table to make sure everything was in place. He’d brought a bag of Chips Ahoy, two bottles of water, and two nice glasses. He’d also bought a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses in a clear glass vase, but when he’d gotten here, he realized that the color of the flowers inadvertently matched Friendly’s logo. He’d messed that up, but okay. He was new at romance, and it wasn’t easy. On the contrary, it was easier to hang upside down from a helo.
Curt sipped his water, trying not to be nervous, a new sensation for him. He’d met a lot of nice, smart, and attractive women in the past month, and he’d gotten plenty of fan mail, emails, and photos from them. He was red-blooded enough to look at the photos, but none of the women appealed to him like Heather. She was nice, smart, and attractive in a way that felt real to him, and he couldn’t explain it any better than that. If she felt the same way, she would be walking through the door in the next few minutes.
So far, no luck.
Curt felt his heart beat faster, giving him a tingle that he’d never experienced before. He never thought he could get a tingle from anything but his job, but that was about adrenaline. This time, it was about emotion. About feelings that went to the core of who he was, flowing to and from his heart, like the very blood that gave him life. He was only just now finding out who he really was, meeting new people and trying a new job, but he wanted to go deeper than that. He wanted to be the man he was meant to be, for himself, and for Heather and Jordan. Maybe he could be a husband and father. Maybe he could have a family, with an overweight dog of his own.
Curt looked up, and his mouth went dry when he saw the door opening and Heather walking in with a surprised smile. She looked adorable with her hair down, wearing a blue dress, and when she met his gaze, her eyes smiled at him, too. With real happiness.
He found himself on his feet and heading to the door to thank her for coming.
And to introduce himself to her, for the very first time.
Acknowledgments
Here’s where I get to say my favorite words in the English language, namely, thank you. So many people helped me with this novel because it required information that was outside my fields of expertise, which are basically law, dogs, and carbohydrates. But because this book has so many twists, I don’t want to give spoilers to those of you who read these before you finish the novel. (You know who you are, and frankly, I’m one of you, so no judgment.) So I’ll thank some people here without explaining exactly what they did to inform this novel. I owe them a huge debt of thanks, and all mistakes herein are my own.
First thank-you goes to Shane and Liam Leonard, the teenaged sons of my best friend and assistant, Laura Leonard. I have had the great privilege to watch these two young boys grow from babies to high school scholar-athletes who know everything about baseball. Shane and Liam answered all of my questions and even coached me. Coincidentally, this happened to be the year that I was asked to throw out the first pitch for my hometown Philadelphia Phillies, and Shane and Liam actually helped me acquit myself on major-league game day. Thank you so much, guys.
Thank you so much to Coach Matthew Schultz of Great Valley High School Baseball program, who also spent hours with me answering all of my dumb questions about baseball, as well as letting me attend team practices and games. Thanks to the members of the Great Valley varsity baseball team, a group of terrific and talented young men.
Thank you to Dr. Heidi Capetola, principal of Great Valley High School, for leading a truly wonder
ful high school and for taking the time to teach me how it works. Thanks to the amazing teachers Gerry McGrath and William McNamara, who allowed me to sit in on their Government classes. And it goes without saying that the fictional teachers, coaches, and players in this novel are completely products of my own imagination.
Thank you to Anthony Tropea and Steve Bartholomew for their expertise and time. Thanks to Mark, who taught me the chemistry behind explosives, and rest assured that I revealed nothing herein that couldn’t be found on the Internet, a fact which is both interesting as well as scary. Thank you to Lisa Goldstein, M.D., a psychiatrist who treats adolescents and helped me develop the psychology of the characters.
I’m a lawyer, but criminal law wasn’t my field, so I always touch base with my dear friend, the brilliant public servant Nicholas Casenta, Esq., chief of the Chester County District Attorney’s Office.
Also, thanks to Dan Bankoske.
Thank you to my wonderful friend and editor Jennifer Enderlin, who is also the Senior Vice President and Publisher of St. Martin’s Press, yet she still finds the time to improve my manuscripts. Thank you so much, Coach Jen! And big love and thanks to everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan, starting with the terrific John Sargent and Sally Richardson, plus Jeff Dodes, Lisa Senz, Brian Heller, Jeff Capshew, Brant Janeway, Dori Weintraub, Tracey Guest, John Karle, Sara Goodman, Stephanie Davis, Nancy Trypuc, Anne-Marie Tallberg, Kerry Nordling, Elizabeth Wildman, Caitlin Dareff, Talia Sherer, Kim Ludlum, and all the wonderful sales reps. Big thanks to Michael Storrings, for outstanding cover design. Also hugs and kisses to Mary Beth Roche, Laura Wilson, Samantha Edelson, and the great people in audiobooks. I love and appreciate all of you!
Thanks and love to my agent, Robert Gottlieb of Trident Media Group, whose dedication guided this novel into publication, and to Nicole Robson and Trident’s digital media team, who help me get the word out on social media.
Many thanks and much love to the amazing Laura Leonard. She’s invaluable in every way, every day, and has been for more than twenty years. Thanks, too, to Nan Daley for all of her research assistance on this novel, and thanks to George Davidson for doing everything else on the farm, so that I can be free to write.
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