by Jack Bowie
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Ever since he had been a kid the militia had been a part of his life. Like a second family. His father had been the Materiel Officer and would take him down to the old mill off Robert’s Creek where they hid their guns. He had learned all their names, and by the time he was fifteen, could take each one apart and reassemble it blindfolded.
That was when they had initiated him. Taken him out in the woods and set him loose. He had to get back on his own and kill five animals along the way. It hadn’t been all that hard. He had hunted with his father since he was twelve. He had come back with two squirrels, an armadillo, a mangy stray dog, and a young deer. His father had said he was damned proud. Then they had all got drunk, told war stories, and complained about the state of the Union. It had been great fun.
It wasn’t fun anymore.
After they had come back from the war, they thought things would be the same. They all had brought stuff back with them—fixing what was broken and improving what wasn’t.
Nobody had bothered them back then. They went out, shot some targets, did some hunting. They never hurt no one. Then the Feds started showing up. Asking about their guns. Where did they get them? Who fixed ‘em up?
Nobody had ever cared what Sean O’Grady did in the back room. They had a right to own guns didn’t they? It said so in the Constitution. Who cares what they did to ‘em?
They had heard about the attacks on militia groups in Michigan and Montana. But it had never come home until Charlie Kearns got in trouble. Why did they want to hurt him?
Hurt him? They had ruined his goddamn life.
Holly hadn’t thought of himself as a revolutionary. He hadn’t known what to do. Then he started hearing about this Commander. He was organizing people, pulling them together. They were all gonna be a part of the Covenant.
Holly had thought that maybe this Commander could protect ‘em. Maybe he could teach them how to protect themselves. So he had asked a couple of his contacts up north. Did they know anything about the Commander?
Then Gary had appeared.
He had helped them organize. Gotten them some new equipment. Shit, he had bought the farm for their training.
But then the outsiders had started coming in. With piles of fancy equipment. New rules and lots of secrecy.
Now Feds sneaking in. And it’s all our fault.
How could he do what Gary wanted? What would his daughter think if she ever found out?
There has to be another way.
* * *
Braxton shuffled aimlessly through the apartment, fighting off the images that flashed inside his head. Just over a year ago he had made the same journey through another apartment. His best friend had died, and he had been asked by his family to help clean out their son’s personal belongings. But Paul Terrell had been killed, in Braxton’s own apartment unbelievably, and he had felt a deep responsibility for the result.
Megan’s death had been accidental, on the other hand, but no less wrenching. Seeing her only a few days before made it all the worse. That encounter had rekindled his love, but now just as quickly it had been extinguished, forever.
Braxton had taken the first flight out that morning to San Francisco. It was the longest six hours he had ever spent.
His first stop had been to police headquarters to talk to Lieutenant Cassidy. The officer had described the fatal mugging, just a few blocks away from her apartment, and offered his condolences. A robbery gone awry, he had said. She had tried to fight off the assailant, but had been stabbed twice in the chest. As luck would have it, the wounds had sliced into her heart.
Cassidy had had little encouragement on catching the murderer. At least he was honest about it.
The cop had taken him down to the Morgue, where he had confirmed her identity. She had looked so calm, so different from when he had last seen her. She was white and cold, like a limestone statue. Where was the sparkle in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks when she argued with him? He had quickly turned away and left.
Why was he called for this responsibility?
The answer was that her parents were dead and her brother was in the military; Braxton thought she had said now stationed in the Far East. She had named him as her emergency contact. Had she meant what she had said in the phone message?
There were few physical things in the apartment to remind him of her. All of her furniture was new, she had left Cambridge with just two suitcases and three boxes of books. But it still felt like her: the precise arrangement of her knick-knacks on the bookcases, the carefully-stacked business and technology magazines on the coffee table. Even the cardboard boxes that she never had the time to completely empty were stacked neatly in a corner of the extra bedroom’s closet. The room was set up as a home office, much as theirs had been. She had been able to buy a much more upscale oak desk, upon which sat a high-end PC, multifunction FAX/scanner/printer, and bound sets of manuals and reports.
He walked into her bedroom, all flowers and pastels. Next to the bed was a picture of a smiling couple standing by the waterfront. Megan and who? The Ben Lawson she had spoken about? The scent of her perfume was strongest here and he quickly left, unwilling to subject himself to the memories.
The living room was filled with impressionists, a large print of Monet’s Water Lilies hanging prominently on one wall. Below it was an open secretary, unpaid bills and discarded correspondence scattered across its top, surrounding a familiar picture of her mother and father.
He walked through the dining area and into the small kitchen. The only item on the counters was her answering machine. The lack of clutter was due as much to Megan’s culinary ineptitude as it was to her fastidiousness. They had been frequent guests at many of greater Boston’s restaurants, preferring the cost of prepared meals to the frustration and heartburn of home cooking.
He returned to the balcony and looked out onto the Palo Alto hills. Lush green rolling hills supported a canopy of early afternoon fog. Commuters rushed between chrome and brick office complexes. It was a very different view from the congestion of Harvard Square. She had come here to begin a new life. Why had it had to end so quickly?
A crippling fatigue embraced him and he trudged back into the living room, collapsing on her sofa to rest. There was so much he needed to do. What was he waiting for?
He had to do something! Grabbing the first thing he saw, he threw a copy of Technology Review across the room. It sailed over the dining room table and skidded across the open kitchen counter, knocking the small answering machine to the floor.
Cursing his bad aim, he shuffled over and picked up the appliance. Setting it back on the counter, he noticed the unlit message light. That couldn’t be right. Cassidy had told him that Megan had gone shopping on the way back from the airport. She had been killed at a mall near her apartment around 4:00 p.m. She had never gotten home. Why didn’t the machine show his message?
Maybe the light was broken. He pressed “Play.” Nothing happened. There were no messages.
Something really was wrong.
What else have I missed?
His eyes scanned the apartment. The spartan counters in the kitchen, the rich cherry table and chairs in the dining area, the precisely placed furniture in the living room. His gaze stopped suddenly at the secretary. Megan had never let anything in their apartment become that cluttered. She was disorganized, yes. But the disorganization was always in neat piles.
He sat down at the secretary and went through the envelopes. They had all been opened, torn at the ends rather than across the top as Megan had always done. There was nothing significant, mostly announcements for local arts events and offers for yet another credit card. A telephone and electric bill were overdue.
He checked the drawers and found them stuffed with more papers and receipts. Megan’s records had never been kept like this. What could have gotten into her?
He set the bills aside and went back in the kitchen. Everything looked normal. The sink was c
lean, the counter top was clear. Hesitantly, he pulled open one of the drawers. Silverware was scattered everywhere. Spoons were in every divider, table and salad forks immorally intermingled. Cardinal sins in a Connelly kitchen.
He tried to stay calm despite the insistent pounding in his chest. It’s not significant. She had a bad day. Her housekeeper did it.
He checked the upper cabinets. What little stock she had was pushed to the sides of the shelves. As if someone had searched through them without caring to put things back.
It isn’t possible, is it?
Chapter 22
Palo Alto, California
Sunday, 2:00 p.m.
Braxton had checked the whole apartment. Each room had been the same: superficially everything was in place, but behind the cabinet doors, and inside the drawers, Megan’s belongings were in complete disarray.
He had left the bedroom for last. It would be the ultimate test; his most difficult task. Megan’s bedroom had been her most private place. It was where the aggressive, tough businesswoman became a tender, caring wife and lover.
He forced himself to step into the room and walk toward the bureau. Gingerly he pulled open the top drawer. Lace underwear was strewn through the box-like space. He could see someone dumping the contents on her bed, searching through them, then gathering the garments and dropping them back inside.
He replaced the drawer and checked the next. Nothing new. The rest of the chest yielded no additional information.
Walking over to the nightstand he picked up the picture of Megan and Lawson. She looked so happy, so free.
Someone had searched Megan’s apartment and it certainly wasn’t the police. They weren’t this neat.
A loud buzzer startled him and he dropped the picture on his foot. The noise echoed through the apartment like a siren in an empty warehouse. It buzzed again and he recognized it as a door sounder. He shook fragments of glass off his shoe and limped toward the door.
Who would be bothering him now?
Peering through the security eyeglass, he saw a woman’s face move back and forth in front of the lens. As the face came closer, he pulled the door back against the security chain.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Oh!” She obviously wasn’t expecting to see a man answer. “Hello. Is Megan home?”
The woman was tall, with shoulder-length blond hair, full lips and round dark eyes so large they seemed to fill her face. A trim wool business suit highlighted an appealing figure. She swung a thin leather briefcase impatiently at her side.
“No, I’m sorry. She, uh, stepped out.”
“I hate to bother you, but I’m in a bit of a fix. My name is Sydney Marino. I work with Megan. I just got back from a trip and locked myself out of my apartment.” The woman spoke so fast Braxton could barely understand her.
A hand flew in front of his face and pointed down the hall. “It’s down there.” He looked past her and saw a small Rollaboard sitting about halfway down the hallway. “Megan keeps a set of keys for me. Could you please look for them? I’m beat.”
Marino flashed a smile that exposed a set of perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth. Braxton had no doubt the well-practiced smile had opened a lot of doors for the attractive woman. She hardly looked like a dangerous intruder, so he unhooked the security chain and opened the door a little wider.
“Uh, sure. Do you know where they are?”
“I think she keeps them in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. There.” Marino curled a long, manicured finger through the opening, and pointed to the secretary.
Braxton went to the drawer and fished through the contents. About half-way back he found two keys on a simple metal ring. A tag tied to the ring said “Sydney.”
“How about these?” he asked, holding them up.
“That’s them!”
He walked back and handed the keys to Marino.
“Thanks a bunch. You’re a lifesaver. Tell Megan to give me a call when she gets in. Bye.”
“Are you a friend of Megan’s?” He asked before she turned away.
“Well, yes.” Her smile disappeared, replaced by what Braxton took as a look of concern. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“I’m sorry. My name is Adam Braxton.”
“Adam Braxton? You’re Megan’s ex. What are you doing here?” She stepped back from the door and her voice took an accusatory tone.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He pulled the door farther open. “Why don’t you come in?
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re doing here! Where is Megan?”
Marino was not going to budge without an explanation and Braxton didn’t want to get into a shouting match in the hallway. He had to tell her the truth.
“She was in an accident,” he began softly. “I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to say this. She died. I’m trying to sort through her things.”
Marino’s face went from anger, to shock, to tears. She dropped her briefcase and her hands covered her face. “No! Not Megan.”
Braxton waited uncomfortably in the doorway, then finally picked up the case. “Please come in. We can talk inside.”
She reluctantly followed his lead and entered the apartment, walking familiarly to the living room and taking a seat on the sofa. Braxton pulled over a chair from the dining area.
Marino wiped the tears from her eyes with her hands. “What happened?”
“The police believe it was a mugging. She was stabbed.”
“Oh God! How awful.” Her hands leapt to her mouth.
“When did you see her last?”
Marino took a moment to compose herself before continuing. “I’ve been gone about a week,” she said. “I talked to her just before I left. We were going out tomorrow night.”
“How long had you known her?” Braxton pressed.
“We met a few months ago, right after I joined Vision One. She was really great. Always helping out when I got in trouble, like with the keys. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you. I was the closest relative the police could find. They called me last night and I came in this morning from D.C. I’ll take care of as much as I can until her brother gets here.”
“Oh yes, he’s in Korea isn’t he?”
“I believe so. The police are trying to locate him.” It was nice to be able to talk to someone about Megan. He had felt so alone ever since the call from the police. There couldn’t be anything wrong with talking to her a bit longer could there? “What do you do for Vision One?”
“I’m a public relations consultant. Vision One hired me to handle their expansion into Europe.”
Braxton wrinkled his forehead at the response. Why would they hire an American?
It didn’t take long for her to sense his concern.
“You’re wondering why they hired an American. I specialize in working with companies starting international expansion. I get them going using my contacts, then they take it from there. It’s actually pretty interesting work.”
“I guess that would be exciting. I hope you like to travel.”
“Oh, absolutely. That’s the one good part of the job. I’ve been spending a lot of time in Amsterdam lately.” Marino glanced around the apartment and Braxton noticed another tear welled in the corner of her eye. He offered her a handkerchief which she silently accepted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’d better get going.”
“That’s okay. Don’t worry. If there’s anything here of yours . . .”
She shook her head. “No. I was the one that was always borrowing things. I’ll see if I have anything back in my apartment.” She picked up her briefcase and started for the door. “It’s just so terrible.”
“I know.” He escorted her to the door. “Miss Marino?”
“Yes? And please, call me Sydney.”
“Okay, Sydney. Megan didn’t seem upset about anything when you talked to her did she? Worried about anything?”
“Megan? No. Well, s
he did seem tired, but I figured that was just all the work. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I worry too much.” He considered asking about Lawson but decided against it. Anything he said could get back to Vision One. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such difficult circumstances.”
“Me too. And I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”
“No problem. I understand.”
“If you need anything, please just come by. Apartment 704. Really.” She flashed that killer smile again.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Braxton watched her walk down the hall, unlock her door, and disappear into the apartment.
He had never really thought much about Megan’s friends. Would she have mentioned anything to them about her suspicions? If she had, would Marino have told him?
As he closed the door, he remembered about Megan’s things. Someone had broken in and gone through the apartment. When? After she had died? Or before? And what had they been looking for?
* * *
Braxton located a broom and dustpan in a kitchen cabinet and went back to the bedroom to clean up the mess he had made. He swept up the glass fragments and reached down for the frame. As he did, the frame’s backing broke loose, exposing what looked like a corner of white paper between the folds of the cardboard.
He dropped cross-legged to the carpet and carefully pulled out the sheet. It was a handwritten letter, dated a week before. He hesitated, not wanting to invade her privacy, then read the contents.
Dear Megan,
I’m sorry I have sounded so preoccupied the past few weeks. The atmosphere here has been very intense and I’m afraid I have let it affect me. Everything is finally coming together and I feel good about what I have accomplished.
Please forgive me for scaring you. Just put it out of your mind.
I miss you very much but will see you soon.
Love,
Ben
What had Lawson been worried about? What had he told Megan?
None of this made any sense. Why had Megan sounded scared? What could she have been afraid of?
