“It’s common for someone to slip in and out of consciousness after a trauma like this,” the doctor says. “The fact that he woke up, even for a short time, is a good sign.”
Vivianne turns to me with a fragile look of hope on her face. “Did he say anything?”
“He wouldn’t have been able to speak with the ventilator in, I’m afraid,” the doctor says, sparing me the need to fumble for words. I don’t know what to say yet. Should I just tell them everything, despite how far-fetched it sounds?
Or would they just think I was crazy, like before?
I realize James is watching me very closely.
“Did he communicate anything to you, Marina?” he asks.
I swallow. Even if they did believe me, do I want all these people to know what Nate said? Is it safe for him and James if they do?
“No,” I say softly. “He tried to talk, but he couldn’t.”
Vivianne and the doctor accept this and turn back to Nate, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that James sees right through the lie. I can’t meet his gaze anymore and look away.
“Hey, you okay?” Finn says, touching my elbow.
Nate lies there, as silent and still against the sheets as he ever was, and I say, “I’m not sure.”
Vivianne rests her head against Nate’s shoulder and begins whispering, talking to Nate or God or maybe both, and the doctor continues his examination. James just stands there, staring at me.
“Agent Morris?” he calls suddenly.
Morris, who’s been stationed outside the door, pops his head into the room.
“We need to talk to whoever’s in charge of the investigation,” James says, eyes locked on mine. “Now.”
Fifteen
Em
Morris goes to get his commanding officer. With the Capitol Police, Secret Service, FBI, and God knows who else involved, I have no idea who’s leading the investigation.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Vivianne asks once Morris is gone.
“I just think it’s time we get some answers,” James says, his eyes not leaving mine.
Morris returns a few minutes later with Agent Armison. Without giving the man a chance to speak, James says, “I want to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw,” Agent Armison says, “but I don’t think that’s possible at the moment; Assistant Director Richter is currently in the field. However, I’m sure we can get someone from his office to come and update you on—”
“I don’t think you understand.” James might as well be chiseled out of granite. “My brother was shot. I was shot at. Director Nolan eats dinner at my house once a month, Justice MacMillan was at my sixteenth birthday party, and the White House chief of staff once borrowed swimming trunks from me when he was staying at my house on Martha’s Vineyard. So when I say I want to speak to the person in charge, that’s exactly what I mean. I suggest you quit treating me like a child and get this Richter here before I pick up the phone.”
I stare, having never suspected this side of James even existed, and Finn whistles low under his breath. He doesn’t chastise him the way he did me when I got a little short with a nurse, but maybe that’s because James is genuinely frightening at this moment. Who is this person?
Vivianne sits up, and all of a sudden she’s a fierce attorney again instead of a grieving fiancée. “I have some questions as well,” she says, “and I imagine Alice Shaw does, too. Should I get her?”
Armison’s steely expression wavers. Even he doesn’t want to tangle with Alice. “I’ll make some calls,” he says in a clipped tone.
When he’s gone, the doctor tells us what we might expect from Nate in the coming hours, but Vivianne is the only one really listening. James is watching me and I’m trying to pretend I don’t notice, while Finn darts looks at both of us.
Connecticut. The only reason Nate would have to bring my attention to Connecticut would be the investigation he was conducting while he was there, which, if it was under Nate’s purview, would almost have to be something to do with the intelligence community. Why would he remind me of that unless he thought it was related to his shooting? Why would that have been his very first message, one he struggled so hard to convey, if it weren’t important?
And why would he tie James to it if he weren’t in danger, too?
It may be crazy, but I feel the truth of it in my bones. Those people—whoever they were—were shooting at James. They came after Nate, and now they’re coming after him.
“Marina?” James says softy. “Can I talk to you in the hall?”
I nod. I have to get James out of here. If someone from the government was responsible for all this, James isn’t safe here.
Once we’re out in the hallway, James takes my hand. “What did he say to you?”
“He signed,” I say. “C-T. Connecticut.”
The information means something to him. His eyes start to move quickly around the hallway the way they do when he’s thinking very hard about something. He explained it to me once, how different eye movements signal someone accessing different parts of their brain, but it looks like he’s searching for the places where his invisible puzzle pieces fit together.
“I think all of this has something to do with the investigation he was working on over the recess,” I continue.
James frowns. “How did you know about that?”
“He told me. The night you came home.” I neglect to mention what he said about James’s increasingly odd behavior. I twist my fingers into his sleeve. “I think we need to go, now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think we should meet with anyone in charge,” I say. “I’m afraid that . . . that . . .”
“Hey, it’ll be okay, kid.” James tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I have some questions for this Richter guy, but then we’ll figure everything out.”
“Please, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “Trust me.”
What choice do I have? I try to ignore the pit in my stomach and say, “Okay.”
James kisses my forehead. “Don’t tell anyone else about Nate yet, okay? Let’s go back in.”
I nod and follow him back into the hospital room. Vivianne barely notices us, she’s so focused on Nate, but Finn says, “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” James says.
“Yeah, fine,” I echo. Finn shoots me a questioning look that I ignore.
A half hour passes before Agent Armison reappears in the doorway. He says the agent in charge has arrived and leads us to a staff room at the end of the hall where we can meet with him in private. When we enter, a surprisingly young man—no more than forty—in a sharp gray suit stands to greet us.
James gives him a once-over. “You’re the person in charge of the investigation into my brother’s shooting?”
“I am.” The man offers his hand to James. “Chris Richter. I understand you want to talk to me. I came over as soon as I heard.”
James doesn’t shake his hand. “What agency are you from? You’re not FBI.”
I don’t know how he can tell, but he says it with certainty. His uncle was once the director of the CIA, so he must recognize signs I don’t.
Richter smiles. “Very astute. Given your brother’s work on the Intelligence Committee, it was thought that someone with a higher clearance level should coordinate the investigation.”
“What are you, CIA? NSA?”
“I’m with the DNI.” I don’t know what that is, but James and Vivianne both nod like it answers all their questions. Richter turns to Vivianne. “You must be Ms. Chase. I’m sorry to meet you under such awful circumstances.”
Vivianne shakes his hand. “Mr. Richter.”
“And these are?”
“My friends,” James says.
“Perhaps they’d like to wait outside while we talk?”
“I’d prefer they stay.”
Richter smiles. “Whatever you’d like, Mr. Shaw.
Now, how can I help you?”
We settle down in plastic chairs at the small dining table in the staff room, Chris Richter on one side and the four of us on the other.
“So, you think Nate’s shooting was related to his work on the Intelligence Committee?” James asks.
“We’re exploring that possibility.”
I take a good look at Richter. If there’s one skill I learned from my mother, it’s how to size someone up with a glance. I noticed the quality of his suit the moment he stood, but closer up I get a better picture. Not only is it not the standard-issue Men’s Wearhouse preferred by most government employees, but it’s hand-tailored and expensive, even for a man in his position. His haircut is precise, done recently, and his hands are square and strong but not rugged. He doesn’t wear any jewelry, not a wedding ring or even a watch. He holds himself well, and his smile is warm and genuine.
I dislike him instantly.
“I’m glad you asked to meet with me,” Richter says. “It gives me the opportunity to tell you myself that we’ve determined the incident here last night had nothing to do with your brother’s shooting.”
Vivianne sighs in relief and rubs a hand across James’s shoulders, but he frowns. “Based on what?”
Richter leans forward. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know how frustrating it can be to be kept out of the loop when it’s your life at the center of things. We have CCTV footage of the people who shot at you last night—”
Just like Finn said they would. Now they’ll know I wasn’t making things up. “People?” I say. “So there were two of them?”
Richter turns his attention on me for the first time, and there’s a hint of evaluation in the look that unnerves me. Maybe he sees my resemblance to the girl who shot at James.
“That’s correct,” Richter says. “Two males, both around twelve or thirteen.”
“What?” I shake my head. “That’s not right—”
“Our technicians are working on refining the images right now,” Richter continues, as though I hadn’t spoken, “but it seems pretty clear this was a case of gang activity. Nothing to do with you, Mr. Shaw; just an unfortunate coincidence.”
Liar. My clammy hands curl into fists under the table.
“You’re sure?” James says. He looks between me and Richter, a fine line creasing his brow, but I can’t tell which one of us he believes.
“Very. However, just in case, the Capitol Police are going to continue to keep an eye on you. I hope you won’t find that inconvenient.”
“Not at all,” Vivianne says. “We appreciate it.”
“Of course. We want to do everything we can to make sure James stays safe,” Richter says. “Now, I’m sure you have lots of other questions.”
“Yes.” James folds his hands in front of him on the table, and the tips of his fingers are red from squeezing his fingers so tight. “I want to know how the hell a shooter was able to get into the Mandarin’s ballroom.”
Richter barely blinks. “That’s something we’re looking into.”
“Looking into?” James says. “There was a massive security breach in the vice president’s protection, and you don’t even know where the problem happened yet?”
“James, honey.” Vivianne puts a hand on his, but he slips from under her grasp.
Meanwhile, Richter has gone tight, and the casual smile has slipped off his face. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Shaw, but I’m afraid I can’t get into specifics with you. However, I can assure you that the Secret Service did everything they were supposed to.”
“Obviously not,” James says, “or my brother wouldn’t have a machine breathing for him. What about the security cameras in the Mandarin? Have you gotten any footage of the shooter from them?”
“Unfortunately, the relevant cameras were nonfunctioning at the time of—”
To my left, Finn snorts.
“And that’s not suspicious?” James says. “The shooter was obviously aided by someone on the inside. Are you looking into that?”
“James, please!” Vivianne says. “Mr. Richter, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s quite all right; I understand emotions are high. We have several solid leads, Mr. Shaw, and I assure you we’re doing everything we can.” Richter stands and reaches into his wallet. “Unfortunately, I have to get back now. Here’s my card; please feel free to give me a call at any time. I’ll be in touch. Mr. Shaw, Ms. Chase.”
As soon as Richter is gone, James balls up the business card in his fist and tosses it across the room.
“What were you thinking?” Vivianne says. “I’ve never seen you act like that before.”
“It makes no sense that a gunman was able to get to the ballroom from that service exit.” James stands and begins to pace from wall to wall. Nate once told me they had to replace the carpet in his bedroom every couple of years because he wore right through it. “The place was swarming with Secret Service. No way that entrance would have been unsecured like that.”
“So what are you saying?” Finn asks.
James stops. “I think someone in the Secret Service was involved.”
“What?” Vivianne says. “James, that’s—”
“How else would the gunman have gotten so close to Nate and the vice president?” James says. “How else would all those doors off the service hallway have been unlocked when they should have been secured? How else would the shooter have gotten away, and without a single camera picking him up? Nothing else can account for all of that.”
“But Assistant Director Richter—” Vivianne begins.
“Richter is covering the government’s ass,” James says. “Why else wouldn’t he even entertain the possibility of collusion? No. I don’t trust him, which is why we can’t tell him what Nate said to Marina.”
“What?” Vivianne’s eyes go wide, and she grabs my hands. “He talked to you? What did he say?”
I look at James, and he nods. “It’s okay.”
“While everyone was out of the room,” I say, all attention suddenly on me, “Nate signed a few words to me. Air, which I don’t understand, and CT. Connecticut.”
Vivianne seems to shrink into herself. “What does that even mean?”
“Nate was holed up in his office for days while we were in Connecticut,” James says. “Normally he spends the recess doing events and pressing flesh, but he was working on something he wouldn’t tell even me about.”
“The night you got home,” I say, “he told me he’d been investigating something. Did he say anything to you about it, Vivianne?”
She covers her eyes with one hand. “No. He didn’t.”
So why would he tell me, the kid next door, and not his own fiancée? The only reason I can think of is because I spend the most time with James. If this really has something to do with him, I was in the best position to notice the changes Nate warned me about.
“I think maybe . . .” I take a deep breath. “I think maybe whatever Nate was working on has something to do with why he was shot.”
“Like he was getting too close to something,” James says.
“Stop it!” Vivianne stands. “Both of you! This isn’t a spy novel. This is real life, and Nate is dying!”
Her voice rises hysterically at the end of the sentence, and I feel as though I’ve been slapped across the face. The blow knocks me back a step.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I really look at Vivianne. Her skin is dull and her eyes shot through with red. I realize she’s been here all night, dealing with Alice and the others, watching the man she loves fight for his life with no sleep or support. Suddenly I see just how thin it’s worn her.
“He’s not dying, Viv,” James says stiffly. “He’s not, so don’t even say it.”
Vivianne sighs. “I’m afraid you can’t think your way out of this one, sweetheart. You need to take advantage of the time you have with Nate while you still can, instead of wasting energy on these crazy conspiracy theories.” She shrugs, slowly,
like the weight of worries on her shoulders makes it hard to move. “Who cares what he may or may not have said if he never wakes up again?”
James’s voice is tight and small. “Nate would care. Especially if he never wakes up again.”
Vivianne’s lower lip quivers, and she presses her hand to her mouth to hide it. Tears are filling her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. I want to disappear. Finn and I shouldn’t be here for this; it’s too personal and too raw. It shouldn’t have been me that Nate communicated with. It should have been James or Vivianne, and he should have told them he loved them. My guilt at being the one who happened to be in the room is suddenly suffocating.
“Why don’t you get some sleep, Vivianne?” Finn says softly, taking a step toward her. “The nurses should be able to set up a cot for you. Want me to go ask them?”
Vivianne swallows, and when she speaks, her voice is thick. “Yes. Thank you.”
Finn leads her from the room, and James watches them go.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Viv cry,” he says.
The room is silent without them. James leans back against the counter and rocks slightly, running his fingers over and over his lips as he thinks. I pull fluffy pills of wool off my sweater and try not to let the silence crush me.
“I don’t know what to do,” James suddenly says. “Maybe Viv is right and I’m being irrational, but . . . Marina, what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Useless.
Finn returns. “Viv’s asleep. She was exhausted. She wanted me to tell you she didn’t mean what she said.”
James nods, but I’m not sure he believes him. I know I don’t. Vivianne meant every word, but she was wrong. Nate told me what he did because it was important to him that we know.
“I guess it’s back to the waiting room and Cousin Alice,” James says.
Finn and I follow him out into the hall, and I say tentatively, “What about Richter and the Secret Service? What about Connecticut?”
James looks torn. “I . . . I’ll call Bob Nolan. Have him look into it.”
Finn raises an eyebrow. “The director of the FBI? How are you two such pals?”
All Our Yesterdays Page 14