by Davis Bunn
The president said, “But even secondhand it must be worth—”
“One and a quarter million dollars,” Theo replied. “Do we have a deal?”
twenty-three
Della had never been in the Washington Post’s executive offices. She had seen them, of course. The Post’s new headquarters were mostly open plan, with a balcony connecting the executive suites to the massive newsroom. When Amazon’s chief, Jeff Bezos, acquired the Post, he relocated the paper as part of his plan to reinvent it as a media and technology company. The old Post complex boasted over four hundred thousand square feet of usable space. The new offices on K Street were half that. Della knew many of the senior journalists despised everything the new headquarters represented. Still, she thought it suited the paper and its new vision.
Della was seated in the fourth-floor antechamber with Susan Glass, her former editor. Susan was on the phone, discussing with her husband which nanny they should hire. Della listened to the conversation and wondered what it would be like to have her life rearranged like that. One moment be senior business editor of a world-class newspaper, the next worrying about who would take care of their child when she returned to work. Giving as much or more attention to the nanny’s qualifications as she would to a story that had the potential to change the world. And how to juggle the two aspects of a professional woman’s life. Or three, really, because even in the midst of this rather heated discussion, Della could hear the love Susan felt for her husband and life partner. Professional woman, mother, wife. Della watched Susan smile at something her husband said and heard her say how much she loved the man.
Della found herself reflecting on her own failed love life and all those futile moves. Three years earlier, Della had become engaged. Three weeks before their wedding date, her fiancé had taken a job in Australia. And not invited her along. Della felt she had grown from the experience, though the cost had been far too high. Not that she’d been given any real choice in the matter. Or perhaps she had. Perhaps she was unable to see when a man truly deserved her love, and that she was fated to move from one failed relationship . . .
“All right, I’m done.” Susan stowed away her phone. “Sorry about that.”
“How do you manage?”
Susan did not need to ask what Della meant. She was a heavy woman, big-boned and strong-featured. She had played tennis for Georgetown and had wrists and forearms twice as thick as Della’s. Her husband, Harry, was a civil engineer who worked for the city. “Some days I can’t. I fly off the handle, I get mad at Harry for no reason, I yell at my baby daughter, I drive away everybody I love.”
Della said, “It seems to me you’re doing a great job.”
“Today is easy. This meeting returns me to a place I love so much it hurts to be away. I lie awake some nights afraid I’ll never make it back.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Or they’ll decide Jerry is better at it than I ever will be—”
“Not a chance in the world,” Della replied.
“—and they’ll invite me to cover funerals for the rest of my career.” Susan’s smile was twisted. “Those nights are the worst.”
“I have nights like that,” Della said. “Too many to count.”
“I love my work, I love this paper, I love this crazy capital city.” Susan’s gaze shifted to the opposite wall, which held photographs of all the Post journalists who had won Pulitzers. “But if my daughter ever declares she wants to follow in my footsteps, I’ll lock her in a closet until she comes to her senses.”
Della did not say what she was thinking, which was how much she wished she had a daughter to argue with. And a husband. And such worries as Susan described.
Susan started to say something, but then was cut off by the publisher’s secretary saying, “They’re ready for you now.”
As Della rose from the sofa, something clicked inside her. She crossed the antechamber and followed Susan into the conference room, thinking that this was why she had come. So she could stand here in the doorway, look down at the three men seated there, and say to herself . . .
No more.
She could not change what had happened to her, any more than she could regain the love of a man who had not deserved her affection. She could not blame herself for past wrong decisions.
But she did have this.
The opportunity to take hold of who she was. Now. This day. And chart her course moving forward.
She smiled at words of welcome she did not hear. Something in her expression clearly disturbed Jerry, her erstwhile boss, because his face pinched with the residual anger she had come to know all too well. She heard him demand, “I still don’t see why we need to be meeting about this woman at all.”
For once, Della felt utterly removed from Jerry and his perpetual ire. She seated herself next to Susan, greeted the paper’s editor in chief, and ignored Jerry entirely. Being here with an ally who liked her and valued her was nice. Yet the real issue was her own self-worth. This was the key. Della knew she was a good reporter and a better writer. Her work had value not measured by what happened in this room.
She had been to Africa. She had seen what was happening there. They had not. And nothing that was decided now, in this hour, would change the worth of her experiences.
Then and there, Della decided she would take the position with Theo’s redefined group. She would investigate this new direction Ken Bishop was taking. When she was ready, she would write about it. And it would be a major work. Several articles that she would then develop into a book. Della felt Jerry’s ire growing, met his gaze, and smiled. She was going to give Jerry and the executives here a take-it-or-leave-it offer. Whatever they decided, however they responded, would not change the reality of who she was.
Della Haverty was a writer with a major story to tell.
Susan turned to her then and smiled nervously. “Ready?”
Della rose to her feet. “Absolutely.”
twenty-four
His working name was Cruz. He liked the sound of it, how it made him seem both fluid and fast. Which he was. Especially when it came to his profession. Cruz had a reputation now, gradually honed over the nine years he’d been working on his own. Well, the rep actually began two and a half months before then. At eighteen, Cruz had murdered the head of his former gang, along with the leader’s brother, two uncles, and the six fat slobs who had always assumed being strong and armed made up for being stupid. Nine and a quarter years later, Cruz still thought of that as one of his finest days.
Cruz had joined their gang at twelve, running packages of drugs through the blistering Miami summer, then standing outside as a guard and baking in the shimmering heat. Gradually he worked his way up through the ranks, earning respect and the money that came with it. But never his freedom. He had simply traded one cage for another. The cage of poverty for the cage of a gang. Swearing all sorts of crazy oaths, blood for blood and all that, he knew from the first day he walked into their headquarters that he was volunteering for a life behind invisible bars. How the others didn’t see that always mystified Cruz. It was right there, painted in the tats covering their bodies and the street art smothering the walls. Anger and rage and gang-style cages. Like they couldn’t imagine a life that actually freed them up. Like they were afraid of being alone.
Not Cruz.
So he waited and he grew and he got strong. He stayed off the drugs and he avoided the women who treated their men like prey, the good-time ladies who saw men as parasites to bleed dry and cast aside, the hurt and the rage tight around them as well. He wanted them. He wanted the release that the drugs and the ladies offered. His hunger was like a flame that never went out. But the desire to be free was stronger. So he made it part of his tag, what he was known for. Cruz, the man who had made a vow at twelve and still kept it. That he wouldn’t rest easy, wouldn’t partake of the women or the highs, wouldn’t ink his skin, not until he found his father and shot him dead. Which was a lie. His mother had no idea who
his father was, and Cruz had never cared. But the story bought him time, and space, and gave him the sort of rep that was just crazy enough for the gang’s leaders to leave him alone. Let him live. Think he was one of them.
Until he took them out. And walked away.
The money he stole from the gang leader’s safe bought him a new identity in a new place. He knew some of the survivors still sought him, the guy who dared defy their code. Cruz had learned to live with one eye always out for the unseen enemy.
Over nine long years he had developed a reputation. The lone killer who got the job done. On time, safe in and out, no trail, no mistakes. At first he’d taken any job that came his way, most of them so minor league as to be laughable. Easy hits, small game, target acquired, bang and gone. He worked only through one contact, a lawyer based in Houston who handled business for the mob there. Cruz’s first hit was on the guy’s ex-wife.
Gradually his rep grew, as did his rates and the complexity of the targets. All the while Cruz stayed careful, and he stayed alive. And his reputation continued to build.
Which was how he had landed in this place. Asheville, North Carolina. Just about the strangest location he’d ever known for a hit. Small and tightly compacted between rolling hills. Hard to get an angle on direction because no road ran straight. And filled with a bizarre assortment of types. There was the older moneyed crowd, in for the summer season and driving their flashy cars. And the local art scene, very big, very active, very weird. Loud, LA-style talk, lots of pretty ladies pretending they were the center of the universe, lots of guys claiming to have the world on a string. And then there were the locals. Narrow-faced hicks with very hard edges, acting like aliens in their own town. They were the ones to watch. Definitely.
Cruz was known for making it look simple, and for making every hit clean. Which all came down to planning. But this job came with a very real time pressure. And because of that, he was being paid double to take out a university professor.
Cruz had two days.
twenty-five
Theo left Harper in the president’s office working out the deal memo. He and the dean headed to the biology department. The new building was compact and relatively well equipped. UNC Asheville was in the middle of a major development program, with millions spent on new infrastructure. Even so, UNC Asheville fed into the region’s reputation as a rising star in the national arts circuit. Biology held no real significance in the eyes of potential donors. All this worked to his advantage, as far as Theo was concerned. The dean had alerted the department head, who greeted Theo with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. When Theo passed on Avery’s request for two postgrads to serve as lab technicians, the man actually leaped from his chair. As soon as he could politely manage, Theo trotted across the campus to his car. The day’s loudest sound was the ticking clock in his head.
He sped to the airport and arrived to find Della already seated in the baggage-claim area. Della did not seem to mind the hurried and fractured manner of his greeting. Which was a good thing, because Theo’s gut told him things were only going to move faster still.
Together they rushed upstairs to greet the scientist and his family. Avery’s wife was a dark-eyed woman whose calm was seemingly unfazed by her husband plucking his family out of their Annapolis home and flying them down to a city neither had ever visited before. Their two daughters were aged nine and six. They shared their mother’s quiet nature and their father’s intelligence. They noticed everything, smiled shyly, and made Theo desperately want them to like him.
Claudia rented a car and drove the girls to Fairview while Theo took Avery over to inspect his new lab. They arrived to find two trucks parked in front of the building’s main entrance. The department chief did not actually fall into Avery’s arms in gratitude for the new equipment, but Theo thought the man looked like he wanted to.
Half an hour later, Harper arrived with the approved contracts. Theo used that as an excuse to pull Avery out of the lab and into the adjoining office. He started by walking through everything they knew. Della had two reporter-style notebooks open in front of her. She nodded constantly, small motions that marked Theo’s words with an almost musical cadence. Every now and then she drew another arrow and wrote another line. Never looking his way. Thinking hard while he summarized everything. Avery asked her for several sheets from her notebook and a pen. He began working on his own scrawled designs. Harper just sat and drank it all in. Her round gaze went from one to the other, watching, studying, intent. Occasionally she caught Theo’s eye and mouthed a single silent word. Wow.
Wow indeed.
When Theo finished his recap, Avery shifted in his seat and said, “All around West Africa, modern medicine is making significant inroads.”
“Dr. Lanica’s clinic looked first rate to me,” Della agreed.
“Not just her. You have private groups like the Gates Foundation and the Wellcome Trust who run hospitals and treatment programs.”
“Not to mention religious groups funding new hospitals,” Harper said. “My church is involved in three.”
Theo understood where Avery was going. “These new clinics and their well-trained specialists are resistant to bullying from politicians and regional power brokers.”
“Exactly. And the result is the online collective of medical specialists Dr. Lanica is involved with. They have been busy gathering evidence of a potentially dangerous new threat to the region’s health.” Avery unfolded a sheaf of papers and passed copies around. “This is the data Dr. Lanica handed Theo in the airport.”
Avery was walking them through his analysis of Lanica’s data when Theo’s satellite phone chimed. When he saw the Washington attorney’s number, Theo rose and stepped away. “I have to take this.”
Preston greeted him with, “Your brother is scheduled to be released tomorrow at dawn. But he expects to be arrested again within a matter of hours. Mr. Kenneth has hired one of the nation’s top public relations agencies. He is using them to make as much noise as possible. He wants to wake the world up to what he fears is coming.”
“Same question as before,” Theo said. “Who is trying to silence Kenny?”
“I am unable to determine that. It’s all extremely distressing. My contacts are, shall we say, extensive.” Preston Borders sounded genuinely upset. “Perhaps we’ll know more by tomorrow. Mr. Kenneth hopes to fly down to see his wife. Can you meet him at the Asheville airport at seven in the morning?”
“Yes. All right.”
“One other thing. We have reason to believe that a shooter has been assigned you as a target. I want to bring in more of the team Mr. Kenneth is using to keep his family safe.”
“No.”
“Mr. Theo, I can’t stress too highly the level of risk.”
Theo was tempted to explain what he had in mind. But the fewer people who knew, the less chance there was of word leaking to the wrong people. He replied, “I understand your concern, but my answer stays the same.” Theo said his farewells, ended the call, turned off the phone, and stood there watching the three of them, Avery and Della and Harper. They trusted Theo to keep them safe and on the proper compass heading. Through the glass partition he could see two technicians busy arranging the lab. Theo desperately hoped he had made the right decision.
An hour later, when they arrived at Fairview for dinner, Harper and Claudia showed them around the palatial home. Theo had never been inside the main house. The group’s loudest comments were saved for the underground eleven-car garage. And the bowling alley. Theo wished he could enjoy the others’ astonishment, yet his concern over the risk he was putting everyone under left him mute.
It was not until they were on the back veranda, and Avery was trying not to burn the steaks on the gas cooker, that Harper nudged Theo and said, “You think maybe you could join us?”
“I’m here,” Theo said.
“You’re not, and you haven’t been since you got off that phone call.” Harper poked him again. “Now, tell us what happe
ned.”
The girls were down at poolside playing with a boat, and Claudia needed to hear this as much as anyone. So he laid out everything the lawyer had said, including the security threat, but not Theo’s plans in that regard. Theo finished by telling Avery’s wife, “If you think it’d be a good idea to go back to Annapolis, I’ll help make it happen.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Avery’s face scrunched up. “Honey—”
“Don’t you honey me. And don’t you think anything has changed.” Claudia pointed toward the darkening sky. “People are dying out there. We are here to help you change things for the better.”
Theo stared at the fading sunset, a quilted gold, the sort of dusk his mother used to love. His gaze dropped to watch the kids come racing up from the pool. Claudia bundled them into towels only slightly smaller than blankets and shooed them inside. He turned back to the group to find them all watching and waiting. He knew they were looking to him for direction. He could see it in the faces staring back at him—Della and Avery and Harper. All of them believing he knew what needed to happen next.
For the first time in his life, Theo envied his brother. Kenny was born to lead. Theo might have disliked his brother’s direction, his endless pursuit of money and power. But something had changed in Kenny. The seismic shift had transformed him into someone willing to sacrifice his freedom in order to alert the world to a coming calamity. And yet he was still Kenny. He could manage people, be it three friends seated on his veranda or a corporation employing hundreds. He could direct. He could maintain the confidence required to convince others he was able to see around time’s corner.
Theo sighed. But Kenny wasn’t here. And the past days had left Theo believing that Kenny was right. A major crisis was right there, just beyond their ability to see it.