They said goodbye and Carrie walked in the other room to check on Rachel. Her daughter looked a little flushed, hair damp. She touched Rachel’s forehead. She was hot to the touch. Troubled, Carrie went in search of a thermometer.
Sarah. May 6.
As they rode northwest, the sun setting in a blaze of reds and yellows, Sarah’s eyes burned and she felt a heavy blanket of fatigue drape her body. Sixteen hard hours of driving on just two hours of sleep, and she was ready to collapse.
All around them, nothing but trees, grass, green and more green. The air was noticeably cooler and less soupy than late spring in Washington, DC, and the air was cleaner too. But even the cool air, the new scenery and the constant vibration of the motorcycle weren’t enough to keep her awake.
She tapped Andrea on the shoulder. Her younger sister had been driving for most of the day, and seemed to have unlimited energy. But, even though it had been nine months, Sarah was still recovering from a horrific injury.
And then there was the Jeep.
It happened not long after they’d switched driving at two in the afternoon. Andrea had been driving most of the morning, with just two stops for the bathroom and then a quick fast food lunch.
“I’ll drive,” Sarah had said.
“You sure?” Andrea asked. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” she responded. She was tired, but she wasn’t going to let her younger sister shoulder the entire burden of this drive, injury or not. It had been many months since the car accident. She should be able to manage this now. So she got on the bike, determined to do her share.
The first twenty minutes were completely uneventful. Not too much traffic, and it was a beautiful day. Sarah felt confident and happy.
And then there was the Jeep.
It was large, forest green with a chrome grill, and appeared in her rearview mirror. The license plate was blue and red, almost like the Virginia plates she’d once seen emblazoned with the letters GR8 DAD. Sarah felt her throat close up, the muscles in her arms and chest tense. She began to breathe rapidly and felt a pain in the center of her chest.
She accelerated and switched lanes to try to move away from the Jeep as unspeakable terror rose in her throat. She knew it wasn’t that Jeep, the one that had ended Ray’s life and nearly her own. She knew it couldn’t be. After all, Sergeant James Hicks, the man who had gotten behind the wheel of that Jeep with murder in his heart—he was dead.
That didn’t make it any easier. Because she felt tears in her eyes and her vision went slightly blurry.
The Jeep appeared again. One lane over, no more than ten feet away from her. Sarah panicked, jerking the bike over slightly, running them almost into the truck in the left lane. That only increased the panic, her heart suddenly beating wildly, and she twisted the accelerator in her right hand.
The bike responded instantly, and they leapt forward. Sarah leaned forward, even as Andrea tightened her arms around Sarah’s waist. She sped the bike forward, switched lanes, then switched again, weaving around the cars ahead of them.
Andrea tapped on her shoulder, hard, then screamed almost in her ear, “What are you doing?”
Sarah’s panic hadn’t subsided. The Jeep was no longer in the mirror, but it was still in her chest, and she pulled to the side of the road, letting the bike coast the last few feet, then she shut it off.
“What’s wrong?” Andrea had asked.
Sarah hadn’t answered, just pushed herself off the bike as quickly as she could, walking to the grass on the shoulder. She threw her helmet on the ground and fell to her knees, then puked, acid and bile splattering the grass.
Then the thought struck Sarah. Is this what her mother had felt like all those years? If so, no wonder Adelina Thompson had seemed crazy, because Sarah couldn’t breathe.
Andrea had knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” she had whispered.
“Nothing,” Sarah said, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. “Nothing at all. Everything.”
“It’s okay,” Andrea responded.
After that, Andrea drove.
At the next stop, just outside Minneapolis, they sat down to discuss the route.
“It’s still another 26 hours driving time,” Sarah said, her face glum. She looked up at Andrea, then said, “I can’t make it. Not without a lot of rest. I’m sorry, Andrea. I’m just not—”
“It’s okay,” Andrea responded. “You’re still recovering. What are our options?”
“I think Amtrak has a northern route. I don’t know if they go through here. Or we could fly?”
Andrea shook her head. “My identification is fake. I don’t even have a passport, the police took it when I was kidnapped.”
Sarah sighed. Her eyebrows furrowed, then she said, “What about a charter flight? How much of that money do you have left?”
“I can’t imagine what that costs,” Andrea said.
“A lot,” Sarah responded. “I think. Julia and Crank have to hire one on contract, they said individual charters were way too much.”
Andrea winced. “Train then.”
They got lucky. At ten pm, they boarded the westbound Amtrak Empire Builder bound for Seattle, Washington. They’d be there at ten in the morning on Thursday, a lot sooner—and more refreshed—than if they’d ridden the Harley the entire distance.
Sarah sent a text to Eddie: Please forgive me. I left the hog in Minneapolis. I promise I’ll get it back to you.
She waited nervously. Thirty seconds later, he texted back. You’re really going to make me choose between you and my bike?
Sarah let out a nervous laugh. If he could joke, then it wasn’t too bad. She texted back: Is there any doubt of the outcome?
This time the reply took a lot longer. Long enough to start making her nervous. But then it came: No. I’d choose you.
Well, shit, she thought. Unfamiliar emotion washed over her. Affection. Maybe even love. When she thought about Eddie, it gave her chills sometimes.
He’d once said to her, I think I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. That was a neat trick, considering that when he first saw her she was unconscious with her left leg crushed between the driver’s seat and door panel of Carrie’s Mercedes.
Eddie had seen her at her worst, cursing in rage and pain when the morphine wore off, filthy and covered in vomit and in so much pain she hated the world. She didn’t understand why he’d stayed through all that. And when she asked, he just shrugged and said, It’s all good, I got nothin’ else to do.
Which was bullshit. He was pre-med at George Washington University, and worked part time as an EMT, and was heavily involved on campus as well.
Well, she wasn’t going to complain.
As exhausted as they both were, Andrea and Sarah began to drift to sleep almost immediately after the car pulled out of the station, the car rocking a little as the wheels clicked on the tracks. Sarah felt her eyes getting heavier and heavier, and she fell straight into a dream.
She was still in the train car, and Andrea was curled up asleep next to her, her long legs curled up almost to her chest. But no one else was in the long car. Sarah stood and looked around. It was dark outside, the sky the color of India ink, no lights or passing houses or streets. Nothing. The car rocked under her feet, unsteady, and she carefully stepped down the aisle toward the next car. Instead of the black rubber mat she thought the train had as its floor, it was cold, hard stone or marble, polished to a high shine. The reflection of the floor reminded her somehow of a promise she’d made, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
She knelt down, tracing the hard floor with her fingertips. What had she promised?
She didn’t know. It felt like it was a million years ago. She stood, and walked down the hallway toward the sliding doors ahead. It was silent in the hospital corridor, the walls the same tan fabric she remembered from the previous summer, artwork engineered to be offensive to no one spaced evenly along the walls.
Beyond the d
oor it would be plainer, the walls simple off-white, the waiting room opening into the intensive care unit. She didn’t want to go in there—too many bad memories. Too much terror. But even so, she felt herself drawn toward the sliding double doors. She felt herself shiver. It was cold—the kind of cold that claws its way into your bones and won’t let go no matter how hard you fight. She wanted to go anywhere else but this antiseptic place where the smells assaulted her nostrils and burned into her brain.
But she kept going. As she walked closer, the doors slid open, and a little boy ran by with a Spider-Man T-shirt and a blue and orange baseball cap. She turned to say something, but he was already gone before she could take a breath.
She shivered. Something about that boy was important. But what? She didn’t know. She shook her head and turned back toward the doors and walked through.
Her brow furrowed. It wasn’t at all what she expected. Instead of a cold and antiseptic intensive care unit, the room beyond was … well … not a room. It was almost a jungle. Lush tropical plants were everywhere, growing under the bright sunshine. Sparrows were scattered about on the ground, pecking at it, and high up in one of the trees, a sloth hung from a branch, basking in the sunshine.
Then she saw him. In a clearing surrounded by half a dozen trees was an Adirondack chair covered in peeling white paint. Ray Sherman sat in the chair, inexplicably wearing khaki shorts and a grey Army T-shirt. His feet, resting on a tree stump, were bare. Another taller tree stump acted as a table, and a green drink in a martini glass rested on it. Ray wore a floppy canvas hat and was reading a book.
Confused emotions flooded through Sarah as she realized this must be a dream. Ray was dead, after all, and it really wasn’t fair that Sarah should see him in a dream. That should be Carrie.
Not that she was making any sense at all. It’s not like she had any control over her dreams. But she stood there and studied him anyway. He looked different than the last time she’d seen him. For one thing, he was relaxed and was wearing civilian clothes instead of his camouflage uniform.
That made no sense. Sarah had never seen him in his duty uniform, just the dress uniform he’d worn to the wedding. Or had she? Why would she expect him to be wearing that? She shook her head, because she didn’t understand. But he was clearly there, his stubble making it clear he hadn’t shaved that morning. He reached out and took a sip from the martini glass.
She shook her head then cleared her throat.
Ray glanced up from his book and smiled.
“Hey,” he said. “I was wondering if you were ever going to come by.”
“Come by? What is this place?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. It’s a good place, though. Have a seat?”
She started to say, “There aren’t any seats,” but before the words came out of her mouth, she saw that there was one, another Adirondack chair complete with a footstool and a drink.
Bemused, she sat down. The chair was solid enough.
She sighed, and said, “Carrie misses you terribly. It’s been hard for her.”
He nodded. “I know. I miss her, too. Heaven is nice and all … but seriously, it won’t be complete until I know she’s safe. Until then I just hang out here. I’ve been catching up on my reading. You … you can’t imagine how beautiful it is here.”
“Oh, yeah?” she asked, feeling like an idiot.
“Yeah. You know how it is, there’s never enough time to read everything you want when you’re alive. But now I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Ray might be dead, but he was still weird.
“You know things have been pretty crazy. Rachel’s sick. And they don’t know if she’s going to get better.”
At that, he looked troubled. “I know,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I could … you know … do something. But I can’t … well … it’s complicated. In the end, she’ll be okay. We all will.”
Sarah closed her eyes. He didn’t understand. They were all in tremendous danger. “Ray … things are bad.”
He nodded. “I know. But you know what to do. You always have.”
She shook her head. “I don’t. Can you show yourself to Carrie? Even in a dream?”
He sighed. “I … I can’t. It makes it harder for her. I tried to stick around last fall, you know. I did for a long time. You were a terror for your mom.” His face sobered. “Carrie was so sad, it broke my heart. But then one day I knew it was time. I said goodbye when you guys were at the zoo.”
He didn’t make sense at all. Sarah wanted to shake him. “Ray … what do I do?”
He took his feet off the stump, leaning forward and planting his bare feet on the ground. He looked her closely in the eyes, studying her for a moment. It was unnerving, his eyes boring into hers. This didn’t feel like a dream at all, and her heart began to beat rapidly, almost as if another panic attack were coming. Even the thought made her muscles tense.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “What you do is love.” He looked around then waved his hands vaguely toward the trees and jungle that surrounded them. “All of this … all of us … everything. You love. You … forgive.”
She took in a deep, shuddering breath. She thought again about her mother and the panic attacks and how much they hurt and terrified her.
“I’m afraid, Ray. I’m afraid.”
He smiled, and said, “Well, perfect love casts out fear, Sarah.” He reached out and with a bare fingertip, touched her cheek. “You can do it. Everything you need is right here. In your heart.”
She closed her eyes. For just a second, a tendril of memory took her back to the hospital, to a moment of crisis, when Ray had saved her life.
She didn’t understand. That never happened. She drifted, and opened her eyes, and Ray was gone, and she was in her seat on the train, rocking back and forth as the tracks rattled beneath her, and she heard his words, Perfect love casts out fear.
She let her eyes close again and drifted into a deep sleep.
Julia. May 6.
“Mrs. Wilson, I want to tell you I appreciate your cooperation. I’m going to instruct the bank to free up your operating accounts so that you can make payroll.”
Julia sagged in her seat in relief. The operating account wouldn’t last long—maybe three months—but at least she’d be able to pay her employees. She closed her eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of her nose with two fingers and a thumb, then looked back up. “Thank you, Miss Smith.”
Barrymore—Julia’s lawyer—leaned back and said, “We’ve provided you with full financial records of the company—with all the information you could possibly need. What else can we do to help here? As I stated this morning, my client is innocent of any wrongdoing and we want to help this investigation succeed just as much as you do.”
The IRS investigator, Emma Smith, said, “I’ll have my team look over the documents and we’ll get back with you. I do appreciate your cooperation.”
Smith stood, followed by Kelly and Shriver from Diplomatic Security and the FBI. Julia and Barrymore, with their assistant attorneys, also stood. In an awkward exchange, Smith, Kelly and Shriver all passed business cards to both Julia and Barrymore, then they all shook hands. It felt like the end of a standard business meeting or negotiation. Not a near apocalypse. Her mind was unfocused for a moment as Emma Smith made small talk.
Julia had never been much for idle chatter. But she couldn’t vent her frustration until she was out of the IRS headquarters and on her way. In the elevator, she said, “Marty, do you need a ride back to your office?”
“Nah,” he said. “I walked over, it’s only a few blocks.”
As he spoke, he was turning his phone back on. He gave her a sideways look, and opened his mouth as if he were going to ask what had happened during the brief period she’d met alone with the investigators. Julia started to turn her phone on, pointedly ignoring his unstated question then realized she was still holding the business cards. She glanced at them. Standar
d government business cards—the seal of the agency they worked for, name, phone number. But Scott Kelly’s had a short handwritten note on the back. It said, “Call me for anything.” A 703 area code number was handwritten below it. 703 was Northern Virginia—Kelly probably commuted to DC from Virginia. That would be his cell phone then. She put the card in her purse. Allies were necessary, wherever they could be found.
The elevator opened just as her phone finished booting up, and as they walked out the door of the building, the chime of several text messages rang out. She ignored them, dialing the Pinkerton driver instead. Moments later, a sleek black Escalade pulled up to the curb. A bodyguard jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the door. Julia slid into the car and turned toward Marty, standing outside.
“At least you’re well protected,” he said.
“It’s costing enough. I’ll catch up with you later. Let me know if you hear anything.” He waved and walked away, and the driver closed the door. She glanced at the text messages on her phone. Four of them were routine business related messages. One from Crank said: All okay in Boston! The team is confident. On my way back, see you about nine. Love you, babe.
She smiled wryly as she texted him back: IRS went well. Update later, but we’ll be able to stay open for now.
Then she looked at the last message. It was from Mike DeMint, the band’s publicist. CALL ME, URGENT.
Mike didn’t use hyperbole, and an all caps message with the word urgent in it meant just that. She dialed the number.
“Julia?” he answered immediately. “Problems.”
“Mike, what’s up?”
“Okay, so you’re gonna be pissed. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, Mike, I’m sitting down. What is going on?”
“It looks like Maria Clawson is making a comeback. She was all over Fox News this afternoon as an official commentator on your father’s hearings, which aren’t going very well.”
Julia burst out into language that would have made Crank blush if he’d heard it. When she calmed down, she asked, “What else?”
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