Keep You Close

by Cleveland, Karen

  “What kind of mistake?” I ask.

  Scott looks away. Over to the chess set. Studies it.

  “You need to tell me what’s going on.” My voice has a nasty edge now, and I don’t care.

  He faces me again, gives me an even look, and I’m sure he’s weighing the consequences of what he knows. I hold his gaze, and I feel like the fog in my mind starts to lift. He’s here alone. He doesn’t have a warrant. If he’s bending protocol for me, this can’t be as serious as I’m fearing.

  “What do you know about the Freedom Solidarity Movement?” he asks.

  Freedom Solidarity Movement. That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear, not in the least. And the way he’s looking at me, I have the unsettling sense that I’m the one being interrogated. Better me than Zachary.

  “Not much.” I replay the answer in my head and wonder if it was the right one. Shouldn’t it be, if it’s the truth? I decide to clarify my answer. “Just what everyone at the Bureau knows, I think.”

  I’ve heard of the group, sure. An even more extreme offshoot of the Sovereign Citizens, those people scattered across the country who believe they’re not subject to our laws. The Freedom Solidarity Movement’s been on the Bureau’s radar for several years now, ever since a confidential source reported that it planned to target government officials: the sort of plot that, if proven, would elevate the network from anarchist group to terrorist group. A critical difference, in my line of work. Because anarchists are protected; freedom of speech and all. Terrorists aren’t. But that plot’s still uncorroborated. And it’s still in sensitive channels; FSM’s a relative unknown outside the Bureau.

  “So you know it’s an extremist group.”

  “Yeah.” And now I know what he’s getting at. But Zachary’s not part of that. He can’t be.

  He gives me a pointed look. “And if our intel is right, one that’s plotting attacks.”

  I keep my face impassive, because I know that how I act here matters just as much as what I say. “What does this have to do with Zachary?” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back.

  “Zach’s wrapped up in it, Steph.”

  “That’s impossible.” And it is impossible. But my brain is working furiously. Because I know Scott wouldn’t be here without some sort of evidence. “Zachary’s an honor student. He’s not ‘wrapped up’ in an extremist group. He’s president of the Computer Club, for God’s sake.”

  I hear what I just said and almost flinch. He’s not president of that club. Not anymore. I search Scott’s face for some sign that he knows the truth. Has he been to Zachary’s school? The thought makes my heart start to race. I can’t read his face; I’m not sure.

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Zachary quitting his extracurriculars was a bad decision. It’s not like it means he’s an anarchist, a terrorist. This is a mistake.

  There’s a dull pounding in my ears, the blood coursing through my veins. He got caught up in the wrong crowd. That has to be what it is. Wrong crowd, wrong friends, and that explains the gun in his closet. One of these anarchists put it there.

  “Tell me what you have,” I say.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  That scene in the car flashes through my mind again. The engine humming as we drove down that highway. My eyes in the rearview mirror, watching the road, making sure we were alone. The small voice from the backseat. Are we safe, Mommy?

  “He’s my son. If he were involved with that group, I’d know.”

  Scott’s wearing that judgmental look again, the one he had when I first opened the front door. At least my kids are decent. “He’s a teenager, Steph. How well do you really know him?”

  I’ve asked myself that very question, time and time again, more often with each passing year. But it’s one thing to ask myself; it’s another for someone else to cast doubt on the bond I have with my son. I’m instantly defensive. “You have the wrong kid, Scott.”

  “Steph—”

  “Wrong kid,” I snap.

  There’s sympathy now in Scott’s expression, and not a trace of surprise. But of course there’s not. I’ve been in his shoes. I’ve confronted mothers about their sons. The response was always the same. He didn’t do it. He wasn’t involved. My son’s a good person. You’re wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott says, and I shake my head, because I don’t need his apology. I need him to believe me.

  “He wouldn’t be involved in that.”

  “Look, Steph, I know how you investigate cases,” he says, as if switching to a new approach, a new tactic to win me over.

  You don’t know the first thing about how I investigate, I think, or who I’ve investigated.

  “If something’s not right, you’ll pursue it, even if there isn’t enough to bring charges,” he says.

  Awkward silence follows. He’s waiting for me to respond. But I just stare at him, and gradually his expression starts to harden.

  “You’re his mother,” he reminds me, “but you’re also a federal agent.”

  The fury slams into me like a wave. “I’m not covering for him, Scott. Honest to God, he’s not wrapped up in this. He’s certainly not violent.”

  But even as I say it, I picture that boy again, the one Zachary pummeled in sixth grade. The look on my son’s face in the principal’s office, stone cold. The flash of his father I sometimes glimpse in his eyes, the ruthlessness that shakes me to the core.

  Scott gives a curt nod. It’s one of acknowledgment, an admission that he won’t get to talk to Zachary right now. That I won’t allow it. “We’ll continue this conversation another time.”

  I say nothing, and he takes that as his cue to stand up. He walks to my front door, and I follow. He opens it, and I try not to flinch at that blast of frigid air. “I know you see the best in him, Steph,” he says. “But, please be careful.”

  Chapter 7

  The windowless office is nearly colorless, as well. Off-white walls, drab gray carpet, black computer screen. Even the single framed photograph—four grinning kids on a windswept beach—is black-and-white. A crayon drawing tacked to corkboard provides the only pop of color. Six smiling stick figures in front of a boxy house.

  The woman perches on a rolling chair, stares intently at the screen, at a blinking cursor. Text will appear any moment now. They’ve hacked into this messaging channel, an incredibly sensitive one. So sensitive, in fact, that it’s rarely used. Only in exceptional cases.

  It was used today. And they’ve just managed to break the encryption. She’ll be the first at headquarters to read the messages. One of the few permitted to access it.

  Software is translating the messages into text she can read. She can hear the processor running, a low whir. Her pulse is racing. The first words appear on her screen, one by one.

  Operation initiated. Power will be ours, in ways we have only dreamed.

  A shiver runs through her. She watches the blinking cursor, now on a new line.

  The obstacle?

  The cursor jumps to the next line. She holds her breath, waits for the response.

  Soon to be neutralized. Her son is ours.

  The words disappear. The screen is black again. Message complete, conversation over.

  She exhales, blinks at the dark screen. Then her gaze shifts to the crayon drawing. A terrifying sense of déjà vu settles over her. And an overwhelming fear for this woman, this obstacle.

  Who is she? What are they doing to her?

  And what are they doing to her son?

  Chapter 8

  I close and lock the door behind Scott, then walk into the kitchen, sag against the counter, take a ragged breath.

  Scott thinks Zachary’s involved in a violent anarchist group. One that’s planning attacks.

  And then in my mind, I’m nineteen. In that office, at my comp
uter, working, trying to perfect a report, to make it shine. The Senate was in recess, and the office had already cleared out for the night. Everyone was gone but the senator himself.

  I was nearly done with the final page when the door to his personal office opened. There was Halliday, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened. He was young for a senator, looked even younger. Single, though the tabloids regularly linked him to one actress or another.

  “You’re still here, Steph?” he asked, flashing his megawatt grin, that famous one. Swoon-worthy, one of the other interns called it. And swoon she did. I learned, my first week on the job, that at least three of the other interns had applied to the office because of Halliday’s looks, his charm, his proximity to fame. I’d applied because his politics matched mine, and because he was going places.

  I barely saw the grin; I was focused on his words. Steph. He knew my name. For an intern, that was quite the compliment. And it meant I was succeeding, that all this hard work was paying off. I’d already been given more responsibilities than the other interns combined, but I wanted more. And I wanted my work to be flawless.

  “Almost done, Senator.”

  He waited a beat, studying me, then spoke. “Where’s home for you, Steph?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Gateway to the West.” There was that smile again. His teeth were blindingly white, perfectly straight.

  “The one and only.”

  “And you’re a…freshman in college? Sophomore?”

  “Sophomore.”

  “And after college?” He leaned against the doorframe, hands jingling the change in his pockets.

  “Law school.”

  “Ah…another future lawyer. Just what the world needs.” He winked.

  “I’m guessing that wasn’t a popular opinion at Yale Law,” I said, with a smile.

  He tilted his head back, laughed. “Surely not. I hid my true feelings well.”

  I was having a conversation with Senator Halliday. A good conversation. The senator was still leaning against the doorframe, watching me, a smile on his face. I worked up the courage to press on. “About law school—I’m starting to research schools, and I’m wondering—”

  “If I’ll write you a recommendation letter?”

  “If I could ask for your advice on the application process.” I laughed. “But if you’re offering…” I said it lightheartedly, but inside I was holding my breath. This guy was a rising star in the party. In the country, no less. If Senator Halliday wrote me a letter of recommendation, I had the feeling I could get into any law school I wanted.

  “Give me ten minutes to finish up paperwork.” He flashed me that famous grin again. “Then come into my office. We’ll chat.”

  * * *

  —

  I look down and realize my hands are balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. I unclench them, can see indentions from the nails, a row of little half circles. The skin is broken in two places, blood pricking the surface. I hadn’t felt a thing.

  I focus on my surroundings. My kitchen. My home. That’s in the past, long in the past.

  I take a breath, in and out. The conversation with Scott comes flooding back.

  Zachary.

  I head upstairs, pause outside Zachary’s room, listen through the door. Music reverberates inside—if you can call it that. Deep, thudding bass; a barked string of angry lyrics. Expletives about the police. Can’t count on the Man. Justice comes at our own hands. I hate that he listens to this crap.

  I raise my fist to knock, then reconsider. When I went in there earlier, it was an impulsive move. I didn’t have ammunition to catch him lying, if that’s what he was doing. Or to prove that he was telling me the truth. Better to be patient this time. Better to gather the facts, and then interrogate my son.

  I let my arm fall to my side, then head for my own bedroom. Change my clothes quickly, pack up my work bag. Downstairs, I grab my Glock, slip it into my holster. Scrawl a note to Zachary on the notepad in the kitchen. Heading to the office. Be back soon. On the off chance he comes looking for me, he’ll see it. It’s as much contact as I want to have with him right now. Then I let myself out the front door, lock it behind me.

  The front stoop is well lit, even in the darkness. Security lights, ones I installed myself the day Zachary and I moved in. The neighborhood’s safe, but my job isn’t.

  I get into my work car—an unmarked sedan—and start off heading east, slowly. We live on a quiet, tree-lined street near Dupont Circle, brownstones on both sides, all tastefully maintained. It used to drive me crazy when people would speed down our street. There aren’t young kids here anymore, but I still drive well under the speed limit. Old habits die hard, I guess.

  At the end of the street, I take a left, press down harder on the gas. There’s a sound coming from the passenger seat; my cellphone, vibrating. I reach into my bag and pull it out, glance at the screen. Mom.

  I send the call to voicemail, drop the phone back onto the seat. I can’t do it right now. I know she’d hear the stress in my voice. I don’t want to deal with the questions.

  I need to make sense of what’s happening.

  Zachary made a mistake, sure. Fell in with the wrong crowd. That’s what he was hiding from me.

  The gun isn’t his. He told me so and I believe him.

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  —

  The FBI headquarters building is a giant boxlike structure, with rows of evenly spaced windows set deep into the concrete frame, almost like miniature prison cells.

  The parking garage is mostly deserted. A few cars here and there, rows of empty spaces, columns casting long shadows, a flickering light at the far end of the concrete expanse.

  I park close to the entrance, hurry into the building, bag slung over my shoulder. It feels heavy; heavier than it should. I’m intensely aware of what’s buried deep inside.

  I make my way into the lobby. The Bureau’s seal is on the wall, flanked by American flags. And two framed pictures of men in suits, headshots I pass every morning, every afternoon. Director J. J. Lee, green-eyed and solemn; Deputy Director Omar Jackson, a bright white smile.

  I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, head down the hallway to the secure spaces. My agents work in a closed-off section of the floor, one with restricted access. Our files are full of information on other Bureau employees; it’s really the only way we can operate.

  I badge through two heavy vault doors and quickly make my way through a darkened sea of empty cubicles to my office. I unlock the door and step inside, turn on the lights.

  It’s a large office. There’s a desk in the center, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one wall, filled with legal tomes. A row of lockable filing cabinets along another, which doubles as a table for my coffeemaker. A television mounted to the opposite wall. A wide window in front of me overlooks the cubicle bullpen where my agents work.

  When the computer boots up, I double-click the online case file system. The whole time, my mind’s working. Searching for files on a relative is prohibited, a serious offense. But I know this system. I know the loopholes. I know there’ve been agents who’ve exploited them, found what they wanted to find, and never technically broke any rules. We could never prove they’d done anything wrong, seen anything they shouldn’t.

  Freedom Solidarity Movement, I type into the search bar. It’s all about using a circuitous route, and there’s nothing prohibiting me from researching the group.

  After a few clicks at the top, I access the tagging system and run an entities search. People, I click, and the screen returns a long list of names, everyone who’s mentioned in a case dealing with FSM. I sort alphabetically, and scroll down to the M’s. Zachary Maddox. There it is. Case file 3-7659.

  I move the cursor back to the navigation bar
and run a different entities search, this one on subjects. I scroll down to 3-7659. I read the list of words there, tags for the case file. Email. Internet. Radicalization. Recruitment.

  “Okay,” I murmur to myself. I try to marshal my thoughts. There’s no open investigation on Zachary himself. He’s one of a long list of names that popped up in another case. This could definitely be worse. But something brought Scott to my door. What does he have on my son?

  I reread the tags for the case file. God, I wish I could see the file, see what’s in there. My gaze hovers on the search bar. It would be easy to do.

  But I can’t. I pull my eyes away and reread the tags. Email. Internet. Radicalization. Recruitment. It fits with what I thought, doesn’t it? Zachary got mixed up with the wrong crowd.

  Someone put that gun in his room.

  And I need to figure out who it was.

  I reach into my bottom desk drawer and pull out a forensic kit, the one I have stashed there, and a pair of gloves. I put on the gloves, then reach into my work bag, remove the gun, still wrapped in the paper bag. Gingerly, I open the paper bag and take out the Glock, lay it down on the desk in front of me. I start dusting the grip.

  As I do, my mind’s racing. If Zachary’s prints are on this gun, if he lied to me, then it’s over. I’m telling the local police what I found, letting them take it from here. There’s no good reason for my son to have a gun. None at all.

  I move the brush to the slide, start dusting there.

  But my gut feeling is that I won’t find his prints. That Zachary wasn’t lying, that it isn’t his gun.

  I finish dusting the gun, the exterior at least. I hold it up gingerly in a gloved hand, turn it this way and that, examine the surface.

  There’s not a single print. It’s wiped clean.

  Stomach in a knot now, I lower the weapon, pull out the magazine. It’s fully loaded, and there’s an extra round in the chamber. One in the chamber—just like I’d load a gun, like any law enforcement officer would. The guys on the street, the ones who sleep with guns under their pillows, they don’t.