Keep You Close

by Cleveland, Karen

  I almost got myself out. Considered it, once. I was getting close to the leader of the branch of the mob I was investigating. Torrino. We had a shot at turning his right-hand man, or at least we thought we did. I interviewed him, tried to convince him to flip. Promised him immunity in exchange for testifying against Torrino. Thought he might do it, too. And then, in the interview room, when he was about to give me his answer, he leaned across the table toward me. His shirtsleeves were rolled up at the cuffs, and when he stretched forward I could see a tattoo underneath, on his forearm. Two crossed knives, forming an X.

  Let it go, he said, slowly and carefully, with a look that made fear rush through me.

  I thought about letting it go. Making up some excuse, getting myself off the case. It seemed like the safer thing to do. But I couldn’t let these criminals win. And I couldn’t leave the case to someone else. It was my responsibility. I needed to get them off the streets.

  Three months later it was takedown time. We’d flown in agents from around the region to assist. We had a fifteen-count indictment on Torrino. Federal racketeering, extortion, money laundering. Plans to arrest nineteen of his associates. Warrants issued for a total of thirty-two residences and businesses. It was set to be one of the biggest cases in recent history.

  I went home the evening before the operation to steal a couple of hours with Zachary. We ate pasta and ice cream and worked on a puzzle until I could see his eyes droop. He got into pajamas while I packed his overnight bag, and then we got into the car, both of us silent.

  He was asleep by the time we got to Patty’s. I lifted him out of his booster seat, and without fully waking, he wrapped his arms around my neck, curled his legs around my waist. He was heavy; he was getting so big. I carried him up to the front door.

  Maybe it was the cold air, or the movement, or something, but whatever it was, it woke him. “I don’t want to go,” he whimpered, his cheek buried against my shoulder. It was the first time he’d ever resisted, ever complained.

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  He wrapped his arms tighter around me, like he wasn’t going to let go, like I’d have to pry him off of me. “Please, Mommy?”

  “Honey, this case is really, really important,” I said, and the moment the words were out of my mouth I knew I shouldn’t have said them.

  “What about me?” he asked in a whisper.

  * * *

  —

  At three, I hear a bell ring. In the car, I sit up straighter. Moments later, kids start streaming from the buildings. I watch, hidden behind the sunshade, as they make their way to the parking lot.

  Finally I see him. Walking with someone, a slender dark-haired girl. Lila, I think. He’s in jeans and a gray hoodie, black bomber jacket over top, a backpack slung over one shoulder, smiling, chatting. The two of them stop beside a white Jeep, hug briefly. She climbs into the driver’s seat, and he walks straight for his own car, head bowed slightly. Unlocks the door, slides inside. Hasn’t even looked up, hasn’t noticed me.

  The taillights come to life and the car pulls forward out of the spot. I turn the key in my own ignition, carefully remove the sunshade, and pull out a few car lengths behind. I follow him out of the parking lot and onto the street, careful to keep several cars in between.

  3:30 tomorrow?

  I’ll be there.

  I’d traced the number, come up empty. It’s someone who wants to stay anonymous. John Doe. Someone whose identity Zachary wants to protect.

  The farther we go, the more surreal this seems. I’m tailing my own car, surveilling the child I raised, trying to learn more about the person I should know better than anyone in the world. It seems somehow immoral.

  He misses the turnoff for D.C., stays in Maryland, driving deeper into the suburbs. I keep my distance as the traffic thins.

  The Ford makes its way into a neighborhood, one with winding roads and long drives and homes barely visible from the street.

  A sick feeling is forming in the pit of my stomach. Because I’ve been here. I’ve been to this neighborhood. I know who lives here. I’ve driven by, sat outside, surveilled the house. Never logged it, of course. But couldn’t resist, not when he was this close. Not when I knew there was a criminal out there, on the street.

  Zachary slows, taking turn after turn. I slow, too, and keep my distance. We pass a woman pushing a stroller. An older man walking a fat white dog.

  Nothing feels real right now. Because I know where he’s heading. I know who he’s meeting with.

  He turns into a driveway blocked by wrought-iron gates. I hang back, pull off to the side of the street, idle there, some trees as cover. Then I reach into the backseat, pull a duffel bag up to the front seat. My surveillance bag. I unzip it, rummage around, come up with a pair of binoculars. Aim them at Zachary.

  He rolls down his window, leans out, says something into the speaker. A moment later, the gates begin to part, and when they’re fully open, Zachary drives through. The gates close behind him, and then the car disappears up the drive, out of my sight.

  From here, I can’t even see the house. Shaking with rage, I slam the binoculars down on the seat beside me.

  This is Halliday’s house.

  Zachary’s meeting with Halliday.

  Chapter 16

  There’s a strange ringing in my ears.

  Zachary knows Halliday’s his father.

  He must. There’s no other reason he’d be meeting with him.

  Does he know the whole truth?

  A shudder runs through me.

  No. There’s no way he’d know that. It’s not like Halliday would admit it.

  But what would Halliday say?

  And how did Zachary find him? I’ve never breathed a word. It’s been a sore point between us, a constant source of tension. He’s always asked about his father, for as long as I can remember. The older he got, the more it drove a wedge between us. I deserve to know, he’s always insisted.

  And I’ve always refused. Always stuck to some variation of It was a relationship I had in college, one that ended abruptly. He stood to gain nothing by knowing the truth. The truth would only hurt him, make him question everything. I wasn’t going to do that to him.

  There’s only one person who knows about Halliday, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth.

  Anger is churning inside me. I reach for my phone, find her number on speed dial, hold it to my ear. My hand is shaking.

  “Hi, Stephanie,” she answers almost immediately, cheery. I hear the radio playing softly in the background, a song from the sixties.

  “Why did you tell Zachary?”

  “What?”

  “Why?”

  “Tell him what? You’re not making sense, Stephanie.”

  “Cut the crap, Mom. About Halliday. You told him. Why?”

  “Halliday? He found that out on his own, honey.”

  On his own? “That’s not possible.”

  “He used one of those DNA tests. You know, the ones where you mail off your saliva?”

  How does she know this? How does she know this, and I don’t?

  “He didn’t find his father’s name, but some other relatives. He figured it out from there. He’s a smart boy, that Zachary—”

  “He told you all this?”

  “Yes. I think he wanted to share it with someone—”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him he was right, honey.”

  Shock gives way to betrayal, slowly at first, then morphs into anger in a crushing, overpowering wave. “How could you do that?” I can hear the tremor in my voice. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He asked me not to! I assumed he’d tell you on his own. This was ages ago. He never did?”

  The words feel like a dig. Like she’s highlighting just how distant my son is from
me. “How long ago?” It’s the investigator in me talking. I need details.

  “I don’t know. A year?”

  A year ago? Zachary has known about Halliday for a year? But that doesn’t square with the texts I read. He’s only been meeting with Halliday for a couple of months. None of this makes sense. “It was not your place to tell him. Or to keep this from me.”

  “Stephanie, it’s fine—”

  “It’s not fine! You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have—”

  “You think?” I jeer.

  “Stephanie—” Her voice trembles. I see a car pulling down the drive. Zachary’s car. I watch it, heart hammering.

  “Look, honey, I’m truly sorry. Really I—”

  I press the red button, end the call mid-sentence. Drop the phone on the passenger seat. I don’t want to hear her apology. It’s not enough; it’ll never be enough.

  The gates swing open, and the Taurus noses out onto the street. I can see Zachary in the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t look my way, doesn’t see me.

  The phone vibrates on the seat beside me. I reach over and press the red button, reject the call.

  Halliday knows about Zachary. He’s meeting with my son. Talking with him. Influencing him.

  I watch the road. Wait another couple of seconds, then pull out a safe distance behind him.

  I tail him out of the neighborhood and onto the main roads. He gets on the highway and heads toward D.C. I continue to follow, blindly, my thoughts a jumbled mess. And a short time later, he’s winding his way through the northwest part of the city, toward our home.

  He pulls alongside the curb in front of the house, and I park behind him. He climbs out of the car, gives me a wave.

  I slam the door shut and start walking up the brick path to the front door, my breath crystalizing in icy puffs. He falls into step behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him glancing over at me, a worried expression on his face.

  We step inside the house, peel off our jackets. He shuts and locks the door behind us while I punch in the code to silence the alarm.

  “Sit,” I say, walking into the living room. He follows, sits down on the love seat.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I say.

  “You followed me?” The color has drained from his face.

  “Tell me, Zachary.”

  Embarrassment flickers in his eyes, like he knows he’s done something wrong. But the expression quickly shifts, becomes defiance. “I wanted to know him.”

  It takes all my strength to speak calmly. “He is not someone worth getting to know.”

  “That’s my decision to make, isn’t it?”

  “How did he react? When you met him?” I’m treading carefully here. It feels like my life is studded with landmines.

  “He was surprised.”

  “He didn’t know about you.”

  “Right.”

  Silence. I try to think of how best to phrase the next question. “But he remembered me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Why do you want to know?” he tosses back at me.

  I shrug, helplessly.

  “That you had a relationship. That it ended,” my son says bluntly.

  He’s watching me intently, too intently. I dare not look away. “It’s in the past, Zachary.” With all my heart, I wish I knew what was going through his head right now. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  I wish I knew what I was thinking. My thoughts are a mess.

  Halliday knows about Zachary.

  Halliday’s back in our lives.

  I stare at the chessboard. And the seed of an idea lodges in the far reaches of my mind, so far that I don’t know what it is, what it’s going to become. But I can feel it there, like a shard of glass in my shoe, an irritant, something that doesn’t belong.

  “Tell me about skipping class.”

  Zachary blinks, like he’s surprised by the abrupt change in questioning. Or maybe just surprised that I know about the absences? “It was just English class. Last period.”

  “How often?”

  “A bunch. Five, six times.”

  He sounds sheepish now. He’s telling the truth; at least I think he is. But he’s also telling me what I already know, what’s no doubt in his school record. “Why?”

  “Fridays are ‘reading days.’ We’re just supposed to sit at our desks and do our reading assignments. It’s a waste of time.”

  There was no hesitation in the response. Still, I watch him carefully. “So you left.”

  He nods.

  “What’d you do instead?”

  “Went to the gym. Lifted weights. Then got on a bike, did my reading while I was working out.”

  The explanation makes sense. It sounds like Zachary. It sounds like something I’d be tempted to do, myself. “Shouldn’t the school have notified me?”

  He blinked. “They did. I signed the paper for you.”

  “You mean you forged my signature.”

  He says nothing. A typical reaction during interrogations: an unwillingness to look at me, to admit the truth. But at least he’s not lying.

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Seemed easier that way.”

  I consider my response, try to keep the anger out of it. “You made a mistake.”

  He finally glances up at me. “Yeah.”

  “And instead of coming clean, letting me help, you made another.”

  “I guess.”

  The seed is starting to take root, burrowing into my brain. I try to ignore it, try to deny it space to grow. Because I know it’s the sort of idea that’s going to overtake everything, make it impossible to consider any other possibility. And right now I need to be sure.

  He glances at the clock, but I’m not ready to be done with this conversation, not yet.

  “Zachary, did you ever send an email requesting to join an anarchist group?”

  “An anarchist group? Why are you asking me that? Jeez, Mom—first it’s a gun, and now you’re talking about some nutcase terrorists? Are you crazy?”

  “If you made a mistake—”

  “I didn’t!”

  I stare at the chessboard, touch the miter on the bishop’s head, struggling to process my thoughts. Zachary was meeting with Halliday. That’s all he was hiding from me. That’s why he looked so guilty when I first confronted him. Sadness creeps through me, that my son would keep such a secret, that Halliday’s still poisoning our lives all these years later.

  “I gotta go to work,” Zachary says.

  I nod, eyes still on the chess pieces. I hear him grab his keys, the front door banging shut.

  The seed of an idea is an ugly weed now, taking over, remorselessly digging its way into every crevice of my brain.

  That gun wasn’t Zachary’s. That email wasn’t Zachary’s. My son’s not involved in this.

  But who is trying to make it look like he is?

  Chapter 17

  The man walks from the direction of the Capitol, hands shoved into the pockets of his down jacket, head bowed against the cold. He has a cap pulled low on his brow, mirrored shades beneath. No one gives him a second glance.

  A black messenger bag is slung diagonally across his body, shoulder to hip. He walks at a brisk pace up the incline to the Washington Monument, his breath escaping in little white bursts.

  At the top, a frigid gust of wind whips through. Dozens of flags unfurl, stars and stripes vivid against the gray sky. He watches them flap, almost violently, then heads off to the right, sits on the end of a low bench, his back to the monument.

  A single occupant sits on the other side of the bench. An older man in a long wool coat, collar turned up. There’s a fur-lined trapper hat on his hea
d, flaps covering his ears, the sides of his face. He doesn’t turn to the newcomer, doesn’t move, just stares straight ahead.

  The younger man pulls off the messenger bag, sets it down on the bench between them. There’s another bag already there, a black one, nearly identical. The two bags lean against each other, touching.

  “Getting colder,” says the younger man.

  “Indeed.”

  A family walks by. Mother, father, two young children waddling in puffy coats. The men watch them until they’re out of earshot, on their way down the hill toward the war memorial.

  “How long are you here?” asks the younger man.

  “Long as I need to be.”

  There’s a low growl in the distance, one that’s quickly escalating. A helicopter thunders by overhead, low and fast. Military green. Marine One, maybe. The older man watches with a look of quiet contempt.

  The sound fades away. In the distance, a dog barks.

  “There’s a problem,” the younger man says, still staring straight ahead.

  At this, the older man finally turns. His pale blue eyes are full of reproach. “I’m aware.”

  Silence settles around the two. Another burst of wind lashes through, with a howl, sends the flags flapping. Dark clouds are gathering on the horizon. The monument grounds are slowly emptying.

  The older man gets laboriously to his feet, reaches for a bag, the one that’s farther from him. He casts a glance at the other bag, still on the bench. “What you need is here.”

  The younger man lays a hand on it, pulls it close. His hand is trembling, just a little.

  The older man turns and leaves without another word. He never looks back.

  Chapter 18

  I get into my car and start driving, in a daze. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Yet another, heavier one has taken its place. My son didn’t make any sort of terrible mistake. He’s not involved in any criminal activity.

  He’s being framed.