Keep You Close

by Cleveland, Karen

I let the words echo in my mind. I hear how they sound. Crazy. Paranoid.

  But I know what I saw. Zachary had never heard of FSM. He never sent that email, has no involvement with an anarchist group.

  What other explanation is there?

  Maybe you’re seeing what you want to see, suggests the sly voice in my head. The psychiatrist.

  I shake my head. No. I know my son.

  She gives me a wry smile, one that reminds me of Zachary’s during our dinnertime conversation. Maybe he’s a good actor.

  A chill runs through me.

  I force her from my mind, and in her place comes a vision of myself, back when I was a new agent. Standing on doorsteps, telling mothers what crimes their sons had committed. The denials would come first, swift and insistent. We’d talk, and I’d start to see the flicker of truth reflected in their eyes.

  Then the defenses would go up.

  And more often than not, a very specific claim would come first. A counteraccusation, really. It’s a setup. He’s being set up.

  Who’s setting him up? I’d always ask. And why?

  Two questions they could never answer, not convincingly.

  Who’s doing this? mocks the voice in my head. The psychiatrist is back. I squeeze the steering wheel even more tightly, but that does nothing to dispel the jeer in her tone.

  Halliday. It has to be Halliday. He knows about Zachary. He knows there’s proof—

  The blast of a car horn pulls my attention back to the road. I focus just in time to see headlights, the hood of a car, rapidly approaching, head on. I’d drifted into oncoming traffic. I yank the wheel to the right and swerve back into my lane, just in time. The car whizzes past.

  I stop on the shoulder of the road. I sit shaking, terrified.

  Halliday knows there’s proof of what he did, all those years ago. Zachary is proof.

  Halliday’s warning me to keep silent.

  * * *

  —

  “Can I help you?” bleats an indistinct voice. A woman’s.

  I hold my credentials up to the camera. Frigid air is rushing in through my lowered window. “Steph Maddox, FBI.” I glare into the little glass circle, imagine he’s staring right back at me.

  I hear the wind lashing at my car. The first icy pellets strike the windshield.

  “Come on in,” I hear through a crackle of static. The gates purr open and I drive through.

  It’s a long drive, winding and treed. I press too hard on the gas. Slam on the brakes at the top, almost a mini parking lot, several luxury cars in a row. Pull in, askew, behind them, blocking them. Get out, head to the door. I knock on it, hard, anger traveling from fist to door.

  A woman answers. His wife; I know that from keeping an eye on the news, everything about him. From sitting outside his house, watching. She’s twenty-something years his junior. Married five years now. She’s in skintight workout clothes, her blond hair blown out and her face fully made up. Surprise flickers in her eyes.

  Before she says anything, Halliday rounds the corner behind her.

  All these years, hearing his name on the news, catching glimpses of his speeches—each time I’d been transported back to that horrible night, forced to relive it in my mind. I’d always thought, especially in those early days, that if I saw him again in person, I’d be terrified. But now here he is in front of me, tanned and fit and infuriatingly smug, and I’m not afraid. I’m angry.

  He lays a hand on his wife’s shoulder, speaks to her, keeping his eyes on me. “I’ve got this, honey.”

  She flinches at his touch, the smallest bit, scarcely perceptible. But she and I both know I notice it. She holds my gaze a moment longer than she needs to, then drifts away, wrapping her arms around her slender body.

  “Come inside,” he tells me.

  “We can do this right here, right now.” It’s freezing on the doorstep, but somehow I don’t feel it. “What the hell are you doing with my son?”

  He doesn’t even blink. “He came to see me.”

  “What do you want from us?”

  His brow furrows. “He came to see me. He sought me out—”

  “You’re setting him up.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  But I know what a good liar he is. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  He stares at me. Then he gives his head a confused shake. “Honest to God, I don’t.”

  I take a step forward, point a finger in his face. I can smell his aftershave, the same scent he wore that night so long ago. It makes me dizzy with rage. “You know about Zachary now. And you’re scared. But if you think you can blackmail me into silence, you’re dead wrong.”

  He doesn’t back away, not in the slightest. In fact, he smiles. “I’ve known about Zachary. For years.”

  The words shock me into silence. I have this vision of him sitting outside my home, peering through the windows with binoculars. I feel violated once again.

  “I’ve followed your career, Steph.”

  It’s the first time he’s spoken my name. I want to vomit.

  “If I’d wanted to blackmail you, why would I wait until now?”

  He knew. He knew about Zachary all along.

  But I was silent. Maybe he believed I wasn’t going to tell anyone. That I wasn’t a threat.

  Had that changed when Zachary showed up at his doorstep?

  “I’m not worried, Steph, because no one would believe you.”

  “DNA would prove it. Paternity tests.”

  “We had a relationship. It ended.” He says it evenly, without a trace of deception. His tone sends a chill through me.

  “Sure, you were an intern.” He shrugs. “But you were an adult. It was mutual. I was single. And you quit the internship and left town. Without telling me about the pregnancy.”

  “You and I both know what you did!”

  “Did you tell anyone that, Steph? Or are you just now remembering it, eighteen years later?” He shoots me a skeptical look, the same kind I know he’d give the cameras.

  My blood’s boiling now. It would be my word against his.

  No one will believe you.

  “If you want to come forward with this lie, this slander, you’re digging your own grave,” he warns.

  “You’re not going to win.”

  He cocks his head. “You say someone’s framing Zachary? Really? For what?”

  I just glare at him.

  He smirks. “You sure the kid’s as good as you think he is? As blameless?”

  “Go to hell.”

  That smile flickers on his lips again. “Well, it’s not me, Steph. I swear to you.”

  “Bullshit,” I rasp. But doubt’s beginning to creep through me.

  “Maybe it’s someone you’ve investigated. Ever think about that?”

  I think of sitting in the bar beside Hanson yesterday. I have a wife, kids. A mortgage.

  How many people have lost everything important to them, because of me?

  “Or maybe you were too successful in Chicago.” He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice. “Maybe you pissed off the wrong people.”

  * * *

  —

  The operation happened in the predawn hours, when the neighborhood was hushed and quiet. We took up our positions under cover of darkness, all around the house. I stood, heart pounding and breathing shallow, my hands tight on my gun, and waited for the command post to give us the all clear.

  When it came, SWAT agents hit the front door with the ram, broke it open after the second smack. More SWAT agents swarmed in, ready to clear the place. I was right behind them. This was my guy, my case. With the charges against him, Torrino was going away for decades—that much was a guarantee. And I wanted to be the one to slap on the cuffs, to see his face when it happened
. It had become personal.

  There was commotion by the time I made it through the door, something happening in the living room, which wasn’t right. Torrino and his wife were the only ones home; we’d had surveillance on the house for days. And it was the middle of the night; they were supposed to be upstairs in their bedroom.

  Torrino sat in a chair, facing the unlit fireplace. Two agents kept their guns trained on him. His wife sat weeping on the sofa, dressed in a flannel nightgown and wearing slippers.

  I took a step closer. He was dressed in a collared shirt and pressed pants. Sitting unmoving, placidly observing what was going on all around him. Observing me. It looked like he was expecting us.

  I walked briskly over. Informed him he was under arrest. Read him his Miranda rights. He didn’t move, his expression inscrutable. “Do you understand?” I pressed, when I finished Mirandizing him.

  He tilted his head, narrowing his pale eyes at me. “Maddox, right?” he said, and hearing my name come out of his lips sent a chill through me. “You should have listened, Miss Agent Maddox. You should have let it go.” There was the ugly shadow of a smile on his lips.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” he promised.

  Chapter 19

  Work has always been a place where I’ve felt like I’m on offense. I’ve been the one pounding down the field, heading straight for the goal, locking away the criminals. Now, I have the constant, unsettling feeling that I’m on defense. Fighting to stand my ground, to protect what’s most important to me.

  I pull into the parking garage and into my assigned spot, start walking to the building. The bag on my shoulder feels lighter today, and I can’t help but think of the Glock, the one I brought to work yesterday, the one that’s locked in my office safe.

  I walk through the lobby, catch sight of the pictures on the wall: Director Lee, Deputy Director Jackson. My pace slows, my eyes drawn to them. In my mind I see that image, just for an instant. The hand on her back, bathed in flashing red and blue. I turn away and continue walking.

  The cubicle bullpen is emptying out by the time I get there. A few agents say hello as I walk toward my office; I greet them back. It’s as if everything’s normal, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  I thought, when I showed up at Halliday’s door, I had it all figured out. That he was to blame. Now I don’t know what to think.

  My brain tells me it’s him. It’s too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Zachary had found him. He has everything to lose if the truth comes out. His career, his marriage, his reputation, everything.

  But deep down I’m not sure. Zachary doesn’t know the whole truth; Halliday must have seen that. And if the gun hidden in my son’s room was intended to warn us that we needed to stay silent, why isn’t Halliday ordering me to stay quiet? Why bother denying it?

  Besides, if he knew about Zachary all along, he’s had plenty of time to do this already. He seems genuinely convinced no one would believe me, that his lies would shield him, that his career would withstand the blow of a firestorm of gossip about an unwise affair with a foolish young intern.

  And it probably would.

  What if it’s Torrino? Is it the payback he promised? He’s in prison, but he still has reach. But why now, after all these years? Why now?

  Or it could be someone else.

  Maybe it’s someone you’ve investigated.

  I sit down at my desk, eye the filing cabinet below. In my mind I can see that file in the back, the unlabeled one….

  Maybe you pissed off the wrong people.

  My phone rings, jolting me back to the present. I look down at the screen. Mom.

  My finger hovers over the green button, lands on the red. She told Zachary about Halliday. An apology won’t cut it. Not this time.

  The ringing stops. I stare at the phone in my hand, half expecting her to call back. But the phone is silent.

  Focus, Steph.

  I take a loud breath, turn my thoughts back to Zachary, the situation at hand.

  I need to talk to Scott. I need him to know that Zachary’s not part of this.

  I push Mom out of my mind and dial.

  “He admitted to skipping class,” I say when I hear the call connect.

  “Steph—”

  “Immediately,” I interrupt. “No hesitation. And he wasn’t doing anything nefarious. He was at the gym.” The visit to Halliday’s house crosses my mind, but I shake off the image.

  “Steph,” Scott says again, and this time I let him continue. “Admitting to that isn’t in the same realm as admitting to what’s in that email. You know that. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It doesn’t make sense! None of it makes sense. Sending the email, never checking it again…”

  “So what are you saying?” he demands.

  The answer runs through my mind but doesn’t reach my lips. I hesitate, because I know the reaction it’ll elicit. But what choice do I have?

  “He’s being framed.”

  “Framed,” he repeats. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Set up.” I need him to understand that I’m serious. That this is the truth.

  “So you’re saying someone else sent that email?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone’s trying to make it look like Zachary wants to join a terrorist group.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone came into your house, created an email account in Zachary’s name, and sent the email?” Now his voice drips with skepticism.

  Not just someone, I think. A powerful someone who has every reason to want to silence me. Us. But I can’t say that, not yet, not until I’m ready to come clean about everything, change our lives forever.

  And not until I know for sure it’s him. No matter what he’s done in the past—I need to know that he did this.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  “Of course.”

  “Steph, dammit, think about it rationally. Put yourself in my shoes. It just doesn’t make sense. If someone wanted to hurt Zachary—or you—there are easier ways to do it.”

  “Put yourself in my shoes, Scott. What if someone accused one of your kids of something like this?”

  “It’s completely different.”

  “Why?”

  For the first time, he hesitates, and I know what he’s thinking. Because my kids are good. My kids wouldn’t do something like this.

  “I know Zachary. You know Zachary. He didn’t send that email.”

  Scott exhales heavily. “You can’t be objective, Steph. You’re way too close.”

  I picture the conversation with Zachary. The blank look on his face when I brought up the Freedom Solidarity Movement. He’d never heard of FSM. I’m certain he hadn’t. This isn’t about objectivity. It’s about the facts. I know my son.

  I need Scott to know the truth. And I need to stop playing defense. “So what you’re saying is that Zachary came home from school, created a new email account, sent an email requesting to join FSM, and then never checked that email account again. Does that make sense, Scott? And how did he know where to send his email, anyway? There’s no indication he ever visited any extremist forum.”

  “Not from that IP address,” Scott points out.

  It’s what I would’ve said if it were my investigation, but I’m not going to be deterred. “FSM’s email addresses change weekly.”

  Scott’s quiet. I sense I’m winning. He’s starting to realize the truth. I feel a rush of confidence.

  “It makes no sense, Scott. Admit it. Zachary would have checked for a response.”

  “Unless he realized he made a mistake.”

  I shake my head, even though deep down I know he has a point. The activity would be consistent with someone who sent an impulsive message, c
hanged his mind, didn’t care about receiving a response. Regretted the email, probably.

  “Kids make mistakes, Steph. They all do.”

  “Not like this. Not Zachary. You know him, Scott.”

  He sighs. “Steph, it’s just that I know you.”

  That wasn’t what I was expecting, not at all. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Maybe you’re imagining the Zachary he was when he was a kid. Maybe you’re thinking of people who’ve hurt you in the past, imagining they’re coming after you again. But, Steph—those people have moved on. I’m sure they have. I think you’re the only one who hasn’t.”

  The accusation pushes me from unsettled to angry, because he has no idea. No idea who might be coming after me, what they have to lose.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a soft breath. “Just give me a little longer,” I bargain. “I’ll find proof, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Find it soon.” There’s an icy pause. “I’ll talk to you later, Steph,” Scott says, and ends the call.

  But the line doesn’t disconnect immediately, almost like someone else is on it. Like someone else is listening.

  And then the line goes dead.

  Chapter 20

  I’m pacing the house, unable to settle. Someone was there, on the other end of the line; someone was listening. Finally I race upstairs and change into running clothes. Grab a windbreaker and my running belt, tuck my keys inside. I unlock the front door, pull it open, and—

  Mom’s on my doorstep. Bundled in her heavy plaid parka, the one she’s had forever.

  “What are you doing here?” I snap. I hate it when she shows up unannounced, and she knows it. Yet she’s been doing it for years, ever since she moved to Virginia.

  “You wouldn’t take my call.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you going to invite me in? Or do you want all your neighbors to know our business?”

  I glare at her, but reluctantly open the door wider. She brushes past me in a wave of perfume, removes her parka, holds it out to me.

  “Stephanie, honey, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” I don’t think I’ve ever been this furious with her. She had no right to meddle in my life, expose my secrets.