* * *
—
Zachary announces he’s going to meet up with some friends after dinner. It’s a Friday night; I shouldn’t be surprised. But it makes me long, just the same, for the days when he was too young to go out. When Friday nights would just be the two of us. Movie nights, usually. I can still hear his high-pitched giggle at the antics of some character. I never quite knew what he was laughing about, never really watched with him, was usually on my laptop, or my mind was still at work.
I wish I could go back and do it over again. Snuggle with him, laugh with him. Really, genuinely laugh. Pay attention. Be there for him.
I head to the hospital. Mom’s sitting up, reading one of those cozy mysteries she likes so much, the ones with cats on the cover. She smiles when I walk in, sets her book aside. I kiss her, then sit in the chair beside her.
“You look so much better. How are you feeling?”
“Good, actually. Sounds like they might be letting me out of here in a few days.”
“I heard. I’m glad.” I think of her heading back to that condo, alone. “You need to come stay with Zachary and me for a bit.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose! I’ll be fine on my own.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition. You’re my mother. And your grandson would love it.”
“Yeah, but…” She shrugs, then offers me a tight smile. And I know we are both thinking about the terrible things we said to each other. “Thanks, honey. I’ll think about it.”
Mom fingers her book, but doesn’t pick it up. I hear a cart roll by in the hall. Someone’s dinner, no doubt.
“Where’s Zachary?”
“Out with his friends.”
“Things okay between the two of you?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
She frowns like she doesn’t believe me. “And how’s work?”
“Fine.”
It’s the usual exchange. How’s work? Fine. But this time I can see in her eyes that she wants to say more, that there’s more coming. Don’t do it, Mom.
“How are the hours?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, too defensively.
“You know what I mean. Are you still working around the clock?”
“I work hard.” I say it tersely, the kind of tone that should end the discussion. I can tell from her reaction it’s not going to succeed.
“Zachary will be leaving for college so soon.”
Don’t do this again. “What’s your point?”
“Just that maybe you ought to take it easy this summer, honey.”
It’s the endearment that provokes me. Just for once, she could understand how important my job was. How necessary. And after our argument at my house, after I finally told her the truth, she should understand why it’s so important. “Say what you really mean, Mom. I work too much. I don’t spend enough time with my son.”
“Well, you don’t.”
We glare at each other. Two nurses stop outside the door, complaining about the patient in 306, who threw his tray at an orderly.
“It’s just that—look, at the end of your life, Stephanie, you’re going to regret it. You’ll regret that you don’t have a better relationship with your son.”
“He’s a teenager, for pity’s sake, Mom. There’s plenty of time to get closer.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Of course I do!”
She shakes her head. Her fingers are pleating the sheet again. She’s going to say something I don’t want to hear, and the anger bubbles up inside me. “You don’t, Stephanie. And if you don’t now, you never will.”
The anger’s reached a boil now. “Why do you always feel the need to kick me when I’m down?”
“Oh, honey, I’m not kicking you when you’re down! I’m trying to help you.”
“By constantly telling me that I’m a terrible mother?”
“You’re not a terrible mother, Stephanie! I’m not saying that. I would never say that. I’m saying you don’t know him.”
“And you do?” I hear the sneer in my tone. And I don’t care.
She blinks, wounded by my sarcasm. “Yes. Yes, I do. Better than you. When he’s in trouble, Stephanie, he comes to me, not you.”
The words feel like a blow, like they physically hurt. “What are you talking about?”
“He does. Like that time he needed money. He didn’t go to you. He came to me.”
That time he needed money? What’s she talking about? I rack my brain and can’t think of that ever happening. But I can’t exactly admit that, can I?
“Look, honey, I’m just saying you need to work on your relationship with Zach. He needs to feel like he can trust you.”
Frustration is making it hard for me to think straight. Could that be true? Does Zachary trust her more than me? Does he love her more than he loves me?
“You need to rethink your priorities.”
“I need to go.” There’s a pulse beating so loudly in my brain that I’m dizzy.
“Stephanie—”
“Quit butting into my life, Mom. Just for once stay the hell out of my life.”
* * *
—
The radio is off, and the only sound in the car is the engine hum. There’s a storm of thoughts in my head, one I’m trying to sift through, make sense of.
I can’t focus on that conversation with Mom. I can’t think about it. I can’t acknowledge that she might be right, that I might have made some terrible mistakes, ones I can’t fix.
And so I think of what I can fix, what I need to fix.
Jackson. The deputy director of the FBI is doing this to my family, tearing it apart, threatening to destroy it.
I can’t forget the crestfallen look on Zachary’s face at the restaurant. That bastard Jackson did something to make sure Maryland would reject my innocent son.
It’s another message. Another warning. Jackson’s letting me know he has the power to destroy Zachary’s future.
And of course he does. His people got to the accused sleepers in prison. Convinced them to trade a chance at freedom for life behind bars. My life and Zachary’s are so insignificant compared to that. So very, very insignificant. If they can do that, what is the limit to what they can do?
It’s dark by the time I arrive home. I park and turn off the engine. But I don’t move. The Maryland rejection—that was because I visited Alina, wasn’t it? The leaked threat was because I visited Barker. Digging around is having direct consequences—ugly consequences—for my son.
How much worse would it get if I actually told the truth? I didn’t even want to consider the possibility.
The fact that he has me trapped, that I have no choice right now but to be silent, makes fury blaze inside me.
I force myself to pull the keys from the ignition and get out of the car. Distracted, I trudge to the front door. I unlock it and step inside. It takes a fraction of a second to realize there’s no beeping from the alarm system. It’s deathly quiet.
Another fraction of a second, and then a voice calls from the darkness.
“Stay right where you are.”
Chapter 43
I’m intensely aware of the gun holstered at my hip. Of him, behind me. Close. I can feel his presence. I can picture exactly where he’s standing.
“Do not reach for the gun,” Jackson says, like he can read my mind. “You are going to slowly raise your hands above your—”
Like hell I will. I pivot toward him, my right hand reaching for my gun and my left arm rising in a blocking maneuver, and I’m stopped, almost instantly, before I can fully turn, before I can grab the gun.
He has a hand on each of my arms, a powerful hold. He anticipated my moves, knew exactly what I was going to do. And it dawns on me, an instant too late: he knew because he was train
ed precisely the same way I was.
I’m breathing hard. His fingers are digging into me, keeping me immobile. I can feel his strength; I know there’s no breaking away.
I look down at his hands on my arms. He’s wearing thin latex gloves. There won’t be prints on anything.
Just then he yanks my arms back, transfers both my wrists into one of his hands, and slides my gun from its holster. He lets go of my arms, but by then I’m powerless, and we both know it. Without my gun, I don’t stand a chance against him.
What do you want? my mind is screaming.
“I thought it was time we spoke face-to-face.” His face is grimly serious, the way it was that day in the row house. He’s that person now, not the grinning, affable man in his headshot. He looks threatening.
My eyes drift down to the gun in his hand. My mind is spiraling, unwilling to surrender, and then it settles on the butcher’s block in the kitchen, all those sharp knives inside. A tingle of anticipation runs through me. A knife’s no match for a gun. But I need something to defend myself, and a knife’s better than nothing.
He watches me. It’s an unsettling look, like he can read me. He’s been trained to do that, though, hasn’t he?
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
He gives his head the smallest of shakes, an annoyed one, like I don’t have the right to ask questions, like he’s in charge here, even though he’s in my home.
He’s not in charge. I won’t let him bully me into submission. “What do you want?” I ask again.
“Say nothing. Let it go.”
This isn’t just to buy my silence. I’ve been silent. “What else? I know there’s more.”
“There’s always more,” he agrees.
I glare at him, but all I really see is the image in my mind, the knives in the kitchen. I envision the best way to dart to the counter, what he’s likely to do in response. Go after me, I know; that’ll be his instinct. But I’ll have the element of surprise, and he won’t have time to think through the smartest response. And that means I’ll have a knife before he can draw a gun. I’ll be able to take the weapons, restrain him, get the authorities here, let them see he’s in my house, threatening me.
My heart’s pounding. I need to do this; I need to make my move.
“The knives are gone,” he says. “I removed them.”
The words make me go cold. He knew what I was going to do. How did he know what I was thinking?
“What else do you want from me?” I take a step forward, toward him, toward the door.
He cocks his head. “I need you on my side, Stephanie.”
“Meaning?” Another step forward.
This time he takes a step back. “You have an important position. Internal investigations. If anyone raises suspicions about me, you’ll shut it down, and you’ll let me know.”
“You want me to protect you.” The words make complete sense.
“Think of it as protecting your son, if you want.”
The mention of Zachary makes my stomach hurt. “And if I don’t, you’ll try to make it look like he’s plotting a terrorist attack.”
He laughs, softly. “Not try, Steph. He’ll be convicted. He’ll be in prison for a very long time.”
In my mind I picture Alina. Rail-thin, in that oversized jumpsuit. The chilly box of an interrogation room where we spoke. But I wouldn’t even have that with Zachary, would I? We’d probably have to talk through plexiglass.
“We have plenty more on him. And on you, too.”
Me? What do they have on me? And more importantly, what else do they have on Zachary?
“The burner phone, the call to the tip line. Interesting decision on your part.”
In my mind I see the Suburban, the headlights sweeping toward me. “I had to do something.”
“What you did was create proof you knew about a plot. Your son’s plot. Which you aided and abetted.”
Aided and abetted. Oh God.
“You can’t prove a thing.” I picture the Suburban again, the onrushing headlights. There’s no way, if he was at the wheel, that Jackson could have seen what I did, captured any proof. He was too far away.
“Oh, but I can.” He transfers my gun from his right hand to his left, then reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cellphone. Swipes the screen with his thumb, brings up a picture, turns the phone so I can see it.
It’s me, crouched down by my tire, wedging the burner phone underneath.
Shit.
How did he capture that? He must not have been the one driving the Suburban. He must have an accomplice.
He has proof I bought that phone, made that call, destroyed the evidence. Proof that I knew about this plot, kept it hidden.
“You’re connecting the dots, aren’t you?” He looks amused.
I glare at him. “And if I do what you say?”
“Your kid goes off to college, enjoys his life. You do, too.”
This time, in my mind, I see Barker. The photographs on his mantel, the happy family. I try to push the image away. In its place I see Scott, loading frames into the cardboard box. The snapshot of his kids, smiling. They’re in Omaha, but they’re together. They’re safe.
God, I want that. I want with all my heart for Zachary to be safe, and happy, and for life to go on as usual. All I’d have to do is let Jackson know if he’s being investigated. Protect him.
“I know who you’re working for,” I spit.
“Do you?” His tone mocks.
It still doesn’t make sense, all this effort to set a trap around Zachary, to use him as bait to get me to shut down investigations. It’s too complicated.
And it’s not just about protection. I know how these people work. If they got their claws into me, if I agreed to do what Jackson’s asking, it wouldn’t end there. There’d always be more.
“I could come clean,” I say. “About everything.”
“Oh, you know better than that.”
My gaze flickers to the alarm system beside the door. I’ve moved closer to it, unbeknownst to him. Close enough to reach the panic button, blinking green.
I lunge for it, press hard. The green light changes to red, and I know that somewhere, someone’s calling 911 on my behalf. The police will be here any minute. A tremor runs through me, and I don’t know if it’s relief or fear. But at least I’ve done something.
“Bad move.” The way he says the words—it chills me. “What exactly are you going to tell the cops?”
He reaches for the door handle, then turns, and his expression is cold, ruthless. It’s the same warning look he shot me in that row house, years ago. “No one would believe you, Steph.”
* * *
—
When the door closes, I reach for my phone. Call the alarm company, tell the operator it was a false alarm, that I don’t need the police. The panic button served its purpose, didn’t it? Jackson left my home. And I proved I’m willing to fight back.
Still, those words are lodged in my brain, running on an endless loop. No one would believe you.
Jackson has proof I called in the threat. Which means I had some sort of evidence and didn’t turn it in. It’s not just Zachary anymore who’s in danger of going to jail. It’s me, too.
He wants me to stay quiet and protect him. And in exchange, Zachary’s future remains bright.
Or I can tell the truth, and know that both of us are going to prison.
He’s trapped me.
I want more than anything to protect Zachary. But staying quiet isn’t the best way to do it. I know that, deep down. I’ve always known that, since the day Halliday tried to destroy my life.
If I’m silent this time, Jackson wins.
Chapter 44
Two hours later, I’ve installed cameras around the front door, inside and out. Covert au
dio recording devices, in case he spots the cameras. A motion detector that sends an alarm straight to my phone. If Jackson comes back, I’ll be ready.
Another listening device is on me, wrapped around my body, under my shirt. I tested it, made sure it works. I’m always going to be wearing it from now on. I know how to find the power button through my clothes, discreetly.
I’m feeling confident. Prepared. Next time I see Jackson, I’m going to get the proof I need. I’m going to get him sent to jail.
He’s not going to get what he wants. Not this time.
Chapter 45
Saturday passes in a blur. If not for the cloud hanging over our heads, it would have seemed like any other. In the morning, I went grocery shopping, picked up the dry cleaning, went for a long run. Zachary slept in, spent a few hours working—coding, on his laptop, at the desk in his bedroom. I tried in vain to keep my mind off of Jackson, and the slides, and the fact that my son’s future is hanging in the balance.
Sunday morning I drove to Marta’s apartment in McLean, near Langley. Knocked on her door. No answer. Called her cell again. Voicemail full. Marta travels a lot, for work. If she’s out of the country, she might not have her personal cell. Or she might just not want to talk to me, still. She’s tough; I think she’s okay. Still, the seeds of worry start to grow.
It’s Sunday evening now, and Jackson hasn’t come back. I hate that I’m protecting his secret, knowing this awful truth about the Bureau’s number two. But with the wire, with this plan, I feel like I’m finally fighting back. He’ll be back, I know he will. The Bureau taught me the skills to lay a trap for those who think they’re above the law. I’m ready for his return.
It’s just a little longer; I’ll tell the truth soon.
Zachary and I are having takeout from the Mexican place a few blocks away. Burrito bowls and tacos. He’s telling me about a concert planned for August, downtown. That group he likes, that one that’s always railing about the police.
“So can I go?” he asks.
“It’s in August. Can we talk about it then?”
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