I stare at him and I know I don’t have a choice. I wish I had a second device. But the way he’s watching me, with that intimate, penetrating gaze, I have the feeling he’d know about that, too. That it wouldn’t matter how many devices I’d brought; he’d have somehow known.
I hesitate a heartbeat longer, then reach under my shirt. I hand the device over, fury and frustration brewing inside me.
He takes it from me. Powers down his window, launches the recorder into the river. It lands with a sickening splash. By the time the window is sealed shut again, the air in the car is frigid.
He holsters the gun. Puts the car into drive, pulls away from the curb. I watch the road in front of us, but I’m not seeing a thing. I’m trying to anticipate his next move. Desperate to figure out mine.
Jackson begins humming, softly. Some tune I don’t recognize, one that sounds somehow ominous. A shiver runs through me. I focus on my surroundings—we’re crossing the bridge into Virginia now. Where’s he going?
The streets grow familiar. We’re in a neighborhood, one I’ve been to before.
He turns onto Dylan’s street, and I see it. Cars, everywhere. Police cars, marked and unmarked. Lights flashing.
Jackson pulls to a stop along the curb. The house is ahead of us, and throngs of agents in raid jackets mill about.
He reaches for something that’s tucked between his seat and the center console and I freeze. He pulls it out, hands it to me. “Open it.”
I do as he says, knowing I’m about to die.
It’s a stack of photographs, black-and-white. The top one is Zachary. Outside the lobby of the hotel, shot from a distance, a telephoto lens. I recognize his posture, the way his backpack’s slung carelessly on his shoulder.
Jackson’s people have pictures. Someone was there at the hotel, waiting, photographing, gathering evidence. Was it the man with the tattoo?
I know how bad this is, what it means.
“I just want to give you a taste of what we can release.”
I turn to the next picture. Zachary’s half-turned, looking over his shoulder. His face is clearly visible.
“This isn’t proof of anything.”
“Are you sure?” he taunts, softly.
It’s almost hard to do it, to flip to the next picture. I don’t want to see it. But at the same time, I need to.
Another picture. Zachary and me, near the bank of doors, in a heated conversation.
A close-up of me, pointing away from the hotel, clearly telling Zachary to leave. The panicked look on my face is unmistakable.
“What exactly were you doing tonight, Steph? Because it sure looks like you knew what your son was doing there.”
The third photo. Me again, running toward the hotel.
“Time stamp shows that’s just before the first 911 call. How did you know?” He’s toying with me, like this is all a game, some dreadful game. “And of course there’s your call to Senator Shields’s security detail. To the tip line. Your visit to the late Dylan Taylor. How is that all going to look?”
He’s right. It will look like I’m just as guilty as my son.
“Time’s up, Steph,” Jackson says.
I wasn’t able to get us out of this. Time’s up.
“If we release those photos, it doesn’t matter what you say. No one would believe you. No one.”
Those words. Those words. The same ones he said to me when he broke into my home. The ones Halliday said to me, so many years before. The ones I believed, the ones that forced me to put up walls that changed my life.
Everyone I care about is in danger. I picture Scott in my mind. The deadly slick of ice beneath his wheels. Mom, face bleached with pain. That’s what happened when I told the truth. I close the folder. Then I reach out and place a hand on the door, steadying myself.
“It doesn’t have to come out. It’s up to you.”
Scott’s face fills my mind once again. And Director Lee’s. I see the Russian flag, imagine the people behind it, the ones orchestrating all this.
I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the images.
I feel Jackson turn toward me. I open my eyes, and he nods toward the folder in my lap. “Keep going, why don’t you?”
I look down at the folder. And I open it, because the temptation is too much, because I need to know.
This photograph is shot from a distance, darker than the first ones. It’s a location that’s unfamiliar, some sort of street corner. Zachary’s there, and a taller man, his face obscured. They’re in the middle of a handoff, the wad of cash clearly visible in Zachary’s hand.
“That’s your son buying the poison used in the attack.”
“Bullshit!”
He laughs softly.
I stare harder at the picture. It’s definitely Zachary. Knit cap, hooded sweatshirt. The Taurus is parked out front, on the street. A street sign’s visible. Walnut and Carver, I think. Northeast D.C. Surely it was doctored? I can’t be certain. But I’m certain it’s not what Jackson says it is.
Fear is paralyzing me, the terrifying realization that I underestimated what these people are willing to do to get their way.
I turn to the next picture, because I have to see everything they have.
The exterior of Dylan’s house, again at night. Front door open, Dylan inside. Zachary, on the porch.
“Zachary’s fingerprints are all over that house,” Jackson says, and the fear is all-encompassing now.
I don’t understand this. None of this makes sense.
Did they plant my son’s fingerprints in Dylan’s house? How long do I have before they claim they have evidence?
Jackson puts the car into drive. I take one last look at the house as we pull away from the curb. Agents, everywhere.
Are there really prints?
There’d be no record of Zachary’s fingerprints in the Bureau’s system. Not yet, anyway. But if he’s arrested, that would change.
“Keep going,” Jackson says.
I turn to the next picture. This one’s brighter, clearer. It’s Zachary. I recognize the location; it’s the landing outside the service door of the hotel. What’s he doing there?
And there he is, Dylan Taylor. They’re in the middle of a handoff. A paper bag this time.
The picture looks real. It looks genuine. It would convince a jury, wouldn’t it? Dylan and Zachary, at the scene of the crime, together. Exchanging something.
Were they really?
No. They couldn’t have been. This is fabricated, all of it.
But it’s good.
Oh God.
I stare sightlessly out the windshield, dimly aware that we’re on the route back to D.C.
“At noon,” Jackson tells me, “the evidence against Zachary will come out. Acquisition of poison, intent to kill U.S. government officials. Three homicide charges. First-degree murder, cut-and-dried. Unless you agree to work for us.”
He reaches for something, and I have this dizzy fleeting hope that it will be a gun. If it’s a gun, and he kills me, they’d leave Zachary alone, wouldn’t they?
It’s not a gun. It’s a cellphone. He hands it to me.
“Call the number programmed, Steph. Tell them to take care of it, and the prints will be erased from the Bureau’s system. Those pictures will never come out.”
They want me to call so they’ll have a recording of my voice. My voice, requesting a crime, committing treason. So they’d have proof to destroy me, if I ever dared cross them.
And they’d be turning me over to a handler, someone who’d give me more tasks in the future. This isn’t all about staying quiet, protecting Jackson. I’d be theirs, and they’d ask for more.
But they have Zachary’s fingerprints. I know what that means. Fingerprints are everything. Fingerprints mean a conviction.
; We’re turning into that wooded alley now, the one where my cruiser is parked. Jackson eases to a stop beside it.
“I know you love your son, and I know you wouldn’t betray him,” he says.
Betray my son for the greater good. Or choose the one person most important to me in all the world, and betray so many others.
“Noon,” Jackson says again. “If you haven’t made the call, those pictures go to the press.”
I hear the click as he unlocks the doors, and I know I’m free, but I know, too, that I’m more trapped than I ever have been.
* * *
—
I slide back into my own car, shut and lock the door behind me. I’m shivering uncontrollably. The SUV drives off, and then it’s just me, alone.
Noon tomorrow.
How can I do anything, prove anything, by noon tomorrow?
I reach for my phone on the passenger seat, to check the time.
Three missed calls.
All from the hospital.
I unlock the screen, dial the missed number. All I can picture in my mind is Mom. They’ve told her about Zachary. They’re never going to leave my family alone.
“This is Dr. Green.”
Dr. Green. The young one, the pretty woman who suggested Mom had been pushed down the stairs. “It’s Steph Maddox. I’m calling to check on—”
“Ms. Maddox,” she interrupts. “I’m so sorry.”
Does she know about Zachary, too? Did Mom hear this slander about Zachary and then blab to—
“Your mother went into cardiac arrest. It happens sometimes, after internal injuries like she sustained. We did everything we could…”
No.
“…but we weren’t able to save her.”
Chapter 58
In the dead of night, little is visible through the windows of the penthouse apartment. The Potomac is inky black; Washington, cloaked in darkness. Only a handful of sites are visible, illuminated like beacons.
Jackson takes off his jacket and lays it on the back of a low, stiff couch. His holster is visible at his hip; his badge catches the light. He walks to the window and looks out for several moments, then turns.
“I showed her the pictures,” he says.
Wes stands off to one side of the room and watches him. His tie’s loosened around his neck, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. “And?”
“I don’t think she believes it.”
Wes says nothing.
Jackson runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing in front of the windows. “We shouldn’t have been in such a rush. This would have happened eventually. Me as director.”
“Stop worrying.”
“What if she comes clean?”
Wes picks up a glass from a nearby table. He raises it to his lips, the ice clinking the only sound in the room, the only response to Jackson’s question.
“It’s all under control,” Wes says.
“I don’t see how. This is all so—”
“The boss knows what he’s doing.”
“Doesn’t make sense. The other two targets are—”
“Untouchable now. Protected. Think, my friend. Think ahead.”
The two stare at each other. Finally Jackson sighs and looks back out the window, down to the icy river below. “What if she tells the truth?”
Wes crosses the room, stands beside Jackson. He looks out at the city, at the illumination shimmering in the distance. “She won’t. She’d never do that to her son.”
“She might. Greater good and all that.”
The two men stand side by side, silently, staring out at the city below.
“Would that be the right call?” Wes asks.
“Probably. Don’t you think?”
Wes walks to the couch, sits. The chessboard’s in front of him. The play is further along now; they made the moves he thought they’d make. He gives the board a hungry look, his eyes roaming from piece to piece. This game, it’s all about thinking ahead. And the only piece that matters, in the end, is the king.
Chapter 59
There’s a low rumble of thunder in the distance, heavy clouds in the sky, as I park my cruiser along the curb in front of my home. A biting chill to the air, the kind that makes me wonder if the clouds will spill rain, or it’ll freeze and start spitting ice. The promise of spring feels like it’s been snatched away.
Mom. I sink down onto the bottom step and hold my head in my hands. It’s throbbing now, a pounding headache.
Oh, Mom…
My heart hurts. It’s like a piece of me has been ripped away.
How is this possible? How can she be gone?
I can see her smile. Her arms, open wide to me, enveloping me in an embrace. Giggling together at the dinner table, just the two of us. Back when we were close. Before Halliday, before I put up that wall. The one I never had time to tear down.
Time is precious, Stephanie.
Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I talk to her, when I had the chance? That accident—it should have been a wake-up call, an opportunity to set things right between us. And instead, I pushed her away, right until the end. Said terrible things, things I didn’t even mean. Now there’s no taking them back. There’s no apologizing. Time’s up.
She’s gone, and Scott’s gone, and Zachary’s on the verge of going to jail—or worse. I’ve never felt more alone, more hopeless, more terrified.
I hear footsteps and look up, and there’s a woman walking toward me on the sidewalk, heavy jacket over pajama pants, a fat dachshund waddling at her ankles. That new neighbor, three doors down. She’s peering at me with a concerned look on her face and I realize I’m sobbing. I struggle to my feet and stumble up the steps.
The buds on the cherry tree near the front door are round balls now, lighter pink in color. A sliver of silky petals is peeking out from a few of them. Tricked by that early blast of spring weather, unprepared for winter’s last stand. I want to tell them to stop, to wait, because it’s too cold now, and too wet, and they’ll never survive.
How is this happening?
Mom.
Scott. Zachary.
Z’s NEXT.
Jackson has somehow created those fake pictures. Zachary’s fingerprints are in the possession of the FBI.
Jackson has forged enough evidence to make sure my son goes to prison, and stays there.
And he has enough to make sure that I’m in prison, too.
I unlock the front door, check the alarm, punch in my code. I swipe my tears away and hesitate on the threshold a moment, listening. It’s quiet.
I need to tell the truth about Jackson. But every time I acknowledge this, I have a vision of Zachary in a prison jumpsuit. Of Alina, too terrified to eat. Zachary would never be safe in custody.
I need to keep him out of jail.
But at what cost?
I reach into my pocket for the phone Jackson gave me. All I have to do is make the call. Find the number that’s preprogrammed, press send, ask them to take care of it. Agree, in essence, to work against my country. To work for them. Seal my own fate, preserve my son’s future. His life.
Upstairs, Zachary’s bedroom door is closed. I rap my knuckles against it, softly, and when there’s no answer, I open it a crack. How is it possible he’s asleep? He’s in his bed, the sheets tangled around his long legs. I sit gingerly on the edge of his bed and watch his chest rise and fall, the way I have ever since he was an infant.
What if we never have the chance to grow closer, just like Mom warned? I never set things right with her. What if history repeats itself?
Tears sting my eyelids. I never should have shut Mom out. I should have opened up to her, bridged the divide between us, apologized for all the hurtful things I said. I should have told her I loved her.
Images from earlier i
n the night flash through my mind. The blood gleaming on Director Lee’s shirt, his lifeless eyes. The wails of his wife. His widow. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t force out the images. They’re etched in my brain; I’ll never be able to get rid of them.
Zachary stirs in his sleep, rolls over onto his side, toward me. I study his face, and I can see the boy who used to be in this bed. The one I’d read bedtime stories with, who’d wrap his arms around my neck so tightly when he whispered good night. The one whose forehead I’d feel when he was sick, the one I’d cradle in my arms when he’d had a nightmare.
It seems like those days were yesterday, and a lifetime ago. Everything has changed since then; nothing’s the same. Nothing can ever be the same again.
I reach over and touch his cheek, the spot where I used to leave good-night kisses. His skin is warm. I have the strange sense that it could be the last time I see him in his bed. The thought sends a torrent of fear ricocheting through me. Fear and desperation and anger. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.
I make my way down into the living room, collapse on the couch. There has to be a solution. There has to be some way to share the truth without endangering Zachary. But how? I have no idea how deep this goes. Yesterday I never would have dreamed that the CIA and Congress were infiltrated, certainly not to this degree.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know my next move.
I try to channel the psychiatrist, try to call her into my mind, but she won’t come. The chair where she sits is empty. I’m all alone, with no one to talk to, no one to turn to.
Zachary’s future is entirely in my hands.
I stare at the chessboard. We’re never going to finish this game, are we?
I have the strangest urge to throw something, to break something, just to see it shatter.
I settle for overturning the chessboard. Pieces fly everywhere, clatter to the floor.
Noise, upstairs. I go still.
Zachary’s door opening. Shit, I’ve woken him.
He pads downstairs. He’s in basketball shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and there’s a crease on his right cheek, from his pillow. He looks at the scattered rooks and pawns, then squints at me. “You okay?”
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