Cold Harbor

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “Night.”

  Out in the service corridor, Gibson secured the cell door and leaned against the wall. He admired how Ogden had played it. He’d been both good and bad cop—hard and unforgiving, then bearing a ray of hope. Not an easy line to walk, but Ogden had made turning himself in sound like the smart play. Gibson agreed in principle. But he knew that if he walked into Langley he’d never see the light of day again. He’d have to figure something out.

  After they got George.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Gibson sat in the back of the Nighthawk Diner and stared blankly at the laminated pages of the menu. After leaving the power plant, he should have driven straight back to Reston, but he needed time to think. He also needed to ask Toby Kalpar one last favor. The box of keepsakes that Toby had salvaged from his old apartment sat on the banquette beside Gibson. He opened it and took an inventory. Satisfied everything was there except for the pictures of Ellie that he’d kept for himself, he closed the box’s flaps and went back to the menu.

  His summit with Damon Ogden had left him somber and reflective. He hadn’t expected a miracle, and Ogden hadn’t told him anything that he didn’t already suspect, but somehow hearing it aloud had crystalized his awareness that he had no outs left. Like a gambler down to his last dollar, he looked back on the chain of bad bets on long odds that had led him to this precipice and knew there was no way to get back what he’d lost. What he ought to do was take that last dollar back off the table before he lost it too. Not chase bad money with good.

  Speaking of which, his hack today had violated a raft of statutes. Moreover, he hadn’t even broken the laws because he thought it might get him home to Nicole and Ellie. The truth was, there hadn’t been a way home for a long time. There might never have been one, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping. Hendricks had once warned him about the danger of hope. Hope was a cancer, Hendricks had said. A cancer that gnawed a person down to the bone. At the time, Gibson had dismissed the advice as self-serving cynicism. But he realized now that Hendricks hadn’t meant all hope. Some hope was essential. Hendricks had meant the kind of hope that kept a person from accepting a hard truth. Hope that kept people from finding closure and moving on with their lives. The hope that a missing child might turn up alive and well after a decade. That your ex-wife might have an uncharacteristic change of heart. Or that the ones you loved would not suffer for your sins.

  At this point, there was no way back to Ellie. He accepted that now. And given what he’d done and the consequences yet to be faced, he knew it to be for the best. He wiped at his eyes. It was a painful, heartbreaking thing to know that you were not in your own child’s best interests. A bitter thing to accept about yourself when your biology screamed that she needed you to survive. But it was the other way around, wasn’t it? He’d forfeited the right to argue differently.

  So he’d helped Jenn because he could and because she needed him. Jenn was also family, not the kind that you were born into but the kind you built for yourself.

  Duke snorted. “They’re always special, aren’t they? Suzanne. Birk. Jenn Charles.”

  “And you,” Gibson said. “You were the first. Don’t forget that you started all this.”

  His father had a point, though. Didn’t Gibson always find a rationalization for how his wrongs added up to a right? Some justification to make things worse for himself. He’d been doing it since he was a boy, when he hacked Senator Benjamin Lombard. And again costing his family dearly when he’d joined the hunt for Suzanne Lombard, and later to help Judge Hammond Birk. Damon Ogden was only the icing on the cake. Yet here he went again, making things worse for himself. Strange thing was, even knowing he was doing it, he saw no way to stop himself. He would help Jenn no matter the cost.

  After all, they couldn’t give him the death penalty twice.

  So he had come to the Nighthawk to draw up his last will and testament. Such as it was.

  When the waitress took his order, Gibson asked if Toby could stop by his table. Even if the Nighthawk was slammed, Toby always had a nod for Gibson when he came through the door. Toby had barely acknowledged him today. It had left him anxious, and when the food came, he picked over it, appetite gone. Toby slid into the booth while Gibson was paying the check. They stared at each other across their burned bridges. Toby’s eyes held the weary gloss of a parent who’d changed the locks on his own child. Gibson started to speak, but Toby cut him off, his face hard and remote.

  “The police came to my house. Asked to see the room where you slept. We were given a number to call if you came in.” Toby turned a business card over in his fingers before handing it to Gibson. It belonged to Detective Jim Bachmann. On the back was written a cell phone number.

  “What about?” Gibson asked.

  “As if I would know. I am just some trusting fool. Why would I know anything?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He stops by almost every day now, your detective,” Toby said.

  “Has he been by today?”

  “No, not today.”

  “Did you? Call him?” Gibson asked.

  “No. Should I have?”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “What have you done, Gibson?”

  In the past, Gibson had confided in Toby only with a sanitized, network-television version of events. Whether that was to protect Toby or Toby’s perception of him, Gibson couldn’t say. Toby had always had a hopeful indulgence for Gibson’s impulsiveness. As if Toby saw something in him that Gibson himself did not. That faith, from someone so fundamentally good, had always made Gibson optimistic about the future. It was hard not to want to live up to Toby Kalpar’s expectations. Gibson could see in Toby’s expression that he had not, and more than that, he had finally exhausted his friend’s considerable patience. This time there was no sanitized version. He’d crossed a divide, and not even Toby Kalpar would be able to find a silver lining.

  “Why did you come?” Toby asked when it became clear Gibson would not answer his question. “Clearly it is not for more useless advice.”

  “Toby, I—”

  “Please do not. What is it you want from me?”

  “Would you keep this for me?” Gibson indicated the box. “If Ellie ever comes looking for me, will you give it to her? I want her to have it.” He searched Toby’s face. “Would you do that for me?”

  Toby looked at the box a long time before meeting Gibson’s eyes. “No. I will not involve myself with this any longer. I cannot.”

  Gibson nodded and couldn’t stop. He let out a whistling sigh. “I understand. Sure. Probably for the best.”

  He counted out money to pay the check and gathered up his things. Toby looked away into the middle distance. Gibson stood and rested the box on the corner of the table. Toby had not moved.

  “Thank you,” Gibson said. “For everything. I’m sorry I let you down.”

  “He is here,” Toby said.

  In the reflection of the window, Gibson saw Detective Bachmann speaking to Sana. She stood so that Bachmann’s back was to them, although the detective glanced around as they talked.

  Gibson and Toby looked at each other. Toby’s face was a mask to him. Gibson held his breath.

  Toby said, “Go out through the kitchen. The back will be unlocked. He won’t see you. Go quickly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Toby nodded once to acknowledge Gibson. “Do not come back.”

  Gibson walked aimlessly for blocks, lugging his cardboard box. His Yukon, tucked into a back corner of the Nighthawk parking lot, was trapped until Bachmann left. It was the second time someone he cared about had told him to go away and stay away. First Nicole, now Toby. His ex-wife and his ex-champion. A smart man would take the hint.

  He paused outside a FedEx office. Inside, the lights were still on, and a sleepy employee leaned against the counter. Gibson went inside and asked Greg—according to his name tag—how much to ship the box to Seattle. Greg weighed it and quoted him a price. Gibson agr
eed. While Greg filled out shipping information, Gibson borrowed a pen and wrote a long, rambling letter to Nicole. He read it over, crumpled it up, and started again, this time keeping it short and to the point.

  Nicole, I got your e-mail and agree. I wish I didn’t, but as usual you are right. This box is for Ellie. Someday. If you think she would want it. If you think she should have it. I’ll leave that up to you. You were the best part of my life. I can only say that I am sorry that I’ve become the worst part of yours. I hope you find your best part out there. Take care of our girl. Yours, Gibson

  He read it over again and still didn’t like how it sounded, but Greg said he needed to close. Gibson handed over the letter and watched him tape up the box.

  “You okay, bro?”

  “What?” Gibson said.

  Greg pointed to his own eyes and made an awkward expression. Gibson put a hand to his own face. It came away wet. He hadn’t known he was crying.

  “Allergies,” he said lamely.

  Greg nodded sagely. “Zyrtec. That shit’s the bomb.”

  Gibson thanked him for the advice and dried his face on his sleeve. An electronic chime announced a customer’s arrival.

  Greg said. “Sorry, dudes. We’re closed.”

  “It’s all right. We’re here for him.”

  Cools and Sidhu stood in the door. They wore matching winter overcoats with the collars flipped up, looking like a couple of cinema gangsters from an old black and white. Gibson thanked Greg for his help and went out the door. Calista’s men parted to let him pass and then fanned out on his shoulders. Gibson turned in the direction of the Nighthawk and his car, but Cools blocked his way. Gibson squared up to him, filled with joyous anger to have someone tangible to vent his frustrations upon.

  “You know, I appreciate the escort, but it’s been a long day. Why don’t you fuck off?”

  There were two of them. He should have kept that in mind.

  From behind, Sidhu drilled him in the kidney. It was a precise, expert blow, and only his puffy winter jacket saved Gibson from pissing blood for a week. As it was, it felt like a bottle of hot sauce had shattered inside him. His knees gave out, but Cools caught him before he could fall, spinning him around and pinning his arms to his sides. Sidhu stepped in close and delivered several shots to his midsection like a boxer working the heavy bag.

  “Enough,” Cools said.

  Sidhu stepped back as Gibson slipped to the sidewalk and rested his face on the cold concrete. It felt heavenly. Sidhu grasped Gibson by the chin, forcing his head up.

  “What did I tell you about cursing at me?”

  Gibson couldn’t muster enough breath to reply.

  Duke said, “You know, one of these days I’d like to see you win a fight.”

  Cools and Sidhu hefted Gibson by the armpits and dragged him to an idling limousine. They opened the rear door and dumped Gibson onto the floor. Sidhu got in behind him and shut the door. Gibson rolled onto his back, tried and failed to catch his breath. Calista Dauplaise gazed down at him. She wore a floor-length gown that pooled at her feet, and a chandelier of a necklace. She held a program from the Washington National Opera.

  “I have been anticipating Lisette Christou’s debut for a year,” Calista said. “Her Violetta Valéry is said to be peerless. But rather than enjoying the pageantry of La Traviata, I find myself in the back of my automobile to witness an entirely different tragedy unfold. Which is perplexing, because I feel certain that I made myself clear to you. Should I go ahead and make that call to Langley now?”

  Gibson moved to sit up, but Sidhu put one of his size fourteens on Gibson’s chest and pushed him down. From his back, Gibson said, “I just had to take care of a few things.”

  “Yes, I am quite aware of all your unscheduled stops today. Between the two of us, you really must learn how to spot a tail.”

  “Yeah,” Gibson agreed. “It’s been on my list.”

  “Why were you at the power plant this evening?”

  “I talked to him.”

  “Did you, now? About what, precisely?”

  “I told him I was going to let him go. Next week. After we get George back.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Calista asked and nodded at Sidhu, who drove his foot into Gibson’s rib cage. “A detective spoke to the proprietor of the diner not two minutes after you departed. Did you pass the proprietor information from your hostage to give to the police? Are you actively attempting to sabotage me?”

  “No. No, no, no,” Gibson said, seeing where Calista was heading with this. Calista expected to be betrayed so she saw betrayal. “Toby has nothing to do with this. He knows nothing. That detective investigated the arson at my old house. He thinks I’m a suspect and won’t leave me alone. That’s it. I swear. Toby is not involved.”

  “So why were you at the diner tonight?” she asked.

  “I had a box of . . .” Gibson didn’t know how to describe it.

  “Personal effects?”

  “Sure. Stuff I wanted my daughter to have. I asked Toby to keep it for her. He refused.”

  “Why would you need him to do that?”

  “Because I’ll have to go to jail,” Gibson said. Calista paled so he hurried on. “But not until after the plane. That’s what I told Ogden. I promised to let him go. But only after Jenn and I take the plane.”

  Calista contemplated the premise of what he’d told her. He could see her testing the idea, looking for the lie. He shifted topics, trying to move the conversation further away from Toby Kalpar.

  “The airport went totally smooth. We’re all set there.”

  “Is that the truth?” she asked.

  “I’ll have the credentials when I get back from Dulles tomorrow.”

  “Well, you had better have, hadn’t you?”

  Calista gestured to Sidhu, who helped Gibson up into the seat opposite Calista. The two old enemies faced each other. Only a few feet apart, it felt as though Calista were studying him through opera glasses from the safe confines of a private box. Her finery made him feel more acutely like a guy who’d just had his ass kicked on a sidewalk. Calista uncrossed and recrossed her legs, which seemed to indicate that she’d reached some kind of conclusion.

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” she asked. “What is her name? Eleanor, if I am not mistaken?”

  Gibson bristled. “Don’t. Don’t bring my kid into this. I’m doing everything you asked me to do.”

  Sidhu leaned forward and put up a cautioning hand that said, Calm down or finish this conversation back on the floor.

  Calista shook her head, trying to slow him down. “No, I apologize for the misunderstanding. That is not what I meant. I am not threatening Eleanor. Your daughter has nothing to fear from me.”

  Calista opened a small bar and, using silver tongs, dropped a single ice cube into two cut-crystal tumblers. She filled the glasses with scotch and passed one to Gibson as a peace offering.

  “Did you know that I have a son?” she asked conversationally.

  The change in subject and tone threw Gibson. “The one in Florida?”

  “Yes, the same. I suppose I must have been rather unkind about him.”

  That was putting it mildly. Calista had talked about her son the way someone else might describe a mass murderer. His great offense had been shacking up with a woman and playing a lot of golf. And for living in Florida—Calista held a dim view of the entire state.

  “What does your son have to do with anything?” Gibson said.

  Calista puffed up ever so slightly. “I mentioned earlier that my circumstances had changed. Well, my son has been elected to Congress.”

  “He is a Dauplaise. More of your handiwork?”

  “No, I had less than nothing to do with it.” There was a note in Calista’s voice that Gibson had never heard before. It took him a moment to put a name to it: regret. “There was a vacant seat. Party leaders approached him with promises to back him should he run.”

  “I thoug
ht all he did was golf.”

  “Yes, well. Recharging his batteries, I think he called it. Before that, he had been with a law firm in New York. He had been a partner for less than six months when he resigned unceremoniously, sold his apartment, and moved to Fort Lauderdale. It was a scandalous decision. One that, in retrospect, I did not take with the grace with which I might.”

  “Congratulations,” Gibson said, feeling proud that he’d kept the derision out of his voice. A Dauplaise back in Congress would mean everything to Calista.

  “Thank you. He has received a rather plum appointment to Ways and Means. His party holds him in high regard and is grooming him.”

  “Does your son’s new position have something to do with Eskridge?”

  “Nothing,” Calista snapped. “And he never will. Of that, I assure you. My son has no part in my affairs. He now spends a good deal of time here in Washington. I have offered him the use of Colline, of course. It is the family home, and it is his. However, he prefers to rent a row house on Capitol Hill. To be closer to the action, he says. As if Georgetown were a suburb of Baltimore. His mother raised him to be diplomatic, you see. But he has not so much as set foot on the property. Nor have I been invited to meet my grandson.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “My influence is not what it once was, but I could have furnished him with introductions. Life is not easy for a freshman congressman, and I would have improved his lot dramatically. He is, however, intent on forging his own path and made it abundantly clear that neither I nor my counsel are welcome.”

  “Does he know what you’ve done?”

  A pained expression crossed her face. “Sidhu, please wait up front. Have Mr. Cools raise the divider.”

  She waited until they were alone before she continued.

  “I prefer that we not speak of these things in front of the help. No, my son is a sweet boy. An honorable man. If he knew, he would call the authorities himself. That said, he has his suspicions. He knows that I have not always been the most”—she paused, searching for the right word—“principled of actors.”