“Don, is this right?” Faith asked, trying to fold a linen napkin.
“Yes, you have to make sure the sides are right on top of one another, like the bottom side is hiding under the top side.”
“Okay,” she said, positioning it carefully on the table. “Where did you learn how to do this?”
“In the military, the army.” Bailino glanced again at Jamie, who still had the phone to her ear, listening. “Do you know what that is, the army?”
Faith nodded. “Sometimes they come to the White House. They do this.” She saluted with her right hand.
“That’s right. They’re very important people. They protect this country from the bad guys.”
“Is that what you do too?”
“Sometimes,” he said, turning off the water. He reached for a dozen eggs in the fridge as Faith climbed onto a step stool and stood next to him.
“Don, I was thinking …”
Bailino cracked open an egg and tossed the shell into the garbage pail. “What about, cupcake?” He glanced again at Jamie.
“Well, I need to talk to Momma about it, but remember how we talked about Momma doesn’t want to be with boys, and you said boys are jerks?”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“But Charlie says Momma needs a daddy to love us.”
“That Charlie is being influenced by her conservative Republican surroundings, if you ask me,” Bailino said. “Nowadays, there are all different kinds of families—two fathers, two mothers, no fathers, no mothers. A family can be friends, if they care enough for one another.” He cracked another egg.
“But I was thinking that … maybe you could be the daddy.”
He held the broken eggshells in his hand on the side of the bowl and looked down at her. The little girl’s dark eyes were focused and clear before she took the cracked eggshell from his hand, tried fitting the pieces back together, and tossed it into the garbage pail.
“What makes you say that?” Bailino wiped his hands on a dish towel.
“Because,” she shrugged, “you already love us.”
Before Bailino could respond, Jamie was back in the kitchen. “Phillip wasn’t there,” she said, placing the phone on the table. “But I checked my messages, and he left one.”
“What time?” he asked.
“Early this morning, around six. He said he needs me to come back.”
“That was before the second”—Bailino glanced at Faith—“attempt.”
Faith pulled on his sleeve. “Don,” she said, “you didn’t answer …”
He crouched down so that he was face to face with her. “I am honored that you asked me,” he whispered, putting his hand on her smooth cheek. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.” She smiled. “But I have to talk to your momma first about something. Here,” he held up a green pepper. “Can you wash this for me?”
She nodded, and he turned on the faucet. As Faith brought the pepper under the stream of water and scrubbed it with her hands, Bailino leaned toward Jamie. “What did he say exactly?” he asked.
“What was that about?” Jamie asked, motioning to Faith.
Bailino shook his head. “It can wait. What did Grand say?”
“He said it was a rudimentary explosive device that they found, the one in the White House.”
“I figured that. No way anything remotely complex could get in there. Anything else?”
“They’re still trying to figure out how it got in there. They’ve questioned everyone who has access to the private quarters. That’s why I need to go back.”
“It’s routine, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean anything.” He handed a paper towel to Faith, who began drying the pepper. “Did he mention anything about Special Agent Paul Wilcox?”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “How did you know that? That he was on the case?”
“What did he say?”
“But how did you—”
“Sweetheart …”
“Only that Wilcox needed to speak with me.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Jamie hesitated. “He said that Agent Fuller and Special Agent Wilcox wanted to speak with me, which I thought was strange, because Agent Wilcox retired.”
“That son of a bitch never retired. Not when it came to me. Where’s Wilcox now?”
Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know, but I got the feeling that he was there while Phillip was leaving me a message.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, just a sense,” Jamie said.
“When was the last time you turned your phone on, your burner?”
Jamie thought for a moment. “I checked to see if Phillip had left me a phone message.”
“When was that?”
“When I got off the highway,” she said. “When I first got to Cody last night.”
“Grab your things,” Bailino said, turning off the water faucet. “We gotta go.”
CHAPTER 18
The sedan skidded to a stop, and all four agents jumped out of the car.
Wilcox drew his gun and listened. The quiet was palpable, the log cabin standing tall before them like a monument in the snow. About ten feet ahead of their sedan was the compact car Wilcox had seen in the photo looking like a deserted island. Snow covered its hood and roof, but some had been wiped from the windows; a pair of footprints tracked back toward the log cabin. Wilcox approached the vehicle cautiously and peered inside the driver’s-side window. Nothing—and no one—was there.
He motioned to the agents, and, together, they walked toward the cabin, a sprawling three-story building that appeared newly renovated. As he got closer, Wilcox saw how much the building resembled Bailino’s Albany home. The two were almost identical. Had this proof been standing out there—in the great wide open—all this time?
Up ahead, footprints of various sizes canvassed the property, including two sets of footprints, one big, one small, on the front porch. He walked up the stairs as the agents dispersed—Gannon behind him, the others circling around the perimeter of the home. He knocked on the door.
“FBI,” Wilcox said, his breath turning to smoke, and waited.
Large icicles lined the edge of the porch roof, dripping water, the drops falling into the snow and making a line of small indentations resembling bullet holes.
“Doesn’t look like anyone lives here, Agent Wilcox,” Gannon said, peering in a nearby window. He wiped a small circle with his hand, next to another circle that had been smeared at an earlier time. “No furniture. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in there in years.”
The other agents returned, reporting similar observations. Wilcox tried the doorknob, its metal cold and unforgiving, but it wouldn’t budge.
“What’s that smell?” Wilcox asked.
Around the side of the log cabin was the smaller building—a guesthouse of sorts—and the remnants of a fire rose from its chimney. Wilcox remembered that there was also another structure on the property, according to the satellite images Gannon had pulled. A greenhouse. He would check one and then the other.
As the agents approached the guesthouse, the snow became more disturbed, and Wilcox tightened his grip on his gun. The footprints included an animal’s as well as fresh tire tracks that led away from a garage and toward the woods.
“Dammit,” Wilcox muttered. He turned the corner of the guesthouse, stepped onto the front porch, and was immediately greeted by warm air from an open front door. He peered inside. A light over a kitchen sink was on, illuminating a bowl and a pair of green peppers lying side-by-side on a cutting board. The television was playing a cartoon of some kind.
“Hello?” he said, leaning in. “FBI. Anyone here?”
He waited a beat before crossing the threshold, followed by the other agents who quickly fanned out. Wilcox peered out the kitchen window, which provided an incredible view of the mountains. A stainless steel chopping knife lay on the cutting board beside a dishcloth. Wilcox touched the cloth. It was still wet.
He eyed
the carefully placed cloth napkins on the dining table and the way the sheets and pillows were neatly stacked on a nearby sofa. He opened the refrigerator—the labels of the jars and bottles all faced forward. Inside the cabinets, the view was the same—the cans, bottles, and bags all lined up like little soldiers.
As the other agents muttered directives to one another, Wilcox crossed the kitchen and peered into a back room, a bedroom. A black-and-white bedspread was neatly folded at the foot of the bed on top of a striped flat sheet that was tucked, military style, around the corners of the mattress. Agent Gannon came up beside him.
“It’s all clear,” he said. “No one’s here. Do you want to check the other two properties?”
“There’s no need to,” Wilcox said, running his finger along the smooth and dust-free surface of the bedroom dresser.
“What do you mean?”
“This is it.”
Gannon surveyed the room. “How can you be sure?”
Wilcox stepped farther into the bedroom to examine a neat stack of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons CDs on a nightstand. He crouched down and looked under the bed. “I just am.”
“Should I send for backup?”
“No need,” Wilcox said. “They’re not coming back.”
He opened a closet and examined a few dark-colored suits before walking into the main room.
“Well, they couldn’t have gotten far,” Gannon said. “I’ll call it in and recommend checkpoints on a fifteen-mile radius.”
Wilcox nodded confirmation, although he was sure it was too late, his eyes falling on the fireplace. The last remaining embers were glowing like cigarette ashes, and he walked toward it until he was eye to eye with the antique pistol hanging on the wall above it—the same antique pistol that had been stolen from Phillip Grand’s Executive Mansion office in Albany. He would have recognized it anywhere.
“I knew it,” Wilcox muttered, a feeling of satisfaction flooding through him. “He’s alive.”
CHAPTER 19
The motel’s broken neon sign blinked Va_ancy as Bailino pulled into the parking lot. They had been driving for nine hours, and although she could tell he wanted to keep going, Jamie felt it was best to stop. About halfway through the ride, Faith had grown lethargic, her voice sounding hollow and weak. Jamie was afraid her daughter was on the verge of getting sick. She needed to rest in a proper bed, at least for a few hours. Bailino didn’t argue.
“Here,” he said, handing her a hundred-dollar bill. “Get the room on the far side of the hotel, over there away from the manager’s office.”
Jamie looked in the direction Bailino was pointing. “What if it’s taken?” she asked.
“It’s not,” he said with confidence. “I’ll watch the kid.”
Faith was staring at her with droopy eyelids. “I’ll be right back,” Jamie said. “And then we’ll get you into bed.” Faith nodded, which confirmed Jamie’s suspicions. Faith never protested about going to bed when she was under the weather.
Jamie quickly ran toward the small office located near the entrance to the motel. The lot was mostly empty, except for a few teenagers drinking beer behind a pickup truck—they stared at her, joking among themselves.
When she opened the door to the office, a harsh bell rang, and a scrawny man, probably about sixty, appeared from a back room.
“Yeah?” he said. “We ain’t got any extra towels.”
“I’d like to check in for the night,” Jamie said. “I’d like the room on the end, please.”
The man eyed her suspiciously. “Which end?”
Jamie pointed out the door. “The room back there, near the dumpster. Is it available?”
The man looked out to where she was pointing, and Jamie noticed a security camera positioned right above the front door and aiming straight for them.
“Let me check,” the man said, pulling out a large book the size of an encyclopedia and plopping it onto the counter. He flipped it open and made like he was consulting its pages but mostly just flipped a few of them back and forth. “It is,” he announced. “Available, that is. But that’s one of our premium rooms.” He smiled crookedly.
“How much?” she asked, crossing her arms.
He took his time answering, as if he were sizing her up. “One twenty for the night. Including tax.”
“I’ll give you a hundred in cash,” Jamie said and put the bill on the table.
The man stared at the hundred-dollar bill—which, despite being in Bailino’s pocket, was crisp and flat, as if it had been ironed—like he hadn’t ever seen one before. She expected a negotiation, but, without a word, he poked out his hand and snatched the money like a frog’s tongue capturing an insect. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, unlocking a cabinet behind him. He ran his fingers, his nails cracked and dirty, along a line of colored keys and stopped at a brown one. He put it on the counter.
“We ain’t got no extra towels,” he said, sticking the hundred-dollar bill in his front pocket. Then he returned to the back room and disappeared.
Jamie took the key and hurried back toward the car.
“Any problems?” Bailino asked when she got into the passenger seat.
“No,” she said. “Guy was a bit creepy.”
“In a place like this?” Bailino said with a smirk. “Shocker.”
He pulled the car to the end of the motel. In the backseat, Faith was still awake. Snot was running down her nose, pooling just above her top lip. Jamie wiped it with a fast food napkin.
“She’ll be okay,” Bailino said, putting the car into park. “Wait in the car.” He took the key from her hand and strode toward a brown-colored door marked Room 115, prompting Lucky, who had been lying next to Faith, to sit up and observe.
Even from the parking lot, Jamie could see the doorknob wobble as Bailino stuck in the key, but the door quickly opened, and he disappeared behind it. Instinctively, Jamie put her hand on the pistol resting in its holster under her jeans.
“Are we staying here, Momma?” Faith asked weakly.
“Yes, I think so. For a little while.”
The motel door opened again, and Bailino emerged. He returned to the car window.
“We’re good.” He opened the back door and pulled out the luggage. “Take the kid. I’ve got the rest.”
Jamie helped Faith out of the car and held her hand, which felt limp in her palm.
“What about Lucky?” Faith asked, her glassy eyes looking back at the dog.
“She’ll be fine, cupcake.” Bailino whistled, and Lucky hopped out of the truck and onto the flatbed. “I’ll call her in once we get situated.”
As the three of them walked into the motel room, the group of teenagers near the office hurled empty beer bottles at one another, producing the rhythmic sound of broken glass hitting the pavement.
“I don’t expect them to be any trouble,” Bailino said, ushering her and Faith inside the motel room. He closed the door.
Although, as Jamie expected, the motel room hadn’t been remodeled in decades, it was surprisingly clean. Bailino put the luggage down on the shag carpeting next to a squat night table as Jamie made her way to the second of two queen beds—the one farthest from the front windows and door—and pulled down the orange bedspread.
“Momma, do they have Nickoledeon here?” Faith asked softly as Jamie removed her coat. She had had some trouble walking from the car and was now leaning against Jamie’s side.
“I think we’ll be lucky if they have electricity in this dump,” Bailino said, putting a duffel bag onto the floor near the door.
“I’ll see, but first I need you to get into bed,” Jamie said, and the little girl climbed on top of the mattress. Jamie pulled the covers up to her neck.
Bailino stood next to the window, peering out into the parking lot. “It’s safe. For now,” he said.
The motel was in the middle of nowhere. About a quarter of a mile north, there had been a gray overpass buzzing with highway traffic, and a few gas stat
ions and food joints were scattered about, their neon signs appearing to suck up all the light in the area. It was clear Bailino hadn’t chosen the place idly—it was far enough from the highway and any pedestrian traffic to ensure privacy but close enough so that they could make a quick getaway should something go wrong. In the past three years, Jamie had learned quite a bit about hiding.
Bailino opened the front door and gave a short whistle. Lucky jumped from the back of the truck and came running toward the motel room, stopping abruptly to pee next to the dumpster. Bailino closed the door as soon as the dog was inside.
“Lucky,” Faith said in a voice that she probably intended to be a cheer but came out as a whimper. The dog went to her immediately and licked the snot from her face. “Where are we?” Faith asked, giving Lucky a pet on the head.
“Somewhere in South Dakota.” Jamie tightened the blankets around her daughter. “Get some sleep. It’s nice and comfy.” She turned on the small television set with the remote control on the night table, and a staticky hum filled the room.
“I’m cold, Momma,” Faith said, rubbing goosebumps that had appeared on her arms.
Bailino fiddled with the thermostat attached to the wall near the door, but the lever moved too easily. He gave it a hard bang with his fist. “You want another room?” he asked.
“No, it’s all right. It’s only for a few hours.” Jamie unzipped Faith’s Hello Kitty luggage, fished around, and took out one of her wooly nightgowns. She pulled the covers down and placed it over her daughter’s head, on top of her short-sleeved shirt, and pushed her arms through the sleeves. Her daughter complied wearily, her glazed eyes fixed on Lucky, and Jamie pulled the covers up once again.
“Am I sick, Momma?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She felt her forehead. “No fever. Probably just really tired and rundown. Too much fun in the snow.” Jamie pinched her daughter’s cheek.
Faith gave a small smile and looked absently at the television, which was tuned to an old movie channel. Lucky curled in a ball next to her.
“Momma, I think my eyes are sick,” Faith said, placing her hand on the dog’s thick fur. She pointed to the screen.
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