It was drizzling now, and the pulsating sound of raindrops pushed Jamie’s eyelids open, and she looked toward the window. The lights of the motel parking lot, blurred by the rain, silhouetted Bailino, who was looking down at her, the grooves of his forehead, made shiny by his shower, softened, his dark eyes—Faith’s eyes—staring. She tried to focus on his face, but there didn’t seem to be enough light, so she sat there, still, watching him, feeling his large calloused palm resting on the top of her hand.
Once upon a time, she had thought it was so simple—love, hate, live, die. Bailino was right. She was different, but so was he, and she wasn’t sure whether something had changed in him or in the way she saw him, but in the end, it didn’t matter. She turned over her hand, letting Bailino’s palm rest inside hers, and that was all the signal he needed. He shooed Lucky to the floor and slipped under the blanket beside her, and as he reached across her body and pulled her to him, she knew she was giving him exactly what he wanted, what he had always wanted, but perhaps what surprised her most was that the older, tired, and damaged person that she had become wanted it too.
*****
“Momma!”
Jamie opened her eyes, looked toward the bed next to her, and nearly panicked when she saw that it was empty.
“Momma, over here!”
At the foot of her own bed, Faith was dancing in front of the television to the jingle of a commercial. To Jamie’s right, Bailino was at his place by the window.
“How are you feeling, Faithy?” Jamie asked. She rubbed her eyes.
“I’m great!” Faith said. “Much better!” The top of her lip appeared crusty, but her nose had stopped running.
“C’mere, let me feel your head,” Jamie said.
Faith jumped onto the bed and crawled toward Jamie’s hand, pushing her forehead into it. “Am I good, Momma?”
“You’re good,” Jamie said with a smile.
Outside, the sun was low in the clear sky, the storm clouds having scattered. “What time is it?” she asked Bailino.
“What time is it, cupcake?” Bailino asked Faith.
Faith hopped over to the digital clock on the nightstand. “It’s six-o-six,” she said. “Oh, no, wait, it’s six-o-seven.” She hopped back over to the television.
“You were supposed to wake me after an hour,” Jamie said. “That was six hours ago.”
Bailino waved his hand. “Not necessary.”
“Don said that we can have pancakes for breakfast, Momma,” Faith said. “Here, Lucky!” She held a treat in the air, and the dog hopped up onto her hind legs until Faith dropped it into her mouth. “Can we? He said it’s up to you.”
Jamie looked up at Bailino. He was dressed in the same clothing he had put on after his shower and standing in the same spot. She reached under her blanket and felt her yoga pants and underwear still on her, her gun and holster in place. For a moment, she thought she had dreamt what had happened until she spied her bra neatly folded on the nightstand.
“Can we, Momma, huh, can we?” Faith asked, climbing on top of her bed again and jumping. “When will we be back home?”
“In a few days, I think, sweetie,” Jamie said.
“Maybe sooner,” Bailino said. “There was some news while you were sleeping.”
While you were sleeping. His voice suddenly carried images with it, his hand upon her, his breath on her neck. “News?” she asked.
He swiped his cell phone screen and faced it toward her. “Some details about the YouTube guy’s shooting,” he said, and Jamie read the headline: Famous YouTuber O’Connell Shot in Eye with a Single Bullet.
Jamie took Bailino’s phone from his hands and kept reading:
Sources say O’Connell’s body was discovered during an FBI investigation into the attempting bombing of the White House. O’Connell had been staying in off-campus housing with fellow SUNY Albany student Alex Campos, who was present when the grisly discovery was made. O’Connell had risen to fame for capturing President Phillip Grand saving Jamie and Faith Carter from a burning building more than three years ago. So far, there has been no comment from law enforcement or the White House regarding the possible connection between the two events.
Jamie sat up in bed but remembered her bra was off and pulled the blanket over her. She returned the phone to Bailino. “You think O’Connell planted the IED?” she asked.
“No, I’m pretty sure it was someone else.”
“I don’t understand,” Jamie said.
“Momma, watch!” Faith was jumping high on her bed and touching the ceiling with the tips of her fingers.
“Be careful, Faithy, and don’t touch the ceiling,” Jamie said. “It’s dirty.”
“O’Connell was shot in the eye,” Bailino said as Faith took one last bounce off the bed and onto the floor.
“Why is that significant?”
“Paolo Cataldi was a stickler for one shots—one and done, he used to say—and taught his people to aim for the forehead.”
“But Paolo Cataldi is dead.” Jamie’s eyes grew wide. “Or is he?”
“No, that son of a bitch is gone.”
“So you’re saying this was one of his guys? You think the shooter was aiming for the forehead and missed?”
“Not at all. I think it was a perfect shot.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m lost,” Jamie said.
“No, you’re not, Momma,” Faith said, twirling in front of the television. “You’re in South Dakota.”
“I used to know someone who liked to shoot people in the eye,” Bailino said softly, his voice sounding like a low growl. “Saw it done twice.” He got up and reached for his duffel bag. “C’mon, we need to go. And you need to call Edward.”
“Uncle Eddie!” Faith squealed. “Lucky, you’re going to meet Uncle Eddie!”
“Why?” Jamie asked.
“Call tomorrow morning when we’re closer to the East Coast. You need to tell him to pick you up at Union Station tomorrow evening. Ask Grand to do a sweep of Edward’s house, make sure it’s safe, and then you and the kid should stay there.”
She got out of bed, making sure her back was toward Bailino, picked up her bra, and went into the bathroom. When she came out, she quickly gathered her things.
“Momma, I think Lucky has to pee.” Lucky was circling near the door.
Bailino opened the door, and the dog ran toward the dumpster.
“Where are you going?” Jamie asked Bailino.
“To talk some sense into the person who started all this nonsense.”
Jamie helped Faith put on her jacket. “And you’re sure he’s the one who did it?”
“I’d bet money on it,” Bailino said, zipping his duffel bag and throwing it over his shoulder. “And if I’m right, it’s not a he. It’s a she.”
CHAPTER 20
ToniAnne Cataldi sat on the deck of her backyard listening to the oldies radio station and watching Lorenzo, who had his head under the hood of his ’83 Trans Am. It was amazing how much that man loved his car—besides her, it was the only thing he paid any attention to. And, yet, even with all his constant fiddling, he still hadn’t gotten it to run in years.
ToniAnne had more in common with that damn car than she realized.
She gazed down at the paperwork on the glass table that her real estate agent had given her. She had four offers on her Aunt Mary’s house in Brooklyn, all of them more than what she had asked for and probably ten times more than Uncle Paolo and Aunt Mary had paid for the dump after they got married. She didn’t want to deal with any of it, but, unfortunately, she was the only one left. Everyone else was dead—or batshit crazy.
“Lorenzo, should I pick eenie, meenie, miney, or mo?” she called out.
“What?” Lorenzo called, sticking his head out from under the hood, oil smudged across his face.
She didn’t know why she even bothered asking him anything when he had his head buried in metal. She always had to repeat herself. “Just pick one: eenie, meenie, miney, or mo.”
“Miney, of course,” he said. “Duh.”
“Miney, it is then.” She pushed the papers away from her. “Well, that’s that. What time is it?”
Lorenzo looked at his watch and frowned. He rubbed its face with the back of his hand and looked again. “About a quarter to five.”
ToniAnne watched the news more times in the past week than she had in the past few years. She didn’t expect to see or hear anything earth-shattering—so far there had been no sign of Lorenzo or of her car on any of the coverage of the second assassination attempt, and if Lorenzo knew what was good for him there wouldn’t be any—but her father had said it was important to know everything the cops knew. Therefore, she had to plop herself down and watch those two know-it-all anchor bitches smile their way through the day’s murders, rapes, and thefts.
She reached into her handbag and pulled out one of her burner phones. She typed:
What’s the ETA on the next one?
She waited a few seconds, starting to get impatient, when the phone pinged.
Should have everything in a few days.
Not good enough, she texted. Speed it up.
She put her phone away and stood up. “You coming or what?” she asked.
“In a minute. I just want to finish this.”
“Finish what? That thing hasn’t run in seven years.”
“Just go inside already.” Lorenzo ducked his head back under the hood. “I know what I’m doing.”
ToniAnne slid open the screen door and shut it behind her. She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat on the sofa, pushing aside all the sales orders for her at-home hair salon business, which was more of a hobby than a business, but what the IRS didn’t know wouldn’t hurt it.
She turned on the television with the remote control. Before the screen even warmed, she could hear Judge Judy laying into a landlord who had turned off the heat on a single mother with three kids. That Judy is a badass, she thought.
As the credits rolled, Lorenzo came trotting in and was about to sit next to her, but ToniAnne put her hand on the sofa cushion. “Wash your hands, please,” she said, setting the wine glass down on the coffee table. “And your face.”
Lorenzo huffed in his usual adolescent way but did as he was told. When he returned, an open soda can in his hand, the logo of the local news hour floated across the television screen, followed by the words Breaking News.
“There’s breaking news every day,” Lorenzo said, plopping down next to her. “What the hell?”
“I know,” ToniAnne said. “It’s a constant false alarm, it’s ridi—”
ToniAnne’s words left her as an image of Don Bailino filled the screen.
“We have breaking news,” the anchor to the right said solemnly but excitedly as the anchor on the left beamed with fake anticipation. “Sources have told News 4 New York that organized crime boss and prominent businessman Don Bailino, who was believed to have died in the spring of 2014, may actually be alive.”
ToniAnne sprang up from the couch. “Get … the … fuck … outta … here!”
“Bullshit,” Lorenzo said. He laid back on the couch and crossed his arms.
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation has told the Associated Press that there is strong evidence to believe that Bailino has been living out west—and out in the open—for the past three and a half years.” An aerial photo appeared on the screen showing a log cabin standing in the snow with Feds swarming the property like insects, followed by an old mug shot of Bailino. ToniAnne paused the television.
“Fuckin’ Donny, man,” she said, tracing the outline of her lips with her finger. “Never ceases to amaze.”
“I’ll believe it when I see him.”
“Don’t be jealous, hon.”
“Jealous? Of that old guy? Please …” Lorenzo stood up and stretched, a telltale sign, ToniAnne knew, that he was annoyed. “Can I borrow your car again? I’m gonna head to the gym.”
“What’s wrong with your caddie? You didn’t want to drive it on the Belt Parkway on Monday because of the potholes … You didn’t want to drive it to Maryland yesterday, because you didn’t want to put all the miles on it. Now what’s the excuse?”
“It looks like rain. I don’t want to get it wet. I just got it detailed.”
“Oh, heaven forbid.” She went into the kitchen, opened her handbag on the counter, and handed him the keys. He left without a good-bye. Another telltale sign he was pissed. Sayonara, asshole. ToniAnne hurried back to the television, sat in front of it, like a child eager for her favorite show, and unpaused it.
“Authorities have not discussed what evidence has been uncovered, but law enforcement officers nationwide have been instructed to be on the lookout for Bailino, who once topped the FBI’s Most Wanted List and is believed to have only one hand. Sources say that he sawed it off,” the reporter made a face like she had sucked on a lemon, “when making his escape. We’ll keep you posted as more updates occur. In the Bronx, a four-alarm fire broke out …”
ToniAnne paused the screen. Her blood was sizzling, her pulse hammering her ears. She hadn’t seen Bailino since the day he had come to bring Joey upstate, not long before her father had been executed by that no-good Phillip Grand, but the mere mention of him on TV, and the flicker of a blurry photo, had brought him back in all his glory. The deepness of his eyes. The firm hold of his calloused hands. She could even smell his cologne.
Lorenzo was wrong. He was alive. She knew it, and something awakened in her that she thought had died three years before. But why hadn’t Donny contacted me, she wondered. I could have helped. But she knew he wouldn’t have. That wasn’t his style. Donny protected the ones he loved. He always had.
She hit rewind on the remote control until she was back at the beginning of the news story and settled back into the couch. Then she pressed play, picked up her glass of wine, unbuttoned the top of her jeans, stuck her hand inside her underwear, and watched the news segment again and again.
CHAPTER 21
“That’s impossible. Bailino is dead,” Phillip said, lying back on a chair in the presidential bedroom suite, a cold compress on his forehead. He felt a bit undignified, but he was trying to make two people happy—Katherine, who insisted he rest, and Wilcox, who insisted they meet.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” said Wilcox, who was all business, dressed in a suit and tie, and appeared out of place in the usually casual private area. He pulled a folder from the hands of Agent Fuller, who was standing beside him, and held it out for Phillip.
“Can’t we do this at another time?” Katherine said, standing between them. She adjusted the cold compress. “Phillip really needs to rest.”
“It’s all right, Katherine.” Phillip sat up slowly. He had had enough of lying down and should never have told his wife about the dizzy spells. He handed her the compress, opened the folder Wilcox had given him, and pulled out a stack of photos.
“The first one there is of Bailino’s log cabin in Albany. The second is of the log cabin in Wyoming. They’re identical, sir. Everything about the place, as you can see from the additional photos. The groceries … the sheets … All of it has Bailino’s name written all over it.”
Phillip flipped through the photos. “Is this really enough to prove he’s alive?” he asked. “The way the news media is talking about it, you would think we found something more substantial.”
“It’s him, sir,” Wilcox said. “I’m sure of it. My guess is the leak to the media was from someone at the field office out west. Local reporters were beginning to snoop around just as I was heading back to Washington.”
“So you think he was there?” Katherine asked. “That he’s been living there?”
The question made Wilcox appear tense. “He must have gotten tipped off, somehow. Unfortunately, we don’t know what type of vehicle he’s driving or where he is. What we do know is Jamie and probably Faith either are—or were—with him.”
“Jamie?” Phillip asked. “What
makes you say that?”
Wilcox took in a long inhale as if trying to fortify himself. “Mr. President, when you reinstated my credentials, you did so under the assumption that I would do everything in my power to find out who was responsible for the attempted bombing in the White House, correct?”
“Yes, Agent Wilcox,” Phillip said, placing the photos on a side table.
“And you know I would do everything in my power to get that done.”
“Yes, of course. What is this about?”
“Yesterday morning, while we were talking on the Truman Balcony, I traced the phone message you sent to Jamie Carter. I discovered it had been sent to a burner phone that—”
“You traced my private message?” Phillip asked, pain shooting like a thunderbolt across his temples. “Under whose authority?”
Wilcox straightened. “Yours, Mr. President.”
“I didn’t reinstate you so that you could spy on me.”
“I think we’re losing focus, sir,” Wilcox said. “Your message is what got us here, to the location of Bailino. It had been sent to a phone that was not far,” he pointed to the photos, “from the location of that log cabin. Jamie was there.”
“I understand that part.” Phillip reached for a glass of water, trying to stave off another dizzy spell. “I understand that Jamie was staying at a log cabin in Wyoming that resembled Bailino’s log cabin in Albany. My concern, Agent Wilcox, is in your investigation you invaded an American citizen’s privacy. And that’s crossing the line.”
Wilcox reached into his briefcase on the floor and pulled out a clear plastic bag. He handed it to Phillip.
“What is this?” Phillip asked, examining its contents, when his pulse quickened. Inside was his antique pistol, the one his father had given him, the one he believed to be buried somewhere under the rubble that was the old Barbara farmhouse and never expected to see again. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
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