“At the log cabin in Wyoming. It was hanging on the wall like a trophy,” Wilcox said with disdain. “Forensics has already gotten Bailino’s fingerprints from it—along with yours, of course.”
“Mine?” Phillip asked, his voice cracking. Katherine sat next to him and put her hand on his knee.
“Well, it was your gun, Mr. President. It’s understandable that there would be partial fingerprints of yours on it.”
“Oh, of course,” Phillip said. “How did it get there?”
“I’m sure you would agree that there is really only one way that pistol would show up in a guesthouse on property in Cody, Wyoming. The only question is … How did Bailino get it out of your office at the Albany Executive Mansion? The place was crawling with agents.”
Phillip felt the weight of Wilcox’s gaze, the same gaze that nearly pierced holes in him back at the hospital in Albany after the farmhouse incident—as if he knew there was more to the story and that Phillip could provide the answers.
“We know Bailino used this gun to shoot Paolo Cataldi …” Wilcox rummaged through his briefcase again and pulled out a photograph. “This is a photo of the antique bullet found inside Cataldi’s eye socket. It’s a match for this gun.”
Phillip reached for the photo. It showed Paolo Cataldi’s decapitated head with a prominent bullet hole through the eye socket and a small bullet beside it, next to a ruler and various markings. Wilcox then handed Phillip a similar grisly photograph of Samuel O’Connell.
“It may not have been a coincidence that both men were shot in the eye,” Wilcox said.
“You think Bailino murdered O’Connell?” Katherine asked. Phillip handed both photos to her; his wife studied the gruesome images.
“I don’t know, but it’s worth noting,” Wilcox said. “There’s something very Cataldi-esque about it. An eye for an eye, perhaps?”
Phillip rubbed his temples. He didn’t know if it was the dizzy spells, the attempted assassination, Wilcox’s stares, or the years of worrying that he would one day be found out that had finally put him over the edge, but he had had enough. “It’s not worth noting,” Phillip said. He took the photos from Katherine and handed them back to Wilcox.
“What do you mean, Mr. President?” Wilcox asked. The question was asked calmly, but Wilcox’s eyes were dancing with anticipation.
“Phillip,” Katherine said, “maybe we should wait until you feel better before you—”
“No, I’m afraid I owe Agent Wilcox an apology. I owe all of you an apology.” Phillip stood up and took a deep breath, waiting for the dizziness to cloud his thoughts, but his head was surprisingly clear. “All of you deserve to hear the truth of what really happened that night, the night the Barbara farmhouse burned to the ground.” Wilcox had an expectant look on his face, as if he had been waiting more than three years to hear what Phillip was about to say.
“I shot Paolo Cataldi,” Phillip said bluntly and then told them everything, determined not to leave anything out about the series of events—how Bailino had contacted him to help locate Jamie Carter, how he had smuggled the antique gun from his office to meet Bailino, and how he had used that gun to shoot Cataldi after Bailino had learned of Jamie’s whereabouts. “It wasn’t Bailino. It was me. I didn’t intend to be there, but found myself driving there. For Jamie? Bailino? Myself? I don’t know.” He motioned toward the photos in Wilcox’s hands. “And, with regard to the bullet hole, I was aiming for his chest, not the eye. That’s it. That’s the whole truth.” He inhaled deeply and felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. “Katherine knew nothing about this, for obvious reasons …” He reached out for his wife’s hand. “Samuel O’Connell seemed to stumble upon the scene at the end, when I was coming out of the building. For three years, I worried if he knew that there was more to the story. Now he’s gone, and I guess I’ll never know.”
The room was quiet for what seemed like a long time until Wilcox broke the silence. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Mr. President,” he said.
“I know, and I’m sorry for that. I meant what I said earlier this week, that I trust the three of you implicitly and—”
“Apparently, not implicitly enough.” Wilcox crossed his arms.
“Things aren’t always so black and white,” Phillip said. “There was more going on, Agent Wilcox.”
“Yes, you were aiding and abetting a fugitive,” Wilcox said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Katherine scolded. “I think you know that whatever Phillip did he did because he believed it was the best course of action.”
“The law is the law, Mrs. Grand,” Wilcox said. “I would assume the person who established a legal roundtable would know that what he was doing was not only illegal, but wildly unethical.”
“All right, enough,” Brandon said in a voice that took Phillip by surprise. The young agent had been quiet but now appeared flustered. He rocked gently on his heels. “This is getting us nowhere. Whatever happened before happened before, and it’s not helping us take care of the present situation.” He took the photos from Wilcox and placed them into the briefcase. “I think we all have enough respect for one another to accept our judgments as to what is the best way to get the job done.” Brandon’s eyes moved from Wilcox to Phillip. “Sometimes that involves keeping others in the dark—whatever our reasons … I understand that, as should you, and we can’t let that divide us. We need to find whoever it is that is trying to bring down the presidency of the United States. Whether you believe that person is Don Bailino or not, we need to work together to find out.”
Again, the room was quiet, and a wave of embarrassment seized Phillip, but he also felt pride for his young agent who had not only become an estimable member of his security detail but also, it seemed, quite the mediator. “Brandon’s right,” Phillip said. “We need to move on.”
“Agreed,” Wilcox said with a nod. “One question, first … Did you know he was alive?”
“Who?” Phillip asked. “Bailino? Of course not.”
“So the message you left for Jamie Carter wasn’t some kind of warning? We couldn’t have missed them by more than an hour.”
“Absolutely not,” Phillip said.
Wilcox sat back in his seat, appearing satisfied, but also troubled. “Jamie Carter is still a missing puzzle piece. You realize that.”
“Any ideas on where she is?” Katherine asked.
“We received a tip from a hotel manager in South Dakota,” Brandon said. “We received it just after Edward Carter filed the Missing Person report.” He took another photo out of the briefcase and handed it to Phillip. He and Katherine peered down at the grainy photo of a woman and man. “It was taken at about one o’clock this morning eastern time. It’s a still from security camera footage.”
“What is she pointing at?” Phillip asked.
“Can’t be sure,” Wilcox said.
Phillip brought the photo closer to his eyes. It was Jamie, for sure. He would have recognized her anywhere. “Maybe she’s in trouble, and she’s telling the hotel clerk that there’s someone after her?”
“I don’t think so, judging from the expression on her face and her body language,” Wilcox said, and Phillip was inclined to agree. “Clerk says she paid for a night’s lodging, but left before he came in the following morning.”
“Was she with anyone?” Katherine asked.
“Not that he could see,” Wilcox said. “And she wasn’t with a child.”
“And there’s more,” Brandon said. “Only hours after Edward Carter filed the Missing Person report for both his sister and his niece, he retracted it. Said it was a mistake.”
“That’s curious,” Katherine said, and Phillip could tell his wife was sifting through the information in her mind, a function of her years as a PR strategist and media spokesperson. “Had he heard from Jamie?”
Wilcox nodded. “She called him, and although we were unable to get a location on her, we were able to get a general region on the call, and that hotel is smack-
dab in the middle of it.”
“What does that mean?” Phillip asked. “She’s on her way back?”
“With Bailino?” Katherine asked.
“We don’t know,” Wilcox said. “Unfortunately, there’s only one person who can answer all these questions.” He crossed his arms. “And for some reason no one—her brother, her employer, anyone—knows where she is.”
CHAPTER 22
Bailino merged onto I-395 toward Washington, D.C., the nation’s capital looming in the distance—a bunch of white buildings with pretty domes and regal columns, most of them filled with dirty politicians. He thought perhaps being out in the sticks for more than three years with a bunch of lumberjack barflies—for whom red was a color on a flag, a complexion, and a mind-set—would change his outlook on government. It hadn’t. The twenty-four-hour news cycle had taken care of that. He thought of Phillip Grand dealing with these clowns, most of whom would sooner see their own mothers die of lung cancer than lose their income from the tobacco lobby. Still, he felt a sense of hope. Despite all that had happened between them, Bailino knew Phil was one of the good guys. Bailino would have voted for him if he hadn’t been dead.
“Are we almost there?” Faith asked from the backseat.
“Almost, cupcake,” Bailino said, glancing in his rearview mirror. The little girl was such a trouper. Even after more than twenty hours in the car, she never complained or whined, spending most of the time staring out the window or patting Lucky’s belly. That sense of patience would serve her well in her life.
Jamie had been sitting quietly in the passenger seat for the last few hours, ever since he told her about ToniAnne Cataldi. He could tell she was in her head, trying to figure shit out. He meant what he had said. He had more than enough places for them to hide out—for the rest of their lives, if need be. He just had to talk some sense into ToniAnne first. And that could take a while.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Whatever happens.”
“What if it’s not her?” she whispered suddenly. “What if someone else is trying to hurt the president?” As she leaned toward him, the top of her shirt fell slightly away from her skin, revealing a hint of cleavage. “Or Faith?”
“It’s her. Trust me.” He had the urge to reach for her hand but held back.
“Couldn’t anyone have shot him in the eye?” she asked.
“It’s possible, but ToniAnne could do it without thinking twice, and would do it out of habit. People usually go for the head or chest. You have to want to shoot someone in the eye and do it before they realize you’re going to do it, because they’ll move and you’ll miss.”
“You’ve seen her do it?”
Bailino nodded. “She used to bring Joey upstate from time to time, even though my preference was to pick him up. That woman never listened.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Faith, who was still looking out her window. “We used to go hunting—deer, bears, rabbits. Most hunters shy away from the head so they can have a pretty trophy for their wall. ToniAnne aimed straight for the eyes. That girl was a born hunter, but she was born in a family that thought women belonged either on a pedestal or in the kitchen or bedroom.” He shrugged. “I guess now that Gino and Paolo are gone, she thinks she needs to do something. She thinks it’s her time. And I know she has a hard-on for Phillip Grand—she blames him for the death of her father, Gino. And, probably, for mine.”
“But it’s more than just being a good shot, isn’t it? You have to be sure not to leave evidence at the crime scene. All that.”
Her face had developed a slight hardness—there were small lines around her eyes and mouth—but it was as sweet as when he had seen her in Bryant Park for the first time. “I stopped underestimating women about five years ago.” He smirked.
She twisted a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the delicate curve of her cheekbone. The scent of her freshly washed hair had diminished, but he could still smell it, and it reminded him of being on top of her, the feel of her dry skin.
“The Feds wouldn’t even think to question ToniAnne—her father kept her out of things—for the most part,” he said. “She was barely a blip on their radar, which used to piss her off … As far as they know, she runs some kind of home haircutting business, but trust me, she’s a far better shot than any hairdresser.”
He took the U.S. 50 exit toward downtown and drove along Constitution Avenue, eventually making a few turns and pulling into a parking spot just across from the International Spy Museum. He reached into the glove compartment, put on a baseball cap, and handed Jamie a pair of sunglasses.
“We’re there?” Faith asked.
“Yes, sweetie,” Jamie said, reaching for her handbag.
Bailino put his hand on hers. “You know what to do, right?” he asked.
Jamie nodded, letting his hand cover hers. “Yes, I know. It’ll be okay. I trust Phillip.”
He ignored the wave of jealousy that flooded through him and put his hand back on the steering wheel as Jamie reached back to unbuckle Faith’s seat belt. Lucky, who sensed something was happening, was alert and sitting on the backseat, her paws on the back of Bailino’s headrest.
“Be careful, sweetheart,” Bailino said.
“I will,” she said, opening the passenger’s-side door. “You too.”
“I’m fine.”
“How are you going to contact me?”
“When you get the signal, you’ll know.”
She nodded, looking as though she were going to say something but decided against it, and stepped onto the sidewalk. When she opened the back door, Faith sprang out of her car seat, while the dog stayed seated, waiting to be told what to do.
“Okay, honey, let’s go, but be careful,” Jamie said. “Don’t step in the puddle.”
“I saw the white buildings. That means we’re near home, right, Momma?”
“Almost,” Jamie said, tying the laces of one of her new sneakers and pulling their luggage out of the car.
Faith peered into the front seat. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked Bailino.
“Not right now, cupcake,” he said, “but go with your momma.”
“When will I see you?” A look of disappointment spread across her face.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll come as soon as I can. I didn’t forget what we talked about.”
“We have to go, sweetie,” Jamie said, putting her hands on the little girl’s shoulders. She was inspecting everyone around her, the strange bodies brushing by, and moving Faith if they were too close. Good girl.
“But,” Faith said, “wait …” She climbed into the passenger seat, sitting on her knees. She reached under her shirt and pulled out her necklace with the gold cross. “Here,” she pointed the cross in Bailino’s direction, “I want you to have this.”
She stared at him with seriousness, and for the first time he recognized his own eyes looking back at him. “But I thought it was your favorite thing,” he said.
“It is.” She smiled.
“Then you should keep it.”
“But you’re my favorite thing more,” she said.
Bailino didn’t know how to argue with that. He reached behind her neck, unclasped the necklace, and placed it around his own neck, the coldness of the gold rope chain familiar against his skin.
“Now, you’ll remember me,” she said, satisfied. She turned to get out of the car, but Bailino gently placed his hand on hers.
“Wait, I have something for you,” he said.
“You do?”
He whistled, and Lucky’s snout came into the front seat. The dog licked Bailino’s face.
“Now I’m giving you my favorite thing.” He put the dog’s leash in her tiny hand.
Faith’s face lit up. “Really? For myself?”
“Yep, she’s all yours. After all, you have the same last name.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jamie asked, sticking her head into the car. “She’s bigger than our apartment.”
“She needs l
ove more than mountains. Walk her once or twice a day, she’ll be fine. She’ll watch her,” Bailino said, motioning to Faith.
“Oh, Momma, can we please keep her?” Faith clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. “Please, please, please, please, please—”
“All right, all right …” Jamie said. “But we have to hurry.” She stuck her head back out, and Bailino could see she was looking for security cameras. “I have no idea how I’m going to get Lucky into Uncle Edward’s car. What else do we need?”
“I already put the dog’s stuff in your luggage,” Bailino said.
Faith bounced out of the car and went into the backseat, wrapping Lucky in a hug. When she tried to get the leash on the dog’s collar, she couldn’t latch it, and Bailino held the collar still until the little girl could snap it closed.
“You’re coming home with us, Lucky!” Faith squealed. The dog licked her face.
“Look at that …” Bailino said. “She really is lucky, after all.” He winked at Jamie.
Faith lunged at Bailino and wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing him hard, her body arched across the well of the backseat. Before she let go, she put her mouth near his ear and whispered, “I love you.” Then she zoomed back out of the car. “C’mon, Lucky,” she said, holding her mother’s hand. “We’re going home.”
Lucky’s single eye followed the little girl out of the car, but the dog sat dutifully on the backseat.
“Goodbye, friend,” Bailino said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Take care of them.”
Faith poked her head back into the car. “Come on, Lucky! You want a treat?”
At the word treat, the dog jumped toward the little girl, out of the car, and onto the sidewalk.
“So much for loyalty,” Bailino said as Jamie closed the front and back doors.
“Drive safely,” Jamie said. “And thank you.”
Bailino nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
Jamie took hold of the luggage, two stacked bags, with one hand and covered Faith’s hand and the leash with the other, and the two of them walked in the direction of Union Station, Lucky trotting beside them. Images played in Bailino’s mind of a life that could have been, and he remembered something Gino once said to him when Bailino had returned from the Army: “Don’t get all hoity-toity on me, kid. Those pins might make people think you’re some kind of war hero, but I know who you really are.”
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