by Jack Rogan
Cait thought her mother must have no soul. She had never spoken the words aloud, not even to her brother, but nothing else made sense to her. The woman had to have been entirely empty of love; otherwise, she could never have left. Cait had known from the moment of Leyla’s birth that she would be willing to die for her daughter, and she had never felt that way about anyone before—not even Nizam, whom she had loved deeply.
Thoughts of Sean got her mind working. She twisted in her seat, straining against the seat belt as she fished her cell phone out of her pocket. With a quick glance at the road ahead, she flipped it open, skimmed her contacts list, and hit the call button. It rang and rang, and just when she expected the call to kick over to voice mail, her brother picked up.
“Hey, little sister.”
“Hey, yourself,” she said, smiling at the warmth in his voice. They’d done their share of fighting, but Sean had always looked out for her, no matter what.
“What’s going on? How’s my niece?”
Despite the tensions lingering from the night before and the weirdness of the morning, Cait found herself relaxing.
“Leyla’s awesome, thanks. Getting bigger every day. And I’m good. But I had a little excitement on the job last night, so I’m going in to talk to my boss and make sure I’m still employed.”
Sean asked for details, and as Cait drove she regaled him with the tale. Only now, talking to her brother, did she allow herself to truly feel the horror of watching the bastard beat on his wife, knowing how easily the violence could turn deadly.
“You did what had to be done,” Sean said, grimly serious. He had no sense of humor where violence was concerned. “Those other people should be ashamed of themselves.”
“I know, right? It’s like they thought they were watching a show or something, like they didn’t think it was real. I’ve seen enough ugly shit. I don’t want any more, y’know?”
Sean hesitated for a heartbeat. To others, the pause would have been barely noticeable, but Cait knew him better than anyone.
“I do know,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Sean. I know you’re still in the shit—”
“I officially have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and now she could hear the smile in his voice—a lightness that was also a warning for her to tread carefully.
Four years ago, Sean had been discharged from the Marine Corps and gone to work at the Pentagon. Officially he worked in satellite surveillance, and Cait thought that was probably true, as far as it went. But within months of beginning the job, Sean had started to grow a beard he had never trimmed. It grew so bushy and wild that, with his black Irish heritage—black hair and dark eyes—he looked like a radical Muslim cleric.
Every few months, he went off the grid for a while. Last time it had been five weeks. And each time, he would call Cait beforehand with the same message: I’m going out of town for a while. You won’t be able to reach me. If you have an emergency, call Hercules. She had never had to actually get in touch with Hercules, whose real name was Brian Herskowitz, but it was nice to know someone could get a message to Sean if there really was an emergency. She’d only met Herc a couple of times—he worked on satellite stuff with Sean and had a physique that made the nickname amusing—but she liked the guy well enough.
“Anyway …” she said.
“Anyway,” Sean replied, “you’ll be fine. Probably better than fine. Don’t sweat it.”
“I’m trying not to,” Cait said, watching the signs for her exit.
“You’re going in to see your boss right now, you said. An hour from now, you’ll know one way or the other.”
“Is that your way of brushing me off?” Cait demanded, feigning hurt feelings.
“Just being a realist. It’s what I do.”
“Yeah? When is the realist going to come home to visit? Leyla will be headed off to college by the time you see her again.”
“You know it isn’t as simple as that, Cait,” Sean chided, obviously sensitive to the subject. “I can’t wait to see her, and I’ll get there soon. Before the year is out, I promise.”
“You’d better,” Cait said. “Look, I should focus on driving. My exit’s coming up.”
“You go, then. Call me later and let me know how it goes with the boss. And send me the video of you kicking the crap out of that guy so I can show all my friends. Actually, on second thought, I’m not showing it to them. Half of them might fall in love with a girl who can fight like you can.”
“Yeah,” Cait said. “That’s the last thing I need right now.”
The Library Café had been a little-known gem in downtown Alexandria, Virginia, for nearly forty years. Open for breakfast and lunch seven days a week, the place had a Bohemian flair, and always smelled of bacon and frying onions in the morning, and freshly baked bread and cinnamon in the afternoon. Their coffee cake was legendary. The walls were lined with books that customers were welcome to read while they relaxed for a meal or a cup of coffee, or to take home for as long as they liked. Just like a real library, some of the books were never returned, but according to the owner, Rose Whiting, most of them made their way back onto the shelves eventually.
Sean loved the café, and had made it his second home in Alexandria. Toni fixed a heavenly breakfast, and Rose always made it a point to wait on him herself, even when she had plenty of help. Sean had the same thing almost every time he came in—scrambled eggs with ham and cheese mixed in, eaten on top of wheat toast, with bacon on the side. A deadly cholesterol load, but twice a month he could spoil himself.
In the time since he had moved here to work at the Pentagon, he had dated a dozen girls, half of them more than once, but had yet to meet a woman with whom he would be willing to share the Library Café. It was his little Fortress of Solitude. He figured when he eventually met a woman he wanted to take out for breakfast here, she would be the one.
“How were your eggs, honey?” Rose asked as she topped up his coffee.
“You do ’em perfect. You know that.”
Rose smiled. “That’s Toni. She knows just what you like.”
The woman added just enough naughtiness to her inflection that it would be impossible for Sean to miss the innuendo. Toni, a fortyish single mother, always flirted with him when he came in, and sometimes she used Rose as her go-between. The women made a little game of it, and Sean always went along. Most times he thought she was joking—that the flirtation was only surface—but on occasion he had wondered if there might be something more to it. The prospect of finding out tempted him, but his work was not conducive to long-term relationships, and he was too fond of Toni to treat her affection as something disposable. But innocent flirtation? That he could do.
He slipped some money into the leather folder with the bill Rose had left on the diner-style counter.
“Keep it warm for me,” he said, sliding off his stool and heading for the men’s room.
“I always do,” Rose called.
Sean smiled to himself as he went into the restroom, but after he’d used the urinal and was standing at the sink, washing his hands, his thoughts went back to his sister. Cait had sounded off, and he didn’t blame her. This afternoon, when he could steal enough time for a longer conversation, he would call her back. They might be adults now, but he knew he would never stop worrying about her.
When he came out of the men’s room, Rose was wiping spilled coffee off the floor and there were napkins soaking it off the counter. A middle-aged suit with wire-rimmed glasses had taken the stool next to where Sean had been sitting, and now he was dabbing at coffee stains on his shirt. When he spotted Sean, his expression turned sheepish.
“You must be the guy whose coffee I just spilled,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
The guy had apparently slung his briefcase onto the counter. It sat on the stool beside him now, a few small rivulets of coffee dripping down the side.
“No worries,” Sean said, grabbing some napkins and pitching in, wiping the counter.
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Especially if you’re as uncoordinated as I am.” On the counter in front of the man was a brand-new coffee in a to-go cup. He picked it up and offered it to Sean.
“Why don’t you take mine? I just got it. Haven’t even taken a sip. It’s got cream in it, but if you want sugar—”
“He’s sweet enough,” Rose said, straightening up. She smiled and went around behind the counter.
Sean felt a little awkward, but he needed to get going, and the guy seemed to feel so sheepish that he hated to refuse.
“That’s great, actually,” he said, taking the offered cup. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. It’s the least I can do.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who has to clean that shirt,” Sean said, gesturing toward the stains on the man’s clothes. “I got off easy.”
The guy laughed, a little less sheepish now.
Rose dumped the napkins and paper towels in the trash, then took a clean cloth and gave the counter one more wipe down. Sean picked up a biography of Houdini, which he’d left on the counter. By some miracle, the pool of coffee had not reached it. He took a couple of long sips from the cup—hot, but not scalding. Perfect.
“Thanks again,” Sean told the guy, raising his coffee cup. “See you soon, Rose. Give Toni a kiss from me.”
“You could give it to her yourself if you’d shave that beard, or at least trim it back a little,” Rose teased him, picking up the faux-leather folder that held the check and his money and slipping it into her apron.
Sean ran a hand over his bristly, close-cropped hair and then pushed his fingers through his tangled snarl of a beard. “I think it’s distinguished.”
“Hah! It’s a rat’s nest,” Rose said with a laugh.
“That’s no way to keep your customers coming back.”
She winked at the clumsy, coffee-stained guy, then turned back to Sean. “You’ll be back, honey. Where else are you gonna get such a warm welcome?”
Sean chuckled. “You win. No arguing that.” He held up the Houdini book for her to see. “I’m going to borrow this one, if you don’t mind.”
“You know I don’t. Enjoy it, honey.”
“I already am,” he replied. As he headed for the door, he glanced back. “Tell Toni I said good-bye.”
The bell above the door chimed as he pushed it open and stepped onto the sidewalk, a smile on his face. The fans had been spinning inside the Library Café, but out here on the street it was warming up fast. The forecast called for a hot one today, but manageable. Tomorrow, though … the cute weather girl was predicting a scorcher.
Still sipping his coffee, Sean headed toward home, but not directly. Two blocks down there was a small market. He needed to pick up some OJ and a jar of peanut butter, and probably a loaf of bread as well, if they had anything decent. The bread stock at Taraji’s Market was always a roll of the dice.
He hitched up his pants, glancing casually around to make sure he wasn’t being observed as he adjusted the holster he wore clipped to his belt at the small of his back, his long shirt easily covering it.
As he did, he licked his lips, realizing he was suddenly thirsty. He took another sip of coffee, but then had second thoughts. Water would have been better. His throat felt so dry. And the sun … it was so bright that his temples began to throb.
Stupid, Sean thought, having a big breakfast on a hot August morning. He’d be feeling full and sleepy all day. Walking would do him good. Despite the pressure in his temples, quickly growing into a genuine headache, he picked up his pace.
He dropped the half-empty coffee into a trash can he strolled past, realizing that his throat felt even drier. He swallowed, felt it constricting, and frowned. You’d better not be getting sick. Actually, though it had been years since he’d had a bad one, this felt a lot like a hangover. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his lips swollen, and now he blinked, unsteady on his feet.
Sean froze, there on the sidewalk.
Oh, Jesus, he thought, as he realized what it was. This wasn’t a hangover at all.
He turned to glance back at the trash can where he’d just dropped the coffee cup, then at the Library Café, thinking how stupid he’d been. Of all people, he should have known better than to take anything from a stranger. Bile rushed up the back of his throat and he dropped to his knees, vomiting blood and scrambled eggs onto the sidewalk. His stomach convulsed and he threw up again, unable to catch his breath.
Then the seizure started.
A good Samaritan, seeing him twisting in agony on the ground, shouted for someone to call 911 and raced to his side. By the time the man reached him, Sean McCandless had stopped breathing.
The Houdini book lay open, facedown, on the sidewalk beside him, blood and vomit soaking its white pages.
Cait stepped off the elevator at 8:12 a.m., late for the meeting to which Lynette had summoned her, but she had surrendered herself to fate. Whatever happened now would happen. She couldn’t have gotten there any faster without risking a car wreck or a major speeding ticket. If the station manager wanted to make her suffer, then so be it.
The receptionist—a scrawny, twentyish Boho guy named Adam—waved to her as she crossed the foyer, chatting on his headset. The station was busy 24/7, but outside business hours, nobody got in without a magnetic key/ID card to swipe through the scanner. Adam split his job with a heavyset Dominican woman named Linda, but since she had seniority, he was the one who had to work weekend mornings.
“Hey,” Adam said as Cait pulled out her ID card.
She glanced up to see him covering the mouthpiece of his headset.
“You’re my hero,” he said. And there was none of the usual laid-back coffeehouse demeanor in his tone. “Really nicely done last night. I fucking cheered when I saw it.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks.”
Adam grinned, then went back to his phone conversation, which didn’t seem to have anything to do with work. A quiet Sunday morning.
Cait waved her card at the sensor and heard the lock click open. She pushed through the door and went down a long corridor, past the restrooms, a conference room, and several storage closets, where she believed ancient videotapes were moldering to dust. A television hung on the wall straight ahead, the sound off, showing the current programming going out over the Channel 7 signal. There were other TVs in the office, some of them bulky, outmoded things that still sort of worked or that nobody wanted to go to the trouble of removing, considering how well they’d been bolted into corners or walls or the ceiling.
A right turn took her into a labyrinth of cubicles. Several people looked up from their desks as she passed, and she didn’t think it was her imagination that they watched her go by with a new level of interest. One older woman, Janis, practically scowled at her, but everyone else either smiled or nodded in approval, and puffy-faced Bob Gorman actually gave her a thumbs-up.
Weird. It all felt weird to her.
On the far side of the cubicle maze was a junction. Off to the right were the executive offices, and the control room and studio were down the corridor to the left. As she reached the junction, the door to an editing suite swung open, and Jordan Katz stepped out, a cup of coffee in one hand.
Cait did a tiny double take at the sight of him. The cameraman had a laconic confidence that she liked, but the wild bush of a beard he had grown since their unit had been brought home from Iraq had always seemed wrong on him. At least her brother’s beard was a part of his job and not a personal fashion statement.
Now, though, Jordan had clipped the unruly beard away, trimming it down to little more than stubble, and she could see the shape of his face again, not to mention more of the mischievous smile that matched the quiet twinkle in his eye when he spotted her. Without the beard, his features had a hard edge that combined with his soulful eyes to start an engine purring inside her that had been quiet for some time.
Stop, she told herself. It’s Jordan. Don’t be stupid. Y
et she couldn’t help wondering if a spark of interest in someone, a good guy like Jordan, might help her find the way out of her enduring grief.
“Hey, Cait,” Jordan said. “Quite a morning, huh? Instant celebrity hell. Potential dates suddenly intimidated by your ass-kicking magnificence.”
She laughed. “Nice. I hadn’t even thought about the impact on my love life. Such as it is.”
Jordan nodded solemnly. “Oh, yeah. Any guy sees that video’s gonna want to do you.”
Cait crossed her arms. “Who says I want to be done?”
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “I know, I know. Even the tiniest bit of sex or romance will ruin your plan to become the withered old crone who all the neighborhood kids think is a witch. You’re right. It’s a good plan. You should stick with it.”
She couldn’t help smiling—right before she punched him in the arm.
“Hey!” he protested. “Back off, lady. I’ve seen you in action. I don’t want trouble.”
“Just remember that,” Cait said, shaking an admonishing finger at him.
Jordan probably knew better than anyone what Nizam had meant to her, and how much grief she still carried. Jordan and Ronnie had been there the night Cait and Nizam had met, had been the big brothers who watched out for her while she was falling in love with a guy everyone else looked at with suspicion, and Jordan had been the one who held her while she wept on the night Nizam had been killed. He and Ronnie made jokes about her love life as a way to drive back the shadows of her grief, though they all knew that it would not be as simple as that.
Someday, Cait would have someone in her life again. Nizam would not have wanted her to be alone. But for now, she reserved all her love for Leyla. She cherished her daughter, and whenever strangers asked about the little girl—as they often did, curious about her olive skin and foreign features—Cait never hesitated to tell her story. Even the bitter old woman at the supermarket deli had softened at the sight of Leyla. In a climate of prejudice and fear, Cait had watched bigots turn thoughtful and even kind upon learning of Nizam’s death. One man, with a shaved head and tattooed biceps, had surprised her with a comment that touched her heart.