by HN Wake
Senator Gillis blinked.
Joyce shook her head dramatically. “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that.”
Senator Gillis waited her out.
Joyce said, “What I just don’t understand is how you think the rules don’t apply to you.” She started bobbing her head, “I mean, that is some serious sense of entitlement. Serious. Like wow. Just wow.”
Senator Gillis waited still.
Joyce shrugged. “Entitlement is a funny thing, I guess.”
Senator Gillis’ voice was hushed. “What do you want?”
“Right.” Joyce shook her head as if remembering a lost story. “So I was sent here to deliver a message. Not the message I just delivered. That was my own two cents.“
“From Laura?”
“Ah, no. Laura’s got no idea I’m here.”
“Then who? That woman who visited me earlier? The operative Laura arranged?”
“Best not to worry about that.”
Senator Gillis asked. “Why is it you bringing this to me? Where’s the original woman? The spy?”
Joyce shrugged, “She’s busy.”
Senator Gillis stood. “What’s your message?”
“We’ve taken care of Warrick.”
Senator Gillis’ eyes widened. “What?”
“Yeah, he’s out of the picture. We’re giving you a second chance, Senator. A second chance to find honor, to start making decisions that are right for this country.” Joyce gave her a sad smile. “You should use that second chance wisely.”
60
CNN looped on an image outside the Patriot News headquarters in Times Square as the telecaster read, “Robert Kitsune, Head of Security for Patriot News, is being held in relation to what authorities describe as a bizarre and elaborate plot to purchase data stolen by Chinese hackers from the Office of Personnel Management in June of this year. Special Agent Ernest Couillard of the FBI Counterterrorism unit in New York said Mr. Kitsune was in possession of a trove of personal information that was ‘top secret and with national security implications.’ Mr. Couillard added, ‘The investigation is in its early days. We don’t know where this will lead. The question in these types of cases is always, ‘how high up does this go?”
61
Martha’s Vineyard, MA
Mac gripped the anchor line—slippery and green with algae—of a thirty-foot sailboat, its cockpit door sealed with wooden slats and a combination lock, bobbing in the waves just off the coastline. The wind was kicking up, sending her small rubber boat seesawing. The halyard in the sailboat pinged against the mast. From the position in her rubber dinghy, she kept an eye on a large “old vineyard” shingled house against the sky high on a rise above the beach. Two large white washed porches—one in the front facing the ocean, one along the side—wrapped the main floor. A white brick chimney rose between a peaked shingled roof above ten windows staring down the ocean.
She had waited for night to fall and was rewarded when the lights on the main floor were turned on, beaming out across the scrubby grass.
She released the anchor line, letting the rubber boat bob slowly toward the beach, reached to the stern, and yanked the cord on the small outboard. The engine croaked to life. She put her hand on the tiller and steered toward the sandy beach.
Twenty feet away, she made out the dark shadows of large boulders scattered up and down the otherwise empty stretch and steered toward an open expanse, driving the boat up onto the sand and killing the engine.
She pulled off her rain gear and stowed it under the wooden bench in the dinghy, leaving her scuba shoes on below black jeans and a fitted black sweater. She waded through the freezing water and up onto the beach, heading toward the lights beaming out into the night. Up a sandy path, she reached the dry lawn. On either side, she recognized the shadows of the bushes and flowers growing wildly around the yard. Their branches fluttered in the gusts.
She reached a low stone wall that ran the base of the house. It was made from piled rustic field stones and she wondered how many blustery nights they had withstood on this promontory. If one ever toppled, if it escaped its destiny and rolled onto the lawn, who came to put it back in its place?
Above her a shadow passed across a light.
She put her wet foot on the first step and leaned into it with her weight. It held fast, as it must have for generations of feet that passed up and down these porch stairs. Ivy had grown around the frame of the porch door leading into the house. She slipped on black leather gloves from her courier bag, reached out and gently grasped the handle. It turned easily in her hand.
She let it go, and took a moment to tap the timer on her watch. When you owned a house on a remote patch of Martha’s Vineyard—set among the most expensive real estate in the world—you didn’t bother locking the doors. That’s what silent alarms hooked up to nearby police stations were for.
She softly stepped inside the ground floor of the old mansion. The smell of wood and wax floated across ghostlike covered furniture scattered across the large room. At the farthest end, light beamed down from the top of the large, wooden staircase along with the faint sigh of a melancholy piano sonata. It was the plaintive music of someone who listened alone.
She waited silently at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the rounded banister. She imagined all the families that had lived in this home, the kids who ran up these stairs after their day on the beach, trailing sand along the wooden floors.
Then she heard it. The telltale footsteps across the floorboards overhead. The soft tread of a small, slight person walking relaxed, unaware there was an intruder positioned just below.
Mac placed her damp scuba shoes on the first stair and leaned her weight on it. No noise. This old staircase was solid. She moved agilely into the light and the sound of the soft sonata.
The staircase led to a huge open front room with enormous window panes. Beyond the porch loomed the night’s darkness beneath a moon over the ocean. The room was well lit under track lighting and four table lamps, shining pools of light across polished wood floors.
Emmerie Kugal, in an oversized armchair, sat facing the ocean with her back to the room in the far corner. She was reading the Financial Times in the light of a nearby lamp. The wind was howling.
Mac moved stealthily toward her, crossing two area carpets.
When she was within five feet, she whispered, “Do not be scared.”
The slight, old woman startled in her chair, but stilled quickly.
Mac walked around the chair—holding up a single hand--into the light of the lamp. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The old woman’s grey hawk-like eyes, set deep within creviced wrinkles, followed Mac as she settled in a seat opposite on the couch. Kugal was small, shrunken. Hair was pulled back in a bun, streaks of grey, mostly grey, more like streaks of dark against the white. Her face, behind huge black frames, was unreadable.
Kugal did not ask who Mac was. Mac got the sense that Emmerie Kugal didn’t care. It was as if strangers dressed in black often found their way into her living room on a stormy night. She had expected to feel some level of anger sitting across from the woman who had built up Patriot News and had nourished Fenton Warrick, but Mac felt nothing. She was here to finish the op. Close this sad story down. It was as if, having set up the demise of Fenton Warrick, her conscience was satisfied. Mac’s voice was slow, deliberate, soft. “I’m simply here to talk.”
Kugal raised her eyebrows. “Well then, let’s get on with it.” Her voice was raspy, old.
“Your man, Warrick, has crossed a line.”
“I’m sure he’s crossed many.”
“This time he’s crossed a line that matters. He’s crossed the line that keeps this country what it is. He threatened the foundations this country was built on.”
“Please, do expound.”
“He’s blackmailed a presidential candidate.”
“Eleanor Gillis.”
“Yes. He insisted she make him her vice presidential running mate.
”
Rand’s eyebrows clicked up. She had not known this. “You know this how?”
Mac reached into her courier bag, slipped out the tablet in a waterproof sleeve, unzipped the sleeve, and pulled out the tablet. She slid the tablet face up across the coffee table.
Kugal watched the video in its entirety from the distance of her oversized chair. When it concluded, her eyes looked over the tablet to Mac. She slipped off her heavy glasses, pressing the two ends against her lower lip. “Fenton has always been too self-interested. This is such a pedestrian play. Why on earth would he want to be vice president? A horrible position. Always second fiddle but with the public scrutiny. So narcissistic.” She watched Mac. “But certainly Fenton Warrick’s warped attempt at a power play did not warrant a dark, sinister visit to my home?”
“He’s also engaged in the purchase of national security documents to aide in his quest.”
The old woman didn’t pause. “Prove it.”
Mac reached into her bag and slipped out a second Ziploc and retrieved copies of the SF 86 forms. She handed them to Kugal. “He bought these off a Chinese Army General who had hacked into a US government agency. We found them on the Patriot network”
Kugal reviewed the documents quickly and handed them back. “How unsightly.”
“It’s treasonous, actually,” Mac said slowly, “A few days ago, I was pulled into this mess. What I’ve seen has made me uncomfortable. Because I’ve realized that the wealthy elite have moved in the shadows to control the foundations of this country. I’m just now starting to understand the power of the 1%. And the way you are organized. It’s interesting. And undemocratic. The control of the media is just one of those levers.”
“Quite proletarian of you.”
This woman was tough. Cold, arrogant, and haughty. Alone in a big house on an empty stretch of land. Alone in her wealth. It was exactly as Mac had expected. She felt nothing. Her job was almost done. This mission was almost complete.
Mac said, “The problem with your strategy is that it assumes the public won’t eventually see your role and decide to act in their interest. I believe strongly in democracy. I believe they will eventually see you for what you are: manipulative.”
“Perhaps.”
Sirens bleated in the distance, approaching at top speed.
Mac stood.
Kugal asked, “What do you want?”
“First, you’ll need to get out ahead of this scandal. The wheels are in motion against Warrick already.”
“Whose wheels?”
Mac ignored her question.
“In exchange for what?” Kugal asked.
“Your receptivity on a second matter.”
“I’m listening.”
Mac leaned in and whispered in her ear.
The sirens blared closer.
Then Mac was moving quickly through the large front room and racing down the staircase. She glided through the darkened lower floor and pushed the door open. A gust of wind blew past. She jogged across the dark yard under a turbulent sky, the grass fluttering and the bushes weaving, down the sandy path. The rushes protecting the beach slapped her thighs.
The sirens were louder now, fighting against the howl of the wind. Red and white flashing lights pulled in the drive behind the house, their beams lighting up a silhouette of the mansion.
The sand was cold, damp and clung to her shoes.
When she reached the water’s edge she slipped out the tablet. Black water swirled around her ankles. Out at the break, waves crashed with a roar.
The mission was almost complete. She took one last look at the mansion. Kugal’s shadow was at the window, looking out into the stormy night over her domain. A haughty, arrogant, lonely woman.
Mac slowly pushed the tablet into the swirling waters, destroying everything on it. The mission was complete.
She threw the ruined tablet into the small boat. Waves crashed around her knees as she pushed the boat out over a crest. She turned the bow toward the horizon, pulled herself up over the side, her clothes soaked. She grasped the outboard cord and yanked hard. The small engine leapt to life and she leaned into the oncoming waves as spray burst over the bow.
62
Philadelphia, PA
An hour before sunrise, she shut the kitchen door softly behind her. The smell in the room was uniquely home—a mix of wood floors, the spice rack by the stove, and the remaining coffee grinds in the coffee maker. She dropped her courier bag on the kitchen table and made her way through the dark toward the stairs.
The first step squeaked under her weight and she stilled.
Above her, she heard the soft tap of Junior’s nails on the floor as he made his way across the bedroom. He tapped down the top flight of stairs, intent yet calm. He rounded the first landing, his face coming round the wall, looking down into the dark gloom of the first floor. She leaned down, tapped her palms against her thighs to call him to her. His tail wagged. He stepped off the landing and tapped down to her.
She dropped to a crouch and hugged him. He licked her face, his tail slapping against the wooden floor and the wall.
She let him out into the back yard. The moon was low and clear. There were no ominous shadows. It would be a good day tomorrow. Junior chased smells around the perimeter, marked his territory, checked back to make sure she was standing in the doorway.
When he was finished, the dog bounded back to the door and into the kitchen.
She slipped off her shoes and followed the dog up two flights of stairs.
She heard Joe’s snores as she stepped into the bedroom. Their bedroom.
Junior circled on his bed by the window and settled in.
She stood for a moment, taking in the silence, the comfort of this large space and the man whose quiet grace, dignity, and strength filled it, even while he was sleeping.
She slipped out of her clothes, dropping them on the floor. Barefoot she padded over and slipped into the bed.
Joe stirred, reached out for her. She pushed one hand up over his chest, her fingers through the hair. He pulled her close and pressed his mouth against her forehead. He smelled like sleep, stale, familiar, and intimate. His voice was scratchy with sleep, “How’d it go?”
She whispered against his chest. “All good. How about yours?”
He grinned against her forehead, his voice scratchy. “Felt great to give that odd duck our marching orders.”
They held each other, settling into silence. She let her breathing match his slow intake. Her mind began to calm. No more blackmail video. No more operation. No more Senator Gillis, Fenton Warrick or Emmerie Kugal. No more Agency.
It was just the two of them. Finally. Three if you counted Junior.
She allowed her breathing to sync further into his slow, sleepy cadence, his chest warm and strong. She pressed her lips to the skin at his neck and breathed deeply. Her heart fluttered. His skin tasted salty and it made her wonder what he had done all day. She would ask him tomorrow how his day was. Tomorrow.
His fingertips moved slowly up her spine, tickling and puckering her skin.
She moved her breasts up over his chest, then her hips up along his. She pressed her lips to his and the kiss turned passionate.
Her heart raced as his hands cupped her hips, squeezed her against him. Heat blossomed across her chest. She positioned herself up and over him, then moved down around him, taking him in, the sensation overwhelming her. Their pace quickened. His hands slid up and down along her sides, his mouth against her neck. It was always Joe.
She clasped her hands around his neck, bit into the skin on her own bicep, her eyes squeezed tight against the outside world. It was only Joe.
The room swayed against a low buzz and the pressure built. Both stretched against the confines of their own skins. The explosion consumed them, abated them.
He held her close, his voice breaking, “Welcome home, Mac.”
63
Ville Platte, LA
Alicia Cade sat in the dark
under the Evangeline Oak with the hound lying next to her as the curtain of the night dropped from the sky, opening the stage for the sunrise. The chorus of crickets went silent with the arrival of morning.
She heard her mamma coming down the road, her steps soft.
Alicia turned her head when she arrived. Mamma was carrying a newspaper.
Alicia wanted nothing to do with no news. She looked back at the final show of stars.
Where my Elijah? Did he have wings yet? Was her angel riding a cloud around the world, chasing the sun?
Her hand rubbed the ear of the old hound. Mamma dropped him a big bone. Somebody musta come over and given the Cade’s some side of beef. They never had no bones to give to a dog. Mamma knew this old dog was giving her some kind of comfort. You take care of those that take care of you.
Mamma said, “Something in the news this morning. Something ‘bout some rich lady up north. Said she apologizing to you. Said they news network did wrong by you.”
Why anybody care about that?
Mamma kept on. “This lady saying she gonna come help. She gonna build a university wing. Gonna name it after Elijah.”
For a short second, Alicia imagined a big towering building with columns on the university diagonal. Big glass windows. Tall, wide stairs leading up to huge open doors. Students rushing in, carrying books, smiling on they way to class. Across the top, Elijah’s name carved in bold, block letters. Carved in cold, grey stone.
Across a doorway he will never enter.
“Don’t care, mamma,” she told her in a scratchy voice.
Mamma’s gentle eyes looked down. She nodded her kerchief back and forth. “Think my Licia is right.” She rolled the newspaper up and stuck it in the pocket of her old apron. “We stay outta this. What happening in the big city, in government, on them news, that got nothin’ to do with us. Nothin’ to do with Elijah.”
Then the topic was past, like a ghost walking out of a room, and Alicia was left alone with her cold hand on the hound’s head.