The Survivors

by Robert Palmer

  “That’s why he protected you so much.”

  “Yes, he did. And now he’s dead because you had to stir up a bunch of old mud.”

  “It was Markaris who decided to go to the Tidal Basin. He went there for you. He followed you every step of his life, like a puppy dog.”

  “You watch what you say, Doctor. I don’t—”

  I cut him off. “Guilt—Markaris knew that was your big weakness. You can’t stand to feel like you screwed up. OK. If you want to blame somebody for Markaris being dead, I’m your guy. I could care less.”

  He paced to the end of the alley and back. “I’m trying to be reasonable here, but you’re going to get the message. The only reason you’re still standing is because of what I thought of your mother. There’s a limit to that.”

  “Was that a threat? I didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

  Carl took a step toward me, but Bowles held him off.

  “There,” I said. “That urge to keep me from getting hurt. You wouldn’t feel that way just because you fired my mother from her job.” I wasn’t sure where I was headed, but I pushed on. It felt good to be firing at him. “You got too close back then. You knew what Markaris and Russo and the rest were up to. You knew exactly why my mother took those plans. You stood back and watched it all play out, and four innocent people ended up dead. That’s why you had to come here yourself and not just send these two clowns to deliver your message. Whatever you did back then—twenty-five years ago—it’s still eating you alive.”

  “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Doctor.”

  “How much of the whole thing was your plan?” I said. “Did you prod Sorensen along? Did you send him to the house that night?”

  Right there, I’d finally put a light on it. That gnawing feeling. I knew my mother wasn’t a murderer, but that was only the tip of the story. I wanted all of it. Every dirty piece.

  “I’m going to find out,” I said. “I’ll keep looking and digging and asking questions, until I have it all. And then the whole world is going to learn what you are.”

  He blinked and looked away for a second. The laugh he gave was low and mean. “You are like your mother. She always thought she was the only one who knew right and wrong. Well look where it got her.”

  The angry flame inside me bloomed. I’d never felt so out of control.

  I stepped into the punch, giving it everything. My fist hit just above his lip, flattening his nose. He bounced off the other wall.

  It was exhilarating, and it was totally stupid. Carl had me locked in a vise grip before Bowles hit the ground. Junior scooped him up and got him out of there.

  Carl spun me a quarter turn and closed his hands around my throat from behind. “Mr. Bowles is too polite,” he said.

  “He didn’t seem that way to me,” I gagged out.

  His hands tightened. I could still breathe, barely, but something else was wrong. My vision was closing in, like a swirling cloud of black. He was cutting the blood to my brain.

  “You’re not going to bother Mr. Bowles anymore.” He lifted me straight off the ground. “If we see you, if we hear you’ve been talking to the wrong people—”

  I kicked back with all my might, catching him in the kneecap with my heel. He grunted and flung me against the wall. By luck, it was my shoulder that hit, not my head.

  While I stood clutching the bricks so I wouldn’t fall, he hobbled to the mouth of the alley.

  “If we even hear your name, we’ll end you. The books are balanced for your family.”

  “No—not even close,” I rasped.

  He stomped out of sight, and the car started and pulled away.

  I leaned over, hands on my knees, gasping. I realized I could hear music. Thump-thump-thump. Barry White.

  Lucinda and Chelsea, there on the other side of the wall.

  For some people, life just rolled on.

  EPILOGUE

  Tim Regis squirmed while Cal looked over the papers he’d brought. Tim was never comfortable in Cal’s office. He wouldn’t go near the couch, and the chairs were too small for his huge frame.

  Cal looked up. “How did you get these?”

  “From an investigator I use for trials. And don’t worry—the guy owes me a bunch of favors. There’s no charge.”

  “I’d like to pay him anyway. I told you that when I asked you to look into this.” Cal glanced at the top sheet. “So a week before my father died, he settled up with his ex-partner.”

  “Yeah, paid by check from that New York bank account. It’s a standard settlement agreement. Your dad gave one hundred ten thousand dollars; Greg Clawson dropped the lawsuit. They dissolved the partnership and agreed not to disclose the terms of the settlement or say anything that might damage the reputation of the other.”

  “All right.” Cal shoved the papers aside. “A loose end tied up.”

  Tim didn’t like the silence that followed. There were too many of those with Cal lately. “So today’s the day. Twenty-five years. You going to do anything special?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe hoist a few.”

  “I think I’ll make a quiet night of it.”

  “I thought you’d say that. Look, Cal, if you need—”

  A knock came at the door and Tori walked in. Her stride was slinky in spike-heeled, over-the-knee boots. “Sorry I took so long.” She set two cups of coffee on the desk. “There was a line out the door at the coffee shop.” She glanced at Tim. “You’re going to need a pry bar to get out of that chair. Why don’t you sit on the couch?”

  He ran his eye over the boots. “What is that, your Resident Evil outfit? Alice and the zombies?”

  “Don’t get fresh. I know your wife.”

  “So you do,” Tim said, leaning primly away from her.

  “Cal, Wendy Stein asked if she could come in half an hour early,” Tori said. “Since you had the time free, I told her it would be OK.”

  Cal looked at the clock by the couch. “That’s fine.” He stood up. “Send me a bill, Tim, and be sure to include your own time. That was the deal.”

  “If you’re going to twist my arm,” Tim said, grinning. He’d brought a big barrister’s briefcase, and he fished something out. “The investigator got a full rundown on that New York bank account. It was opened three weeks before the payment was made to Clawson. This gives you the whole cash-flow picture—deposits and payouts.” He held out a stack of papers.

  Cal hesitated.

  “Hey, you’re paying, right?”

  Cal took the pages and set them on the desk. “Politics—no end to the money sloshing around there.”

  Tim took his briefcase and coffee, and he and Tori headed out. “Send Wendy in as soon as she gets here,” Cal said as she shut the door.

  Tim stopped with her by her desk. “How much weight has he lost?”

  “Do I look like a set of bathroom scales?”

  “Dressed like that—hardly. Is he still seeing his patients?”

  “Every one of them. He wouldn’t let them down, no matter what.”

  “That bandage on his wrist—”

  “There’s a fresh one every morning. He won’t talk about it,” she said. “For a psychologist, he’s a damn fool about keeping things bottled up.”

  Tim looked at Cal’s closed door and worried the corner of his lip with his teeth. “You’ll keep an eye on him?”

  “I always do.”

  That day, October 3, was humid and unseasonably warm. Felix Martinez hadn’t been happy about making the trip to the Mall. It should feel like autumn, with an apple-cider crispness in the air, not this murky remnant of summer. He wasn’t too happy about his companions, either. Scottie Glass was on one side as they strolled toward the Smithsonian Castle, Jamie Weston on the other. They both made Felix nervous.

  “He won’t return my phone calls,” Scottie said. “I went by his apartment, and the two women who live downstairs said they hadn’t seen him in weeks.”


  “He’s there,” Felix said. “He’s just keeping to himself.”

  “He won’t talk to me either,” Jamie said. “When I call his office, that Tori person treats me like an encyclopedia salesman. ‘Cal’s not available now. If he needs anything, he has your number.’”

  Felix smiled. “That sounds like Tori.”

  “What are we going to do?” Scottie said.

  Felix cringed at the whiny tone, and he wished to hell both of them would stop chewing their fingers. “Cal needs to see Dr. Rubin again. So far, he’s refused. I’ve got Tori working on it. She’ll break him down.”

  “And if she can’t?” Scottie asked.

  Felix thought of making some soothing comment, but with Scottie that seemed like wasted effort. He just sighed instead.

  “There’s got to be something we can do,” Jamie said.

  “Keep calling him,” Felix said. “He’ll let you back in eventually.”

  A group of tourists was getting off a tour bus. They poured across the pathway, oblivious of everyone else. In the jumble, Scottie dropped back, and he stayed there, staring.

  Weston turned. “See something you like?”

  “I, uh . . . maybe?” Scottie said.

  She was wearing tight, short, running shorts and the oddest-looking yellow running shoes he’d ever seen.

  Felix laughed. “On that note, I’d better be going. I’ve got a hungry dog to feed.”

  “Give Coop a pat for me,” Scottie said.

  “Stop by someday, do it yourself.”

  “Really?” Scottie said with so much glee that Felix almost reconsidered.

  “Why not? Just remember to bring a treat—for me, not the dog.”

  They watched him head across the Mall, to where he’d parked his car by the Museum of American History. They moved on until they came to the carousel. The calliope music chirped while kids squealed and laughed atop the wooden ponies.

  The carousel was ringed by a wrought iron fence, and Scottie leaned back on it. “I followed up on the money, the one hundred ten thousand Cal’s father stashed in that New York bank. Seventy thousand came from Braeder, an account managed by Howie Markaris. He signed the check to Cal’s dad on the tenth of September that year. Twenty thousand more came in a week later from Eric Russo. The last twenty thousand came from Peter Sorensen.”

  Weston was watching the kids on the ride. She waved as a little girl wheeled past. “Blackmail payments,” she said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Once Cal’s parents figured out where those digital camera plans came from, they went after everybody.”

  “I don’t know,” Scottie said. “The way I remember Cal’s mother, it had to be more than that. I think she took those plans because she knew something was wrong with them. She wanted to figure that out, save the day for Braeder and Ned Bowles. Then it all blew up in her face, and the one person she trusted—Bowles—wouldn’t let her back in. With the lawsuit facing them, she and Cal’s dad got desperate. Blackmail was the only way out. One thing I don’t understand is why Sorensen killed them. He’d already paid his twenty thousand.”

  Weston scratched in the dirt with her toe, making a dollar sign. “My guess is Cal’s parents asked Sorensen for more, a second bite. Sorensen couldn’t pay or wouldn’t. He went to the house intending to put an end to it, one way or another. Denise’s gun, the suicide—all that fell in his lap. He probably couldn’t believe his luck, but afterward he couldn’t forget it either. Shooting three kids like that . . .” She scuffed away the dollar sign.

  Scottie turned and leaned with his forearms on the railing. He smiled at the girl on the carousel. Her mother, standing beside her to help her hold on, gave him a nasty scowl.

  “Do you think we should tell Cal?” Weston said.

  “Not me,” Scottie said. “I think he’ll find out on his own anyway. He’s still poking around.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Just a guess. But don’t forget, I’ve known Cal since we were kids. He won’t give up until he’s got everything figured out. It’s just the way he is.” Scottie gave her a quick look. “It’s just a guess too that your boss took all the files from your investigation and told you to forget about it. That’s how O’Shea and Sorensen and Markaris all ended up dead, and nobody cares about the real story. I saw the articles in the paper, buried in the Metro section—Markaris killed in a mugging, O’Shea and Sorensen in a drive-by shooting. A drive-by in the middle of Rock Creek Park?”

  “That’s the way the world turns. You probably saw in the news that Braeder got its contract extension with the Department of Defense. Nobody wants to rock a boat that big.”

  “And Ned Bowles and Eric Russo get to walk away clean?”

  “It was a long time ago, and maybe what they did wasn’t that wrong. You remember what Sorensen said: ‘Every piece separate.’”

  “You sound like somebody who’s been around Washington too long.”

  “I just got here!” she said, maybe a little offended.

  Scottie looked back at the carousel. “Bowles and the rest of them will get what they deserve.”

  The coldness in his voice surprised her. “Scottie, don’t—”

  “I’ve been wondering about something,” he cut in. “Was it you who was following Cal around? It was an Acura, gray or silver.”

  “No, that was Cade—my partner. Direct orders from my boss to keep tabs on Cal. Then the night we ended up in the park, the one time he could have done some good, Cade flaked out, dropped in on some friend’s bachelor party.”

  “So how does Cade like Alabama?”

  “About as well as he would have liked South Dakota, which was his other choice.”

  “Was Cade the one in the SUV that night out in Middleburg?”

  “No. We weren’t able to track that truck down, but I figure it must have been Sorensen. He was already panicking, trying to scare you and Cal off.”

  “Or worse,” Scottie said. “Anyway, what about you? I hear you’ve gotten a promotion. Is that payback for shooting Sorensen and putting a cap on the whole mess?”

  “I thought Sorensen was going to shoot Cal—straight truth. Besides, my promotion isn’t official yet. It hasn’t even been approved.” She turned and studied him. “Who are you anyway? I mean your work. Every step I took trying to find you, something got in my way. I thought it was Ned Bowles and his cronies at Braeder. But maybe you’ve got a higher power looking out for you. Do you ride your bike out to Langley every day?”

  Scottie sniffed. “The CIA? I wouldn’t work for those clowns.”

  “The White House then,” she said. “NSA. Or wait—one of the private outfits that sell intelligence. Government by consultant. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Scottie grinned. “Whoever I work for, I’m nothing more than a glorified research assistant. Besides, you know that old saying, if I told you I’d have to—”

  “Kill you,” she put in.

  “Only instead, I’d nod to that guy over there in the gray coat, and he’d do it for me.”

  She laughed, but that turned brittle when she realized the man in the gray coat was staring at them.

  They left the carousel, and Scottie offered to buy her a drink from the refreshment stand next door. She decided on a lemonade, and he got one for himself. They walked on, crossing the grass.

  “All this stuff with Cal got me thinking a lot about when I was a kid,” Scottie said. “My parents took me to a psychologist. That was before I got shot. Dr. Bourke. I went to see him a couple of weeks ago. He’s still in the same office, a strip mall in Bethesda. He still had my file, too. The pages had gotten so yellow he had trouble reading them. I talked him into giving me the same tests from back then. IQ, Rorschach, MMPI. Guess what? I got the same scores on everything. Exactly the same.” He took a slurp of his lemonade. “I got shot in the head and so what? Turns out—this is me. I’m supposed to be like this.”

  She moved so she could look him in the face. “Why are you telling
me this?”

  “I guess . . . I’ve got to tell somebody.”

  The expression in his eyes was so pained, she had to look away. “Like Felix said, Cal will let people back in. Just wait for him.”

  “I could get old doing that.” Then he blew a big burst of bubbles in the lemonade, and they both laughed. He cocked his head to the side. “Why did you set up this meeting? Why do you keep calling Cal?”

  She shrugged—“I don’t know.”—and stared down the Mall at the Capitol Building. “He was nice about my shoes.”

  “Those shoes?”

  “Uh-huh. My last boyfriend gave them to me as a joke. Only he didn’t tell me they were a joke until we broke up. Cal told me he liked them.”

  Scottie’s eyes narrowed. He sucked thoughtfully on the lemonade. “You like him don’t you? I mean, you really like him.”

  As clueless as Scottie was sometimes, even he could see she was blushing.

  At five thirty, Tori straightened up her desk and locked the file cabinets. She knocked on Cal’s door to tell him goodnight.

  The lights were off. He’d pulled one of the chairs over to the window and was looking out. The sky was leaden over block after block of row houses.

  “I’m about finished,” Tori said. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  “No, I’m all set.”

  She noticed the wastepaper basket was out of place and moved it back beside the desk. Inside, she saw the bank account information Tim Regis had left, torn to bits. “You threw these things out?”

  Cal looked around and saw she was holding the shreds of paper. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. His hand snuck over, and he started rubbing his wrist.

  “Tim wouldn’t like to see you treating his hard work that way.”

  “Forget about it, Tori.”

  In two years together, that was the first time he’d raised his voice to her. She decided she liked it—a little heat between them.

  “What are you looking at out there?” she said.

  “Nothing really. It calms me down.”

  She pulled the other chair over and sat next to him. It was too small for Tim, but just right for her. Even with the stiff boots on, she was able to curl her legs up beside her. She couldn’t see anything calming outside, just black-tar roofs and jigsaw-puzzle brick walls.