by Julie Cave
“Was the voice male or female?”
“Male.”
“Do you know what he was referring to with respect to Thomas’s activities?”
“No.”
“Was Thomas involved in anything . . . out of the ordinary or unusual?”
“Not that I could see. Our lives were normal. He went to work and came home. On weekends we’d visit friends, have brunch in Georgetown, or . . . or. . . .” Her eyes welled with tears and she looked dismayed.
“We’ll stop, Mrs. Whitfield, if this is too hard for you,” suggested Ferguson.
“No,” Mrs. Whitfield said fiercely. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know. Whatever will help to bring Thomas back home.”
“Have you noticed Thomas acting differently in recent times?” Ferguson asked.
Mrs. Whitfield was quiet, thinking. “In ways only a wife would notice, now that I think about it. I caught him very recently looking at me in the way he does when he has something important to tell me. He used to put his head to one side and look very thoughtful, like he was trying to gauge my mood. And ” — Mrs. Whitfield blushed — “he did start to take a bit more notice of me.”
The two agents were silent, digesting this new information.
Mrs. Whitfield drew a deep breath and took the opportunity to say, “I heard some idiots in Thomas’s office say that he might have gone missing of his own free will. I’m telling you now, he would never do that. And now that you know about the threat, you know something bad has happened to him.”
Ferguson scratched his head and closed his notebook. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Whitfield. This can’t have been easy for you. Where can we reach you if we need to?”
Mrs. Whitfield recited her phone numbers dutifully and stood. “Please find him. Please trust me when I tell you that something terrible has happened to him.” She shook their hands again briefly and was gone.
Ferguson felt a little bewildered. “Well, I guess we’re a little closer to the truth,” he said. “If the threat she overheard on the phone is true.”
“Who on earth would Thomas Whitfield be associating with that would be capable of making a threat like that, let alone carrying it out?” wondered Dinah.
“Maybe the highly respected Thomas Whitfield was a drug mule,” suggested Ferguson with a smirk.
Dinah groaned. “Why are you such an idiot?”
• • • •
Thomas Whitfield had lost track of time and space.
The secretary of the Smithsonian — he who had once hosted presidents and entertained queens — lay in the trunk of a car, hands and feet tightly bound and eyes blindfolded with a rag that smelt of motor oil. Whenever the car would turn a corner tightly, he would roll helplessly and smack his head on the exposed wheel brace. As a result, he also had a pounding headache. There was little oxygen in the confined space, and this caused panic to rise like bitter bile, threatening to choke him.
The only thing he could do was pray desperately. Every so often, he would intersperse his prayers with thoughts of his wife of 34 years, who would surely understand. It was the only way he could stop from giving into the panic altogether and screaming like a caged baboon.
Then the car stopped.
Thomas tensed as dread flowed through his entire body. Soon it would be over, one way or the other.
He heard fumbling with the trunk lock, and then the light that filtered through his blindfold suddenly brightened. Rough hands grabbed him, hoisted him out of the car, and stood him shakily on his feet. The binds around his ankles were loosened, and a voice commanded, “Walk.”
Thomas had no idea in what direction his abductor would have him walk, and in any case wasn’t sure he could, and so simply put one foot in front of another. He swayed, disoriented by the fuzzy vision and his headache.
A hand clapped his back between the shoulder blades and propelled him forward. He stumbled several times as he negotiated a sidewalk he couldn’t see.
Finally, he was shoved into a chair, and the blindfold was ripped from his eyes. He squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden light. Thomas was sitting on an old schoolroom chair inside what looked like an abandoned industrial building. The floor was filthy concrete and the walls bare cinderblock.
In front of him stood his visitor who had abducted him from the museum. Thomas could barely stand to look at him, so he looked at his surroundings, trying to establish any escape route. The windows were tiny and at least nine feet high, and there were no doors apparent.
“What are you doing, Thomas?” his abductor asked softly.
“I can’t stand to look at you,” said Thomas.
His abductor chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many times I hear that.”
“No, I don’t think I would,” said Thomas truthfully.
The smile left his abductor’s face. “Let’s get down to business then, shall we? You must know why you’re here, Thomas.”
“I guess you didn’t want me to make that presentation to Congress.”
“That’s certainly true, but there’s more to it than that. I must insist that you stop taking this course of action.” The abductor suddenly grinned. There was no apparent joke.
“What do you mean? Do we not live in a democratic society with free speech?” Thomas was angry. “Do I need to remind you of our constitution?”
The abductor barked a harsh laugh. “You’ll forgive me if I ignore your questions, enlightened though they are. The truth of the matter is that you don’t have a choice. I don’t care what you do in the privacy of your own house. We will not allow you to brainwash untold thousands of people with this nonsense you’ve come up with.”
“Who is ‘we’ exactly?” Thomas demanded.
“You don’t need to know. Now, I will have your answer. If you resist us, you will pay dearly. Do you really want to make a widow of your wife?”
Thomas shivered, knowing that he was certainly in the valley of the shadow of death. For a brief moment, he searched his heart. Then he faced his abductor resolutely. “I absolutely will not,” he said clearly. “I answer to a Higher Authority than you or the ones who sent you. Do with me as you wish.” His face and conscience clear, he bowed his head and waited.
“Higher Authority!” snarled the abductor, who was clearly upset with the direction the conversation was headed. “Thomas, I want you to think about everything we have done for you. I want you to think about why we put you in the position of secretary. Think about what we wanted you to achieve. This is your last chance. Do you understand?”
Thomas looked directly into the eyes of the abductor. “I understand.”
The abductor removed his Armani jacket. “Perhaps the next half an hour will influence you to change your mind.”
Thomas continued to pray.
• • • •
The two agents parted ways at the cafeteria. Darkness was swiftly descending over the museum, and both Ferguson and Dinah felt that during the coming days there would be precious little time for rest.
By the time Dinah arrived at her small apartment, the initial excitement at being involved in a case again had worn off. There had been a time when her instincts for catching the worst types of killers had been keen and sharp. She had been, as Ferguson said, one of the very best. Yet it had all changed in the blink of an eye.
She turned on the television for company and was relieved to find two bottles of good New Zealand semillon in the refrigerator. The first mouthful glided down her throat coolly and seductively, and she felt the ever-present anxiety begin to subside.
She thought fleetingly about dinner, and settled for toast and yogurt, staring unseeing at the animated television screen and trying not to let the self-pity strangle her.
This existence was what she hated so intensely. It wasn’t anything remotely resembling a life. She felt she was only surviving and nothing more. The worst part of the existence was the time she had alone, where she could think and her brain would betray her with memories and recrimin
ations.
The television caught her attention. Catherine Biscelli, director of the Office of Public Affairs for the Smithsonian Institution, had organized a press conference. The diminutive woman stood behind a blond wood lectern and shook her dark curls.
“The Smithsonian Institution has received news today that the secretary, Mr. Thomas Whitfield, did not appear at work today and his current whereabouts are unknown. The police have been advised and are conducting an investigation. At this point, while there are those who certainly fear for his safety, there is no evidence of foul play. The Smithsonian Institution will continue to open as normal and all visitors are welcome. Thank you.”
The press had a barrage of questions, but Catherine Biscelli held up a hand and walked from the room without acknowledging any of the reporters.
Dinah recounted the events of the day and what was to come. Today Thomas Whitfield had disappeared. In three days the media coverage would be at fever pitch. Then the pressure to solve the case would build inexorably, until something gave.
Her cell phone rang from her handbag and as she stood, somewhat shakily, she observed that she had downed almost two glasses of wine already.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Harris, it’s me,” Ferguson said. “You free to talk?”
Dinah bit back a cynical laugh. No, I am hosting a dinner party for my dozens of friends. Call you later, darling.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“The crime scene preliminary findings have come in,” Ferguson said. “No bloodstains, recent or otherwise, found in the office. They combed the office for torn fingernails, hairs, you know the drill. Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” Dinah frowned.
“Nope. So really we still don’t know whether Thomas Whitfield has gone to ground of his own volition or been taken against his will.” Ferguson paused. “Although, I gotta say, if someone did want to take him, it wouldn’t have been hard. He weighed about 120 pounds, dripping wet.”
Dinah massaged her temples. “It would be interesting to see what can be recovered from his laptop. The only other evidence we have that an abduction has occurred is the fact that everyone thinks he’s Mr. Wonderful and that he would never just disappear like that.”
“Maybe it’s a former life catching up with him,” suggested Ferguson. “He might be pure as snow now, but perhaps he’s got a few skeletons in his closet. Do we know anything about his past?”
“Not really. We’d have to ask his wife,” said Dinah absently. She was thinking about the past catching up with her.
“I love a good skeleton,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “There’s nothing more satisfying than getting that skeleton right out in the open.”
“That’s because you don’t have any skeletons,” snapped Dinah, more angrily than she’d intended.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Harris, I didn’t mean . . .” he began tentatively.
“I know,” she said, trying to keep the savagery she felt out of her voice. She took a long swallow of wine, hoping it would dampen the thunderstorm of anger breaking inside her.
There was another silence, and then Ferguson said, “Are you drinking?”
Dinah closed her eyes briefly. “Do you have a point?” she demanded.
“I just . . . no, I guess I don’t have a point,” Ferguson admitted. “I’m just concerned about you.”
“I’m fine. There is no need to waste your energy being concerned about me.” Dinah topped her glass. Is that the third or fourth glass?
“I know, but. . . .”
“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Dinah interrupted.
Ferguson sighed. “No. See you tomorrow.”
Dinah hung up, feeling brittle and exposed. Although she trusted Ferguson implicitly, if he thought she had a drinking problem, he would feel compelled to report her. Then she would lose everything that had ever held any meaning for her.
She lay in bed, hoping to find release within the numbness she craved. As she slipped into the heavy, silent world between wakefulness and sleep, she imagined that a small, chubby hand caressed her cheek and whispered, “Mommy.”
Chapter 3
There was a strange, comforting light in the distance, and Dinah was trying to get to it. She was in pitch darkness, struggling against what seemed to be a wind tunnel, an invisible hand holding her back from the light. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to get any closer. She threw her body into it, straining her arms and legs to try and propel herself forward. Her sense of desperation grew. The light was the answer, the meaning of life. She had to get there!
You can’t do it on your own.
Then the light began to ring, a slow, insistent buzz, and Dinah rose through the layers of sleep like a diver coming up for air. Dinah half sat up, blinking, and saw that the room was still dark and that her cell phone was ringing on her night table.
“Hello?” she answered, squinting at her alarm clock. It was just after two in the morning.
There was a silence, and then a vaguely familiar voice said, “Is that Agent Harris?”
“Yes, who is this?” Dinah sat up, all senses suddenly alert and sharp.
“It’s Lara, from the Smithsonian.” The young woman was speaking in a low, gruff whisper, as if she was afraid of being overheard.
“What is it, Lara?” Dinah asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to see you. I need to talk to you about Mr. Whitfield.” Lara stopped speaking, and Dinah heard muted wheezing, as if the girl was trying to hold back tears.
“What is it, Lara?” Dinah repeated, trying to keep her own tone calm.
“I need to meet with you,” Lara said. “There’s a Starbucks right next to the building you came to today. Do you know the one?”
“I can find it,” Dinah promised. “When will you be there?”
“Six o’clock this morning. Can you make it?”
“Yes, of course. Is there any reason you can’t talk at work?”
“Are you kidding?” Lara’s voice suddenly went up several octaves. “They’ll hear me. I can’t talk there!”
“Okay, sure. Have you heard from Mr. Whitfield?”
“No! I think something has happened to him. I’m almost positive he’s in trouble,” Lara insisted. She paused, and then blurted: “I know why he was abducted and I know that they’re going to kill him! You have to do something!”
“Are you. . . ?” Dinah didn’t get the question out before she heard the dial tone in her ear. She immediately dialed Ferguson’s number.
It took him a long time to answer, and when he did, he sounded like a grumpy grizzly roused from winter hibernation.
“It’s Harris. I’ve just had a phone call from Lara Southall about Thomas Whitfield,” Dinah explained in a rush.
“Lara Southall . . . is she the one with all that weird stuff on her eyes?” Ferguson asked sleepily.
“It’s called makeup, genius,” Dinah said. “Can you wake up, please? It’s very irritating having to talk to someone who is still half-asleep.”
He groaned and Dinah heard rustling as he lifted his heavy body into a sitting position.
“You could win Miss America based on personality alone, Harris,” he grumbled. “Being so cheerful and bubbly and all.”
“All right, Ferguson,” Dinah said, rolling her eyes. “Lara didn’t say much but she has more information for us. She wants to meet at Starbucks because she doesn’t feel safe enough to talk at work.”
Ferguson waited. “Is that all? That’s the reason you woke me? To tell me we have a meeting with the secretary at a Starbucks?”
“I’m amazed sometimes that you ever made it into the FBI at all,” Dinah retorted. “Don’t you see the implications? If she is afraid to talk at work, then we may have a conspiracy among some of the influential people in this city.”
Ferguson sighed. “Or maybe she’s watched a couple of episodes too many of CSI and loves to be part of a bit of drama.”
Dinah hung up without waiting for a reply. As she sat on the edge of the bed, she suddenly started to feel the effects of a hangover. Her hands shook as she placed the phone back on the night table, her stomach rolled uneasily, and her head pulsed with a steady pain right in the temples.
As she stood in the shower, hoping the warm needles of water would make her feel better, the final sensation from her dream hit her again.
You can’t do it on your own.
She closed her eyes, thinking about the dream. It didn’t mean anything, except in the most generic sense. She was searching for relief from the darkness that had overtaken her life. She was sick of living in the shadows. She yearned for light, perhaps even life.
• • • •
Dinah had almost left the house when she realized that she had left her gun in its customary location — underneath the pillow on her bed. Now that she was involved in an active case again, she was required to wear the gun.
She fastened the holster to her torso, the weight of the gun reminding her of her intense loathing of it, of understanding the damage that it could do. It had been bad enough for her to give up her role as an active agent and start teaching intense young FBI agents. Yet, on some nights when she had consumed several glasses of wine, she had begun to think of the gun as an ally. Sometimes she wondered if it wouldn’t be the answer to her prayers, a way she could go to sleep and never have to wake up. Something had thus far restrained her from taking the ultimate step. But there were long nights when Dinah knew that it wasn’t far away.
The streets were busy with young interns and staffers hurrying to their Capitol Hill jobs, even at six in the morning. Dinah felt illogically irritated by them, which was really brought on by her headache that wouldn’t leave her alone, no matter how many Tylenol she swallowed.
When she arrived at Starbucks, she ordered the largest, strongest coffee on the menu. When Ferguson wandered in several moments later, he nodded at her by way of greeting and ordered the same.