Killer Pursuit: An Allison McNeil Thriller

by Jeff Gunhus

  Either way, she was screwed. And that pissed her off.

  The only possible out was if she broke the case and found the videos before Mason discovered her little deal.

  “Let’s suppose I did let you come,” Allison started, struggling to push aside her anger for being boxed in.

  Mike grinned. “I’m listening.”

  “You do as I say. You’re observing, not investigating.”

  “OK.”

  “You don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Not your editor. Not your assistant.”

  “Easy, I never tell my editor anything anyway,” he said. “As for my assistant, you must not follow the news business much if you think the Herald gives me staff.”

  “And I get approval of any story before you file it,” Allison said.

  Mike shook his head. “You know I’m not going to agree to that. No self-respecting journalist would.”

  “You could have lied to me and just agreed,” Allison said.

  “But, like you, I’m a terrible liar,” Mike said.

  “But a pretty good blackmailer.”

  “Not blackmail,” Mike pointed out. “I’m just proficient at listing out things as they are, especially when they’re not what people want them to be.”

  Allison found herself nodding along with that comment. Human nature, hell, her nature, was to realign facts to fit a preconception of the world. A fact without context was just a data point. With context, it could take on a totally different meaning. Everyone walked through the world influenced by confirmation bias. Seeing the world for how it really was could be both a gift and a curse.

  A pleasant evening stroll down an urban street for one person was another’s terrifying walk where every shadow contained a threat. Standing there, she struggled to strip out her bias and view her decision as a series of data points. There couldn’t be a worse possible scenario for keeping an investigation secret than inviting a reporter on a ride-along. But if she didn’t, it was going public anyway and she’d be done. She really didn’t have an option. And she hated that more than anything else.

  “Get in the car,” she said. “First time you get in my way, I’ll shoot you in the leg and leave you on the side of the road.”

  Mike grinned. “Deal.”

  22

  Libby hung up the phone and leaned back in his desk chair, rubbing his eyes. The news was good. Harris had a lead on the girl’s real identity, which he could use to track down who might have the videos.

  He stood and crossed his office to the well-stocked liquor cabinet he kept in the corner. An afternoon drink was a throwback to a different time, but he needed one. As he poured himself a whiskey, he considered for the hundredth time whether Mason’s claim that all of the leads to Catherine Fews’s connections in her DC life had been dead ends. If nothing else, his father was a master of the well-placed lie. He’d proven that when Libby was just a kid, using work as the reason he was away from home for nights on end. Turned out Mom wasn’t a bad detective herself. She eventually discovered the late nights at work often ended in a suite at the Four Seasons in Georgetown with a revolving door of young girls.

  The lies didn’t stop there. Libby was fool enough to believe his dad’s promises to be at his sports games. To take him on a trip, just the two of them. That he actually gave a damn about his son.

  Not one of those things came true.

  It wasn’t until his mom remarried when he was thirteen that he discovered what a father was supposed to be. Roger Ashworth was an old money blue blood who adored Libby’s mother, a deep love that spilled over into a relationship with Libby from the very beginning. More than that, Roger’s first marriage had ended ten years earlier with his wife’s death in a boating accident before they had children. Marrying a woman with a young son was an enormous positive in Roger’s eyes and he took to being a father like it was the job he’d been waiting for his entire life. Being rich and in control of his time helped. The three of them traveled the world together and led the life Mason’s promises had described but never delivered on.

  So when Roger had visited him during Libby’s senior year at Harvard to tell him about the cancer, Libby’s world was shaken to its core. Stage four. Only a few months to live. Libby wanted to drop out of school but Roger wouldn’t have it. He made Libby promise he would finish what he started and do something good with his life. Something significant. In a tear-filled conversation, Libby promised that he would, but asked for something in return. That he could live that life with the Ashworth last name, the name of the only father he loved. Months later, Libby held his mother’s arm as she buried her husband the same week that he strode across the stage with his diploma in his hand. On it was the name Marshall Liberty Ashworth.

  Libby stared at the framed diploma on his office wall as he drained his glass. The diploma was surrounded by other memorabilia of the life of a DC powerbroker. There was his Masters degree from Georgetown. Photos with presidents ranging from Bush 41 to Obama. And, near the center of it all, a photo of him and Mark Summerhays dressed in hunting gear, arms over one another like the best of friends, a row of dead pheasants lying in front of them. Libby shook his head at the photo and considered how fitting it was. The pheasants were just props. They’d run out of time on the trip to actually go hunting together so the photo had been staged to show how folksy Summerhays could be. A real man of the people. Except it was all stagecraft. A fancy, inside the Beltway term that was really just another way of saying it was all a lie.

  Do something good with your life. Something significant.

  Is that what he was doing? Fighting for political wins. Peeling the scabs off his opponents’ wounds at every opportunity. Power for the sake of power was what the game had become. Everyone played it and sitting out wasn’t an option. Sitting out meant you got run over. The worst thing about it wasn’t that the battlefield in Washington had become so petty and shortsighted; it was that Libby had discovered he was really good at playing the game. Despite his adopted father’s lessons about ethics and the common good, Libby had proven to be as crooked and manipulative as the politicians he held in disdain.

  Libby walked to the diploma and ran his finger across the glass where his last name was written. There was a smudge on the glass there, reminding him that he often performed this personal ritual. A touchstone to a last name that meant more to him than anything in the world.

  But it was a behavior burdened with guilt and insecurity, not remembrance. It always led him to wonder what Roger Ashworth would think of him now. What he would think of all the compromises he’d made to become the right hand to the man about to ascend to the Presidency if all the pollsters had it right. A man who was conniving, amoral, remorseless and power-hungry. The kind of man Roger Ashworth wouldn’t deign to invite to a dinner party, let alone support for office.

  He pictured his adopted father’s kind eyes, actually younger at the time he adopted him than Libby was now. He remembered the way he wouldn’t cast judgment or show anger no matter what Libby did. Instead, when he messed up, as all kids did, they would register profound disappointment. And that was more vicious than anything he could say or do to him.

  Libby thought how those eyes would look right now if Ashworth were still alive and if he reviewed the life Libby had led. The small early signs of purpose and achievement derailed by latching himself to powerful men on the rise through the political ranks. No wife. No kids. No legacy.

  No, if Ashworth were still alive, there would be no handshake or pat on the back. No warm embrace to show his pride in his adopted son. When Libby closed his own eyes, he only saw Ashworth’s staring back at him.

  And the sad disappointment in them nearly brought Libby to tears every time.

  “You OK?” Summerhays asked.

  Libby’s eyes snapped open. Summerhays stood in the doorway, a folder in hand, looking at him oddly.

  “Yeah, damn migraine,” Libby said, rubbing his temple. “Trying to battle through it but it’s kicking my ass.�
�

  Summerhays seemed to accept the explanation and looked at Libby’s diploma on the wall. “Seems like a million years ago, doesn’t it? Being an undergrad, I mean.”

  Libby nodded.

  “Look, I know I’ve been leaning on you pretty hard,” Summerhays said. “I hope you know how appreciated it is. How essential you are to what we’re doing here.”

  Libby’s stomach clenched. How many times had he watched Summerhays give this pep talk to members on the Hill? Fifty? A hundred? Every word rang false. All it meant was a big ask was coming.

  “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that,” Libby said, dutifully playing his part.

  Summerhays grinned, pleased. “What would I do without you? We’re going to run the country some day, you and me. Together.”

  “Then we can do something good. Something significant,” Libby said.

  Summerhays stumbled over his words, not characteristic for him. “Yes, yes, of course. That’s the goal.”

  “We could start right now, you know,” Libby said softly. “The President’s education bill is floundering. It’s a good bill, but it’s not going anywhere with Johnson and Murphy threatening a filibuster. You delivered their seats to them. They owe you.”

  “And you think I should call in my chits with them over the education bill?” Summerhays asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “It’s a good bill.”

  “It’s the President’s bill, Lib. Not mine,” Summerhays said. “Why would I want to give him a win right now?” Summerhays looked disgusted. “Jesus, use your head.”

  Libby rubbed his eyes and nodded. “No, you’re right. Not thinking straight. This damn migraine.”

  Summerhays looked him over carefully. “Are you sure that’s it? You’ve been a little, I don’t know, off the last few days.” He squinted at him. “It’s not this thing you’re working on for me, is it? Did you call Harris yet?”

  Libby was starting to get an actual migraine, Summerhays’s every word digging into him. Harris mentioned he’d already called Summerhays before he called Libby. The bastard already knew Harris was on his way to West Virginia, driving to avoid any paper trail of his whereabouts. So why this charade? Libby wasn’t sure yet, but he intended to play along to find out.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll call him and see if he’s turned anything up. But even if he does, I don’t think you want to know about it.”

  Summerhays waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “Let’s just get this wrapped up. I don’t care how you do it. I know we’ll all feel a lot better once this is behind us.”

  Libby nodded. That part was at least true.

  “And take better care of yourself. I need my best players on the field right now. I need to know you’re on top of your game,” Summerhays said, smiling even as the tone of his voice delivered the line as a threat.

  “Just a cold is all,” Libby said. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  Summerhays stared at him for a few beats, stretching the moment out between them. For a moment, Libby thought he saw a flicker of sadness pass across the man’s face. One second there and then gone.

  “All right. Get yourself better and we’ll talk later.”

  Libby nodded as Summerhays strode out of the office, leaving him standing alone in front of his wall of photos and diplomas, haunted by the ghost of the man who gave him his name and his love, but perhaps not the courage to live the life he hoped for his son.

  23

  Allison threw the car in park in front of her dad’s well-kept rancher and looked over at Mike in her passenger seat. She’d spent the short drive over trying to figure out a way to get out of their deal, but she’d come up empty. “You stay here,” Allison said.

  “Is this your place?” Mike asked, looking over the neatly kept rancher.

  They were in Silver Spring, Maryland, just outside the DC limits. The neighborhood screamed suburban Americana: green lawns, trimmed bushes, basketball hoops in the driveways and the stars and stripes hanging on the front porches.

  “Doesn’t concern you,” Allison said. “Just give me five minutes.”

  “Boyfriend?” Mike asked.

  Allison shot him a look and he raised his hands, smiling. “Sorry, I ask a lot of questions. Occupational hazard.”

  Allison climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. As she approached, she saw that it was already open by a foot. Out of habit, she took a position to the side of the door, her hand instinctively coming to a rest on her gun. She didn’t pull it out, realizing there was probably a simple explanation. Still, she carefully rolled around the doorjamb and entered the house scanning for any sign of trouble.

  “Dad? Maria?” she called out. “Hello?”

  She moved systematically through the house, making a mental note of every detail. No sign of a struggle. TV on in the living room. Half-eaten sandwich on a dinner tray.

  “Dad?”

  Down the hallway. Into the kitchen. Orange juice splashed all over the linoleum among shards of glass. Smears of red mixed with the juice.

  “Dad, where are you?”

  Allison heard the stress in her voice. This was her fault. She should never have left him alone. But she hadn’t. Maria was supposed to be here. Where were they?

  She ran down the hall and burst into the first bathroom. There were hand towels in the sink spotted with blood. There wasn’t a lot of it, which Allison registered in her rising panic as a good thing.

  The two bedrooms were the last places to look. She sprinted to his bedroom. Nothing.

  Loud voices came from the front door. It took her a second to realize one was her dad. The second was Mike. They sounded like two buddies coming in from a night on the town.

  “Come on in, mind the mess on the floor,” her dad said.

  “Sure thing, Pat. Watch your step.”

  Allison turned the corner and saw Mike helping her dad into the kitchen, an arm around his shoulders. Her dad only had one shoe on, the other foot was bare. He wore a sweater appropriate for the cool fall day, but had only a pair of boxer shorts below. His legs looked withered and frail. Patrick McNeil had once been a beast of a man, full of energy and life. Time and the heartbreak of burying a son and a wife had whittled him down to a ghost of what he once had been.

  “Just sit me down there, Ed,” her dad said. “Did something to my foot is all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said. “How about this chair right here?”

  “Perfect.” He looked up and saw Allison. “Alley-cat, when did you get here? Look, Ed’s home.”

  Allison put on her best smile. “I was just waiting for you. Where’d you go?”

  “I was going…I was…there was…” A flicker of doubt shadowed his face as he tried to remember. He pushed the question aside. “Doesn’t matter.” He turned to Mike. “Ed, why the hell don’t you come around more, boy? What have you been doing with yourself?”

  Mike glanced at Allison for guidance. Allison crossed to a small table near them and picked up a framed picture of a tall, lanky young man. It was a good photo of her brother, with him posed outside near a body of water, looking full of life and promise. Two things that Arnie Milhouse had cheated him out of over a decade earlier.

  Allison kneeled next to her dad and placed her hand carefully on his arm. She held the photo in front of him. “This is Edgar, Dad. Remember? He’s not with us anymore.”

  Her dad shook his head, still grinning madly. He pointed at Mike. “What are you saying? He’s right here. In front of your nose.”

  Allison blinked a tear away. “No, Dad. This is Mike. Ed is right here,” she took his hand and placed it on the photo. “Ed died a long time ago.”

  It tore her up to see his expression change from such joy, to confusion and into slow realization. And with that realization came the flood of emotion of a grown man discovering the son he loved was dead all over again. His lower lip trembled. His eyes filled with tears. The hand on the photo of Edgar pawed the glass as if he could get through the barrie
r and touch his son one last time.

  When he looked up at Allison, it was the same haunted look she’d known since her brother’s death. The same from the day he’d picked her up at the Naval Academy and driven her home in stone-cold silence. Like each time before, she swore the next time he was confused she would just let him keep thinking Ed was still alive. It was the easier way out, perhaps kinder, but it felt like a final surrender to the illness. She worried that if she didn’t keep pulling him back, no matter how painful the experience was, that she might lose him permanently.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Mike whispered. “Or…”

  “Can you wait in the car please?” Allison said.

  “Sure.”

  “And Mike. Thanks for bringing him in.”

  Mike nodded. He leaned down toward her dad. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said, but he received no response.

  Pat hugged the photo to his chest, tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he rocked in the chair. The moment Mike left the room, she lost it. Still kneeling next to her dad, she wrapped her arms around his neck and rocked with him, trying to return some small part of the comfort he’d given her throughout her life.

  “It’s OK, Dad,” she whispered. “It’s OK.”

  Eventually, they both collected themselves. Allison pulled off the one shoe her dad had on and revealed two cuts from stepping on the glass. She retrieved the first-aid kit from the bathroom, sparking a memory of how many times her dad had used the same kit to patch her up. Always a skinned knee or elbow for Allison the tomboy. It wasn’t the first time she’d been struck with how their caregiving roles had reversed.

  She cleaned the cuts with hydrogen peroxide, then applied some Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Her dad sat through it all quietly, looking out the window into the backyard. She wondered where his thoughts took him.

  On most days he was perfectly cogent and totally aware of the disease eating away at his ability to remember. This was both a blessing and a true cruelty. A blessing in that they were both acutely aware that the good days of remembering and sharing stories of the old times were finite and dwindling. And a curse for the same reason. Allison had moved in not long after the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, keeping her apartment in Georgetown but staying there only a couple nights a week when she worked into the small hours of the morning. In the last six months they’d had their share of long, late-night conversations, laughing and crying as they relived the days when they had been a family of four, instead of only two.