Ground Zero

  “That's why we have to wait for Guzman to wake up,” Stillwell said. “I don't think we can get an espionage conviction from a single phone number. And unless we can prove the espionage, Major Blaine can beat the attempted murder rap in court.”

  “Sure, just doing his job,” Rosen said gloomily from the depths of his chair.

  “We thought the murderer was Blaine,” Stillwell said, sipping at his coffee. “Now we know it was Lowell.”

  “Lowell was trying to kill Joe Tanner, at least,” Lucy said thoughtfully. There was a silence among them.

  Eileen looked out into the deserted hallway. The waiting room was softly lighted and tastefully decorated, but the chair arms were soiled and the magazines tattered. The signs of waiting.

  “I'm hoping Lowell has something to say about Blaine,” Eileen said.

  The on-duty doctor appeared in the doorway and contemplated the small group of people. He was thin and elderly. He wore glasses and his blue scrub suit was wrinkled.

  “No problem with the stitches, no fractures, and your patient is waking up,” the doctor said, taking off his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief. “Four visitors?”

  “Four, please,” Eileen said.

  “Room 309,” the doctor said. “Don't stay long.”

  Lowell was awake. The face was as innocent-looking as Eileen remembered it, although it was bruised and swollen along the right side. A white bandage covered half his head. There was an IV taped to his wrist. Lowell saw Eileen first, and looked away. His eyes were blurred and vague.

  “First, the business,” Eileen said. “You have the right to remain silent...”

  When Eileen finished reading Lowell his Miranda rights, she asked him if he was willing to speak.

  “Sure, why not?” Lowell said, not looking at Eileen. He glanced at Lucy Giometti, and turned away from her bright look of loathing. Rosen leaned against the door frame. Stillwell stuffed his hands into his grimy pockets.

  “Why did you kill Terry?” Rosen spoke first, quietly.

  “I don't know why she married me,” Lowell said, and moved his hands on the covers. “I don't know why. She wanted -- I don't know what she wanted.”

  “Why?” Eileen repeated patiently.

  “Because she was going to lose her job. She was so obvious about her little games. I found out about her and Major Blaine --”

  Lowell caught the abrupt movement from Stillwell. He looked at Stillwell, and understanding cleared the sad brown eyes for a moment.

  “Ahh, you want him? He's got a habit, that's what Terry said. When I confronted her. They didn't sleep together, they just did business. You can't screw on heroin. I guess he got the habit overseas.”

  Lucy gave a little shudder of disgust.

  “Terry, everything was easy for her, you know?” Lowell added in a blurred voice. “From the time she was a little cheerleader in high school, everything was just handed to her. Her mom and dad gave her money, a car, a college education. When things got hard in college she just went out with guys who would help her get through her classes, help her cheat. She didn’t even really have a computer science degree, she had a business degree with a CS emphasis.”

  Lowell chuckled rustily, his eyes focused far beyond the people in the room.

  “Emphasis,” he said bitterly. “She couldn’t code her way out of a paper bag. But ah, god, she looked so good, she smelled so good, she wanted me and I would have done anything for her, anything...” His voice trailed off and his eyes sharpened. He looked over at Eileen. “She had anything she wanted but she always wanted more. Why is that, do you know?”

  “Who did Blaine pass the information to?” Eileen asked neutrally, struggling with a desire to feel pity for the drugged man. He was pitiful, but he was a monster.

  “I don't know,” Lowell sighed. “Once I found out it was too late, you know. All I could do was beg her to stop, and she just laughed. I'd lose my clearance. They'd probably send me to jail, too.”

  “That’s why Blaine tried to shoot him,” Lucy said. “With Lowell dead, no one could prove that he was her contact.”

  Lowell turned his blurry gaze to Eileen.

  “She was so wicked. Didn't you find that out? Didn't everyone tell you how evil she was?”

  “She didn't deserve to die,” Rosen said coldly.

  “And Art?” Eileen said, tasting the brightness of revulsion in her mouth. “Was Art evil and wicked? Was Joe Tanner?”

  Lowell looked puzzled. The big hands on the coverlet stirred a little, then relaxed again.

  “I -- don't know,” he said. “I couldn't let Art find out it was me. Who would have thought you could play back those terminals? I thought I had the perfect murder planned. I worked on it for months. I even tested it one Game earlier, without raising the floor tile behind her. But Art figured it out.” Lowell shook his head.

  “Then Joe figured it out too, and left a message for Nelson. I --” he looked around the room, seeking understanding. “I couldn't let them figure it out. It was easy, after killing Terry. It was easy after the first time.”

  Lowell laid his head back on the pillows, his bruised face gray and wan.

  “It was pretty easy, really,” he muttered, and fell asleep.

  Eileen, Lucy, Rosen and Stillwell stood around the bed and watched Lowell Guzman sleep. They looked at each other, and as they turned to leave the room the first light of dawn began to touch the windows with pink and gold.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Denver Animal Shelter

  Fancy surged to her feet along with the other dogs in the kennels that lined the room. It was morning. Someone was coming in from the street entrance. The dogs barked. Debbie walked an elderly couple down the corridor. Fancy wagged her tail, trying to shove her tender nose through the chain link of the kennel gate.

  A volley of barking burst from one of the kennels and the couple rushed to the door. The girl opened the door and a little white poodle came bounding out, leaping in joy around the old couple's feet.

  The barking died down as the kennel keeper escorted out the old couple and their dog.

  Debbie petted Fancy as she hosed out her kennel, later.

  “Tonight for you, Fancy. Game over. Sometimes I hate this job,” the girl said to herself. She latched the door, and moved to the next cage.

  Peterson Air Force Base

  Major Stillwell looked at the film on the closed circuit camera.

  “What’s the matter with him?” the guard asked. “He’s driving me crazy in there. He keeps pacing and pacing.”

  “I know what the matter is,” Stillwell said. “He’s a junkie. And in about six hours he’ll be so frantic he’ll tell us everything we want.”

  “A junkie,” the guard said, and looked with disgust at the tiny figure walking back and forth, back and forth, in the little cell.

  “Be careful around him,” Stillwell warned. “He might get pretty violent.”

  “I’ll be careful,” the guard said.

  He'd let Blaine stew for a while longer, Stillwell thought. Time enough to go home and shower and catch a few hours of sleep. He smiled in grim satisfaction, looking into the camera.

  “Hey, you’re the one who crashed in that corn field?” the guard asked suddenly. “I heard about that. What a pain in the ass that must have been, sir.”

  “You’re telling me,” Stillwell said with feeling.

  “Was this guy the reason?”

  “One of them,” Stillwell said, with an unbelieving laugh, “One of them.”

  For the first time, Stillwell realized that his little adventure was going to accelerate his career. Accelerate? Hell, he was the ranking military officer at the first-ever shootdown of a nuclear missile in flight. He was going up for Colonel in another year and he had no doubt about what would happen. He might even be a General someday. For the first time in the whole endless journey from the Oklahoma cornfield to Colorado, Alan Stillwell contemplated his suddenly brilliant career.


  “Well you got your man,” the guard said. “Sir. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Stillwell said. He felt great. Tired and still dirty, but no longer confused. He felt just great. “Thanks.”

  Village Inn Restaurant, Colorado Springs

  The sunlight glittered on the clean table, the glasses of ice water, and the surface of the hot coffee in the thick china mugs. Steam curled up from the coffee.

  Eileen sighed, feeling the exhaustion but not willing to surrender to it, not yet. Now was the time for a few minutes of contemplation, quiet celebration. There were people eating eggs and drinking coffee at Village Inns in Detroit, Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Buffalo, New York. There were babies being born, old people sitting in rocking chairs, punks stealing cars and addicts getting their morning fix, and all of it was wonderful, wonderful, because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate and it had nearly happened.

  “I wish he would have lived. He should have known he was beaten,” Lucy said quietly, sipping her coffee and looking out the window. Pikes Peak looked as stunning as it always did. Eileen saw with affection that Lucy couldn’t seem to stop looking at the mountains.

  Eileen understood about Muallah. She’d met several Muallahs in her police career, men who believed women were like disposable tissues. The way Lucy tracked Muallah down and figured out what was going on was stunning. If only the CIA had listened, they might have had a team in place and the missile might never have been launched.

  “I can tell you’re not a cop,” Eileen said. “I’m glad they shot him. If he’d lived, who knows what would have happened? He might escape, or be acquitted. Nope, I like the idea of Muallah cold and dead just fine.”

  “You’re right,” Lucy said. “I really meant to say, I wish I was the one who shot him.” She grinned at Eileen and Eileen grinned back. They were the same kind of woman, Eileen thought, even if Lucy was a stunning beauty and Eileen was just Eileen-looking.

  “Here’s breakfast, ladies,” the waitress said cheerfully, and started setting down an amazing array of plates.

  Later, Eileen watched as Lucy continued to tuck her enormous breakfast away. Bacon, eggs, hash browns with gravy, pancakes. Eileen had finished her pancakes long ago, and was sipping her coffee contentedly.

  “I’ll be out of here this afternoon,” Lucy said with real regret. “I have about a zillion debriefs to go through when I get home.”

  “I hope this helps your career,” Eileen said.

  “Oh, I think this will help a bit,” Lucy grinned. “You’re going up to NORAD today? Or tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” Eileen said. “I need to sleep, today. I have about a jillion reports to fill out, too. I’ve been to NORAD, anyway.”

  “This will be a classified visit. You’re going to see things you never saw before,” Lucy predicted confidently. “Besides, you’re a hero. They’ll roll out the red carpet.”

  Eileen shrugged, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Not me, that would be Joe,” she said. “And you.”

  “Hm,” Lucy said, waving a chunk of sausage on her fork. “Let’s see, if you hadn’t gotten out there Lowell would have gotten Joe, and Joe wouldn’t have been alive to start the system, so --”

  “And if you hadn’t been there Blaine would have gotten both of us,” Eileen shot back, smiling.

  “And if Stillwell hadn’t crash landed in his cornfield and showed up at just the right time--”

  “And if my mom had never met my dad,” Eileen finished, laughing. “It was all a miracle, that’s all. I’m glad I was there. I’m glad you were there. You know, if you ever get tired of Washington, I could get you a job out here --”

  “Funny, I was about to say the same,” Lucy grinned.

  “It was nice to work together,” Eileen said wistfully. How often had she met someone like Lucy? Once, twice in her life? One of those had been Bernie, and she felt a surprisingly sharp stab of grief for her lost friend.

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Thanks for the file.” She gestured to her briefcase, where a copy of Doug Procell’s conspiracy file lay, as yet unread.

  “The least I could do,” Eileen shrugged. She had a sudden idea and cleared her throat nervously. “Uh, I have a favor, maybe...”

  “If I can do it, it's yours,” Lucy said simply.

  “I was wondering if you might be able to get a government file on a plane crash,” Eileen said. Her voice grew harsh. “I was a friend of hers, and they'd never let me see the file. I was wondering --”

  “I'll see what I can do,” Lucy said. “I'll get it for you if it’s out there. You've got a clearance. You'll be cleared to see it.”

  “Okay,” Eileen said, and she felt a smile of relief spread across her face. “Her name was Bernice Ames. And the crash was an A-10. Seven years ago.”

  “You have an e-mail address?”

  “On my card,” Eileen said, and dug one out of her wallet. She wrote the information about Bernie on the back of the card, in sloppy large script. “You know, I don't know that it means so much anymore. I don't want revenge. I just want to know. If I can, I want to clear her name.”

  “I understand. To put the memory to rest. Ghosts die hard, sometimes,” Lucy said slowly.

  “I suspect we’ll all have bad dreams, for a while,” Eileen said. “I can deal with bad dreams.”

  “Me, too,” Lucy said bravely, but her eyes were sad. Her hand hovered over the swelling of her stomach. “I wish we’d never thought up the damn things. The bomb, I mean.”

  “If we hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Eileen said with a wry smile. “My grandfather was on a transport ship headed for the invasion of Japan when we dropped the bomb. His survival chance was less than zero, and he was only eighteen. He hadn’t met my grandmother yet.”

  “So no Eileen Reed, without the bomb,” Lucy said. “So Muall-- I mean, the Creep, succeeds. But he doesn’t have a bomb, without the bomb. So maybe it would have been plague, or mustard gas. I think I’m getting a headache.” But she looked more cheerful, which made Eileen feel better.

  “What really matters is the end of the story,” Eileen said. “The good guys won. We won.”

  “This time,” Lucy said.

  “This time,” Eileen agreed.

  They walked together to Lucy’s rental car. The morning was hot and cloudless, but there were hints of the eternal afternoon thunderstorms to come moving up around Pike's Peak.

  “Hey, if you want to vacation out here sometime,” Eileen said, “I make a great baby-sitter.”

  “I might take you up on that,” Lucy smiled. She took Eileen’s hand. “Thank you again,” she said. “We Italians take loyalty seriously. If you need anything, ask me.”

  “Thank you,” Eileen said, surprised. “I -- err -- well, I’m a mutt, so I guess I have to say we mutts take our loyalty seriously, too.” She smiled but her eyes were unexpectedly stinging.

  They squeezed hands, and let go.

  “I guess we did it together, didn’t we?” Lucy said. “Well, I have to get up to Denver for my flight, so I better get going.”

  “Why Denver? Don't you want to fly out of Colorado Springs?”

  “There's something I want to do in Denver first,” Lucy said. “I’ll call you!”

  She put her briefcase in the car and started up and drove expertly away, one narrow hand lifted in a wave. She did not look back.

  “Good bye,” Eileen said, and lifted her hand to wave back. She wondered if Lucy would send her a package in the mail. She wondered what it would contain.

  One way or another, she would set her memories to rest. Eileen stretched and yawned happily in the morning sunlight. There was another duty she had to perform, and that one wouldn't be a chore at all. She turned to find her car.

  Joe Tanner stirred and woke. He was being kissed.

  “Mm?” he said sleepily.

  “It's Eileen,” a voice whispered to him. Joe opened his eyes with a start, and remembered everything.

  “Eileen,”
he said, and put his arms around her neck. “You're here.”

  “I'm here,” she said, laughing. “Move over.”

  He moved over, leaving a delicious warm space for her. Eileen crawled in and Joe wrapped his arm around her. He was almost asleep again, his arm heavy and limp, his breathing slow and even. Slowly his arm hugged her close, as though he was dreaming of holding her.

  “Love you,” he mumbled. His breath evened out and he was gone.

  “I love you back,” Eileen whispered. The exhaustion she’d held at bay for the last few days washed over her like surf, carrying her away bit by bit. Her heart had known about Joe, and it had been true. She had never been happier. She lay in the curve of Joe’s sleeping arm, and let the waves carry her away.

  Epilogue

  Denver Animal Shelter

  Fancy was dozing fitfully when the door opened. The dogs all rose, howling, to their feet. Not Fancy. She knew it was her time. She lay with her head on her paws, her eyes dull.

  Then the little dog pricked up her ears at the sound of two sets of footsteps instead of one.

  “This is Fancy,” Debbie said. “What was your name again?”

  “Lucy,” Lucy Giometti said, and smiled.

  “Fancy, this is Lucy,” Debbie said, and reached to unlatch the door. “Oh, I'm so glad! She's such a good dog, and today was going to be her last day.”

  “I know,” Lucy said. The kennel keeper opened the door and Fancy hesitantly put her nose out, to nuzzle Lucy's hands. Her tail, bedraggled after days in a concrete kennel, wagged a little bit. Then Lucy smoothed her fur and rumpled her ears, and Fancy sniffed and licked Lucy's hands and thumped her tail again and again.

  “How are you with babies?” Lucy asked the dog. Debbie smiled indulgently.

  “I bet she'll be great.”

  “Well, we better go. I've got to make arrangements with the airline to get her back home.”