Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Chapter 40

  August 2nd

  Tom went from the hazy nothings of sleep to adrenaline-fueled wakefulness in a split-second. Gasping, he surged upward, staring wildly around him. Where was he? What had happened? Where was Mike? He was in a hospital, in a private room. Monitors beeped steadily beside him, and an IV pole held a bag of fluids. A line went into one arm, a steady stream of who-knew-what pumping into his system. His other arm was in a cast, his shoulder wrapped in bandages and immobilized in a sling.

  “Whoa! Easy, easy.”

  Tom whipped around.

  Dylan Ballard was rubbing his eyes, sitting up from a chair pushed next to his bedside. His suit was rumpled, jacket gone, button-down untucked, tie loose and the top buttons undone. He looked like shit, and Ballard never looked like shit.

  He tensed. Was Ballard there to shove a pillow over his face? See how much he’d found out? Where was Mike?

  Ballard sighed, scrubbing his hands down his face before holding them together in front of his lips, as if praying. “Jesus Christ, Tom,” he muttered. “Jesus H Christ.”

  “What’s going on? Where’s Mike?” Tom coughed after he spoke, his voice raspy and dry. Ballard passed him a cup of water from his bedside table.

  “Inspector Lucciano is in ICU. He’s… It’s not good. Between the stab wounds and the fourteen rattlesnake bites, it’s a Goddamn miracle he even made it out of West Virginia.”

  The monitors beside Tom beeped faster, the tones spiking in time with his racing, pounding heart. “Is he—”

  “He’s not going to die. That much I know. But everything else is being kept quiet.” Ballard sighed. “Medical privacy, you know. Only his family, his next of kin, can see him, or know any of the details.” Ballard swallowed. “Are you… his next of kin?”

  Tom squeezed his eyes closed. The monitors kept beeping, a frantic, panicked pace. He breathed in, as deeply as he could, though his lungs seemed frozen. They didn’t work. He couldn’t breathe. He shook his head. They hadn’t gotten that far. Jesus, would he ever be able to see Mike? Who was taking care of him?

  Would he be shoved aside, medically, legally, politically inconsequential in the eyes of the law, as far as he and Mike were concerned? Was he alone? Who was with him?

  “Marshal Winters is acting as Mike’s health care proxy. His surrogate.”

  Tom nodded, blinking fast. The marshals, like all law enforcement agencies, had systems in place, procedures to take care of their people. Mike was being taken care of. He’d be all right.

  Tom had to believe that. He had to. He’s not going to die Ballard had said.

  After everything, after all that they had been through, after finding the love of his life—

  He couldn’t lose it all now.

  Taking a slow breath, Tom forced his mind to switch tracks, like a giant train engine lurching from one rail line to another.

  “What’s going on?” He almost didn’t want to know, didn’t want to face the way the world had completely and totally unraveled.

  “What isn’t…” Ballard muttered. “The FBI processed your cabin. They found Pasha Baryshnikov with a knife in his chest. Your prints on the blade.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.” Ballard eyeballed him. “But he’s not talking. Won’t say a word about what happened. Rob Villegas is our only witness right now, and he didn’t see everything.” Ballard held out his hands, defeat in the lines of his shoulders and the deadness of his eyes. “Why is Lucas Barnes dead, Tom? Why did he drive out to your cabin with Pasha Baryshnikov? What the hell happened?”

  If Ballard was in on it, he was covering his tracks well. Tom hesitated, but started talking, starting from him and Mike heading out for the weekend and going to his cabin. He skimmed the first day and skipped to the second, when they were coming back from their hike and found Barnes’s SUV parked in their driveway.

  Mike, staying outside. Him, inside with Etta Mae—

  “Where’s my dog?”

  “They brought her back from the cabin. She’s fine.”

  Worrying, wondering. Waiting. Pasha showing up. Shock, and then the horror of realizing just how they’d all been duped. Betrayed. The sickness, the agony, the raw hate and sheer dread he’d been washed in when Pasha told him Mike was gone. His desperate escape and flight through the woods, Barnes on his heels. Villegas, appearing out of nowhere. Mike, aided by his crazy old neighbor and a gang of domestic terrorists, who wanted more than anything to kill all three of them.

  Ballard hung his head as he listened, his hands laced behind his neck. He stared at the floor, letting Tom’s story wash over him in wave after wave of death and despair. “Jesus Christ,” he finally muttered.

  “How far does this go? Barnes was working with Pasha. He offered to turn Villegas, bring him into their operation. He was a double agent for the Russians. Did you know?”

  “No. I had no fucking idea.” Ballard heaved a sigh, like his lungs were cracking in half. “We knew there was a mole, though,” he said slowly. “That’s why Villegas was following you. We thought someone might try and take a shot at you, especially since you were sticking to your guns with this trial. Making it so damn hard for everyone.”

  Tom frowned. “Now it’s my turn, Dylan. What the hell is really going on here?”

  “We’re still trying to put it all together. Figure it all out. I…” Ballard spread his hands, helpless. “I only know my part. The White House didn’t know what the hell was going on, after the shooting. We all really thought it was Kryukov. The evidence was there, Desheriyev was righteously pissed, and his confession stood up to scrutiny. We thought we had it nailed. But… the Russian documents.” Ballard shook his head. “We knew those were fake. The White House, the president, everyone knew. But how did the Russians know the details about our Russian operations? How did they know exactly what they did to be able to create that forgery? So many details about the Russian CIA station, the embassy, hell, even the bank accounts used for clandestine operations. We knew we had a mole. But who? Were the arrests of the three officers just a cover for extracting a double agent? Or was it someone here? How deep had we been penetrated? We had a CIA team on the ground, trying to find out more.”

  “I know about the CIA team. I’m friends with one of the guys who went over there”

  “You? Friends?” Ballard smiled, pathetically, at his weak joke. But then he winced, as if preparing to deliver bad news. “We realized if the Russian documents implicating Kryukov were fake, then Kryukov must have been innocent.” Ballard winced. “It was the only logical answer.”

  “You prosecuted an innocent man? You forced an innocent man to endure a trial, when you knew he didn’t commit the crime?”

  “I never claimed to be an angel, Tom. That’s your specialty.” He clasped his hands together, wringing his fingers. “You needed to be clean. You needed to be above everything. We can’t mix intelligence operations and the judicial system. But… I knew I could wind you up. Treat you like shit, and turn this trial into a disaster. I knew I could build in openings for Kryukov’s appeal, if I just acted like a monster.”

  “You certainly did that.”

  “I know.” Ballard looked down. Stared at the floor. “I know, Tom. I’m…” He shook his head. “We were trying to find the mole, and trying to make it look like we weren’t onto them. Trying to keep the prosecution of Kryukov going, so they might slip up. Jesus, Barnes was in on it. He was helping to find the mole. He was throwing the investigation from the first moment.” He shook his head, chuckling at himself, darkly. “Winters thought you might be a target, since you were being so damn unimpeachable through the whole thing.” He looked up. “You never once buckled. Never once compromised your principles.”

  “That’s what judges do, Dylan. They uphold the law, no matter what. They respect the Constitution, and due process.”

  “That’s what good judges do. Fink… he would have folded.” Ballard wrung his fingers again. “It’s a Goddamn bl
essing you got this trial, Tom. You’re the only one who could have done this.”

  Silence. “You mean, identify Pasha? Because he and I were lovers, a lifetime ago?”

  He thought there’d be something when he finally said it out loud, finally admitted that he was gay, that he loved men. Some split in the sky, some rend in the earth. Some reaction, somewhere. Ballard rearing back, at least, or staring at him like he had three heads, or running from him in disgust. He’d always girded himself for the worst.

  For twenty-five years, he’d been his own monster in his mind. Of course the world would react the same. He’d known that, like he knew the sky was blue, and he needed air to breathe. And, like he knew he loved Mike, every inch of the man, inside and out.

  But Ballard just shook his head. “Not that. I mean, that was a shock. To everyone. No one had any idea. But, because you and Baryshnikov were lovers, you blew Barnes’s entire world, and the whole conspiracy, open. What I meant was, you’re the only one who could have steered the right course, Tom. Could have done this the right way.” Ballard smiled, just once, briefly. “Your Honor.”

  “Villegas said Winters was working with you?”

  “Winters came to us. Said he was concerned about someone in this conspiracy taking a shot at you. That we didn’t know who all was involved in this whole thing, but he knew one person who wasn’t: Rob Villegas. Villegas and Winters worked together before coming to the judicial side of the marshals. Villegas was undercover, for years. Winters was his case agent. Those two men went through hell and back. Winters knows everything about Villegas, because he had to put him back together after their undercover operation went south, and Villegas ended up in the hospital for five months.”

  Tom stayed quiet. He’d never known any of this. Not a single hint, or a whisper. The marshals ran a tight ship, and took care of their own.

  “Winters said he was going to task Villegas with tracking you. When you were in DC, it was easy. We put a tracker on you, and then you moved into the Hyatt. And thank God he put that tracker on you, or Barnes would have had no one to stop him out in West Virginia.”

  “How did Barnes track us?”

  “He skipped the FISA courts and went straight to breaking the law. Or, further breaking the law. Tracked your cell phones out of the SCIF room at FBI headquarters.”

  “Why didn’t Winters trust Mike?”

  “Inspector Lucciano was acting suspicious.” Ballard shrugged. “We eventually figured out why. But, early on…”

  “Mike is the best man I know.”

  “Clearly.” Ballard spared a small smile. “How long have you two been together?”

  Tom swallowed. “We started dating a couple days before the shooting. We were… we were there. At the Pride march. On a date.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do or what to think after, but I knew I wanted to be with Mike. No matter what. I didn’t want to have to give that up.”

  “You… had to give up a lot in your life.” Ballard’s expression turned soft. “We all thought you were a robot. Or a eunuch.”

  “Closeted. Deeply, deeply closeted.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Too afraid to come out.”

  Ballard reached for his hand, closed in a fist around his hospital blanket, and squeezed. “I’m glad you did, Tom. You deserve to be happy. Especially after this.” He stood, heaving a sigh. “I have to go to the White House and the FBI and then back to the courthouse and try and put all this shit together. The president is going to call the Russians soon.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.” Ballard grabbed his suit jacket from where it had fallen on the floor and balled it up. “Tom… Your Honor…” He sighed, his shoulders slumping like a broken justice scale pulled down and falling toward the floor. “I’m glad you were picked as judge. Instead of me.”

  Tom’s throat closed, but he managed to nod, almost smiling. Dylan smiled back and then walked out. Tom fell back against the mountain of pillows on his bed and let the tears fall.

  He was released from the hospital two days later with a bottle of painkillers and his arm immobilized for the next two months. “Ironically, you have a similar injury as President Vasiliev received,” the surgeon said. “Only not as bad. Vasiliev was shot with a high-caliber rifle round. You were only hit with a nine mil.”

  “Only.” Tom tried to smile. His shoulder ached, and his arm itched under the cast.

  Marshal Winters walked into his hospital room, then, wearing his usual dark suit and crisp white button-down. His gaze swept over Tom, sitting in the hospital’s rickety wheelchair in just a borrowed pair of scrubs. For the first time ever, Tom saw him crack a small smile.

  “Judge Brewer. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty terrible.”

  “I can imagine. Your Honor, we are placing you under U.S. marshal protection. We’re still untangling what happened with Barnes, Baryshnikov, and their connections to Moscow. You are a witness, Judge Brewer. We need to keep you under protection in case there is another attempt on your life.”

  Tom sighed and sagged back in the wheelchair. “And this time, no Mike.” He fidgeted. He hadn’t been allowed to see Mike, or even ask about him. All information about Mike’s condition, and even his location, was being held back, kept locked away on a need-to-know-basis.

  Winters cracked a tiny grin. “Your Honor, I will be managing your protection detail personally.”

  Tom’s eyebrows rose, sky-high.

  “We’re taking you home. I’m sure you want to recover in the comfort of your own place. I’m posting ‘round the clock surveillance on your curb and in a perimeter around your house. You’ll have to deal with some press camping on your street, but we’ll do our best to scare them away.”

  “I’ll be camping on my couch, so they can bore themselves out there all they want.” Tom tried to smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your consideration. In this, and… with everything.”

  Winters stepped behind him and gripped the handles of his wheelchair. He said nothing as he steered Tom down the hall and into the elevator, and then into the garage, where a team of marshals were waiting in a convoy of blacked-out SUVs. Winters personally helped Tom into his SUV, cradling his shoulder and sling as he clambered inside.

  Going home was a depressing experience.

  The one spot of happiness was Etta Mae, waiting for him with a pink bandana and a ribbon around her neck, galloping down the hall as soon as he and Winters walked in. Winters held her back so she wouldn’t hurt his arm—she had to sniff every inch of his cast and sling—and then she trotted at his heels, never letting him out of her sight.

  “Did she get a bath?”

  “I took her to get groomed this morning. She’s been staying with me.”

  Tom didn’t know how to react to that.

  Winters showed him the fridge, which had been stocked with the basics, and his countertops, covered with bread, apples, chips, salsa, soup, and crackers. “If there’s anything you need, call us.”

  He closed his eyes, not sure how to ask for what he really needed. It wasn’t fear, not anymore. Months ago, in this very spot, he’d told Mike he was gay. Now, he was staring at Mike’s boss and trying to figure out how to keep his heart from breaking.

  “I need to see Mike.”

  Winters frowned. “That’s not a good idea. We’re keeping both of you under protective watches. It’s best for you to lay low right now. Don’t make yourself—or him—any more of a target.”

  He closed his eyes. “How is he? Really?”

  “Not good. But he’s a fighter. Every day he’s getting a bit better.”

  “Please, there has to be a way I could see him? Even for just a few minutes? Anytime, even if it’s the middle of the night. Whatever you think—”

  Winters sighed. “He’s in a coma, Judge Brewer. The doctors have put him in a medically-induced coma. He won’t know you’re there.”

  His heart shattered. He wanted to vomit, wan
ted to collapse to the floor, wanted to scream and shriek at Winters to just let him go. Let him be at Mike’s side. Damn it, Mike would know he was there, he would. And he’d wake up, and the first thing he’d see would be Tom. They’d smile and kiss, and everything would be fine. It would all be fine.

  “He’s in isolation. The hospital isn’t letting us in to see him either. Every day, I call for an update. I will call you immediately, every day, and tell you everything they tell me.”

  He mumbled something and walked Winters to the front door. Winters looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. He stared at Tom for a long moment before stepping out.

  Shutting the front door felt like he was closing a tomb.

  His shutters were all closed, blinds drawn, curtains pulled shut. Dust had settled over his bookcases and end tables, his granite countertops and glass light shades. He hadn’t been in his house for months. When was the last time he’d slept here? Oh, right. The night of the shooting, when he’d watched the news for hours and frantically clung to his phone, praying that Mike would be safe.

  Upstairs, his bed was unmade, blankets tossed akimbo, as if someone had gotten up in a hurry. Mike’s clothes—tactical gear—were on the floor. What he’d worn the night of the search for Desheriyev. Tom plucked out Mike’s old t-shirt and held it to his nose. God, Mike…

  Gently, he folded himself into the space Mike had left, the empty tangle of sheets and an indent on the pillow. Etta Mae whined to jump up next to him, but she settled for resting her chin on the edge of the bed, right next to his face.

  He could practically feel Mike’s arms around him, feel Mike holding him close, cradling him in the safety of his arms. Gasping, Tom buried his face in Mike’s t-shirt, breathing in Mike’s stale scent after a night of searching for Desheriyev, adrenaline and action. It was all Mike, and, to Tom, it was heavenly. It was home.

  Mike had promised to keep him safe through the trial. Had promised, over and over again, and Tom had always believed him. He knew Mike would go to the ends of the earth, do anything to keep him safe, and he’d never felt more protected. Never felt more cherished, or loved, than when Mike took his hand in that reassuring way, or sat beside him, silent and sentinel and supporting.