Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  Then, slowly, carefully, I placed it back in the drawer, locked it. I wasn’t going to let this go.

  I couldn’t.

  The door to the office suite is oversized, and dark wood, a sharp contrast to the sterile feel of the rest of the building. There’s a plaque beside it: OFFICE OF THE DEPUTY DIRECTOR. I stand in front and tell myself what I’m planning on doing is insanity. Then I open it and step inside.

  The anteroom is richly furnished. There’s a heavy, ornate secretary’s desk, front and center. Wide windows behind it overlook the city below. Off to the left, there’s a waiting area: two stiff red couches opposite each other, a low table in between, a Persian rug underneath. And another door beyond that: the deputy director’s private office.

  The dark-haired woman behind the desk glances up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here for a meeting with Deputy Director Jackson.”

  She frowns, glances down at a calendar in front of her, then back up at me. “Agent Maddox, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see you on his schedule.”

  “Just ran into him in the hall. He told me to come up.” The lie tastes bitter. I fight to keep it from reaching my eyes.

  The frown deepens. “Well, I’m afraid he was just on his way out. He’s not expected back anytime soon….”

  “He asked me to wait for him in his office.”

  She looks uncertain. I smile and start walking to the door to his private office. I wait for her to say something, to stop me. I’ll need to turn, act indignant. I’m a senior manager, after all. But she doesn’t say a word. I open the door and step inside, close it behind me. And then I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My heart is hammering.

  I’m in. I stand still, looking around, taking in my surroundings. It’s a huge office, ostentatiously big, a row of windows along one wall, a glorious view. I can see the National Mall, the top of the Capitol dome. There’s a large desk in the center of the room, a black leather couch and two chairs opposite it. Tall bookcases flanking one wall, filing cabinets along the other. Framed diplomas and awards cover nearly every inch of available wall space.

  I head first for the filing cabinets. I open one drawer, look through the file names, the tabs at the top, searching for anything that might mention Zachary. Nothing. I close that drawer quietly, open another, repeat the process. I’m moving as fast as I can, because I don’t know when he’ll be back. My ears are straining for any sound from the anteroom. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what will happen if he finds me rifling through his files.

  Next I go to his desk. I start with the lowest drawer, open it, look through the contents. A raid jacket, an empty holster. Repeat with the second drawer. Files, none related to Zachary. Loose papers, nothing of interest. Then the top one, a small drawer. A stapler, a pair of scissors, a box of business cards. This is a stupid, stupid idea. It’s not like he’s going to be keeping written records of illicit activity in his office.

  Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m searching through the deputy director’s office because what happened to me as an intern permanently scarred my judgment.

  There’s only one drawer left, the wide one just under the surface of the desk, the kind that’s usually cluttered with pens and paper clips and rubber bands.

  I pull it open. And just as I do, I hear footsteps. I slam it shut again. Heart thudding, I dart for the chair, slide into it just as the office door opens.

  It’s the dark-haired assistant. Her expression is wary. Suspicious.

  “Yes?” I say, my voice even.

  “The deputy director called. I told him you were here waiting.”

  “And?” I say serenely.

  “He said he won’t be back anytime soon. That you shouldn’t wait.”

  I nod and stand, because I know there’s no way she’ll leave me alone in the office this time.

  “And he asked me to pass along a message.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “He said you should have let it go.”

  Chapter 37

  The restaurant is quiet; it’s always quiet at this hour. Lunchtime is when it’s busiest, politicians hashing out backroom deals, lobbyists wooing congressmen over steaks and booze. The lighting is low, the tables all topped with crisp white cloth. Waiters in white shirts and black ties move soundlessly around, efficient and discreet, materializing only to refill glasses and deliver and clear plates.

  Tucked away in a corner booth in the back, set far from wandering eyes and curious ears, Wes sips a glass of bourbon, neat, and waits. He’s in a shirt and slacks, no tie. Attracted a few stares on the way in, but he’s used to it by now.

  He glances at his watch, and moments later Jackson slides into the booth across from him. The newcomer doesn’t say a word. Picks up the menu and opens it, focuses his attention on that.

  Wes takes another slow sip of bourbon and watches him, waits for him to look up. When it doesn’t happen, he speaks. “Did you do it?”

  Jackson keeps his eyes on the menu. Finally he closes it, sets it down on the table. Looks at Wes, but says nothing.

  The waiter appears out of nowhere. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” Jackson replies. He shifts his gaze to Wes. “I’m not staying long.”

  Wes’s face remains impassive. The waiter nods and disappears, and the two men at the table continue to watch each other.

  “Did you do it?” Wes asks again.

  “Yes.” Jackson’s jaw tightens.

  “Any trouble?”

  “None.”

  “Good.” Wes nods. He lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it back, doesn’t take his eyes off Jackson.

  Jackson leans forward, lowers his voice. “She’s threatening the whole operation.”

  Wes slowly places the empty glass back on the table in front of him. “I told you, it’s under control.”

  Jackson’s eyes flash. “We should have chosen the other option.”

  “That would have been a mistake. We needed her.”

  “It could’ve been an accident.”

  The two men glare at each other in silence.

  “There’d have been an investigation,” Wes finally says. “A job like hers? They’d look into everything she was working on.”

  “We could have sanitized everything.”

  “What if we missed something? She’s done too much digging. Left too much of a trail.”

  Jackson stares at him, his jaw clenched tight.

  “Besides. This way we’ve got someone on the inside. She’s in a good position. We can use her.”

  The waiter reappears, sets a plate down in front of Wes. Filet mignon, his usual. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

  Wes glances at his food. “Not right now.”

  The waiter nods and leaves. Wes turns his attention to his plate. Slices into the beef, releasing a pool of red juice. Spears a bite with his fork. “And the boy,” he says, lifting the fork toward his mouth. “Two for the price of one.”

  “The boy ruined everything,” Jackson mutters.

  Wes ignores him. “He’s quite good at what he does. Rivals even our own—”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “We have leverage.” Wes takes another bite, chews slowly, eyes the man across from him. “You know, none of this would be necessary if she hadn’t grown suspicious.”

  Jackson seethes quietly, his nostrils flaring.

  Wes keeps his eyes on him as he chews. He swallows, then cuts himself another bite. “Everything was perfect. And then everything was jeopardized. Because of your mistake.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake!” Jackson snaps. Then he takes a measured breath. “We’ve been through this. I don’t know why she suspected me. I went over everything. If I made a mistake, I’d admit
it. I didn’t make a mistake.”

  Wes says nothing. Lifts another bite to his mouth, chews quietly, his eyes never leaving Jackson’s.

  Silence crackles between them. Finally Wes sets down his fork, blots the sides of his mouth with the corner of his napkin, glances around. Then he pulls out a flash drive, slides it across the table. “Boss’s plan. Do as instructed.”

  Jackson’s hand closes around it, just as he sees Wes’s gaze center on something behind him. He senses movement, turns his head, sees someone headed in their direction. His eyes zero in on the man’s forearm. There’s a tattoo there. Two knives, crossed in an X.

  His eyes shift to the stranger’s face, but it’s too late. He was too focused on the tattoo; the man’s even with their booth now, his features obscured. All Jackson sees is a tilt of his head, an almost imperceptible nod, aimed at Wes.

  He turns his attention back to Wes, a question in his eyes. But Wes’s gaze is still locked on the man with the tattoo. He returns the nod, ever so slightly.

  Then he looks at Jackson, and the shadow of a smile comes to his lips. “As I’ve said, the truth is complicated.”

  Chapter 38

  It’s him. Deputy Director Jackson is weaving this net of evidence around my son, trying to make it look like he’s plotting a terrorist attack. And it’s because of me. Because years ago I decided I needed to know the truth about him, and because I wouldn’t let it go.

  I feel an overwhelming swell of anger. This is my son we’re talking about.

  But why now? What has changed? I’ve been staying quiet. I haven’t said a word about my suspicions, not since that meeting with Barker. And if Jackson knows I’m suspicious, if he’s afraid I’ll start talking, why not do to me what he did to Scott? Get me transferred. Fired, even.

  Why frame Zachary? Why nearly kill my mother?

  I ask myself the questions, but I know the answers. Because it wouldn’t be enough to just send me away. Because I suspect him. He’d have to assume I’ll keep digging away, or worse, sharing my suspicions with someone else. I’d still be a threat to him, even in another office, another city.

  And yet: Why now?

  And why Mom? If he’s willing to hurt my mother, why not just hurt me?

  Confusion is swirling inside me, so powerfully that I fear I’m going to vomit.

  Everything made sense when I believed it was Halliday. Now Mom’s accident doesn’t fit.

  Unless it was really, truly an accident.

  But the man with the tattoo, in the hospital…

  And the timing—all of this happening right after Zachary found Halliday…

  I hurry down the hall, to the bank of elevators. I press the down arrow, hear a muted ding as the elevator arrives. The doors open and I step inside, press the button for my floor. My heart is trip-hammering and my mind is racing.

  Whatever Jackson is hiding, whatever he’s done, this is surely too much just to make sure I stay quiet. Zachary…Mom…It’s too complicated.

  It’s not just my silence he wants. It’s something more.

  What?

  The elevator stops on the way down, one floor after another. Faceless strangers crowd on.

  That look on Barker’s face—it wasn’t about a medical diagnosis. I don’t know if there even was a medical diagnosis; I never heard a word about his health again. My promotion wasn’t because I deserved it, even if I did. It was about turning my attention elsewhere. Convincing me to drop it, giving me reason to stay silent.

  And it worked, sort of, didn’t it? I stayed quiet.

  * * *

  —

  The house is in Great Falls, Virginia, in a gated community with rolling hills and freshly paved streets and huge homes on acres of land. I looked up the address on my way here—one of the perks of being able to access any personnel file. I flash my badge at the gate, and I’m waved through.

  The wide drive is flanked on either side by evenly spaced dogwood trees, bare, just starting to bud. I park beside a Lexus and follow the paved walkway to the oversized entrance door, painted red. There’s a wrought-iron bench near the door. Potted green plants, the hardy kind that can withstand the cold. I ring the bell. It chimes inside.

  A moment later I hear footsteps approach, then there’s a pause, like someone’s looking out the peephole. “Can I help you?” It’s a deep voice, one I instantly recognize.

  “Special Agent Steph Maddox,” I say. I flip open my credentials and hold them close to the peephole. “Internal Investigations Section. I have a couple of questions for you.”

  There’s another pause, and I realize I’m holding my breath. He’d be perfectly justified right now calling headquarters, seeing if I have reason to be here. Or, more likely, just telling me to leave.

  There’s not a doubt in my mind that he remembers our previous interactions. That I raised my suspicions about Jackson, and he silenced me. Did he know the truth about Jackson then? I’m not sure, but he must know now. And he can rightly assume my reason for being here has something to do with just that.

  I hear a latch unlock, and I exhale. Then another, and finally a third. The door swings open, and Glen Barker’s standing there in front of me. He’s in khaki pants and a collared shirt, tan and fit. He’s wearing leather slippers and no socks. No sign of the mystery health issue that prompted his abrupt resignation as deputy director.

  “Special Agent Maddox.” He doesn’t smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  He gives me an appraising look, hard and distrustful, like he’s debating. Finally, reluctantly, he opens the door wider.

  The room I enter is dark, with heavy brocade drapes, antique-looking chairs. Oversized oil paintings decorate the walls flanking the fireplace. There’s a row of pictures on the mantel, in silver frames. His family. A silver-haired wife, grown children, a couple of young grandkids.

  “Please, have a seat,” he says, his voice cold.

  I turn from the mantel and sit in one of the stiff chairs, perched on the edge.

  He sits opposite me, crosses his legs. “What can I do for you, Ms. Maddox?” We both know he doesn’t want me here.

  I don’t answer his question. I want to be the one directing the conversation. “It’s been a while since we’ve spoken, Mr. Barker. I imagine you remember our conversations?”

  “Indeed.” His jaw sets in a firm line.

  I hold his gaze. “I’d like to talk about your resignation.”

  Somewhere deep in the house, classical music is playing.

  “You resigned because of health reasons,” I persist, when he doesn’t answer. “Is that right?”

  “What do you want, Maddox?” He asks it bluntly.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what was the problem?”

  “I do mind. It’s none of your damn business.”

  “You look healthy.”

  He gives me an even stare, doesn’t respond.

  “Did you know Jackson was going to take your place when you resigned?”

  He rises. “You need to leave. Now.”

  I stay seated. My heart is thumping in my chest. “What did he do? How did he get to you?”

  “I’ve warned you about spurious charges—”

  “Why’s he doing this?” I interrupt. “What does he want?” There’s a hint of desperation in my voice, one I don’t want there.

  He turns his back on me, starts toward the door. “Now, Maddox.”

  “If you tell the truth, you won’t be the only one,” I insist, standing. “There’s two of us; they’ll believe us.”

  He reaches for the door handle.

  “Do the right thing,” I say.

  He stares at the door like he’s thinking of something, remembering something. Then, abruptly, he laughs. When he turns to face me, the fear in his e
yes makes me shiver.

  “Be careful, Maddox. You have no idea what shit you’ve stepped into.”

  Chapter 39

  An old episode of Law & Order is blaring when I step into Mom’s hospital room. Mom’s propped up on a pillow, watching intently.

  “Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  “Way better.” She aims the remote at the TV, mutes it. “You look tired, sweetheart.”

  I collapse into the chair beside her bed. I came straight here from Barker’s house, and his words won’t stop recycling through my brain. You have no idea what shit you’ve stepped into. He laughed when I told him they’d believe us. He actually laughed. And I can’t get that sound out of my head.

  “Nice of Zachary to stop by yesterday.”

  He stopped by? He never mentioned it. But the last thing I want is to admit to my mom I didn’t know. That I really don’t know what my son does on a daily basis. So I settle for nodding.

  “And that friend of his. Lila. Such a sweet girl.”

  He brought Lila? When he won’t even talk to me about her?

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. Everything’s wrong. Zachary, pulling away, facing a threat he doesn’t even know exists. Mom, here in the hospital. And this isn’t just Jackson. This is something more powerful, more dangerous. That terrifies me. Even worse, I can’t do anything about it. Without some sort of proof, it would sound crazy. No one would believe me.

  And it would be dangerous. Maybe Mom’s fall was an accident, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Jackson was behind it. And he wouldn’t have done it himself, so there is more than one of them. I can’t risk that they’d do the same to Zachary, or worse.

  “Is it work?” she presses.

  I smile. “Yeah.” I hope that’ll be enough to change the topic. Hope she’ll let it go, and I haven’t just opened the door to more criticism about my career, about the way I’m dividing my time.