Mercifully, she just nods. I wonder if our last argument is as fresh in her mind as it is in mine. We both watch the silent picture on the television screen. McCoy and Briscoe are deep in a heated conversation. My mind starts to wander.
Jackson’s working for the Russians, isn’t he? It seems like the most logical explanation. The obvious one. He was a longtime Russia agent. That operation in the row house was clearly connected to Russian intelligence. And then there’s that encrypted forum full of bots that Zachary found.
But Jackson was responsible for the biggest ever disruption of Russian sleepers. Why would someone working for the Russians help orchestrate the arrest of their own deep-cover agents?
And there’s absolutely no proof that he’s done a thing to support the Russians. I’ve looked for it, ever since that day in the row house. By all accounts, he’s clean. I haven’t found a single thing about our assets in Russia being uncovered. Nothing that suggests our intelligence-gathering efforts have been disrupted. Nothing I’d expect to find if someone in power was really working for a foreign adversary.
I glance over at Mom, realize she’s watching me. She offers a sad smile, but doesn’t avert her eyes. The air is heavy with unspoken thoughts.
“What is it, Mom?”
“Nothing, honey.”
McCoy’s in front of a jury now, making his case. Mom’s pretending to be absorbed, even though the picture’s silent, even though I’m sure she’s seen it before. She’s pleating the sheet between her fingers, no longer watching me.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I don’t have the energy for another fight, Stephanie.”
There’s a row of get-well-soon cards propped up on the table beside her bed. A bear on the front of one, holding balloons. Two pastel cats on another. I realize I have no idea who might have sent them. “We could just talk.”
“Oh, honey. When was the last time we ever did that?”
The words sting. “We were close, once. You said it yourself.”
“And you told me it was all in my head.” She sighs. “Maybe it was. I never knew you had such secrets. Before Zachary…we used to talk about everything, Stephanie.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Things…changed.”
Pain flares in her eyes. “I thought I knew you.”
“You did.”
“Jesus, Stephanie. What that senator did…how could you have kept a terrible thing like that from me?”
How is it that every time I talk to her, I’m somehow the one at fault? The one in the wrong, the one who should be apologizing? It’s infuriating. “I can’t handle this right now, Mom. Another bash-Stephanie session.”
“I’m not bashing you. I’m simply asking for an explanation.”
“And I’m simply telling you this isn’t the time.” I need to go, I need to escape this room, this conversation.
“Go ahead, Stephanie. Run.” She leans back against the pillow. “It’s what you do.”
* * *
—
I don’t sleep that night, again. I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see someone I don’t want to see. Barker. The fear in his eyes. Be careful, Maddox.
Mom, that disappointed look. Go ahead, Stephanie. Run. It’s what you do.
I’m in the kitchen now, coffee noisily streaming into a travel mug.
I called Marta late last night, dialed her cell. It went straight to voicemail. Can we talk? I asked. It’s work-related. I don’t know what I’ll say to her when we sit down face-to-face. But I need to say something. I need to find out what the Agency knows, if they have any idea the Bureau’s been infiltrated.
I watch the last of the coffee drip into the mug, then screw on the lid. I grab my work bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head to the living room, where the TV’s tuned to the morning news. I glance at my watch on the way in. Two minutes until the traffic report. When I step into the room, a phrase from the current story reaches my ears.
Freedom Solidarity Movement.
I go still.
“…a little-known domestic terrorist group…,” comes the anchor’s voice. “…reportedly plotting attacks against government targets…”
I squeeze the mug so tightly the heat radiates through my palms, cuts into them like tiny daggers. I close my eyes, like I can block this out. But I can’t shut off reality, and I know exactly what this means.
It means there will be even more pressure for the Bureau to open investigations connected to FSM. With this in the news, it has to happen. It’s only a matter of time until someone else finds the record of that email. The slides. Until Zachary is officially under investigation.
The anchor’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “…a senior government source has confirmed that authorities are investigating….”
Jackson. It has to be. He’s the senior government source, the one leaking this information. Jackson did this. That swell of anger is back, churning inside me. Does he know I visited Barker? Does he know I’m digging around?
The broadcast feels like a message. A way for Jackson to communicate with me. To warn me, threaten me. After all, if I don’t do what he wants, it’s all going to be in the press, isn’t it?
A sound makes me jump. I spin, and Zachary’s ambling into the room. He glances at the screen, then pauses. He’s reading the captions, the scrolling text, listening to the report. Then he frowns and looks at me. “It’s in the news now?”
“Yeah.”
“This could be bad, huh?”
Guilt washes over me. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Zachary—”
“Isn’t it your job to know? To figure this out?”
“You think I’m not trying?” How dare he speak to me like this? After all I’m doing to protect him.
He turns his back to me, and my gaze settles on a dirty plate beside the sink, unrinsed, stained with streaks of hardened pasta sauce, fork and knife dropped carelessly beside it.
I should let it go. My brain tells me to just let it go. But I’m too frustrated. “Clean up your mess.”
He glances at the plate, then back at me, his eyes hard. “I made us dinner. I figured you’d clean up.” The challenge in his tone is unmistakable.
“I wasn’t here,” I say through gritted teeth. “I was working, and then I was with Grandma.”
“You’re never here!”
I can’t do this. Not now. I should just walk away. “Grow up, Zachary.”
“What?”
I shouldn’t have said it. But it’s out now. “Grow up. Stop making such a mess of everything.” I shouldn’t have said that, either, but there, I’ve said it.
“I make a mess of everything?”
“Yeah, you do.” I feel a pang of regret as I say it, even through the anger.
“I make a mess of everything?”
“You don’t think through consequences, Zachary. Quitting those clubs at school. Leaving trash in your room. Leaving the kitchen like this. I’m sick and tired of cleaning up your messes.”
He blinks at the fury in my voice. I should stop. But I keep going.
“God, Zachary. Going to see Halliday—you have no idea the trouble you’ve caused. All you thought about was you. What was best for you. That’s all you seem to think about. So clean up the kitchen.”
“Clean it up yourself.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”
“Yeah?” There’s a look in his eye I really don’t like right now.
“Yeah.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Then he heads for the stove, picks up the pot, slams it down in the sink.
* * *
—
I access Jackson’s file, even though I shouldn’t. But there’s nothing sensitive.
> I find his original processing forms. He passed his polygraph with flying colors. No deception noted. Reinvestigations—same deal. Nothing suspicious. No red flags.
I dig into his financial disclosure forms. His bank accounts and assets are all in line with his position.
The stack of folders on the corner of my desk has never been so high. I eye it occasionally, know I should be digging in, but I just can’t force myself to do it. The misconduct in those cases pales in comparison to what Jackson’s doing.
Midmorning, Parker knocks politely, enters with a large binder. “Sorry to bother you, Chief. How’s your mom?”
“Better every day. Do you need something, Parker?”
“I’m hoping you can take a look at this.” He extends the binder. “Op plan. For the Daniels case.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s in your pile there.” He nods toward my desk. “But I know you’ve been distracted….” I see color rise to his cheeks, the realization that he’s said something he shouldn’t have.
I take the binder from him and watch as he searches for what to say next, how to recover.
He clears his throat, fiddles with the badge at his hip. “Happens to everyone. It’s just…it hasn’t happened to you before, you know?”
“Right, Parker.”
He nods toward the binder in my hand. “I just need you to sign off on it. I’ve bumped the op twice already, and the others are starting to get pissed.”
Shit. “I’ll get to it right now.”
Half an hour later, I bring the binder back over to his desk, signed and approved. Garcia leans back in her chair as I make my way through the bullpen, watches me.
“Need something, Garcia?”
“You look beat, boss.”
“Rough week.”
“That’s what sick leave’s for, no? Take more time. Delegate some of these tasks. There’s plenty of us that could help.”
The bullpen’s gone quiet. Everyone’s listening. And everyone’s pretending not to.
“It’s under control, Garcia.”
She shrugs. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I retreat back to my office. And through the window, I watch my agents exchange glances, exchange words, their eyes darting every so often in my direction. Dammit.
I open the first folder in my stack, force myself to start reading, to pay attention. I have to do this. I have to stay on top of my work, my responsibilities. I can’t have everyone talking about me, speculating about me.
I get through a handful of files. Garcia’s mortgage fraud case. An op plan that Flint put together, a controlled-drug buy run jointly with DEA. A new case that Wayne’s about to open, an Assistant Special Agent in Charge accused of embezzlement.
Marta hasn’t called back. Midafternoon, I dial her work number, her direct line. Three rings, then voicemail connects. “Call me back,” I say. “Please, Marta. It’s important.”
I pull out the file, the unlabeled one, from the back of my desk drawer. I skim the notes I’ve made over the years. The field reports from the incident in the row house—at least the scraps that aren’t classified. The press releases on Jackson’s achievements, his promotions. There has to be something. Something I’m missing.
But by late afternoon, I’ve found nothing. I’m feeling desperate. He’s covered his tracks too well.
I catch myself staring at the framed picture of Zachary on my desk. His senior picture, my favorite one. He’s smiling, but it’s a small and oddly adult smile, not the wide grin he sports in most of the other shots. This one’s reserved, and in it I glimpse the shy, fleeting smile he had as a little boy.
My gaze drifts from the photograph to the calendar on my desk, the daily planner. Zachary’s school, 5 p.m., I’d scrawled on today’s date, the evening section. There’s some sort of ceremony today, honor society awards. Zachary told me about it two weeks ago. Not sure I’ll be able to make it, I had told him, mentally calculating the time I’d have to leave the office, the work I’d miss.
I am working. But I’m not accomplishing anything. There’s not a single thing that proves Jackson is behind this. Not a single thing that proves my son’s innocence.
I look back at the picture of him, that adult smile. Suddenly I’m filled with an overwhelming need to see him. I toss the folder into my work bag and head out.
* * *
—
The high school auditorium is bustling when I arrive, clusters of parents and noisy siblings and extended family. I’d expected a smaller crowd, a quieter one. But maybe this is what all these ceremonies are like. I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I don’t know. I haven’t been here enough to know.
I take a seat toward the back of the room, along the center aisle. When the kids file in down that aisle, I want Zachary to see me, to know I’m here. For some reason, that seems incredibly important right now. I haven’t spoken to him since our blowup this morning. One that wasn’t even about the dirty dishes. It was about my frustration, and his.
I watch the families as I wait, all talking and smiling and laughing, and suddenly feel so lonely I nearly weep. Zachary never had that, the big boisterous family. It was just the two of us, mostly. It used to feel like a family, to me at least. I hope it did to him, too.
But it doesn’t anymore, not really. We’re so distant, so careful around each other. That, or we’re fighting. Our little family is on the verge of collapse. Watching the others around me, I know I’ve failed him.
And for what? The greater good? That’s how I always justified it to myself. That my job was important, that I was helping people. That sure, I wasn’t always there for him, but I was making the country a safer place. I was helping victims. I was there for them when no one else was.
I can feel a tear quivering on my eyelid.
I take a breath, look down at the program in my lap, flip through it. The names are listed alphabetically; I scan until I find Zachary’s. Highest honors. A sense of pride fills me. Then my mind flashes to the last time I saw his name in an alphabetical list—the case file system. I’m trembling and I can’t control it. I close the program and grip it so tightly it tears in my hands.
On the hour, the lights dim, and the chatter quiets. I glance behind me, toward the bank of doors at the rear, wait for them to open, for Zachary to walk in. Instead, applause draws my attention to the front of the room. I turn with a sinking feeling to see the kids filing onto the stage from the wings.
Why did I think they’d come down the aisle? I’m frustrated with myself for getting it wrong, getting so much wrong.
Zachary’s on the stage. He’s in a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants, chatting with the boy beside him. I see him look out into the auditorium, scan it briefly, but he doesn’t see me. Of course he doesn’t; I’m all the way in the back. Other kids are finding their families in the crowd, waving, laughing. Zachary doesn’t give it another glance. In his mind I’m at work, where I said I’d be.
But he doesn’t look upset. He’s smiling, laughing at something the boy beside him just said. Happy. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s about to graduate from high school. He has his whole life ahead of him, all the opportunities in the world, all these doors wide open. My heart aches with regret.
The kids take their seats and Zachary’s in the middle row, hidden from my view. The principal starts speaking, and he has one of those slow voices, slow and monotone. I want to listen, want to pay attention, but I can’t keep my thoughts from drifting. Because all those doors aren’t really open for Zachary, are they? If I can’t take care of this situation, doors will start slamming. And I can’t let that happen.
Why’s this happening now? That’s the question at the forefront of my mind, the one I can’t push away. Because it’s been almost two years since that day in the row house. Two years.
Snippets of the principal’s sp
eech are connecting, working their way into my racing mind.
…limitless possibilities…
It doesn’t make sense that one day, out of the blue, Jackson would decide to plant evidence in my son’s bedroom. Something would have precipitated an action like that. Something big.
…the long-awaited day…
A tingle of excitement starts to run through me. What if I’d finally gotten close to the truth, close to finding proof that he’s dirty? What if in these searches, I’d actually come across something important, and didn’t even know it?
I reach into my work bag, pull out the unlabeled folder. The woman beside me frowns. I flip through to the end of my notes, start working my way up. The last search was a few weeks ago. I was digging into the sleeper agents who’d been arrested, updating myself on their cases, searching for any developments.
…their lives can be whatever they make them…
My gaze zeroes in on one note, halfway down the page: Al. Pe.—said framed, pled guilty.
And then it zeroes in further on that single word.
Framed.
I remember the search. Alina Petrova. She was one of the twenty-five arrested in that nationwide roundup of Russian spies. She was adamant, from the beginning, that she wasn’t a sleeper, that she was a dissident. I’m being framed, she was quoted as saying, on more than one occasion. Others said it, too, but Alina was the most outspoken. The most fearless.
Then she went quiet. When she went to trial, she pled guilty. Admitted she’d been spying for Russia. And disappeared from the headlines. I tried in vain to find updates on her after the trial. Alina was never heard from again.
I’m dimly aware that the principal has finished speaking, that someone else has taken his place, someone who’s reading off names. The kids are rising at the sound of their names, grinning and blushing as they walk across the stage to a smattering of applause, the occasional hoot and holler, almost like a miniature graduation ceremony.
My eyes are still on the notes, though. What if Alina was set up, like Zachary? What if she wasn’t really a sleeper?
Keep You Close Page 18