Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  The typing pauses, and I shift my gaze to the laptop. A new window has popped up, some sort of message.

  Come on, I urge fretfully. Faster.

  He hesitates, closes the box, starts typing again.

  I need this footage. I need to pore through it, and I need to find something before the Bureau ties the attack to my son.

  Once the authorities have this, once they spot Zachary, and me, I’ll be out of time.

  The typing stops again. The same window pops up. Apprehension starts to creep through me.

  He gives the screen a long look, then swivels toward me. Somehow I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  “The cameras…they’re not recording.”

  * * *

  —

  “Are you sure?” I demand, but even as I say it, I’m sure.

  Of course they’re not recording.

  Whoever did this, whoever did this dreadful thing, of course they’d need to eliminate the evidence, the proof that they were here.

  “I’m sure,” he bleats, bewildered.

  It’s a relief, in a way. At least a temporary one. It means there’s no footage showing Zachary was here. No footage showing that I acted moments before those first screams.

  But the Bureau will put the pieces together eventually. They’ll find that email to the recruiter, and they’ll geolocate Zachary’s cellphone. They’ll know he was here in the hotel before the murders. They’ll realize exactly when I made that call to Shields’s security detail.

  They’ll tie us to the attack eventually.

  But the person who really did this? Without footage, his tracks are covered.

  My eyes are back on those screens, darting from one to the next. Live feeds, but not recording. Whoever did this, he was here. He was on these screens. And we don’t have it recorded.

  There’s the ballroom, those two dense clusters. The lobby, jam-packed with people. The doors at the front, people heading toward them, out them.

  There’s no perimeter. People are leaving. Oh God, what a disaster. No one’s in control here, no one’s preventing witnesses from leaving.

  And then I see it.

  A figure, on the screen.

  Dark cap, head down, just like the guy in the surveillance footage from Mom’s condo.

  I take a step closer, peer at him intently, my heart beginning to pound.

  “Can you zoom in on this?” I say, pointing to the man.

  I can dimly hear typing in the background, and then the man grows larger on the screen. I still can’t see his face; nothing but that cap.

  He’s close to the bank of glass doors, heading outside. About to get away.

  “More,” I urge.

  The man on the screen raises his arm to push the door open, and I see it.

  A tattoo, a familiar one.

  Two knives, crossed in an X.

  Chapter 56

  There’s no perimeter down there, no one stopping anyone from leaving. He’s going to get away.

  Gun at my side, I race down the hall, down the flight of stairs, back into the lobby, into the mass of people milling about, and I try desperately to catch sight of him.

  I snake through the crowd until I’m at the doors, and I’m shoving now as I push through them. I’m outside now, and I still don’t see him. I’m scanning the parking lot, eyes settling on anything that moves. He couldn’t have gone too far. He’s got to be here somewhere.

  Then I see it. At the far end of the lot, pulling out of a row, heading for the exit.

  A red hatchback.

  * * *

  —

  I watch it for one stunned heartbeat, then two.

  Then I spin on my heels and run for my cruiser, parked along the curb. I slide in, start the engine, look over at the exit. The hatchback’s turning south, onto the main road.

  I press down on the gas.

  I pull out of the lot, onto the street, same direction. I can’t see the hatchback anymore, and I need to get it back in my sights.

  I must stop this monster, get the proof I need.

  I pass one car, then another. Strains from my car radio reach me. “…the FBI director…a senior senator…”

  Taillights, up ahead. It’s the hatchback; I can tell. I ease up on the gas, keep my distance. Can’t let him know I’m here.

  “…a botched attempt…”

  If he knows he’s got a tail, he could be leading me into an ambush. Some sort of trap. But what choice do I have? I can’t let him get away.

  “…speculation that CIA director Drake was another intended victim…”

  Drake. The question I had in the ballroom comes rushing back. The CIA—was that supposed to be in the Russians’ hands, too? If Drake had died, who would have been named acting director? In my mind I see those portraits on that wall at Langley.

  And the Senate. Shields was supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to die, too. Who would have been positioned to be the next majority leader? Good God. Have the Russians really infiltrated Congress, and the CIA, the same way they’ve infiltrated the Bureau?

  We’re on streets that are growing less congested, more wooded—and darker, too. I drop back, so that I can only just barely see the taillights. I pull up a map on GPS, monitor the roads, the direction we’re headed. I don’t know this area, not as well as I need to.

  Brake lights blink ahead.

  “…transferred to an undisclosed location for their protection…”

  The hatchback slows; I slow. Then it turns right.

  I look at the map. It’s turning onto a dead end that backs to the woods. A dead end.

  I silence the radio, cut my lights, make an abrupt right, onto a street that I was just about to pass. This one backs to the same woods. Through the trees I can see the hatchback, just barely. The illumination from the headlights, mostly. He stops about midway down the road, just behind another car, one that’s mostly blocked from my line of sight.

  He cuts his lights, too, and then everything is dark.

  I park along the side of the road. Grab my surveillance bag from the backseat, take out my camera, the one with the telephoto lens, sling it across my chest. Pull my Glock from my holster. Then I turn off the overhead light, inch open the car door.

  I’m going in on foot. I have to see who’s in that other car, what they’re doing.

  I push through the trees, heart pounding, cold cutting through my clothes, hand tight on my gun. Naked branches slice at my face, but I don’t slow. I can’t go too near; don’t want them to hear me, or see me. Just near enough to see them, photograph them.

  Dead leaves crunch under my feet. I flinch. Near enough now; any closer and they’ll hear me. I crouch, aim the camera in their direction, zoom in as much as I can.

  Damn it. It’s too dark.

  I rise and start walking again. Closer now. Each footstep feels like it echoes.

  I look through the camera again. This time I can see two figures, but they’re indistinct. I press down on the shutter anyway.

  Aim at the cars, what little of them I can see. Click. Click.

  Doubt I got anything useful. A little farther, though, and I think I can get a shot of the figures, a clear one. I start walking again, off to my left, stepping softly through the brush.

  Then I freeze, aim the camera again.

  There. The man with the tattoo.

  I zoom in as much as my camera will allow. Pan to the man across from him—

  His head’s turned ever so slightly away from me. If he’d just turn—

  He looks over his shoulder.

  Click.

  And then it’s the back of his head again. Dammit.

  He opens the car door and slides inside, shuts the door.

  I aim at the window, but it’s tinted.
I can’t see a thing.

  I hear another car door opening, then shutting.

  Engines starting, first one, then another.

  Headlights blaze on. I thrust myself against a tree, shield myself from view. Frozen as one car pulls a U-turn, speeds off. Then the second.

  I step around the tree, watch as they head off on the main road, in the direction from which we came. The second car’s a small blue sedan. A Corolla, I think.

  My cruiser’s too far away. Following them is useless.

  I look down at the screen of the camera, press the arrows until I get to the photo I’m looking for, the one where he was looking over his shoulder. If I clicked at the right time, maybe—

  It’s a perfect shot. Head-on, his features startlingly clear.

  Vivian’s husband.

  * * *

  —

  I can’t tear my eyes away from the image on the screen.

  It’s him. The man I saw that day in her home. With her children.

  He’s involved in this. With Jackson, with the attack, with everything. Is she?

  I turn off the camera and start walking back toward my car, utterly shaken.

  No. She can’t be. The way she looked in her home that day, the way she reacted…She was confused. Afraid, even. I’m certain of it.

  At least I think she was.

  But if she’s not involved, she’s vulnerable. She’s living with the enemy, and she has no idea. Is her husband working for the Russians, too? Are they using her? Are they a threat to her?

  What am I supposed to do now?

  Run. The compulsion enters my mind, sticks there. Echoes in my head with each step.

  We could do it, couldn’t we? Pick up tonight, leave town, disappear?

  God, the thought is tempting. It would keep Zachary safe. We’ve done it before; we could do it again.

  But this is different. This is worse. This enemy won’t let us just go.

  And Mom’s in no condition to travel. I can’t leave her behind. I can’t risk what they’d do to her.

  Besides. The Russians are in control of the FBI. Almost seized control of the CIA, the Senate.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t run; it wouldn’t be right. I have a sworn duty to uphold the law, to protect my country.

  I’m nearly at the street when I hear another sound, one that stops me in my tracks, freezes my blood to ice.

  A gun being racked.

  Chapter 57

  I hear the crunch of leaves. Footsteps, coming toward me, from behind.

  My Glock’s in my right hand, at my side. This person approaching—does he see it? If he doesn’t, he will, any moment. I use the sound of his footsteps to picture exactly where he is.

  And then I swing toward the sound, raise my gun.

  “Shoot me and your son dies,” says the voice. I find him in my sights. His hands are at his sides.

  I don’t shoot. It’s a split-second decision, one drilled into me during years of training. If there’d been a weapon pointed at me, I’d have pressed the trigger, even before the words registered.

  But there wasn’t, and so I didn’t. And that briefest of pauses is enough for his words to reach my brain. Shoot me and your son dies.

  I watch him through my sights. My finger’s on the trigger. Blood’s pounding in my ears. He raises his right hand, and now I see the gun in it. He’s drawing on me.

  Shoot, Steph. You need to shoot.

  But my finger doesn’t move. Your son dies.

  “You know this goes beyond just me, Steph.”

  He has the gun in both hands now, barrel pointed directly at me. He’s aiming at me, I’m aiming at him. Standoff. His face looks calm, too calm.

  “Drop your weapon, Steph.”

  I don’t. I will myself to press the trigger. To shoot him, to kill him, to eliminate this threat.

  It wouldn’t, though, would it?

  Your son dies.

  He starts walking toward me. I keep him in my sights, keep the gun trained on him, my finger on the trigger. He’s in front of me, only steps away.

  “Don’t be foolish, Steph. I’ve gone this long without killing you.” Jackson levels his gun at my heart. “Don’t make me do it now.”

  I drop the gun. It lands in the leaves with a quiet thud.

  He keeps his gun trained on me. His face is expressionless. “Get in the car.” He tilts his head toward the road.

  Numb, I start walking. I can hear him behind me, close.

  There’s my car, through the trees. A black SUV, too, parked farther up the road. I stop.

  “Move,” he urges. I can feel the barrel of his gun bite into my spine, and I start walking again, because I know now.

  They finally decided it’s safest to just get rid of me. Like Scott.

  I’ve gone this long without killing you. Don’t make me do it now.

  If he wanted me dead, he’d have already done it, wouldn’t he? Or he’d have had someone do it for him. He wants something else.

  What?

  We’re nearly at the car now. I’m still wearing the wire. I just need to power it on….

  I picture the device, under my clothes. Feel it against my body. I need to press that button, through my clothes, and I need to do it without him seeing.

  He’s going to kill me.

  The thought is there, echoing in the darkness.

  He opens the driver’s-side door with one hand, the other still gripping the gun. “In.”

  Every muscle in my body feels like it’s resisting, like it’s screaming at me not to do this. It’s too dangerous. It would mean stepping into an enclosed space with a killer. A traitor.

  But I need proof. I need this, more than I’ve ever needed anything.

  “Get in.”

  I make my muscles move, climb into the car. As I slide over onto the passenger seat, I turn my body away from him, press the record button through my clothes.

  He slides behind the wheel and slams the door—an instant later I hear it lock. I look over at him. Same hard look he had in the row house that day so long ago, and in my home when he confronted me there.

  He throws the car into gear and pulls away from the curb.

  We drive onto the main road. It’s empty, and dark. I’m waiting for him to speak. To incriminate himself. To get the proof I need. But he says nothing. The only sound is the whir of the engine, and the faint strains of the radio—news coverage of the attack, reporters speculating endlessly on the murders, reports on the lives and careers of Halliday and Lee.

  “What do you want?” My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger.

  He keeps his eyes on the road, his lips set tight. He’s heading south, toward the river. There’s more traffic here, more lights. I’m memorizing every road sign, mapping out the route in my mind, trying to picture exactly where we are. Exactly how I can get away, when the time is right.

  “Tell me,” I insist.

  He turns the volume up on the radio. It’s the Senate majority leader. “The vice president promised the American people there was no threat. He should tender his resignation immediately….”

  I watch Jackson’s profile, wait for him to say something, anything. I’m ready. I just need a confession, and then I need to escape—

  We’re snaking through Southwest, through the commercial district. The radio host’s voice reaches my ears. “A blistering attack on his own party,” she’s saying. “Unprecedented…they need a scapegoat, someone to blame….”

  Jackson turns the volume down, and silence slams down on us. He slows to a stop. It’s a lonely road, one that flanks the water.

  There’s no one here at this hour. No people, no cars. I can see the river just on the other side, dark, black, glittering.

  It’s the perfect place to dump
a body. He brought me here to kill me.

  He puts the car in park and reaches for his gun.

  Zachary. Images of my son flash through my mind. All the stages of his life, all those fleeting, lost moments. As a newborn, his tiny pink hand closed stubbornly around my thumb. A toddler, taking those wobbly first steps. Flying high on the swings, a grin lighting his face. Riding off proudly on his bike, away from me. And as he is now, on the cusp of adulthood, striding across that stage to shake the principal’s hand, his future wide open before him. And I remember holding him tight, as if I could never let him go, outside the ballroom.

  No. I’m not going to let this happen. I shift in my seat so I can kick the gun out of his hand, but as soon as I twist he grabs my leg, twists it so painfully I gasp.

  “Relax,” Jackson says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  My leg’s immobilized, the gun in his other hand, out of my reach.

  “As long as you don’t make any rash moves,” he adds, and the pressure on my leg loosens. His hand hovers over it a moment longer, like he’s waiting for me to make a move, but I’m obediently still.

  I’m perfectly still, just like he wants me to be—for a second, then two, then…

  I swing my right fist toward his face, connect with his cheekbone, with everything I’ve got. He yelps like a wounded dog. And I’m already on top of him, grappling for the gun, trying to pry it out of his grasp—

  Crunch. I double over, wheezing, curl around myself reflexively. His fist caught me square in the stomach. He pins me back against my seat, and I’m trapped there, gasping for breath, blinded by pain.

  He reaches for my camera, pops open the bottom, takes out the memory card, snaps it in half. It’s a sickening sound.

  Doesn’t matter, though. I know what I saw. I know who I saw.

  “Give me the recording device, Steph.”

  “I…don’t have one,” I lie.

  “You do.” His eyes are hard, and there’s no doubt in his face, none whatsoever. I have the chilling sense, once again, that he’s a step ahead, that he always will be one step ahead. “You can give it to me. Or I’ll strip you down and find it myself.”