Mortal Faults

by Michael Prescott

  Abby wasn’t in the lobby. Still, she might be watching from somewhere nearby. There was no shortage of possibilities—the upper levels of the building, where books were kept; the adjacent yogurt shop and fast food Chinese restaurant; the gift shop; hallways and alcoves. Abby could be anywhere.

  “No sign of her yet,” she said quietly in the direction of the mike clipped inside her jacket. She wasn’t wearing an earpiece now, so if there was a response, she didn’t hear it.

  ***

  Abby ignored Reynolds’ question. “Here’s a funny thing, Jack. Something I noticed about our mutual friend Andrea.”

  “I told you, I don’t have time for any bullshit.”

  “Indulge me. She said something interesting to me this morning. She dreamed about men breaking into her house. Men wearing ski masks and carrying guns.”

  “So what?”

  “Yesterday Andrea never saw the intruders. She was hiding behind the bed. I got a look at them. She didn’t. But in her dreams she saw them, ski masks and all.”

  “Someone told her about the masks. One of the cops, probably.”

  “Could be. But I noticed something else. When she talked about her dream, she kept touching her hair. The hair behind her ear. You know, where she has the scar.”

  “Is this going somewhere?”

  “It must be a traumatic thing to shoot yourself. Almost as traumatic as killing your own babies. But she had no memory of it. She remembered only after she’d been in the hospital for a few years. By then she’d heard the story over and over. Memory is a funny thing. It’s not as reliable as we like to believe. We can manufacture memories that seem completely real. Three people witness a car accident and have three different recollections. They aren’t lying. Their minds have reconstructed the events according to different narratives. As long as the narrative is internally consistent, it will be accepted as the truth.”

  Reynolds glanced at his watch. “I’m not real big on psychological theories.”

  “I am. As I may have mentioned, I studied psychology. Analyzing people is a big part of what I do. Want to hear my analysis of Andrea?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Jack, you’re such a tease. Of course you do.”

  ***

  Tess forced herself to sit quietly for a few minutes in the hope that Abby would show up, surprising her as she always did, appearing out of nowhere.

  Nothing happened. Five minutes after six o’clock, as the lights upstairs were going off, she gave up.

  “No show,” she reported as she left the building.

  She rejoined the other agents and took back her sidearm.

  “Think she’s on to you?” Hauser asked.

  Tess nodded. “Yes.”

  “God damn it.”

  “Now what?” Crandall asked.

  Hauser was frowning fiercely. “She must have seen us and taken off. Maybe she was watching this entrance and spotted us when we pulled up.”

  “Her cell phone is still signaling from this area,” the agent with the laptop said.

  “She probably dropped it in a trash can. She could be on a freeway by now, heading for Mexico.”

  Tess wasn’t so sure. “Not necessarily. She may still be in the vicinity.”

  “Why would she blow off her meeting with you and still hang around?” Hauser asked.

  “I don’t know. Why did she come downtown in the first place? Maybe there’s something she has to do here.”

  “If she’s here, we’ll find her.” Hauser clapped his hands. “Pair up, fan out. Search every building that’s open. The office towers are closed, so unless she got inside illegally, she’s not in there. Focus on the restaurants, the hotel, and Pershing Square. Keep an eye open for a red Miata. Go.”

  Tess realized the others had paired off, leaving her with Crandall.

  “Looks like it’s you and me, Rick,” she said quietly.

  Crandall managed a shaky smile.

  ***

  “Andrea thinks she remembers what happened twenty years ago,” Abby said. “But she’s fooling herself. On some level she knows it. She knows what really took place. She just doesn’t know she knows.”

  Reynolds shifted in his seat. “Are you going to give me the information or not?”

  “After she got out of the hospital, Andrea moved to Florida. She was almost happy there. But something brought her back to California. She doesn’t even know what. She felt a pull, an attraction, she said. That was my first clue. It told me she needed to resolve things here. She put it off as long as she could, tried not to deal with it, but in the end she had to obey the dictates of the ol’ subconscious. It’s all very Freudian.”

  “Maybe she just prefers this climate.”

  “Nothing’s ever that simple. Think about it, Jack. Why was she showing up at your campaign events? Why would she risk it? I asked her, and she had no explanation. She didn’t know what motivated her. But I do. Maybe you do, too. Care to take a shot at it?”

  “No,” he said coldly.

  “Fair enough. It’s best to leave this kind of thing to the experts. Returning to California, then seeking you out—it was her way of trying to come to grips with what really happened. It was her subconscious mind prodding her to face the facts.”

  “The woman is a nut job. We already knew that.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. And I don’t think ‘nut job’ is a term you’ll find in any diagnostic manual. She isn’t crazy. She never was.”

  “There are two dead babies that indicate otherwise.”

  “Not a good comeback, Jack. Too obvious. We both know what happened. Andrea was getting too possessive. She’d given birth to your children. She wanted to be married, the way you’d promised. Of course you never had any intention of leaving your wife. When you tried to break off your relationship, it only made her angrier. You were afraid of what she might do. A woman scorned—you know how it goes. She might talk to the media. Or to your wife. Ruin your reputation, make it impossible for you to run for Congress. You were on your way up, but she had the ability to take you down.”

  “This is such a load of crap,” Reynolds said, but without conviction.

  “So you decided to handle things the way you always do—by hiring some of your biker friends to do your dirty work. That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? You sicced ’em on Andrea twenty years ago, the same way you sicced ’em on her yesterday afternoon. That’s the trouble with sociopaths—so predictable. Always rerunning the same game plan in their heads, over and over.

  “They wore ski masks that night, too. They got into her house, and Andrea and her children were shot. I don’t know in what order. Maybe they shot her first, then the kids. But I’m guessing they made her watch while they killed the kids before they turned the gun on her. Her own gun. You knew she had one, and you knew where she kept it. You told them to leave the gun with her so it would look like she shot herself.”

  “She did shoot herself.”

  “No, Jack. The men with ski masks shot her. She got a good look at them—right before they shot her in the side of the head, behind the ear.”

  “You got all this from a dream she told you about?”

  “A dream and some head scratching. Don’t forget the head scratching.”

  “For Christ’s sake, it was murder-suicide. Everybody knows that.”

  “Murder, yes. Not suicide. Andrea never shot anybody. Those two kids—their blood isn’t on her hands. It’s on yours.”

  Reynolds leaned forward, his face taut. “I want what I came for, and I want it now.”

  “Ever think about them, Jack? Your two lost sons? They were your kids. Doesn’t that matter to you? Doesn’t it keep you up at night?”

  “Nothing keeps me up at night.”

  “What’s sad is I believe you. Do you even remember their names?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “What were their names, Jack?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit.” He started to rise
.

  She seized him by the arm. “Tell me their names.”

  He twisted free. “Go to hell, Sinclair.”

  “What were their names?”

  “Brian and Gabriel.”

  The voice didn’t belong to Reynolds.

  Andrea had emerged from behind the palm fronds—shaking, her face empty of color, her eyes huge.

  “Those were their names,” she whispered, her gaze locked on Reynolds. “Brian and Gabriel.”

  He stared at her, trying to process what was happening.

  “You did it.” Andrea spoke in a monotone. “You had them killed.”

  “God damn it”—Reynolds glanced from her to Abby—“you’re running a game on me!”

  “It was you,” Andrea said. “It wasn’t me. It was never me.”

  “Shut up,” Reynolds snapped.

  “You killed my children!” Her voice rose in a sudden hoarse cry of pain.

  Reynolds raised his hands, looking around nervously. “Keep it down. Jesus.”

  “You killed them, and you let me take the blame. The men in masks—three of them, they wore gloves, they came in without making a sound. You had a key to my house. Did you give them the key?”

  “Shut up ...”

  “They held me down. And the boys were crying, and then they weren’t crying anymore. I’ve never heard a silence like that. And I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t ... and one of them put the gun to my head—it was still warm from being fired—I remember how warm the barrel was on my skin. I remember ...”

  “You don’t remember anything,” Reynolds barked. “Your mind is playing tricks—”

  “No. No! No! You’re the one who plays tricks! You’re the one! You’re the one!”

  People were looking in their direction. Reynolds glanced around, panic in his eyes. “Lower your goddamn voice—”

  “You’re the killer. You murdered your own children. Your own flesh and blood.”

  “I never wanted the goddamned children. You fucking played me, you lying little bitch. You swore you were on the pill.”

  “They were your children.”

  “I never wanted them! I didn’t ask for them. If you’d had the abortion—”

  “You always wanted them dead.”

  “Of course I wanted them dead. They were in my fucking way.”

  “You’re an animal. An animal. You know what they do to animals like you?”

  “I’m an animal, sure. And you’re a cunt with legs. That’s all you ever were to me.”

  “They put you down—animals like you. They put you down.”

  “You should have been dead twenty years ago.”

  She reached into her coat, and a gun came out, a shiny silver semiautomatic.

  “You should be dead right now,” Andrea said.

  46

  Tess and Crandall were checking out the crowded bistro down the street from the hotel, looking at every slender, dark-haired woman in the shadowy, buzzing hive, when Hauser’s voice came over their radios.

  “LAPD’s responding to a nine-one-one from the Brayton. Some kind of disturbance, altercation between a man and a woman, and something about a gun.”

  “Shit,” Crandall said.

  Tess was already moving. She pushed her way out of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a waitress burdened by an overloaded tray, and then she was pounding down the sidewalk, Crandall not far behind.

  ***

  Abby almost lunged for the gun, but instinct told her that if she did, Andrea would fire. At this range she couldn’t miss.

  Instead she said quietly, “Andrea. No.”

  Andrea held tight to the pistol and didn’t answer.

  Across the lobby someone saw the gun and screamed.

  Distantly Abby wondered where Andrea had gotten the gun. The revolver from the kitchen had been confiscated by the authorities.

  “You’re not a killer,” Abby said in the tone she would have used to soothe a skittish animal. “You know that now.”

  “I’m not.” Andrea’s words came through gritted teeth. “He is.”

  Abby’s glance flicked to Reynolds. He stood unmoving, his face bare of expression. He wasn’t looking at the gun. His gaze was locked on Andrea’s face.

  There was movement around the lobby, people ducking for cover, seeking exits or places to hide. If Reynolds had wanted anonymity in this meeting, he’d lost any hope of it now. He was on center stage, visible to everyone.

  “I know what he is,” Abby said. “You don’t have to be like him.”

  “Keep quiet, Abby.”

  “Give me the gun.”

  “Keep quiet, I said!”

  Andrea shrieked the words, their echo volleying across the tiled floor. A child in a remote corner of the lobby started to cry.

  Abby braced herself, expecting the violence of Andrea’s outburst to be punctuated by a blast from the gun. It didn’t happen.

  “We’re leaving,” Andrea said, her voice lower, almost normal.

  Abby nodded. “That’s a good idea. Let’s just go.”

  “Not you and me. Me and him.”

  Reynolds narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going with you.”

  Andrea stepped forward and rammed the gun into the side of his neck, her face inches from his. “You are.”

  Reynolds’ mouth worked slowly. “You goddamned crazy bitch.”

  “If I’m crazy, you made me that way. Now walk.”

  “Where?”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Hotel garage. Level two.”

  “To the elevator, then.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Leave it.”

  “It’s fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Leave it.”

  He moved toward the elevators, Andrea staying close to him. Abby trailed behind.

  “Go away, Abby,” Andrea said.

  “This is a mistake.” Abby tried to find the right words. “You don’t need to do this. You can have justice now.”

  “I don’t want justice. There is no justice. How could there be?”

  “Then what’s the point of this?”

  “He’s got to suffer.”

  “We can do that to him. The law can do it.”

  “Since when have you ever cared about the law?”

  Abby had no answer to that.

  They reached the elevator bank. The nearest doors parted as soon as Andrea pressed the Down button. The compartment was empty. She ushered Reynolds inside and pressed B-2.

  Abby knew she ought to let them go. It might be suicide to follow. But the thing was, she’d always had this obstinate streak of responsibility. It would get her in trouble one of these days.

  She stepped in before the doors closed.

  ***

  Tess reached the hotel entrance and stopped running. The reflected sun gleamed off the glass doors, dazzling her. She squinted against the orange glare.

  Whatever was going on inside, she had to enter the building the same way she would approach any other hostile environment. It had been years ago when she’d undergone her training in Hogan’s Alley, the fake town used by Bureau recruits at Quantico, but it came back to her now.

  “I take the lead, you cover me,” she said to Crandall as he arrived at her side. His weapon was drawn and she was mildly surprised to find that hers was, too. “We clear the room in stages, staying close to the walls, never out in the open. Okay?”

  “At least this time you’re not leaving me in the backyard,” Crandall said.

  They went in together, moving fast across the tiled floor to a group of potted palms that offered cover. Tess scanned the lobby, saw people running here and there, clerks at the registration desk making frantic phone calls, security guards racing for the stairs.

  This much activity wouldn’t be going on if an armed confrontation was still in progress. She stepped into view and grabbed the first person who came sprinting past, a bellman.

  “Where’s the individual with the gu
n?”

  “The woman? She took the guy into the elevator. They went down.”

  “What’s below this level?”

  “Parking garage. It’s two stories.”

  “Was there one woman—or two?”

  “Two. And the guy they took—someone said they recognized him from TV.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A congressman, they said. From around here, I think.”

  Tess let him go.

  “Two women,” Crandall said.

  She nodded. “Yes. Two.” She turned away. “Damn it, Abby. Damn it to hell.”

  ***

  “I told you to go away,” Andrea said as the elevator descended.

  Abby faced her. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “You should. You don’t know what I might do. I might kill you, too. I might kill both of you, then myself.”

  In the brassy lights of the elevator car, Reynolds’ skin was shiny with sweat.

  “Why would you do that?” Abby asked.

  “I don’t know why. Why does anybody do anything? Nothing happens for a reason. Nothing makes any sense.”

  “You aren’t yourself, Andrea.”

  “So who am I?” Andrea released a brief, disconcerting little laugh. “Tell me that, Abby. Who am I?”

  The elevator doors opened on level two of the underground garage.

  “Out,” Andrea said.

  The order was unnecessary. Reynolds was already stepping out of the compartment, the gun still riding his neck.

  Abby had several options. She could draw her gun from her purse, but if she did, Andrea would kill Reynolds, and Abby would have to kill or wound her. Or she could jump Andrea and wrest the gun away. She was a trained fighter, and Andrea was not. But the struggle would leave Reynolds unattended, and there was a chance he was armed, as well. If he was, he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to take out both women.

  The remaining option was to talk Andrea down. It hadn’t worked so far, but it still seemed to be her best move.

  “Why don’t you let me take it from here?” she asked softly.

  Andrea didn’t answer. To Reynolds she said, “Which way is your car?”

  “Over there. End of the line. The blue Mustang coupe.”