by Tina Whittle
“If he’s so textbook, why’d he resign?”
Garrity made a noise. “Because his car slammed into a concrete embankment and he scrambled the judgment-making part of his brain! You don’t hand somebody like that a sniper rifle and say hey, go get some bad guys.”
“But he resigned before the accident.”
A pause. “What?”
“Two months before. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I…Before? Are you sure?”
“That’s what he said.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. I stared out the window over the river. I’d spent so much time this week on the edge of it. It was an unpredictable body of water, changeable in its eddies and currents, salt and fresh mixing in a brackish chaos.
Garrity’s voice sounded far away. “Did you say two months before the accident?”
“Yeah.” I hesitated. “You know what happened, don’t you?”
“I got a good guess. But that’s his story to tell, not mine.”
“He killed somebody, didn’t he? Somebody he shouldn’t have.”
Garrity sighed. “The exact opposite actually.”
It was too much at that moment. I knew Trey and Marisa were upstairs, waiting. Or not waiting. Regardless, I had to go up there eventually. I couldn’t stay in the bar forever.
Before I could ask Garrity any more questions, however, a familiar figure caught my eye, out of place in his camo pants and hunting jacket. Jefferson. He stood at the entrance to the bar, waiting for me to notice him.
“I gotta go,” I told Garrity.
“Call me tomorrow. I’ll be in-field, but I want to know what happens, you hear?”
I assured him I would. As I set the phone down, Jefferson came and sat across from me. His eyes were calm and concerned.
“Daddy told me I was to come check on you,” he said.
“Tell him I’m fine.”
Jefferson stretched one arm along the back of the booth. His sleeve rode up, and I saw the triple tau tattoo on the inside of his forearm. One of the selectmen council, Billie had said. I also saw his wedding ring, and knew that he probably had pictures of his kids in his wallet. Two little girls, one seven and one three.
“Your cross-burning social club know you’re here?” I said.
“This is a family visit, not business.”
“Oh, that’s right. Business is your Grand Wizard meeting Winston on the sidewalk and then snatching his briefcase from his dead hands.”
“That shooting was none of ours. Neither was the stealing. We trade and trade fair, so I suggest you stop mouthing off about things you don’t understand.”
He had Boone’s eyes, cold green-gray, but like his brother Jasper, he’d gotten his build from my mama’s people. Husky, broad-shouldered, sturdy.
I shook my head. “Boone must be proud, you being a KKK officer and all. They give you an extra pointy hood for that?”
He ignored the jibe. “Daddy says each man has to choose his own path. He made his choice ten years ago, and he hasn’t strayed from it. But he doesn’t see what’s happening, what me and Jasper see, how the white race has become the government’s kicking dog, how we are denied our heritage and our culture in the name of political correctness.”
I clenched my teeth to keep from spewing obscenities. “I’m not drinking that poison.”
“We’re not the ones spreading poison! It’s the—”
“Say that word and I will slap it out of your mouth, I swear I will.”
Jefferson leaned forward, eyes blazing now. “There’s a war coming, and it’s coming fast. You better choose the right side while you still can.”
I shoved my drink away, gathered my things, and stood. “I chose my side a long time ago. Tell Boone I said thank you for checking on me. But tell him I won’t be troubling any of you again.”
And then I turned around and left him sitting in the booth, the lights on the river burning and rippling behind him.
Chapter Thirty-two
I went by the ice machine on the way in, then by the front desk to have a bottle of Jack sent up, a full-size one to replace the teensy bottle that wasn’t going to cut it this night. When I got back to the room, I found Marisa and Trey deep in discussion. He sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, elbows to knees. She stood before him in her red suit, the one she wore when she was feeling optimistic. It clashed with her mood now, like a fever.
She turned my way. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” She returned her attention to Trey. “You’re the expert, so correct me if I’m wrong, but snipers and muggings don’t usually go together, do they?”
“Not this caliber of sniper, no.”
“And you’re sure that you and Tai weren’t the target?”
“I’m sure.”
Marisa gestured toward the window. Her voice was almost gentle. “Then why do you have every shade in this room pulled?”
He didn’t even try to answer her question. He kept his eyes on the carpet. I sat beside him. He didn’t seem to notice I was there.
Marisa continued. “I talked to Audrina. I told her you and I would have a meeting in the morning and then make a decision about whether or not to continue with the tournament planning.”
I felt a surge of temper. “What’s to continue? The Bible is gone. An elite sniper team took it. Only an idiot would go chasing it now, especially since chances are good it’s a forgery.”
“It’s not about the Bible.”
“What is it then?”
Marisa went to the mini-bar and got a highball glass. “Let’s lay the cards on the table, shall we? It’s tough times out there, despite our summer reconfiguration. Phoenix weathered the storm, but we’re barely breaking even. And in this business, that’s the beginning of the end. We need clients like the Harringtons or in six months, we’re finished.”
Trey kept his eyes down. “What are you proposing?”
She scooped ice into her glass. “Reynolds wants to continue with the plans for the golf tournament. He says the Black and White Ball is an important part of making that happen, so he’s still willing to attend.”
“It’s not cancelled?”
“At this point, no. The metro PD is not releasing a single press release with the word ‘sniper’ on it, which is an eminently sensible decision. No sense causing panic in the streets.”
Trey did some mental calculations. “What about the special event assessment rating?”
“They’ll probably bump the entrance protocols to SEAR 4, maybe double-down on the credentialing, but since the shooting appears to be an isolated incident, I doubt there will be further changes.”
“What about the Expo?”
“Same story. Look, Trey, those decisions aren’t ours to make. We have only one decision, and it concerns the continued involvement of our clients, nothing more.” She gave him a level look. “Reynolds wants to proceed. But only if you say it’s safe for him to do so, and only if he can engage you as his personal protection during the Black and White.”
Trey closed his eyes. He’d seen this coming.
Marisa sloshed a finger of gin into the glass. “I don’t know why you avoid protection assignments. It’s what you do.”
“It’s what I did.”
“Whatever. You worked dignitary protection. You have the perfect credentials.”
His voice was flat. “I suppose I do.”
“So stick with Reynolds until the ball is over. See him safely back to Fulton County and save Phoenix for another billing period.” She drained her glass, smoothed down her skirt. “That’s what I’m asking you to do. The decision whether or not to do it, however, is all yours.”
He looked at her for the first time. “It is?”
“It is. You say you’re tired of my making decisions without consulting you. Fine. This decision belongs to you and you alone.”
He read her face, and she let him do it. Even in a room with the shades pu
lled, in the half circle of lamplight, he could see a lie as clearly as other people saw colors. And as he examined Marisa—her eyes tight, her mouth straight and narrow—he evidently saw truth.
He rubbed between his eyes. “I’m not sure I want this decision.”
“It’s yours regardless.”
He thought about it, then nodded. “When do I need to tell you?”
“Nine a.m. Will that be enough time?”
He did the math. “I can do that.”
***
When she’d gone, I took a long shower and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, then wrapped up in a hotel bathrobe. Trey was still at the desk. It was unusual to see him there in casual clothes, working past his bedtime. But he had a decision to make in the morning, and Trey did not do instant decisions. They only came at the end of a complex and comprehensive process.
I came up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. “So what do you think you’ll decide?”
“That depends on what this program says.”
“What program?”
“Something I was working on with a professor at Georgia Tech, a sniper preference model.”
I peered at his computer. “What does it do?”
“It uses crime scene information and geospatial criteria to predict the next incident. We’ve only got one shooting to input, but snipers working outside of law enforcement or military assignments operate according to patterns. Higher preference for multiple escape routes, for example.”
“You think this one is police-trained?”
“The data suggest so. Which makes him predictable in certain ways, even if he’s operating asymmetrically.”
I knew that had broken him a little, the thought that one of his fellow peace officers could have turned into a murderer. I ran my thumbs along his trapezius, taut like power cables.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” I said.
He didn’t ask what I meant. Which meant it was already on his mind.
“It’s hard to talk about.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.” He kept typing, eyes on the computer. “But I’ll try. If you want me to. Because it wasn’t something I was hiding. I wasn’t lying to you. It’s something…different.”
I massaged slow deep circles over the middle of his back, the lats and obliques, hard and knotted now, resisting the pressure.
“I’m listening.”
He stopped typing and sat very still. “There was barricaded shooter scenario in a motel near I-85. I’d been on the scene for only a few minutes, not long enough to get a full briefing, but long enough to know that the negotiation team was in play. Their best analysis was that we were dealing with a potential suicide, possibly an SBC.”
“A what?”
“Sorry. Suicide by cop.”
He’d slipped into the vocabulary of the SWAT team leader. Even his sentences changed when he talked about that time in his life—surer, more fluid. I applied steady pressure across his shoulders, easy and sustained, so the hardened muscles wouldn’t fight me.
“It was a tricky set-up—nighttime, close range, multiple civilians, scene not completely secured. Even the .338s would have over-penetrated, and we hadn’t cleared the area fully. We were still gathering intel.”
I could envision the scene. I could see him screwing the scope on a rifle, calculating wind speed, humidity, ambient temperature. He’d have been in black urban tac gear, blending into the darkness.
“The negotiation team thought they could talk him down. They said the risk of collateral damage was high, and that he hadn’t yet demonstrated imminent threat. No hyper-vigilance, no antecedent behaviors.” Trey stared at the computer. “But none of us knew.”
“Knew what?”
“He had a hostage. His ex-wife. She was out of sight, tied to a chair, gagged. There never was a chance for negotiation. He was waiting for the TV news crew to arrive. When they did, he shot her once—point blank range to the chest—then turned the gun on himself.”
Trey stopped talking. I could feel the rise and fall of his respiration through my hands. I pictured him waiting outside the motel with the suspect in the crosshairs, his breath like a metronome, his heart rate stabilized. A study in practiced patience, poised for the signal, the clue, the moment. And then suddenly, spraying blood and panic and confusion.
“I had the shot, but not the orders,” he said. “So I waited. She died at the ER. He died on the scene.”
“Your bullet?”
“No. I could have taken the shot, but until the moment he shot her, the negotiation team thought a peaceful resolution was possible. I’d seen nothing to contradict that assessment.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t a bad call. It was just the wrong one.”
I pulled his face around so I could look him in the eyes. I’d never seen them haunted before. It was startling and disconcerting.
“You followed orders. Based on what anybody knew, they were good orders.”
“Yes. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the next call. And the next.” He exhaled slowly. “It got harder.”
“What did?”
He didn’t drop his eyes. “Waiting.”
I bit my lip. He didn’t need to explain any further. Of course he’d resigned. I would have expected nothing less of him. I put my arms around him slowly, then rested my head in the crook of his shoulder. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t respond either.
“This is where you hold me,” I said.
“Tai—”
“Deal with it and do what I said. I told you before, I’m not going anywhere. Get used to it.”
He did as instructed, solid and reliable. He was calm, yet I could sense the Under-Trey, the one that functioned simultaneously and in parallel with his more carefully-constructed counterpart. And they were somehow intertwined in one man. A man who was holding me very close, and who wasn’t letting go until I told him to do so.
Which I didn’t do for a very long time.
***
He reached for me in the night—wordless, raw, insistent, more submission than seduction. There was need in him, a deep well of it, and I slaked it as best I could with everything I had to offer.
Afterward, I lay on his chest, feeling his heart throb beneath my cheek. Not steady, not controlled. Fierce. Like an animal beating itself bloody against the bars of a cage.
Chapter Thirty-three
A little before seven in the morning, I rolled over to find his side of the bed cold and empty. I squinted into gray light—the bedroom was still, but not silent. In the next room, I could hear the soft tap-tap-tap of keystrokes, the dry-leaf rustle of paper.
I dragged on my robe and went in. Trey sat at his desk in his white shirt and black slacks, his jacket on the back of the chair.
I yawned. “What are you doing?”
“Inputting the final data.”
“What data?”
He handed me a piece of paper without looking up from the computer. It was the crime scene report from the shooting.
“How’d you get your hands on this?” I said.
“Sergeant Underwood sent it.”
“Who’s…Oh yeah. Kendrick.”
He nodded. The brotherhood code. Once a cop, always a cop, always privy to cop information. I examined the report. The preliminary findings were not surprising—gunshot wound to the head—but seeing the diagrams of Winston’s sprawled body, the black and white specificity of his murder, was sobering.
I handed the report back. “When did you get up?”
“Five-thirty.”
His desk was its usual patchwork of diagrams and graphs. I recognized familiar names and places—Savannah’s parks and fields, squares and streets.
“So what’s your decision?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
“Marisa wants something in two hours.”
“I know.” He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “I’m sorry. This is difficult.”
“Of course it
is. You’re running on four hours of sleep.”
“That’s not what I mean. The algorithms run themselves. The roadways, terrain, the specifics of the crime itself. Input those and the conclusion is clear.”
I waited for him to share said conclusion, but he kept staring at the computer screen. He had a pot of tea at his elbow, cool and half empty.
“Trey?”
He exhaled sharply. “The conference center is a low probability strike zone. So is the ballroom. I ran the data set twice to make sure. Limited access, well-controlled population density, high probability of video recording.”
“So it’s safe for me to go to the Expo? For Reynolds to go to the ball?”
“There’s no such thing at one hundred percent safe. But the Expo and ball pose no greater than average risk.”
And yet the shades were still drawn. His desk was a study in black and white, but the room was a palette of gray and shadow, shifting and insubstantial. He put his head back and stared at the ceiling.
I sat on the edge of the desk. “If that’s the case, why are you still bothered?”
“Because it’s not about the equations.” He got to his feet abruptly and started pacing. “The synthesis of the data is clear. The risk is negligible. And yet I can’t think of you walking out that door without…and it’s not rational, it’s not logical, it’s not…but I can’t.”
I moved to stand in front of him, and he stopped pacing, hands on hips. I pressed my fingers against his temples, gently but firmly. He closed his eyes. I kept my voice low and calm.
“Listen to me, Trey. That’s not a box you can live in. The lid locks behind you.”
“But—”
“Shhh.” I pulled his jacket off the back of the chair. I slipped his arms into the sleeves, easing it over his shoulders, smoothing it neatly across his back. “It’s all an illusion, you know. Control. We pretend we have it, and it gets us out of bed in the morning. But it’s not real.”
His eyes were piercingly bright. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Of course you do.” I buttoned his jacket, then kissed him lightly. He tasted of Darjeeling. “I’ll get a shower and get dressed. Then we’ll find Marisa and tell her your decision.”
“But I don’t know what that is.”