by Steven James
Knowing Tessa, I guessed she’d turned to reading, one of her favorite pastimes, as a way of dealing with the trauma of the day. I tend to do the same thing-retreat into the familiar when faced with the overwhelming. “Tessa, would you like to talk about-”
She went back to the book. “I’m not ready.”
“Okay.”
I tried to figure out how best to balance my obligations as a dad with my duties as an FBI agent for the rest of the night, but in the end I decided that until Tessa was ready, I’d let her be and get back to seeing what I could dig up on Lansing’s amorphous past.
I took my laptop to the back porch, out of Tessa’s sight.
From the notes Christie had left in her diary, I knew that Lansing hadn’t changed his name since they met, so I logged onto the Federal Digital Database and typed it in. Both Angela Knight and I had looked into his past when I first found out he was Tessa’s father, but I hadn’t explored a Secret Service angle and I doubted she had either.
To begin, I targeted my search on the Secret Service’s discharges and transfers.
Electronic trails like this are rarely conclusive, but when the government decides to erase your identity, the cover-up is also rarely airtight, so although there were gaps in what I found, there was evidence that one of the agents had moved to Wyoming shortly after the shooting. I worked for nearly an hour, and in time I uncovered enough hints, references, and inconsistencies to convince myself that Lansing’s story was true.
In addition, I found that steps had been taken to remove the identity of one of the agents present the day of the assassination attempt.
Yes, Lansing had been an agent and he had been there that day, but I noticed one major discrepancy between his story and the information I found: it appeared that the agent who’d used lethal force on the gunman was the one who had moved out West, not an agent who’d run for cover.
Which in a way made sense, since it did seem odd that Vice President Fischer would remain friends with a disparaged Secret Service Agent whose failure to respond appropriately during an exchange of fire might have cost him his life.
After a few more minutes of looking through the files, I realized I wasn’t going to make any more headway here. I would have to ask Lansing about it when I saw him tomorrow at the custody meeting. Deal with it then.
For the moment I had what I needed, and there were a few other things that I needed to check into.
I clicked to my email and found that Director Rodale had sent eight pdf files containing the research articles he’d promised me. In addition, Congressman Fischer had kept his word and forwarded his phone records and the accounts of his Gunderson Foundation financial contributions.
Before reading through any of those files, though, I emailed the congressman expressing my sincere sorrow over what had happened to his daughter.
Finding the right words to say in a situation like that is one of the toughest things to do, and it took me awhile to find ones that were not mere platitudes.
At last when I was done, I cross-referenced the timing of his contributions against the list of potential suspects’ bank accounts, credit card statements, and bank deposit records, but found no correlation.
I studied the financial records themselves, but honestly they looked innocuous enough, although his contributions were surprisingly generous.
Nothing striking in the phone records, either, apart from a substantial number of calls to and from Director Rodale since March.
After I was satisfied, I perused the Project Rukh research from Rodale, most of which contained equations about the temporal and spatial correlation of hemodynamic and electrophysiological signals in brain imaging, and although much of it was indecipherable to me, I did recognize that the research centered around the neural impulses that relate to different areas of cognition.
Metacognition?
Theory of mind?
More caverns to the case.
Last February when I was working the case in San Diego in which we’d stumbled across Project Rukh, I’d met a neuropathologist named Dr. Osbourne. He’d mentioned this type of research to me, and I gathered from what I read here that some of his work had survived. I would have contacted him now, but he’d died in a head-on collision in March.
I wondered if there were any unusual circumstances surrounding his death, and I emailed Detective Dunn, a homicide detective in San Diego, to have him look into it for me.
As I was sending the email, I saw Tessa approaching the deck. She leaned her head out the door to speak to me. “I made supper plans.”
I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost 7:30. She must have been starving. “Right on.”
“Please don’t say ‘right on.’”
“Aren’t kids saying that again?”
“Yes. Kids are. Adults are not.”
“Gotcha. What’s for dinner?”
“Chinese. Delivery.”
A taste for Chinese food was one of the few things Tessa and I had in common. “Groovy,” I said.
She looked at me incredulously. “I hope I just misheard you.”
I smiled. “Come here.”
She pulled up one of the deck chairs. “It should be here in like twenty minutes or so.”
“Okay.”
It had been a hard day, and I wanted to comfort her but had no idea what the right words might be. I said, “This afternoon. The primate place, I know it upset you, and then the hotel, that was horrible-believe me, if I’d had any idea that either place-”
“I know, I know-you wouldn’t have taken me. Don’t worry, I’m just
…” She shrugged again. “Anyway…”
“If you decide you want to talk, I promise to listen and not say ‘right on’ the whole time.”
“Or groovy.”
“Or groovy.”
It was a long time before she finally spoke, and when she did, she was staring intently into the twilight-enshrouded woods rather than at me. “Patrick, do you believe some people are born pure evil?”
Her words struck me deeply but did not surprise me.
Considering everything that had happened over the past few days, it seemed like a pretty natural question to ask.
I couldn’t help but think of psychopaths like Richard Basque, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Sevren Adkins, Gary Ridgeway, and of course, the killers from this week and their grisly, shocking crimes.
You can’t work in law enforcement for any amount of time without the question of evil coming up, and over the years I’d thought about it frequently and eventually formulated an opinion, even if it wasn’t a complete answer.
“I guess I think of it more like we’re all born with a shell of good around us, but it’s fractured-for everyone it is. We all know what’s right-even psychopaths who lack empathy are aware of their lack of compassion. I think all people know what’s good, even though, all too often, we’re attracted to what is not.”
“To the fractures.”
“Yes.”
She thought for a moment. “Are you saying we have an instinct for evil?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that. But we definitely have a weakness for it. I guess I’d maybe even say an inclination toward it.”
She peered at the forest. “Because sometimes we enjoy doing it.”
“Yes.” It was troubling to admit. “Sometimes we do.”
“And if we’re good, then we seal up the fractures? Is that what you’re saying?”
This is where things got a little sticky. “Actually, I don’t think we can seal them, Tessa. I don’t think anyone ever has. That’s why we have to be aware of-”
“Dr. Werjonic.”
“What?”
“What he said: ‘The road to the unthinkable is not paved by slight departures from your heart, but by tentative forays into it.’”
“Yes.” I was reminded that I wasn’t the only one who was still mourning his death. “He did used to say that.”
We were both quiet.
&nb
sp; I wasn’t quite sure I agreed with Calvin’s statement, but knowing that Tessa was familiar with Shakespeare, I said, “I know it sort of flies in the face of that old ‘to thine own self be true’ quote.”
She shook her head softly. “No, it’s the same.”
I evaluated her words, but the two sayings seemed contradictory to me. “Calvin’s words warned against foraying into your heart, Shakespeare promoted the idea. How are they the same?”
At last she stopped studying the shadows across the yard and looked at me. “In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote, ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst be false to no man,’ or ‘thou canst not then be false to any man.’ There’s some controversy about the manuscripts that were preserved, which ones are authoritative-” She caught herself veering into a tangent and redirected her thoughts. “Anyway, that’s exactly what these guys that you track do-serial killers, rapists, pedophiles, whatever.”
“They’re being true to themselves,” I said, finding myself agreeing with her, “to their hearts, their desires.”
“Yeah. Forays into their hearts, not departures from them.”
The observation flew in the face of the popular wisdom that people should be true to themselves, follow their dreams, their heart’s desires, but it made sense because when people do that without restraint, they end up committing the worst crimes imaginable.
“That’s very incisive,” I said. “So then, Shakespeare was wrong in encouraging people to follow their hearts.”
“No.” She was starting to sound more and more like her typical sardonically-irritated-Tessa-self, and I took that to mean that she was starting to feel better. It was refreshing. “Look at the context. The Hamlet quote isn’t advice, it’s sarcasm.”
Out front, I heard a car pulling up the driveway.
“Supper,” she said.
My wallet was on the kitchen table, and I went to grab some cash. “Okay, so how is it sarcasm?” She followed me into the house, carrying my computer for me. “Everyone quotes Shakespeare’s words as advice. Besides, ‘Follow your heart! Be true to yourself!’ is the theme of every Disney movie ever made. How could Disney have gotten it backward?”
“Are you being serious?”
“Only partly.” I found my wallet, pulled out a twenty. “But I don’t see how it’s sarcasm.”
“Polonius says the words.”
I heard a car door slam.
“Tessa, I have to admit I’m not as familiar with Hamlet as you are.”
“Polonius is a fool who gets into trouble whenever he does follow his heart, when he actually is true to himself. By having him say the line, Shakespeare was underlying how absurd the advice is. Shakespeare wasn’t stupid. He’s warning people against being true to themselves, not telling them to do it. He understood human nature better than almost any other author in history.” Then she added, “Except maybe Poe.”
“Of course.”
I couldn’t help asking myself the obvious follow-up question: if we shouldn’t be true to ourselves, what should we be true to?
The doorbell rang. I crossed the living room. “I’m not so sure about the whole Polonius irony thing. I’d have to look that up.”
“Trust me.”
I answered the door and found Lien-hua standing on the porch holding three bulging bags of Chinese takeout.
“Lien-hua.” I stood there holding the door open, staring at her.
She smiled softly. “Can I come in?”
“Oh.” I stepped aside. “Sure. Sorry.” She walked past me, and I flashed Tessa a look: What in the world is going on? She gave me a light conspiratorial smile.
“Hello, Agent Jiang,” she said.
“Hey, Tessa.”
Lien-hua put the food on the kitchen table.
“I didn’t expect you.” I was searching for the right words. “So soon.”
“Well, the Evidence Response Team and CSIU guys are processing the hotel room and luggage area, so there wasn’t much for me to do there. Besides, I needed some space to focus on the profile, and even when you’re in the middle of a case-”
“You still need to eat,” Tessa said.
“That’s right,” she replied. “So when Tessa was kind enough to call and tell me how sorry you were that we missed lunch but that you would love to have me join you guys for dinner, well-”
“It was an offer too good to pass up,” Tessa said.
“Yes.”
“And here you are,” I said.
“Here I am.”
“Well, it’s nice. It’s… I’m glad you could make it.”
“Me too.” She was scouring through the cupboards, looking for plates.
I went to the fridge. “Not much to drink, I’m afraid. Pretty much just juice, soy milk, root beer-”
“Water’s fine.”
“Water it is.” I took a glass to the sink and asked Tessa to get out the silverware, but Lien-hua rebuked me with a slender, wagging finger. “This is Chinese food.”
“Oh, please not the chopsticks. You know how bad I am with those things.”
She smiled. “Practice makes perfect.”
67
After five minutes of letting me fumble around with my chopsticks while she and Tessa used theirs with annoying dexterity, Lien-hua finally leaned toward me. “Here, like this.”
She gently took my right hand in hers and slid the chopsticks into position between my fingers. Her touch was both cool and full of fire.
“This is very helpful,” I said as she glided her fingers across mine, maneuvered the chopsticks for me. “I might never go back to using a fork.”
“Hush.”
Tessa just shook her head.
Lien-hua took her time teaching my fingers what to do. I didn’t mind. “See?” she said.
No. Let’s keep the lesson going for a while.
“Reminds me of that night in San Diego,” I said. “When you taught me the sign language alphabet.”
“I remember that,” she replied softly. She patted my hand and then went back to her food.
I’d only managed to take three bites when I heard a car pull into the driveway. I gave Tessa a questioning look, and she said, “That would be our other guest. Why don’t you go get the door?”
Lien-hua looked at me. Blinked. “Other guest?”
Knowing Tessa as well as I did, I had a feeling who might be arriving outside. On my way to the door I flicked on the porch lights.
And in the fading evening light I saw Cheyenne getting out of her car.
Oh, Tessa…
Cheyenne jogged up the steps.
I opened the door for her. “Hey,” I said. “You’re here.”
“Yup.” She was carrying a supermarket brand apple pie. “Dessert has arrived.”
68
“Thanks for the invite, Pat,” Cheyenne said as I closed the door behind her.
“You’re welcome.” Then I called to my stepdaughter in the kitchen, “Tessa, you were so kind to pass along the dinner invitation to Detective Warren as well.”
“Not a problem,” came the reply.
“As well?” Cheyenne said. “So who else is-”
Lien-hua stepped into the kitchen doorway. “Cheyenne.”
“Lien-hua.”
Both women looked at each other for a moment, and then, almost simultaneously, looked at me.
“Great,” I said awkwardly. “So, good… um, I’m glad there’s plenty of food then.”
Neither of them spoke.
Oh, this was just outstanding.
Cheyenne took the pie to the kitchen, Lien-hua joined her, and I asked Tessa if she could kindly come to the hall for a moment. She reluctantly followed, and when we were out of earshot of the two women, I said, “What is this all about?”
“We missed lunch with Agent Jiang.”
“I know, but why did you invite them both over here tonight? What are you trying to do?”
She gave me a you-are-so-clueless look.
“We talked about this earlier. You need to decide who you’re more interested in. The best way to do that is to have them both here. That way-”
I didn’t buy it. “Why are you suddenly so concerned about me being with a woman?”
A long uncertain pause followed, and somehow it almost made me regret pressing her for a reason. At last she said softly, “When we got back here tonight, there was so much… I don’t know… I just thought it would be good for both of us if we didn’t have to think about death for a while.”
I couldn’t come up with any argument to that.
“You need to fill me in on these things, okay?”
“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
“That line doesn’t apply to teenage girls.”
A tiny smile. “Come on.” She started down the hallway. “You have guests to entertain.”
Brad arrived at the small country gas station on the isolated road that skirted along the edge of the Quantico Marine Corps Base.
He parked the car.
Astrid had wanted an unforgettable climax to this crime spree, and so he’d suggested leaving the FBI a little surprise in their own backyard. She’d seemed pleased by the idea, and considering where he’d left the laptop, this gas station was in the perfect location.
There were no other cars on the road, none at the gas station.
Seclusion was another reason he and Astrid had chosen this place.
He turned his attention to the man behind the counter in the gas station-Hispanic, mid-twenties, bored, alternating between texting and talking on his cell phone.
Then Brad organized his things and prepared the needle.
69
By consensus the four of us agreed not to talk about dead bodies or blood or, as Tessa put it, “anything even remotely gross,” and the conversation wandered through the topics of where we’d each lived, our hobbies, and embarrassing stories from high school.
Safe territory.
The places you go when you need to set the dark things aside. However, the more we spoke, the more the three of them seemed to jump from topic to topic without any discernible links between the subject matter. I was caught constantly playing catch-up while none of them seemed to have any trouble at all following the conversation. I finally commented that women do this all the time but that guys can’t keep track of where the discussion is going because the thinking isn’t linear.