When he looked up again, he said, “I don’t want to seem foolish or paranoid, but it would probably be prudent to ask you for some identification.”
Wise man. She showed him her ID card, and he studied it with care, even tilting it so that the hologram caught the light.
“‘Office of Intelligence and Counterintelligence,’” he read. “I’ll admit I didn’t know the DOE had their own investigations division. I’d have guessed they’d farm that out.”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“So what brings the DOE intelligence division into the game?”
Boone knew he was testing her, asking a question that achieved multiple things at once. He wanted to learn how legitimate she was and how much information she’d share, and he wanted to buy himself time to consider the situation while he listened.
“The office protects vital national security information and technologies that represent intellectual property of incalculable value,” Boone said in her best public-speaker-introducing-a-bullshit-politician-at-a-ribbon-cutting voice. “Our distinctive contribution to national security is the ability to leverage the Energy Department’s unmatched scientific and technological expertise in support of policy makers as well as national security missions in defense, homeland security, cybersecurity, intelligence, and energy security.”
“Are you required to memorize that or is it your unique sense of humor?”
“It’s on the website.” She shrugged.
“Nicely done. Not exactly what I was hoping for, though. Would you give me an example of your work?”
Killing a man in a hotel room in Tokyo with a garrote, Boone thought, but the first example to come to mind wasn’t usually the one you should share. She said, “Serving on a joint task force with the FBI and CIA using legal vulnerabilities to motivate employees of a chemical corporation to reveal the covert sharing of patent secrets with the Chinese military.” She paused. “Hypothetically. Of course.”
“Of course,” he said, never looking away from her.
“Do you need another?”
“I’m not sure that I do.” He gave a wan smile. “‘Using legal vulnerabilities to motivate,’ you said? That’s quite a phrase. Distill it and one might say it means blackmailing employees.”
“One might,” Boone acknowledged. “But one would be wrong.”
“Sure.” He nodded, studying her, and then said, “Tara Beckley was a student escort. A creative-writing major. Neither she nor her family seems to have any expertise that would interest the Department of Energy. I know far less about her charge, simply that he was a guest speaker and that he was killed. Your belief, then, is that this man was assassinated—is that the idea?”
“I wouldn’t use that term, but that’s the gist.”
“A killing with political intent isn’t an assassination?”
“You’ll note that I’ve said nothing about politics, sir. Pardon me, Doctor.”
He waved that off. “No assassination, then. Fine. My understanding was that it was a car accident, and a driver admitted guilt. Rather unusual way to commit a professional execution. He even called the police himself, I believe.”
“Do you know that he’s dead?” Boone asked.
That stopped him.
“Police in Brighton just found his body in a car,” Boone told him. “Shot twice in the head. This unfortunate development paired with his uniquely cooperative admission at the scene means there will be no investigation into the death of Amandi Oltamu now, no trial. Do you see?”
After a lengthy pause, the doctor said, “And who is Amandi Oltamu to you? What value did he have that you were hoping to use legal vulnerabilities to motivate?”
Boone smiled. “This is where we get to the unpleasant part. You have questions, I have answers, but I can’t share them. And the less you know, the better for you.”
His eyes narrowed. “For my safety?”
“Yes.”
“So you want me to violate patient confidentiality—which means breaking the law, you know, not to mention the Hippocratic oath—and in exchange I get…nothing? Because of your deep concern for my safety, of course.”
“That’s the idea.”
He gave that little disbelieving half laugh again, then stood up. “Mind if I pour myself a glass of wine?”
“By all means.”
“Join me?”
“No, thank you.”
He poured from an opened bottle of pinot noir on the counter, took a drink, then looked at the clock on the microwave. “My wife will be home in about fifteen minutes,” he said. “If there is any chance that what you intend to tell me will put me in danger, well, such is life. The same philosophy does not apply to my family, though.”
“I understand.”
He turned back to her but didn’t return to the island, just leaned against the counter.
“You don’t have a witness,” he said. “I can tell you that much, because you’ll be able to find it out from other sources, and I can spare you that trouble, and we can spare ourselves the back-and-forth bullshit about the greater good in service of my country. That’s what I’d get if I tried to hold out, right?”
Now it was Boone’s turn to laugh. “Pretty much.”
“Thought so.”
“So there’s no chance she’ll regain consciousness?” Boone asked. “No chance of recovery?”
“Oh, I certainly intend to see that she has every chance at recovery. But at the moment, she is not going to offer you any help. If she has memories that could be of use to you, they’re sealed up tight.”
Boone nodded. “That was my understanding, but I had to try. What I need you to know is that if she wakes, she’ll be not only a potential asset to me, but also likely in harm’s way. I don’t intend to ask you to break any laws or oaths, Doctor. What I want from you is your assurance that if anything changes with Tara Beckley, I’ll be notified immediately.”
“Why not ask that of her family? Why me?”
“Because I don’t want to terrify them,” Boone said. “And because the stakes on this require the poise of professionals. What I’ve heard about you suggests that you’d be good under pressure.”
He tried not to look flattered, but he was. Everyone liked an ego stroke. Doctors too.
“It’s beyond unorthodox,” he said. “This shouldn’t be my role.”
Boone removed a business card from her purse and slid it across the gleaming hardwood surface of the island. “Just a phone call,” she said. “If there’s a change in Tara Beckley’s condition, I need to know. Tara will need me to know. At that point, I’ll deal with the family. Not until then. I wasn’t fully honest with you a moment ago, Dr. Pine. I said I was holding off on contact with them because I didn’t want to scare them. That’s true, but it’s not everything. I also can’t afford too much conversation about this. You are, as you’ve already made clear, a man who understands the need for confidentiality, for professional silence. You know what breaking that silence can cost people.”
He picked up the card and slid it into his shirt pocket. “What if there’s no change in her condition?”
“Then you don’t need to worry about me.”
“That’s not my point. If there’s no change, when do you deal with the family? When do you let them know the truth about what happened to Tara?”
Boone didn’t answer. She just gazed back at him, and he nodded.
“Right,” he said. “That’s where we’ll reach the bullshit about the greater good, isn’t it?”
Boone got to her feet. “You’re asking questions above my pay grade, and I think you know that. What you decide to do here is up to you. But be aware that you’ve got something more than a patient in Tara Beckley. You might have the key to some vital intelligence.”
“I have a human life. She’s no different than any patient.”
“Wrong. Tara is very different.”
“I can’t look at it that way.”
“You’ll need to.” Boone b
it her lower lip, looked at the floor for a moment, then back at him. “I’ll give you this much perspective: Billions of dollars at stake, and dozens of lives. Maybe hundreds of lives. Still think she’s no different than the rest?”
“What she saw is worth that?”
“Potentially,” Boone said.
He didn’t have a response.
Boone thanked him for his time and consideration and let herself out the back door. If she drove fast, she could make it to the airport and catch the last flight back to DC. Her asset was dead, the witness was unresponsive, and the Brighton cops were clueless about Carlos Ramirez. That meant that unless something changed, Lisa Boone was on to her next assignment. She’d spent nearly a year on Amandi Oltamu, but sometimes this was how it went. There was always more work, and you couldn’t brood over lost causes.
But she wanted to know what he had. All this time, all this careful recruiting and secrecy, and she still didn’t know what he’d been able to produce. She’d heard only his guarantees.
Still a chance, though, she thought as she pulled away from Dr. Pine’s home. If that man is one hell of a neurologist, I suppose there’s still a chance.
11
Shannon has been in the room with Tara most of the afternoon, but she leaves when Mom and Rick return, saying she needs to answer some e-mails and study. This is no doubt true—Shannon is missing crucial days of law school—but Tara knows there are also other reasons why Shannon prefers to check her e-mail elsewhere. Shannon doesn’t want to be with them because they have different opinions on what should happen to Tara.
The truth of it is obvious: Tara’s mother and stepfather want to kill her.
They don’t think about it this way, of course. They’re wandering around the outside of 1804 London Street, calling her name and shining lights in through the filthy windows, but even if they could get through the locked doors and inside the house, they wouldn’t find the staircase that leads into darkness.
No one can follow her down there.
They don’t know that she’s still in the house, and so they hate the house for what it represents: The house killed their daughter. It needs to be condemned, torn down, and the foundation scraped clean.
The problem with that is that Tara’s body is the awful house.
She’s listened to their halting, tearful exchanges already. The word dignity is Rick’s mantra. They must think of her dignity. They’ll be preserving her dignity by ending the feeding tubes and diapers. They have no idea that she’s still here, watching them, listening to them. They have no idea what their hopelessness takes from her.
What am I taking from them, though? she thinks as she watches them. They seem so tired all the time. So beaten. All because of her.
Tell me if there’s any hope, she wants to say. She begs them through her silence and her stillness to just look her in the eye and state the cold hard truth. Is Shannon delusional, or has a doctor told them that Tara might come out of this? Is there any hope that she can convey her awareness to anyone outside of her own skull? Because if not…
If not, then do it.
Their focus isn’t even on her, though. No one wants to look her in the eye. Mom is usually on her iPad. She posts constantly on Facebook, updating friends, responding to well-wishers, and begging for help. She’s corresponding with three doctors, two ministers, and at least one psychic—maybe more, but she shut down disclosures on that pretty quickly after Shannon’s response to it. She sometimes stops and stares at Tara, but the rest of the time, she’s tapping away on the iPad. She doesn’t put on any makeup or do much more with her hair than run a brush through it. It hurts Tara to watch her. To feel responsible for it all.
Rick just gazes at Tara with a horrible detachment. He doesn’t accept the possibility that she can see him, and he’s unhappy about the time he is required to sit here and talk to her.
He will make the call, she thinks. In the end, he will convince Mom that it’s best, and then Shannon will be overruled. She doesn’t get a vote, anyhow. All she can do is argue. From a legal standpoint, isn’t my mother in charge of deciding to end my life?
These are issues that the three of them surely discuss, but they never do it in front of her. And yet, as terrible as it might be to hear, she wants them to explain the situation to her. She needs to understand.
There’s a soft knock. Rick stands and says, “Yes?” and the door opens.
Please be a doctor, Tara thinks. She hasn’t seen the doctor since she returned to awareness, only heard her family talk about doctors.
It’s not a doctor, though, or even a nurse.
It is a boy with a bouquet of flowers in hand. He’s younger than her, maybe not even out of high school yet. Average height and build, but he seems carved out of something very hard, not earned muscle so much as a natural quality; his angular face is all rigid edges and crisp lines. He’s dressed in old jeans and a black hoodie and a black baseball cap with a line of silver stitching down the front.
“Can I help you?” Rick says.
“Is this…” The stranger glances Tara’s way. “Yeah, it’s Tara’s room.” He says her name softly, almost reverently, and she is very confused. She has no idea who he is.
“Yes,” Rick says. “And you are?”
“A friend,” he says, and Tara thinks, What? A friend? I’ve never seen you before.
“Oh. Well, we’ve asked for some privacy from visitors, because it’s very—”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I just…I had to see her. I wanted to drop these off and…I’ll get out of your hair. I’m so sorry. I just had to see her.”
Who are you?
“It’s fine,” Mom says. “That’s very sweet. What’s your name?”
“Justin Loveless.”
Tara stares at him. No, he is not Justin Loveless. She hasn’t seen Justin in months, but he doesn’t look even remotely like this kid.
Is this a symptom of something? Is that really Justin? Why can’t I tell that?
While she fights a rising hysteria over this disconnect, he steps farther into the room and sets the flowers down on a table already crowded with them. He turns to her then and stares into her face and she feels a deep, cold fear and thinks, He is lying, with a sudden certainty. He is pretending to be Justin, and he is lying. Why is he here? Who is he?
Unlike most visitors, he isn’t avoiding her eyes but looking directly into them the way Shannon does, seeking some sign of connection, of awareness. It doesn’t feel affectionate, though. They are a hunter’s eyes.
“Hi, Tara,” he whispers.
She holds her breath. It’s the first time she’s realized that she can do this—the first clear connection between brain command and body response—but any joy over the discovery is drowned by the fear she feels as he studies her.
Without taking his eyes off hers, he says, “She’s not responding at all? No blinks or hand squeezes or anything?”
“Not yet,” Rick says. “But we’re hopeful.”
“Yes,” the stranger answers. “Everyone is. She’s so strong. She’ll make it back. Are the tests encouraging, at least? I know the scans can sometimes show—”
“We’re dealing with all of that as a family and with the doctors,” Rick says, cutting him off. The stranger nods, accepting that, and Mom seems embarrassed.
“How do you know her, Justin?” she asks. “Do you go to Hammel?”
He straightens and looks at Mom. “I do. We were in the same a cappella group.”
It is true that Justin Loveless goes to Hammel College and that Tara sang with him during her brief flirtation with the music department as a freshman, when she had visions of Broadway that were quickly crushed. But…this is not Justin Loveless.
“It’s very nice of you to come,” Rick says, “but we really do need to ask you to respect the family’s request.”
If this were a real friend, Tara would be furious at Rick’s coldness, but instead she thinks, Yes, get him, Rick, get him out of here!
“Of course. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to see her and tell her that I know she can make it back to us. I’m sorry to intrude, though. I really am.”
“It’s okay, hon,” Mom says.
He gives a little nod, then says, “I’ll leave now. I really appreciate you letting me say hello, though. A lot of people are thinking of her. I hope you know that.”
“We do. Thank you. Hey!” Mom’s face brightens. “Have you joined the Team Tara page?”
“Team Tara,” he echoes. “What’s that?”
“We’re on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. I’m trying to keep everyone updated because we can’t, obviously, let everyone in to visit. But we know how many kind people like you are out there, and we don’t want to take that for granted.”
“Team Tara. I like that. I’ll sign up. I am definitely on Team Tara.”
Rick clears his throat, and the stranger nods with understanding, then turns back to Tara. He leans down and puts his hand on hers. The overwhelming, irrational fear returns, amplified now by his touch. His eyes search hers.
“When you come back, Tara,” he says, “I’ll be here.”
12
It was a two-hour drive from Biddeford, Maine, to Boston, and Abby could have driven down, talked to the sister, and been back by early afternoon, but she took the train.
Not because she couldn’t handle I-95, with that press of traffic, cars squeezing you from all sides, like being caught in a tightening fist—of course she could handle that. A simple drive in traffic was no problem, but…well, maybe it was better not to rush things.
She tried not to consider how many months she’d been using that excuse. Tried not to consider that she’d come back to Maine promising herself she would be there just two weeks, that she would clear her head, get away from the tabloid photographers who wanted to run her picture beside images of gorgeous Luke London in his hospital bed, and then go back to LA.
No, she certainly wasn’t rushing things.
The Downeaster left Portland at 8:15 and arrived in Boston’s North Station shortly before noon, and the train gave her a way to relax after a largely sleepless night. Train travel was underrated, she thought. Sure, going by Amtrak took longer than driving, the stations weren’t pristine, and you ran the risk of sitting beside a talkative stranger, but wasn’t that all part of the romance of the rails? Simpler times, as Abby’s dad always said during reruns of black-and-white TV shows.
If She Wakes Page 7