“Okay,” he said, setting the miniature sharpshooter back on the table next to a triumvirate of World War II era U.S. Marines he had painstakingly painted by hand. They were storming a Japanese machine gun nest, their M-1 Garand semiautomatic rifles fixed with gleaming bayonets. “I’ll try and set something up for this afternoon.”
“He’s giving a talk in Denver later this morning. Why don’t you just interrogate him then?”
“Who’s running this investigation, you or me?” he said, feeling like a horse being led to water. At the same time, he had to admit the possibility that Jennifer might be onto something big. It seemed far-fetched for a prominent Christian leader like Locke to be involved in something flagrantly and violently illegal, but stranger things had happened. “Okay, I’ll call him. But just so you know, we don’t interrogate people unless they’re suspects. And I’m telling you right now, Locke isn’t a suspect.”
“He will be after you give him the third degree. Good luck, Mr. G-man.”
“Why do I feel like I’m Eliot Ness when I talk to you? By the way, we’re still on for tonight, right?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve waited twelve years for this date.”
CHAPTER 58
HANGING UP THE PHONE, Jennifer headed to her bedroom to undress. After the long sleepless night, she wanted to revive herself with a shower—not to mention several cups of coffee—before she pitched into the files she’d copied. But before she had taken three steps her telephone rang. Her first thought was that it was Ken calling her back.
She picked up before the second ring. “Okay, what did you forget?”
“Why isn’t your first draft in my email inbox?”
Jennifer instantly regretted answering. The voice on the other end wasn’t Ken at all, but the insufferable Reid Farnsworth Lampert. She felt blindsided. Shit, what should I say?
“I’m waiting, Ms. Odden.”
“You sure are an early riser, Reid. It’s not even six thirty out there in California.”
“The name is Mister Lampert , as I’ve told you before, and this isn’t early for me. I’ve already completed my five-mile run and Vitamin E facial scrub.”
Jennifer wanted to gag.
“Where’s the first draft of your story? How come you haven’t emailed it to me yet?”
“You said I had until Thursday.”
“I did? Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Well, old boy, you’re about to change it again because I managed to get inside the secret room last night—Fileroom E.”
To her delight, she reeled him in hook, line, and sinker. “You did? What did you find?” he inquired breathlessly.
Jennifer told him. But to her surprise, he said nothing. The line went absolutely quiet.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. “What do you think?”
“I like it, but you can forget about all this AMP political hardball stuff. What our readers are going to want to know about is the Locke-Kieger-Fowler connection. I can picture the headline now: THE FATAL TRIAD: THE TRUE STORY BEHIND THE ROLLINS ASSASSINATION.”
“I don’t think we can print that, Mr. Lampert, not yet anyway. Most of what I’ve told you is speculation. It’s going to take me some more time to thoroughly review all these files and the DVDs.”
“I have the solution to that. I’ll send a team out there to help you sort through everything.”
“That won’t be necessary—I’ll take care of it.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have a senior editor and two assistants out there on the next flight.”
She felt a stab of resentment that he would even suggest sending others. Didn’t he have any idea how hard she had worked for this story, the sacrifices she’d made? “I appreciate the offer, but think it best if I handle it myself. It would take too long to bring them up to speed.”
“Then you’d better get plugging away, young lady. I’m wondering how Senator Dubois fits into the puzzle. You do know what the Democrats and his own staffers call him behind closed doors.”
“The Prince of Darkness.”
“Funny how no one seems to know much about him. He’s a staunch right-winger, but he’s still something of a mystery. Though he finished third in last spring’s primary, there’s very little in print about his private life. He strikes me as a very secretive man. And one day he could be president.”
That’s a scary thought. “I’ll look into it. But I’m going to need more time to put this thing together. The story’s grown into something much bigger than I anticipated. I’m not going to be able to get you the story by tomorrow. The best I can do is Monday morning.”
“That late?”
“This is a huge story.”
“All right, if that’s the best you can do. But in the meantime, have a PDF of the documents made and email them to me today. I’m also going to want a copy of that disk—the one where Locke and Kieger are arguing.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“There’s another thing. I’m going to have to run this by Legal, especially the DVD issue. I realize you didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement, but there could be some legal ramifications to this.”
“Everything you need to know is in those documents and on the disks. There’s no sourcing issue here because print and audio don’t lie.”
“My sentiments exactly, but we have to be thorough. What do you think about returning to the fileroom? There’s got to be more there.”
Jennifer felt uneasy thinking about how closely she had come to being caught this morning. “Are you suggesting I dig deeper?”
“You might be able to fill in some important information gaps.”
“I’m just not sure when I can do it,” she said, thinking aloud. “It’s too risky in the daytime.”
“Then do it tonight. Think of the treasures you could unearth from those file cabinets, the dirty little secrets.”
She rolled her eyes. If Reid Farnsworth Lampert was the kind of editor she would have to work for from here on out in the brave new world of modern journalism, maybe she should search for a new career.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, hoping to appease him.
“Ms. Odden, I must admit you have surprised me. This is exactly the kind of can-do spirit that Mr. Stavros is looking for.”
She wanted to throw up. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got to get into that fileroom again. There’s got to be more there, I just know it.”
“If there is, Mister Lampert , I guarantee I’ll find it.”
CHAPTER 59
THE CATHEDRAL WAS GOTHIC, but with classical Renaissance motifs, as one would find in Italy, not France. The heavy oak doors were open. Skyler walked inside, her leather sandals tapping lightly on the laminated, dark-blue slate stones. The floor turned to wood as she parted her way through a second set of doors, which gave way to an immense nave. There were a dozen or so people in the church, kneeling in prayer or sitting gazing into space. Skyler walked the length of the nave and took a seat in the fifth-row pew on the right.
Built at the turn of the twentieth century, St. Johns was one of Los Angeles’s oldest churches, a tribute to a bygone era when stone was as valued as glass and steel. Skyler attended Sunday masses regularly when she was in town, but rarely did she venture here on a weekday. Today, her visit was for quiet reflection for there was something—something important—on her mind.
It was impossible not to be inspired here. The vast interior seemed to dwarf all humanity that found its way inside. The lofty ceiling was vaulted in stone, the cross-ribs covered in shimmering gold paint. The columns separating the nave from the side aisles were exquisitely decorated, and the tracery of the pews was lithe and graceful. While many cathedrals were condemned to a state of perpetual twilight, St. Johns carried no such gloom. Thanks to the endless Southern California sunshine, the stained glass windows along the walls and behind the altar shone like precious gems, throwing pools of brilliance into the church. Electrified candle bra and the bank of
guttering candles in the nave provided additional illumination. All in all, the faithful who came here to surrender themselves before God, or to contemplate the beauty of the church, could feel closer, at least for a moment, to understanding the mystical power of the universe.
She pulled out her rosary, kneeled down, and began to pray.
Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee...
It was a simple prayer, as much a vestige of her Roman Catholic upbringing as a supplication to a higher authority. But Skyler truly believed in the words as she recited them from long memory. She accepted Jesus as Lord and Savior and sought, in quiet moments like these, to draw closer to Him. She knew that all true believers endured to the end, that only through faith could a person, even someone who had committed terrible sins like her, remain in a state of grace. She also knew that she needed to turn away from sin toward God, to show genuine repentance, if she was ever to be accepted into His kingdom upon her death.
But it wasn’t a quest for God’s acceptance that brought her here today. It had to do with the new feelings in her heart. She couldn’t remember feeling this euphoric in a long while, not since she was a little girl bounding across the Tuscan countryside on her favorite pony. Years ago, she had resigned herself to a life of loneliness instead of love, family, and intimacy. But now, for reasons she was only beginning to comprehend, she wanted something more out of life.
The last two days she had begun to consider quitting the game. She knew her change of heart was largely because of Anthony. He made her feel special and loved in a way she hadn’t known since she was young. The intimacy they shared made the killing seem dirty, reprehensible. She was also growing tired of it all. After a decade and a half, being an assassin was taking a physical toll on her. Then there was the ever-present danger of being caught. The longer she stayed in the game, the tighter the net became as the world’s intelligence forces and her enemies closed in around her. At the moment, Xavier was doing a good job keeping the bloodhounds away, mostly through clever misinformation, but how much longer could he cover her tracks?
Wasn’t it time to get out, while there was still a good chance she could lead a somewhat normal life, perhaps even atone for her sins?
The question wouldn’t leave her mind as she began reciting Our Father .
For years now, since she had become an assassin, she thought of herself as simply an extension of her gun and the men who hired her as the real killers. It had been easy to rationalize what she did, and she had considered herself no different from the sharpshooters under the employ of the CIA, Mossad, or Russian intelligence. In fact, she had believed herself superior for she was far better paid, took on only those assignments she wanted, and took orders from no one. In her field, no man was her equal or left investigators in a greater state of confusion. But now all the old arguments seemed feeble and she wanted out.
She thought of how she felt when she was with Anthony. When he kissed her, she got goosebumps. When he looked her way, she lost her concentration. When she was alone with him, she felt a sense of inner peace. And when she lied to him about her job, her life, her past, she felt miserable. The excitement on the one hand and the guilt on the other were but different sides of the same coin, she knew. She had strong feelings for him, feelings she could not deny. If not love, it was something equally as intoxicating.
Rising from her kneeling position and sitting back down on the solid oak pew, she felt a powerful sense of irony. On the one hand, she felt inordinately blessed to have found Anthony; on the other, she felt unworthy of such good fortune. What had she done to deserve God’s blessing when she had spent half her life as a killer? Was He giving her a second chance? If so, why had she been chosen? Surely, there were many others more deserving of a second chance than her.
Knowing she might never find the answers to such questions, she again let her eyes drift around the church. With childlike wonderment, she took in the sheer vastness and graceful artistry of the sanctuary; the pained, otherworldly expression of the savior nailed to the holy cross in humble surrender; the multicolored brilliance of the stained-glass windows. Gradually, as the holiness of the place took hold inside her, as the sense of God’s design and majesty permeated her soul, she felt at peace with herself.
CHAPTER 60
TWO HOURS LATER that same afternoon, Jennifer Odden was staring out the window of her office at American Patriots, watching the branches of the cottonwoods and box elders along Fountain Creek swaying melodically in the breeze, when she heard a knock on her door. She turned from the window to see Susan Locke standing meekly in the open doorway. Though she had spent a lot of time with Susan at the company picnic last summer—they had been on the same softball team—and had spoken with her on a number of occasions during the girl’s frequent visits to the office, she didn’t know her that well and was surprised to see her here.
“Come in, Susan,” Jennifer said with a sympathetic smile, sensing the girl’s discomfort. She rose from her chair and stepped forward to greet her.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but I was hoping we could talk,” the girl said timorously.
“Sure.” Jennifer closed the door and showed her to a chair in front of the desk. “How can I help?”
The girl’s lower lip trembled and Jennifer saw how deeply troubled she was. “Something’s happened.”
“What is it?”
“It’s all so crazy, I’m not even sure where to begin.”
Jennifer reached out and touched her hand. “Take your time. I’m here to help.”
“Can you promise not to tell my parents?”
“It’ll be our secret. I promise.”
“I’m pregnant, Jennifer. I’m pregnant and my father and mother are angry and disappointed in me.”
Jennifer was stunned. “You’re…you’re pregnant?”
“That’s not the worst of it. My boyfriend Todd and I went to the Family Planning Group clinic in Widefield last week. We went to see the doctor about my appointment for...for an abortion .”
Jennifer felt something very close to shock pass across her face. An abortion? My God, her parents and the media will crucify her!
“Todd wants me to have one but I…I don’t know. We set up the appointment for this Friday, but I’m still having second thoughts.”
Jennifer reached out and touched Susan’s hand again. The girl acknowledged the gesture of support with a gentle dip of her head.
“When we first found out, neither of us wanted to go through with an abortion. But we were so scared of what my parents might do to us that we couldn’t think of what else to do. Todd’s really frightened of my father, so much so that he won’t even come over to my house anymore.”
“Have your parents said anything about what they want you to do?”
“They’ve already arranged for me to go to a home for unwed mothers in the mountains. Sacred Heart—it’s somewhere in Summit County. But I don’t know if I can go through with it.”
The room went silent. Jennifer felt sadness, a loss of innocence around every word, and felt a deep sympathy for Susan. It was almost exactly the same predicament she had faced twelve years earlier. She hoped Susan wouldn’t have to suffer the same fate she had, but it looked as though that was precisely where things were heading.
“So what are you thinking?” asked Jennifer.
Susan’s grave countenance turned to one of perplexity. “I don’t know...I’m torn. I don’t want to have an abortion. But at the same time, I don’t want to be forced to give birth to a baby and give it away to complete strangers. To people who might not love the child as I would.”
Looking at Susan, Jennifer saw a haunting image of herself a dozen years earlier. And along with the image came all the old memories, the pangs of guilt and remorse. What her father had forced upon her was a cruelty undimmed by the passage of time.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Susan said. “I’m supposed to leave for Sacred Heart next week. But I don’t know if I can go th
rough with it.” A teardrop spilled down her cheek and she took a moment to methodically wipe it away before continuing. “If I had an abortion, I don’t think my parents would ever forgive me.” She tried to say something else, but couldn’t bring herself to finish.
Jennifer could see another wave of tears climbing steadfastly toward the surface.
“I’m scared, Jennifer. I’m scared that whatever decision I make will be the wrong one.”
Jennifer rubbed her hands together. Her thoughts turned darkly to her past, to her father, to the big mistake, to the nightmare that to this day continued to torment her. Susan’s crisis was a disturbing reenactment of her own personal trauma, although Locke and his wife appeared to be far more sympathetic and reasonable than her crazy father. For a moment, she considered telling Susan what had happened to her, but decided against it. She didn’t want to sway the girl’s decision. She would lend a sympathetic ear, but the choice had to be Susan’s alone.
“Do you know the reason I came to you?”
Jennifer shook her head.
“It’s because of the time we spent together at the AMP picnic last summer. I knew then that you were different.”
Jennifer raised a brow. “Different?”
“Different from my parents. Different from most of the people who work here at AMP.”
Jennifer saw a look on the girl’s face that was wise beyond her years; then her expression changed and she seemed to lighten with a touch of humor.
“Todd and I were walking through the parking lot when you drove up. When you opened your car door, we caught a whiff.”
“A whiff?”
“Of the pot.” Susan smiled. “I may be a devout Christian, but I don’t live in another century like my parents. What you do is your business.”
Jennifer gave a guilty, knowing grin. Clearly, she had misjudged Susan Locke, thinking her more prudish than she was.
Susan looked at her watch. “I have to get back to school—I’m in between classes.”
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