by Matthew Dunn
Bartlett nodded.
“I know you don’t have a weapon in your place. I have a gun. Would you check it and the ammunition?”
“A gun?”
“Shotgun. It’s only a precaution.”
“Ma’am—”
“But you know how to use it.” Haden sat in a chair. “I want you to protect me, you, and our property. It’s all we have.”
This pressed the right buttons with Bartlett. “I’ve got your back. What do we know about the visitor?”
“He goes by the name of Edward Pope. It’s not his real name, I’m sure. He speaks with a pitch-perfect Virginia accent, but in truth he’s British. He claims he worked with my husband, possibly the Pentagon or military, but I can’t see how an Englishman would have done that.” She fell silent.
Bartlett said, “There’s more.”
Haden nodded. “He wants to find my husband. I told him I hoped he did after—”
“Yes, ma’am. We don’t need to talk about that. It was a long time ago.”
“He was unfaithful too many times! Long time ago or yesterday?! It’s in his blood!”
Bartlett bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about it earlier.”
Haden placed her coffee to one side. “I don’t know why Pope wants to get to the colonel. My guess is he’s a private investigator pursuing a paternity suit. But given what my husband did for a living, I can’t take risks. This guy Pope could be someone out for revenge. Plus . . .”
“Plus?”
Haden looked directly at Bartlett. “When my husband was in Delta Force, I met some of his men. They had thousand-yard stares. They were charming, but you knew they were killers. This guy Pope seemed far worse.”
Chapter 23
Faye Glass left the twins Billy and Tom to sleep in their new bedroom and went into the kitchen to speak to the two detectives who’d protected them for a year. When she was gone, Billy flicked on his bedside light and whispered to Tom, “Are you still awake?”
Tom replied in a whisper: “Yes.”
The eleven-year-old boys were highly anxious and confused.
Tom said, “Why were we moved?”
“I overheard Aunt Faye talking to the detectives. They told her a man had been watching our house. They thought he might be dangerous.”
“A man? Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uncle Will?”
“He’s dead.”
Tom gripped his pillow. “Why did he jump off the bridge? He was supposed to look after us.”
“How could he? He killed all those people.”
“He didn’t!”
“I know. But the police think he did. They wanted to shoot him. No way would they let him look after us.”
The boys grew silent, each immersed in his own thoughts. Aunt Faye had told them they’d be homeschooled for a few days, until the sighting of the man near their previous safe house had been investigated. It was her intention, she’d told them, to then take the boys to her home in Roanoke. There they’d finally live a normal life, return to their school, have a future. They believed her, just wanting this horrible existence to end. Two years ago their parents had been murdered. Since then, everything had been horrific.
Aunt Faye had tried to shield the boys from what happened a year ago, and she’d reluctantly forbidden them from having smartphones so they couldn’t browse the Web. But at school the twins had computer lessons. Secretly, they’d googled Will Cochrane. They’d read what was plastered all over the media.
A year ago he’d woken up in a New York hotel.
There was a dead woman in his room’s bathtub.
It was his sister.
He killed six cops.
And the twins’ great-uncle and -aunt, Robert and Celia.
Then he took men hostage in a New York restaurant.
And after that, he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.
None of it made sense.
Uncle Will was not like that. He’d been the twins’ only glimmer of hope in the last two years, changing his life, securing a job as a teaching assistant in their school, buying a house where he and the boys could live, adopting them.
The online papers say he threw it all away due to madness. No mention was made of the twins’ names—Aunt Faye had explained to the boys that the media wasn’t permitted to reveal their identities. But the websites were permitted to say that Will Cochrane was in the process of adopting children.
Tom said, “Do you remember when Uncle Will used to come visit us when Mom and Dad were alive?”
“Chase us around the yard, pretending to be a zombie or werewolf?”
“I couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Me too.”
They grew silent again.
“Every night I go to sleep wishing he was alive.”
“Not dead.”
“Not a zombie.”
“Zombies aren’t dead. They’re half dead.”
“No, they’re back from the dead, but in a different form.”
“Half life?”
The boys debated the definition of a zombie.
Billy turned off his light. The bedroom was in complete darkness.
“Auntie Faye once said to me that Uncle Will has the ability to come back to life,” Tom whispered. “I didn’t believe her. But I liked the idea of it. Maybe he’ll come back to life and look after us.”
“He won’t. He can’t.”
Will drove fast in the car he’d stolen from an assassin a year ago. Ash was by his side. They were heading to the coast of Virginia—a remote place that Will had never been to before. It was night. They were on a highway, Ash giving Will directions, Will for the most part silent.
But there were moments of conversation.
“I could have driven,” said Ash. “I’m trained in offensive and defensive driving, just like you.”
“I know.”
“But you think you’re better than me?”
“No.”
“So you think you’re the same as me but take priority. That sucks.”
Will was unflinching. “This is my car, so I drive it. You’re an expert at antisurveillance, and I need you for that. Plus, you’re a great shot. If the shit hits the fan, I’m at your mercy.”
“How do you know I’m a great shot?”
“You’re a deep-cover officer. If you’re not a great shot, you’re in the wrong job. I’m rolling the dice that you don’t have bad judgment about career choices.”
“What do you mean, ‘if the shit hits the fan’?”
Will gestured to his pants pocket. “My cell phone. It’s in two parts. I need you to assemble it.”
Ash reached into his pocket, removed the phone, and inserted the battery.
“Turn it on. Leave it switched on for one minute. Then turn it off and remove the battery.”
Ash did so. “You’ve just triggered something?”
“I’ve just kept interest levels up.” Will pulled over on the side of the highway. “You’re right. You drive. I need to take point.”
When Ash was in the driver’s seat, Will swiveled in the front passenger seat and pointed his gun toward the rear window. “Drive. We need to get out of here now!”
They drove for another two hours, barely a word spoken between them except one sentence from Ash. “You’ve put hounds on us. I don’t take kindly to that.”
Will kept his gun in position. “I’ve set things in motion. I’ll explain why when it’s safe.”
Two hundred miles away, Gage barked at Painter, Kopański, and Duggan. “We’ve got a trace. He’s heading east, but the trace is broken. I think he’s removed his cell battery.”
They were in their tiny house in Virginia. All were fatigued from lack of sleep and frustrated.
Kopański said, “Our two SUVs are ready to go.”
He was referring to the fact that he’d supplied their interiors with makeshift beds and latrines, food, and firearms.
The Polish American conti
nued: “I say we go to the spot where the trace picked up Cochrane and wait for another signal.”
Gage agreed. “Okay. Girls in vehicle one. Boys in vehicle two.”
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d rather travel with Joe.” Painter looked at her former NYPD colleague.
Kopański thought about this. For a long time he’d considered proposing to Thyme Painter. What held him back was his desire to reunite with his estranged daughter. But now, maybe, time was passing too quickly. He was getting old. No woman would match up to Painter. And the chances of his daughter ever forgiving him for dropping her off at a prom where she got raped were fifty-fifty. Years after that event, he knew deep down that he had to think about his future.
He said, “I’m happy with that if our team leader is. We take it in shifts to drive. And if I fart in the car, don’t bitch at me.”
Painter laughed.
Gage nodded. “No problem. Duggan and I will take vehicle two. Guns prepared at all times. Communications systems tested regularly. We move on Cochrane the moment he activates his cell again.”
The Dower House was a six-bedroom property overlooking a dune and the sea. White and rectangular, it had belonged to Kay Ash’s brother, before he got dementia in middle age and killed himself in the sea, adjacent to the house. After his death from the fall, the house was passed to Ash. Like his sister, he had hated their parents. The house had no happy memories.
There were no other human constructions surrounding the house. In most respects it was an idyllic location: the beaches, a grass-covered coastal path, and, in the distance, woods where eighteenth-century Quakers once believed shape-shifters lurked. Ash didn’t think of the house that way. Long ago, she stopped recognizing the surrounding beauty.
Ash stopped the car. “I don’t normally come here this time of year.” She explained to Will how it belonged to her. “I get it serviced every six months by a local. He knows we’re here and won’t bother us until we leave. In any case, he’s not due to check on the place for five months.”
They got out of the car.
Ash asked, “Do you have a flashlight?”
Will withdrew one from his pocket.
Ash pointed at a broken tile on the ground. “Lift that up. Underneath is the tap for turning on the water. You’re not going to get your bath without it.”
Two minutes later they were in the house.
It was huge in comparison to Ash’s living quarters in D.C. Will immediately sensed sorrow in the house. “Your house was built in 1860 or thereabouts. It has a hint of death.”
“It does.” Ash picked up two dustpans and brushes from under the kitchen sink. “Dead spiders. There’s nothing I can do about them. We need to clear them and their cobwebs.”
They set to work, clearing each room of all traces of the arachnids.
Heating on, fire ablaze, and candles tastefully illuminated in the living room, Cochrane and Ash sat with glasses of calvados on mismatching sofas. Cochrane said, “You don’t like coming here.”
Ash smiled, though her expression was mournful. “I used to. I’m thinking of selling the place. But . . .”
“Childhood memories. The sound of the waves. The familiar smell of home. Good times.”
“You know what that’s like?”
“I know similar.”
“In my case, they weren’t good times.”
Will patted the box of groceries they’d picked up en route. “Would you like me to cook us supper?”
Ash was relieved. She was not a good cook, always grabbing stuff on the go. “If you like. Plus, I have no idea why you chose that produce. I wouldn’t know what to do with it without going online to find a recipe. But there’s no Internet here.”
In the kitchen, Will carved pheasant breasts off two birds, pan-fried them with garlic and diced shallots, and added tarragon and cream. He parboiled potatoes, then sautéed them, while at the same time steaming an array of vegetables. The meal complete, he brought it through to the living room and placed the plates on the dining table. “It’s not exactly Michelin starred, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Let’s not eat at the table. It’s where my brother used to eat. It brings back memories for me. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of the table just yet.”
“Then we’ll sit by the fire and eat on our laps.”
They didn’t speak as they ate. All that could be heard was the smash of water hitting sand and shale at the base of the massive dune. After washing the plates and cooking utensils, Will rejoined Ash by the fire. She’d topped up his glass with more calvados.
Will said, “That’ll be my last drink tonight. Big day tomorrow.”
“Who will come for you? The police?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Worse?”
“Yes.”
Ash took a sip of her drink. “So this is the calm before the storm.” She studied Will. She couldn’t decide if he seemed preoccupied with his thoughts or whether he was otherworldly. “Hessian Bell and I have run aground. It was simple to find Elizabeth Haden’s address, but we can’t get to any details about your Berlin mission. Unwin Fox took that to his grave.”
“I know. And that’s why I need to do what I have to tomorrow.” He engaged eye contact with her, this time not looking preoccupied. “Why weren’t you scared of me when we first met?”
She didn’t reply.
“I guess you’re used to being up close to danger.”
Ash wondered whether to tell him the truth. She made a decision to do so. “When you left the CIA and were later accused of the murders in Virginia, the Agency circulated a paper briefing about you. It said it didn’t believe you’d committed the killings because you would never proactively kill innocents. But it gave some details about your career. Just enough. And it concluded two things. First, the consequences of putting you in a corner would be catastrophic for those around you. Second, if you tried to make contact with any member of the Agency, we were to immediately call in SWAT to take you down or, if we were armed, shoot you ourselves.” She warmed her hands by the fire. “The Agency was clear that in the history of its existence, there’d never been a killer on its books as effective as you. The problem after you left was that the CIA felt you were an unguided nuclear missile.”
Will laughed. “Please tell me they didn’t use those words in their circulated briefing.”
Ash didn’t laugh. “They did. But that’s not where it ends. Some of us, I don’t know how many, heard rumors about you when you were still in service. We probably were only getting five percent of what you’d done, but it was enough. You were nicknamed the ‘American Englishman.’ Two years before the circulated briefing, many of us were summoned to the Agency’s auditorium. On the stage there was the entire panel of directors, plus CIA lawyers. The head of the Agency spoke for only a few minutes. He said he was aware there were rumors about one of our operatives. He didn’t name you, but we all knew he was referring to the American Englishman. The director told us that all talk about you was to stop with immediate effect. He then walked out.” She smiled. “Deep-cover officers like you and me know the smell.”
“Bullshit?”
“More than that—when one of our own is being stitched up. I knew you weren’t a murderer. That’s why I wasn’t scared when you came to my apartment.”
Will rubbed the stubble on his face. “Things were different back then. After I was accused of murder, I vanished and became a bookseller.”
“Of what?”
“Rare, out of print, first editions.”
Ash was puzzled. There was so much about Cochrane that bewildered her. When they left service, men like Cochrane became guns for hire. They didn’t sell books. Then again, she didn’t tell him about one snippet of information in the circulated briefing: Cochrane’s mind was as powerful as his ability to engage in direct action. The briefing warned never to allow him to talk to you. If he did talk to you, your universe could be turned upside down. It was the mos
t chilling warning in the briefing.
She said, “Never do mind games with me.”
The statement didn’t surprise Will, but still he hated it. “That’s a myth about me. I never do mind games with my friends and allies.”
“That reply could be a mind game.”
“And therein is the problem. I’m guilty every time I open my mouth. How can I prove that I’m saying the right thing? The truth?” He leaned forward. “Judgment in the counterpart has to take effect.”
“And I’m the counterpart?”
“Tonight, yes.” Will’s smile was genuine. “You know about Antaeus?”
“Bell told me about him.”
“Good. So here’s my point. People like Hessian Bell, Antaeus, and myself are lionized or demonized. Nothing in between. We’re very different people, but that doesn’t matter to outsiders. We become myths. The truth, however, is wholly different. We’re just normal people.”
Ash smirked. “You three are anything but normal.”
“Would you give me a shave?”
“What?!”
Will rolled up his sleeve. There was a long scar on the underside of his forearm. “I have nerve damage. For most of the year it’s fine. But for some reason, when I’m in the presence of someone I care about, my neurons send electricity down my arm. The scar scatters the electricity in an unproductive way. It can cause my hand to shake. Holding a razor when it’s like this is useless.”
“And the scar?”
Will shrugged. “A knife fight.”
Ash looked at his hand. It was as steady as a rock. She knew he was lying. But she also knew he was after something and her instinct told her to follow his lead. “My brother used a cutthroat razor. It should still be sharp. Will that do you? I taught my brother how to use it.”
Will nodded. “A shave first, and when you go to bed I’ll take a bath. Sleeping in a car is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“‘Cracked up to be’?” That phrase tickled Ash. She turned serious. “I have the spare nine-millimeter ammunition you need.”
“Thank you.”
“I doubt it’s armor-piercing.”