Before I could argue, she hooked a hand around my neck and pulled me into a kiss.
Her lips were warm and impossibly soft. For a moment I lost myself in the scent of her perfume and the sensation of her body pressed against mine. But only for a moment. I could tell it was an act—by the precise angle of her head, the finely calculated pressure of her hand against my neck, the way her body never succumbed to intimacy. This was not passion. This was yet another performance from the incomparable Sara.
Holmes ran a series of kisses along my jaw. “San Juan,” she whispered, her breath feathering my skin. “Say it.”
She unlatched the door and pushed me out of the cab. I stumbled and landed on my hands and knees. “San Juan? What the hell—?”
Sara was grinning, a maniacal grin. I glared back. “You are insane,” I said loudly. “And I mean that in a purely clinical way.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Not yet. I should, though. It might be interesting.”
“Doubtful.” She swung out of the cab and offered me a kiss on the cheek before sauntering over to the Hyundai. The driver of the Hyundai rolled down his window. The streetlamp told me almost nothing. Holmes handed the person a wad of bills, and they passed over a large paper bag with the name of a local grocery store on the side.
The driver obviously said something, because Sara laughed. Then the car was driving away and she was walking toward me, swinging the bag by its handles. “Who was that?” I asked. “A long-lost lover?”
“Don’t be jealous. I don’t want a lover, lost or found. I’d rather have you.”
Briefly, I considered taking off my device, so I could beat Holmes around the head and shoulders. But first I wanted some answers.
So I tamped down my rage and followed a whistling Sara up the steps and into the building. When we were inside the apartment, doors shut and locked, Holmes pointed at the couch. “Sit. We’ll eat first. Then we can talk.”
“I’d rather eat and listen while you talk.”
“No, I’m hungry.”
She unpacked several containers from the bags, then fetched plates and silverware from the kitchen. There were several ceramic pots with vacuum-sealed lids. Sara dumped one container on each plate, and the scents of garlic and red chilies and lemongrass filled the air. Two smaller pots followed, these filled with sweet mango and sticky rice. Huh. Not the usual paper containers you got with the usual takeout. Yet another item to file under Mysteries, Sara Holmes’s, One of Many. And tonight she served us tap water instead of wine. So, a serious conversation.
We ate steadily through our first serving of every dish. Then Sara ladled a second helping of noodles onto her plate and refilled our water glasses. “You have questions, of course. Ask away. I shall count none of them against what we negotiated before.”
I had expected more games, more evasion. It took me a moment before I could organize the hundred thousand questions I had about Sara Holmes. “Why did you lock me up yesterday?”
“To keep you safe.”
“You think I’m in danger. That’s why you met me outside the hospital.”
“Yes. No. Possibly.”
“But why?”
Sara took up a pair of chopsticks and expertly lifted a mound of noodles to her mouth. Her eyes closed as she ate, and in the lamplight, the folds beside her eyes were more pronounced. “I cannot say—in part because you do not have the necessary security clearance, in part because . . . I don’t know why. Not yet.”
I made an exasperated noise. “What do you know, then?”
She smiled, reminding me of a cat. “Too much for a single night of conversation. Here is what I can tell you. Your friend Private Díaz was an other-than-honorable discharge.”
I sucked down a breath. “OTH? But—”
“But she had full veteran benefits. Yes, I know. And yes, I know, it’s almost impossible to keep your benefits when you’re OTH. The circumstances were unusual, according to the official reports. Which,” she added with a fleeting smile, “are a matter of public record. If you know where to look.”
She went on. “About those circumstances. On June third of this year, two squads attached to the Second Infantry Division, currently stationed in Tennessee, were ordered out on a standard reconnaissance mission. The Red Squirrels and the Badgers were their names. The assignment was nothing out of the ordinary. What was extraordinary is that the squads crossed into enemy territory and retook an important outpost from the rebels.”
She paused and poked at the remnants of her meal with her chopsticks. “Or rather, one squad retook the outpost. The rebels outnumbered the squads by five to one. They fought back hard, too. As she later reported, the staff sergeant of the Badgers judged the situation outside of their original orders and called her soldiers to retreat. There were repercussions for her decision later, but that isn’t important. What matters is that Díaz and her mates fought against impossible odds and won—at a great cost. Half the squad died that day, the rest were badly injured and discharged within a month.”
They told us after . . . after what happened that we were heroes. I believed them.
“She was a hero,” I breathed. I wished I had told her myself, no matter if she believed me or not.
Holmes nodded. “They all were. Every single member of that squad received a medal and a commendation. However, between the medals and their discharge, there were several incidents. Unruly conduct. Drinking. Drugs. Díaz herself punched another soldier without provocation.”
Oh, yes. The other part of her story, the part where all her life went wrong.
I didn’t used to be so angry. It’s like everything went wrong one damned day.
All of these were very intriguing details, as Holmes said, but what did the Red Squirrels and Tennessee have to do with me and what happened Wednesday night? Unless . . .
I remembered Sara’s questions about security for the VA computers. Her insistence on knowing exactly when I emailed Saúl and what log-in I used for the laboratory portal. If the New Confederacy could hack into the VA system, that could do more harm than another Alton.
“You believe we have a different kind of security breach,” I said.
“That is one possibility,” she said. “But I have a few more details you should hear. Two members of Díaz’s squad died last week in a shootout in Miami, Florida. A third went into intensive care this morning, in a hospital in Michigan. I intend to find out more, starting with Florida. I’m going there tonight.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table between us. Her face was still as stone, but I saw her pulse beating at her neck.
“It might be coincidence,” she said. “There are other factors involved that I can’t talk about. It’s a question of parallel lines of investigation. That is all I can say.”
“Oh, there is much more you could say,” I breathed. “You want me to come with you to Florida. Why?”
“Perhaps your presence would reassure the people I need to question. Perhaps I want a companion in my madness. Perhaps,” she went on, “they might attack again.”
He had become they. I shivered at the implication.
If we could prove a connection between the New Confederacy and Belinda Díaz’s death, it wouldn’t bring her or her squad mates back to life, but it might tell the world what heroes they were. It might undo the day when everything went wrong.
And if she is redeemed, then perhaps I will be too.
Holmes stood up. “My plane leaves in two hours. If you wish to come, you have twenty minutes to pack. Personal items, nothing more. Whatever you need for your arm. I’ll take care of the rest.”
* * *
We reached Dulles by nine p.m. Our cab dropped us off at the International Arrivals Building. We ducked through the doors and swung right into the main terminal, then up to the ticketing level. We bypassed all the counters, however, for a small office marked customer service next to the British Airways section.
“Professor Smith?” A woman in a d
ark blue suit approached us with one hand outstretched.
Holmes accepted the handshake. “Anderson. I’m so glad you could accommodate us.”
“Bribes and threats are always effective,” the woman murmured.
“I wouldn’t use them if they weren’t necessary. Do you have the IDs I asked for?”
Anderson’s gaze flicked over to me, then back to Holmes. “Of course. But are you certain—”
“I’ve done due diligence,” Sara said, a bit crisply. “And I’ll take precautions. You know me.”
Anderson shrugged. “That is what worries me. However . . .”
She handed over a leather-wrapped parcel, then a second slim portfolio with an emblem that indicated microchipped documents. Holmes leafed through the contents of both and nodded. “Good. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Don’t,” Anderson said. “I’m happier that way.”
Holmes laughed. “You always were. Thanks again. And tell the chief I’ll deliver my report in person Sunday afternoon.”
Anderson took us through a door marked security personnel only, along a winding corridor, to a steel hatchway leaking cold and damp. “The pilot has his orders,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble with him.”
She swung the hatchway open, letting in a spatter of rain. Holmes and I climbed down the metal stairs and crossed the tarmac to a small twin-prop airplane with a commercial logo painted on the side. We each took a seat inside the otherwise empty cabin and strapped ourselves in.
We refueled once, at a nondescript airport in North Carolina, where Sara held a brief conversation with the pilot. I overheard the words Fayetteville and visibility, then Sara’s telling him to chart whatever course he needed to.
It was midnight before we landed a second time. I had dozed off shortly after North Carolina. When the plane touched down, I started up, still entangled in dreams. I wiped the sweat from my face and drew a breath of the thick humid air. “Where—oh. Florida.”
“Miami,” Holmes said.
But not the main airport. The pilot handed us a flashlight, and we used it to cross the tarmac to an almost deserted parking lot, where a taxi waited.
The taxi brought us to a motel on the outskirts of the city. There, with Sara negotiating the terms, the night clerk handed over a set of keys in exchange for $300 in cash. There was no guest registry, no demand for a credit card or driver’s license. I followed Holmes down a musty-scented corridor to a room on the outside corner.
The room contained two single beds with barely enough room for the bedside table between them. What I had first taken for a closet was the bathroom, with sink, toilet, and shower crowded into a five-by-five square. A pair of narrow windows overlooked the parking lot. Holmes noticed my staring at them.
“We paid extra for that view,” she said as she dropped her bag into a corner.
I shrugged, unable to find an answer to that enigmatic comment. The first surge of energy, from when Sara told me her plans to investigate Belinda Díaz’s death, had faded, and doubts were crowding in. Sara admitted the connection between my patient and my assault was tenuous. One of several parallel lines of reasoning, she had called it.
I’m tired. And frightened. And tired of being frightened.
A state that had begun in the war, with intermittent bouts of healing. Another topic for Faith Bellaume.
I changed from my T-shirt and jeans into the cotton pajamas I had packed. I could sense Sara’s gaze upon me, steady and unblinking, as I jammed my clothes back into my duffel bag. My stump felt bruised and tender. I had packed my kit for tending to my stump, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Sara’s watching me. I unlocked my device and laid it on top of my bag.
Meanwhile Holmes had stacked several extra pillows against her own headboard. She leaned back with a plastic flask in one hand. I didn’t see a gun, but I suspected she had one.
“What’s tomorrow’s agenda?” I asked.
“Nine a.m., an interview with the senior doctor on duty the night our boys died. Depending on what he tells us, we ask a few more questions here, or we proceed directly to our next suspect.”
“But we’re home Sunday afternoon, right?”
“Oh, much earlier than that. Barring any accidents.” She raised the flask to her lips and took a long swallow. Twelve forty-five a.m., said the alarm clock.
“We should sleep,” I told her.
“You should. I need to think.” Sara drank another swig. “Don’t worry. I’ll wake you in time.”
“That is not what worries me.”
Sara laughed, a soft rasping laugh, and tipped the flask back one more time. I closed my eyes and hunkered under the musty, threadbare sheets, wanting the weight and presence of the cloth in spite of the warm damp night. I heard a creaking noise from the direction of Holmes’s bed. The lamp clicked over to a lower setting, and Sara eased back onto her mattress. I could hear her soft breathing, like that of a patient who waits out a lonely pain-filled night.
12
“Wake up, my love. Rise and show the world your glorious face.”
Holmes grabbed my shoulder and yanked me onto my back. In the seconds before I recognized her, the old panic overtook me, and I swung a wild punch. Holmes stopped the blow and shoved the windup clock in my face. Only then did I realize the alarm was buzzing. Loudly. “You have thirty minutes to dress and make yourself human,” she informed me. “Our appointment is at nine, remember.”
Her eyes were red rimmed, and she had a strange manic air. I sucked down my breath, convinced she would kill me if I said a wrong word.
“Afraid?” she said softly.
“Give me one reason not to be.”
“Ah,” she said. “That I can’t do.”
She released her hold on me and hurled the alarm clock at the floor. It bounced down the lane between our beds and crashed against the door. The buzzing hiccupped once, then started again, louder than before. Someone in the next room thumped the wall. “Shut that fucking thing up!”
Holmes’s gaze flicked toward the voice. She scooped up her gun from her bed and exited the room, slamming the door behind her.
There was one more burst of pounding on the wall, then abrupt silence.
I froze, and waited for the gunshot.
None came.
Very slowly I eased myself from bed. I located the alarm clock and pressed its buttons until it stopped buzzing. The room stank of whiskey and sweat, and the damp air seemed to stick to my skin. It was almost impossible to remember the cool of midnight and the sense of our being wrapped in a bubble of companionship.
Thirty minutes, Sara had said.
My duffel bag was still at the foot of my bed with my device draped over it. I dumped the bag and the device onto my bed, fished out my soap and the oil for my hair, and headed into the bathroom.
The shower was a tiny stall edged in black mold that produced a lukewarm spray. The setup reminded me of the showers at camp. I had just enough time to lather myself thoroughly before the hot water died completely. I rinsed off in cold water and reached for the nearest towel.
Through the drip, drop of water I heard a click and the brief influx of noise from the outside world. Sara, back from her adventures. Had she left a trail of dead bodies behind her? Did I really want to know?
I toweled myself dry and wrapped one around myself before I opened the door.
Our bedroom was empty, but Sara had left behind evidence of her visit. A metal carafe, placed in the center of our tiny bedside table. Next to it, a stack of paper cups, a container of yogurt, and what appeared to be a genuine French baguette. On the bed was a complete set of clothes.
One cup of coffee, bitter and strong, got me through tending to my stump. Sara had not arranged my supplies, so there was more awkwardness as I fumbled through powdering my stump, then reattaching my arm over its new sock.
Now I turned my attention to Sara’s other gifts. Oh, and oh, and oh. More evidence that this woman did not view the world as I did.
There was a linen suit of dark gray trousers and jacket, shot through with threads of burgundy. A cream-colored silk tunic. Elegant flat shoes that seemed to wrap themselves around my feet. The suit and tunic were perfectly fitted for my height and for my device, as if she had secretly taken my measurements while I slept.
She is a demon. A spy of my soul.
I was shivering, in spite of the summer heat. I had asked for this, back in August, when I accepted that first challenge and visited 2809 Q Street. And yet, I had not truly understood the challenge. I could not have predicted its outcome.
Holmes returned as I finished the baguette and my third cup of coffee. She was dressed in a dark blue skirt and jacket, with her locs coiled into a low crown. The mad look had vanished, replaced by a strangely contained expression. I tried to remember if she had been dressed that way before, but terror had erased all memory except the gun and her manic grin. I did notice, however, that she wore her earbuds and the lace gloves that signaled her connection to her mysterious data sources.
“Taxi is waiting,” she said. “Don’t bother packing. We’ll come back afterward. Oh, and here are a few items you need.”
She extracted a medical bag from her satchel and a leather ID case. I glanced at her, then opened the bag. It contained all the standard items of a medical field kit—antiseptic, bandages, tourniquet, scalpel, probe, suture kit—plus a number of unlabeled vials with pills and liquids.
“Are we drugging anyone today?” I asked.
“Only if we need to. Read your ID packet. Memorize the details.”
The ID packet said I was Dr. Adrienne Wilson, an internist associated with George Washington University Hospital, currently serving as an adviser to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“This reads like a document invented by a crime-thriller author who hasn’t bothered to do any research.”
Holmes smirked. “As if you knew what a genuine ID looked like. Come on. The driver tells me traffic is terrible this time of day.”
* * *
Our taxi battled through the traffic of I-95 until the highway dwindled into U.S. 1, aka the Dixie Highway. They still called it that, even in the twenty-first century, and the utility poles still carried the old logo with red and white bars and the letters DH. Several of them also had the old Confederate flag painted underneath. Not anything official, of course. But nothing about the KKK and its supporters was.
A Study in Honor Page 14