Trust Me

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You could have rung the doorbell.’ He’s here because he knows, Henry thought, he knows about the Night Road. And Hellfire. Convince him he’s wrong or kill him. ‘Put the knife down, for God’s sakes – are you crazy?’

  ‘When dealing with you, I prefer the direct approach,’ Drummond said.

  ‘The doorbell would be direct. Hiding behind a knife is not.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Drummond said. ‘Did you grow a pair in the last ten years, Shameless? You’re very steady. Ah, wait, now I see sweat making its debut on your forehead.’

  ‘Please put the knife down.’

  ‘Not yet. I’m not here for a casual reunion.’

  ‘The knife at the throat told me that.’

  ‘Your stepson killed one of our old friends.’

  Henry’s mind went as blank as unlined paper. ‘What?’

  ‘The man who your stepson shot in Houston was our old buddy Allen Clifford.’

  ‘What?’ Henry didn’t have to pretend shock; it thrummed through his body in a wave straight from his chest. ‘That’s not… that’s not possible.’

  ‘You are going to tell me what you and your brat are up to,’ Drummond said. ‘If you lie, you die. We clear, Professor?’

  ‘Clear, Drummond.’

  Drummond lowered the knife. He spun Henry around and shoved him toward the table. ‘Sit down. Hands where I can see them at all times.’

  Henry sat on one side of the chessboard. Drummond stood on the other, the knife still in his grip. Drummond had always reminded Henry of a fire hydrant. Short, stocky, thick-necked, a flat bland face with a squarish nose. Drummond glanced around the room. ‘This used to be Warren’s study.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I remember, when Warren was working on a paper or a project, he would have those walls covered with sheets of paper, pictures, Post-It notes, like a blizzard of ideas.’

  ‘I keep my thoughts in my head.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a safer place for them.’ Drummond surveyed the walls: Henry’s diplomas, pictures from his travels, framed medals from the Alexandria Pistol Club. ‘You still shoot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were always a crack shot, Henry, I give you that. Of course I taught you. You teach Luke how to shoot? Maybe how to shoot from a car at a running man?’

  ‘Warren taught him the basics.’

  Drummond jerked his head toward the interrupted game on the chessboard. ‘Are you still so friendless you have to play chess alone, Shameless?’

  The old, undeserved nickname, a cheap variant on Shawcross, made the blood surge into his face. Humiliation. He hated Drummond with a loathing that went to his marrow but he realized he needed him; he needed to know why his past and present were intersecting so violently. But he knew Drummond was trying to keep him off-balance: the drama of the knife at the throat, then the offhand compliment about Henry’s aptitude with a gun. Standard interrogation techniques, a constant shifting between threat and kindness. Henry kept a neutral expression on his face.

  ‘I could hear the click of the pieces on the board from the hallway,’ Drummond said.

  ‘Playing took my mind off my son.’ Henry cleared his throat.

  ‘Your stepson, you mean.’ Drummond picked up one of the chess pieces – Luke’s king – and inspected it, as though admiring the crafts-manship. ‘You always did like to play both sides.’

  Henry crossed his arms. ‘You said Allen Clifford was the murdered man. Since when did he become a homeless street bum?’

  ‘He wasn’t. He was pretending to be.’

  ‘Pretending?’

  ‘Allen Clifford was meeting with a fellow who had ties to domestic extremists who wanted to sell some information.’

  ‘Information?’ Henry made his voice go weak.

  ‘Yes. There’s a black market, you know.’

  ‘And Allen Clifford was posing as a bum?’

  ‘At the request of the guy he was meeting. Seller wanted to meet in the open, he wanted it to look like the meeting was just two totally harmless guys talking on the street. Very nervous. I assume he was worried about being cornered in a room, or tape recorded.’

  An extremist in Houston, selling information. Henry worried that the guy was going to sell his name. But no. The only ones in the Night Road who knew Henry’s name were Snow and Mouser and Eric. Who could it be? ‘How do you know all this? Who was Clifford working for? Whom are you working for?’

  ‘Whom? Oh, I’ve missed you, Shameless. Clifford and I both free-lance. He talked to me about the operation before he went down there. He was doing it alone, he didn’t want the guy spooked. But clearly, your stepson knew about this meeting. I want to know what he’s been doing with his life since he lost his dad and’ – here Drummond made a face – ‘got you as a replacement.’

  ‘Luke is harmless. He’s just a psychology student.’

  ‘Harmless? The Houston police disagree. But I know even more than they do. I got access to his internet records from his home account, Shameless.’

  ‘Stop calling me that. You sound like you’re in junior high.’

  ‘But you sure are pushing yourself today, aren’t you? Shameless as ever. The amazing political seer, the Freud of the terrorist mind, the guy who claims to know the terrorists better than they know themselves.’ Drummond kicked the table aside, sending the chess pieces scattering across the floor. He put the blade up under Henry’s jaw. ‘I call you exactly what I think you are. Your stepson’s internet records indicate he has been visiting hundreds of websites frequented by people with radical viewpoints. He’s been corresponding with them through these sites, using tons of different email addresses, sending them some rather fiery messages of agreement. Why?’

  ‘He was working on a paper about… extremist psychology. He’s been fascinated by it… ever since Warren died.’ That was true, and Henry stared hard into Drummond’s ice-blue eyes. They reminded him of the hard blue of the sky beyond a mountain peak.

  ‘So this reaching out to the fringes is for a research paper? No, I don’t think so. He’s compiled an avalanche of data, even for a master’s degree. I think he’s one of them.’

  ‘No. Not a paper; a book. He’s working on a book.’ The lie wriggled, thick in his mouth. He had to convince Drummond or Drummond would find Luke and kill him. Of that, Henry had no doubt. ‘He told me.’

  ‘Have you read or seen this book?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he could have lied to you.’ He moved the knife off Henry’s throat, let it dance along Henry’s eyelashes. Henry bit his lip. ‘Does he know about us, Henry? You and me and Clifford… and his dad?’

  ‘No. I swear. Luke doesn’t know about the Book Club, I swear. I never told him. And even if I did, he wouldn’t go after Allen Clifford or you or me…’ His voice trailed off. ‘He’d probably think we were all heroes.’

  ‘Heroes,’ Drummond snorted. ‘God. You did tell him, just to make yourself look smarter.’

  ‘No. I’ve never told Luke about the Book Club. Honestly, Drummond, why would I?’

  ‘Bragging.’

  Henry gave a choked laugh. ‘Wasn’t that our great failing, Drummond – not telling the world what we knew?’

  ‘In your mind, Shameless, in your mind.’

  ‘We both know that if we’d been listened to, the world would be a very different place today, Drummond.’

  ‘I don’t care to dissect history. I care about dissecting the present. You say Luke doesn’t know about our past. But he knows about a meeting between Clifford and an extremist that is coincidentally scheduled to take place on the same day of a bombing that scares the piss out of the country. Maybe this extremist is one of Luke’s online friends.’

  ‘No,’ Henry said. ‘I saw the video. Luke wasn’t alone in the car. Someone else was in the passenger seat. Maybe Luke was forced to participate.’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘Hardly an acceptable theory. A trap was set for Clifford. An
d your stepson was the getaway driver.’

  Henry said, ‘Assume you’re right.’ He could feed Drummond a bit of a line, see what Drummond was willing to share. ‘What was Clifford going to do with this extremist once he had him? Just how wide do your responsibilities range? Who was he going to turn the extremist over to?’

  Drummond made a clicking noise, frowned. Henry could see him deciding to give a bit of information in hope for Henry doing the same. ‘Clifford would have hauled his ass out to a cabin in east Texas, up near Braintree, questioned him. With force, if needed. See how much he’d spill.’

  Henry blinked. The cabin. It had been originally intended for something other than Luke’s kidnapping. An interrogation by Clifford. And the kidnapper had known that with Clifford dead, the cabin would be free to use for holding Luke hostage.

  ‘Luke would not willingly participate in any crimes,’ Henry said in an even tone. ‘Clifford, on the other hand, was contemplating kidnapping of his source. You’re here because you were working with Clifford. You’re still nothing more than hired muscle.’

  Drummond paused. ‘Your defense of Luke is not convincing.’ He shook his head. ‘His dad wouldn’t be very proud of how his boy’s turned out. You did a piss-poor job. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Get out of my house, or I’m calling the police.’

  ‘No you’re not. How will you explain me?’

  The silence stretched between them. Finally Henry said, ‘If you tell me what you know about this meeting, maybe I can figure out how Luke is connected. I might be able to find notes in his research to help you. I’ll give you any information I find. But you have to promise me. You do not hurt Luke. I take your word as a fellow member of the Book Club that you will not harm him.’

  Drummond considered the offer for ten long seconds. ‘All right.’ The knife eased back.

  ‘Who was the extremist, what’s his name?’

  ‘Jimmy Bridger.’

  Snow’s old boyfriend, the one who had taken off a few days ago, a racist nothing. Snow had talked, and Bridger had looked to sell the information. Henry kept his poker face in place. ‘He wanted to talk and then he wanted protection.’

  ‘Who are you and Clifford working for that you could offer protection to an informant?’

  Drummond didn’t deny that he and Clifford shared an employer. ‘A private employer.’

  ‘A private employer that performs undercover operations that are clearly the purview of the FBI.’ Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you telling me the Book Club is back in business?’

  ‘The Book Club died with Warren Dantry and the others on that plane, Henry. Now all that’s left of the Book Club is you’ – he tapped the end of the knife against Henry’s nose – ‘and me. Now that Clifford’s dead.’

  ‘Are you working for the State Department?’

  ‘I told you, the Book Club doesn’t exist any more.’

  ‘Okay.’ Henry thought, so Drummond’s working for someone who wants to flush out terrorists and for some reason is off the books. It could be the FBI, it could be CIA operating illicitly on American soil… what? He didn’t know. Drummond and Clifford had both been mercenaries at heart. ‘How did Clifford find this seller of information?’

  ‘We’d been following extremist movements over here. Trying to apply pressure to people who want to leave the dark side,’ Drummond said. ‘Bridger mentioned to Clifford that he knew details on an impending attack codenamed Hellfire.’

  The years of planning and waiting demanded that Henry not blink, not swallow, not betray the jolt of heat that pounded through his body and brain. This was not trust, Drummond sharing information. It was a trial by fire. He could feel Drummond studying his face for the merest reaction. He blinked, once, and hoped he had not betrayed himself. ‘Hellfire. Sounds religious.’

  ‘I don’t think these are Baptist terrorists, Henry. If you know anything about this, whatever Luke’s gotten involved in, you and I can deal. But now’s the time.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘The day after Clifford gets killed, a bomb goes off in Ripley, Texas. I’m sure you saw that on the news.’

  ‘Ripley was Hellfire?’

  ‘Bridger made Hellfire sound much bigger than a single bomb. Much bigger. More than one city attacked.’

  ‘I can’t help you. I know nothing, except that Luke is not a terrorist.’

  ‘No, Luke has just consistently reached out to freaks and people who hate. But he’s not a terrorist, no.’ A smile flicked on Drummond’s face. ‘What did you make him into, Henry? Now, Warren, he knew how to be a father. I think you just know how to be a screw-up.’

  ‘You judging me. Where were you again when our friends died? Those rehab places all sound alike to me.’ Henry kept his gaze locked on Drummond’s eyes and to his satisfaction he saw he’d scored a hit.

  Drummond lifted and inspected a photo of Luke, his mother and Henry from the desk. A happier time, the photo taken at a vacation in Hawaii a year before the car crash that killed Barbara. Their smiles glowed. He set the photo down. ‘If you’re hiding him, don’t. Give him to me. If he’s innocent or he’s been pulled into this against his will, we’ll help him and he’ll go home with a clean slate. If he’s guilty, then we find out what this Hellfire bullshit is and we stop it cold.’

  Drummond’s tactic was nothing but playing nice cop before he played bad cop again. ‘I do not know where he is.’

  ‘The world you and your stepson are in is a little too small for my liking, Henry. You and Luke Dantry and Allen Clifford, all mixing it up years after we said our goodbyes. Sit there. Move and you get cut.’ Then Drummond proceeded to search the study with a professional’s keen efficiency. Henry sat, calmly, blanketing the rage inside him with a knowing half-smile. Nothing to link him to the Night Road, or to Hellfire, was here. Let Drummond look.

  When he was done, Drummond stood. The frustration in his eyes was a knife that Henry could twist.

  ‘You’ve kept Clifford’s name out of the paper,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you are with the government.’

  Drummond didn’t answer but he wanted to prove his power, Henry could see. Proving his power, his superiority, had always been Drummond’s weakness.

  From his jacket, Drummond pulled out a photo and pushed it under Henry’s nose. The photo appeared to be from a video camera mounted in a police car, aimed out the front windshield. It was a single shot, an officer talking to two men sitting in a BMW, a traffic stop. The ticket Luke had gotten in Mirabeau, Henry realized. He recognized the grainy profile of a man in the passenger seat. Eric Lindoe.

  If he finds Eric, Drummond could find his connection to me, Henry thought. Keep the lies simple. ‘That’s Luke at the wheel, I don’t know who the other man is. Why hasn’t this photo been released to the press?’

  Drummond ignored the question and tapped the photo. ‘It’s not a good enough shot to ID his face, but we’ll find out who he is. I understand the last time you saw Luke was at the Austin airport. We’ll nab all the video feeds from there as well.’

  He knew then that whoever employed Drummond and Clifford would identify and find Eric Lindoe; it might just be a matter of hours. Maybe a couple of days. His world was unraveling. ‘This proves Luke is innocent… he must have been forced…’

  ‘Proves nothing. Innocent of pulling a trigger, perhaps, but Luke drove the car. Someone destroyed the Book Club before. Someone seems to be trying again. You and I shouldn’t sleep too good. Maybe we’re next.’

  ‘The plane flight – they were collateral damage. Ace Beere’ – the private jet mechanic who had tampered with the plane’s flight system so everyone on the flight died from hypoxia -‘he was trying to get revenge on his employer. Not the Book Club. We weren’t the targets.’

  ‘Lucky, that you and Clifford and me couldn’t make the trip.’

  ‘I always thought so,’ Henry said.

  Drummond crossed his arms. ‘I need to
understand Luke. Then I can figure out what his next move might be.’

  Henry saw that the questions Drummond asked might reveal more than he intended. He nodded. ‘What do you want to know? I’ll tell you just to help Luke. You promise you won’t hurt him.’

  ‘I promise. After his father’s death, Luke Dantry vanished for seven weeks.’

  ‘He ran away from home. He walked and hitchhiked south.’

  ‘His mother must have been frantic. Good thing you were there to comfort her.’ Drummond raised an eyebrow.

  ‘A dear friendship and a good marriage came out of Luke’s running,’ Henry said evenly. ‘Luke went to Cape Hatteras.’

  ‘It doesn’t take seven weeks to walk or hitchhike from Washington to Cape Hatteras. Where was he during those seven weeks?’

  ‘Mourning. Hiding from the world.’

  ‘He was living on the streets.’

  ‘He was only fourteen. But Warren had taught him to be rather independent. When the police found him he was sitting on the beach at the cape, staring out at sea where his father’s plane went down. He’d been sitting on the sand for two days, watching the sea. Someone noticed him and called the police.’

  ‘Pining for the dead at this level doesn’t sound quite normal.’

  Henry loathed Drummond’s dismissive tone but he decided it might be a goad, a prod to make him talk more than he should. ‘Luke was extremely close to his – to Warren. You know how much everyone loved Warren.’

  ‘Didn’t we all.’ Drummond tilted his head. ‘Luke never called his mom to say he was safe?’

  ‘No. He should have. Luke had a tough time of it. He ran out of cash; he’d only taken a hundred dollars with him. His face was all over the Virginia papers then; people were looking for him. He figured out how to blend in, how to hide, how to survive on the run.’

  ‘I never thought of concealment as a genetic trait. His father was good at staying under the radar, too.’ Drummond rested the knife against his leg. ‘This kid spent seven weeks evading the police and the detectives that your wife hired to find him. All without money or resources. And now he’s hiding again.’

  Henry’s mouth thinned. A twist of pride in Luke filled his chest. ‘If he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him.’ I will find him first, he thought. And then I’ll have Mouser kill you with your own knife, you insufferable bastard.