Conspiracy

by De'nesha Diamond

  Kadir’s spirits lifted. “Thanks! I really appreciate it.” He shook the man’s hand and found it equally sweaty. “Have a great trip.” He rushed back to the driver’s-side door and hopped in. “Looks like today is going to be a good day.”

  30

  Floating in a drug-induced haze, Abrianna was back in her childhood bedroom again. Scared—no, terrified. Not of the dark. Not of the monsters that sometimes slept under the bed or in her closet. Those weren’t real to her anymore. The real monster slept down the hall—lying in wait until the entire house was quiet. Then he crept out of his room and tiptoed to hers—or her baby brother’s. The images crystalized. Abrianna’s twelve-year-old self slowed her breathing. She strained her ears to detect the slightest sound. The only thing she heard was the sound of her own heartbeat, hammering.

  The hinges on the door squeaked as it opened. Abrianna’s heart leapt from her chest, clear into the center of her throat. He’s here!

  Eyes wide open, Abrianna sprung upward in a bed, frightened—no, terrified. After a few deep breaths, she stuffed the old ghosts to the back of her mind and took in her surroundings.

  The room. The bed.

  None of it looked familiar.

  Exhaustion failed to describe how tired Abrianna truly was, but somehow she mustered enough strength to put a little more brainpower into the morning riddle of Where the fuck am I?

  Temples pounding, she now had a migraine that was out of this world. Snapshots from the masquerade flickered into view: the beautiful gowns, the flowing champagne, and the copious amounts of drugs she’d dumped in her system. She fell back against the bed’s pillows, ashamed and disgusted.

  You are a junkie.

  Abrianna’s stomach muscles clenched. In the next second, a river of bile rushed up and burned her esophagus. She slapped a hand over her mouth, peeled back the sheets, and raced to the suite’s adjoining bathroom. She barely got the lid up on the toilet before emptying the scant contents of her stomach. Unfortunately, her shame and disgust remained.

  A quick wash-up at the sink put her face-to-face with her reflection. “Damn. I look a hot-ass mess.”

  That, actually, was putting it nicely. Her carefully flat-ironed hair was now a kinky mess that could possibly snap a few hairbrushes in half. Her face was swollen, her eyes bloodshot.

  “Just great.” She leaned in and examined her neck. Did that muthafucka choke me?

  Images sped behind her eyes. The party. Mr. Lucky. Kitty. She gagged and raced back to dry heave over the toilet bowl. Her entire body became one large cramp. At some point, she laid her head on the cool, porcelain bowl and nodded back off to sleep.

  When she woke again, her neck had a severe crick that made it nearly impossible to lift. I gotta get out here. However, she discovered that standing was still a challenge so she crawled back into the suite to look for her clothes.

  A phone rang somewhere in the suite, rattling what few brain cells she had left around her head.

  “Somebody answer that,” Abrianna groaned.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Hey!” She clutched at her head at the sound of her own voice, but remained annoyed at Mr. Lucky’s motionless body. “What’s the matter with you? Are you deaf?” She pushed herself up onto her knees to shake his foot. The moment she touched him, a chill shot down her spine. “Oh shit.”

  Castillo listened in stunned silence as news reports of an airport bombing at Reagan National poured in over the car radio. Reporters were already tagging it a terror attack and warning potential fliers that all flights had been grounded. Minutes after, the wild speculations of who was responsible began. But, at this point, she wondered whether Americans really knew one terrorist group from another one. The entire city was at the highest alert.

  Castillo glanced at the car’s clock and debated whether it was time to throw in the towel on the Reynolds surveillance. She had spent the whole weekend watching the Hay-Adams Hotel, waiting for her target to re-emerge. Maybe Reynolds had somehow gotten by her. It wasn’t impossible. She had taken the occasional bathroom break or catnap, but during those times, she’d kept a camera leveled at the door and recording at all times. Maybe there’s a back door?

  Castillo reached for her cell phone, ready to punch in Tomi’s number to get her opinion on the matter, when she decided instead to see if she could bribe some information from the check-in desk—again. It hadn’t worked the last two nights, but the third time could be the charm.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Sighing, she hopped out of the car and made her way across the street to the hotel. The doorman held open the door.

  “Welcome back to the Hay-Adams.”

  “Good morning,” she mumbled. Great. The doorman now knows me by sight.

  The White House

  “What do we know?” President Walker asked his national security advisor, Scott Wolf, as machine-gun-toting agents ushered him into the White House Situation Room.

  “Not much, sir,” Wolf said, gravely. “Only that twin bomb blasts went off at zero-nine-eleven hours.”

  The president stopped halfway across the room and spun around.

  “Yes, sir. I know. We caught the sick irony,” Haverty cut in, referring to America’s most deadly terrorist attack on 9/11/01, the day the country had lost 2,996 souls.

  “All hands are on deck. We’re waiting to see whether there is a second or third wave coming,” Wolf said. “We’re establishing a secure teleconference to manage the crisis.”

  The president and vice president exchanged looks.

  “Let’s pray that doesn’t happen,” Kate chimed.

  The president shook his head and paced. The television screens built into the walls were tuned to various cable networks. They watched a few minutes of the footage in stunned silence.

  Kate knew that what the president really wanted was a stiff drink. Hell. She wanted one too.

  “Do we have an idea who is behind this yet?” the president asked.

  “All the usual suspects, Mr. President,” Wolf said, settling into one of the chairs at the long table in the center of the room. “So far we’re already up to twelve terrorist organizations claiming credit.”

  “Of course,” the president said before glancing at his watch.

  It was only 9:48 AM. Just the beginning of what would likely be the longest day of their political lives.

  The president hit a button and the volume came up on one of the flat-screens showing CNN. Sure enough, the network already had a reporter on the scene and was giving America a quick rundown on what they knew from the ground. Around the reporter was total chaos. People milled about like swarming bees. Many were crying or were bloody and confused.

  “Jesus,” Kate said, reverting to an old habit of biting her nails.

  The public emergency responders were also on the scene, and those same crying, bloody, and confused travelers were being led toward the right people for aid.

  Despite all the powerful people that were assembled in the room, each of them felt utterly helpless waiting for the vital information to trickle in. After being swept up into the story that was unfolding right before their eyes, Kate caught the president looking back down at his watch so she checked hers as well: 10:19 AM.

  “It’s been more than an hour since the bombing. Do you think we’re out of the woods for another attack?” she asked the president.

  “Dear, God. I hope so,” he answered without sparing a look in her direction.

  Secret Service Director Donald Davidson waltzed back into the bunker, which surprised Kate since she hadn’t noticed when he’d left. Other top members of the cabinet also migrated inside: the director of the FBI, the secretary of state, and the deputy chief of staff. But it was the look on Davidson’s face that caused Kate the most concern.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head as if he were refusing to answer, but he took another look into her “Don’t make me ask you again” face and shared the new intel. “Capitol Hil
l has been evacuated. The top members of House and Senate are accounted for. However . . .”

  “However?”

  “House Speaker Kenneth Reynolds is MIA. Capitol Police are searching for him.”

  “Oh.” Kate looked away with a shrug. “I’m sure that he’ll show up sooner or later.”

  “We’ll find him,” Davidson assured her. “If he’s still in town, we’ll find him.”

  31

  He’s dead. Abrianna backed away from the bed, stunned. She took in the whole scene, wondering how in the hell she hadn’t noticed so much blood—and that smell? She placed a hand over her mouth and nose. The air in the room seemed stale and hard to process through her lungs. Next, she focused on the blood-stained pillow over his head—and bits of brain splattered on the wall.

  Move the pillow.

  “I don’t want to move the pillow,” she argued with herself.

  Move the pillow.

  “I don’t want . . .”

  Move the pillow!

  Abrianna held her breath and climbed onto her feet. Just do it. Slowly, she crept toward the bed, her lungs burning inside of her chest. Finally, she took hold of the pillow and yanked it away.

  The gruesome, bloody mess of Mr. Lucky’s half-missing face sent a scream shooting up her throat, but Abrianna slapped a hand back over her mouth to prevent it from escaping and alarming others in the hotel. At the same time, she lost all feeling in her legs and stumbled until her ass hit the floor—hard. Abrianna didn’t stay down long. It was definitely time to get the hell out of there now.

  My clothes. Where in the fuck are my clothes? There was a slew of shit sprawled across the floor—not much that she recognized, but she plowed through every bit of it. Within seconds, she had everything but her bra and right shoe.

  Knock. Knock.

  Abrianna froze.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Room service,” a woman with a thick African accent said from the other side of the door. The knob rattled, and Abrianna quickly realized what was about to happen. She flew across the room.

  The door opened an inch before Abrianna reached it and slammed it in the woman’s face. “Uh—we’re not decent,” Abrianna shouted. “Come back later.”

  Silence.

  Abrianna placed her ear against the door, but when she couldn’t hear anything, she looked through the peephole.

  “Um . . . ma’am. Are you checking out today?” the maid asked.

  Abrianna watched the woman flip through a clipboard.

  “Uh, no! We’re going to stay another day,” Abrianna lied.

  The African maid noted something on the clipboard, returned it to her cart, and then finally moved away from the door.

  Abrianna collapsed in relief—until she remembered that she still needed to get the fuck out of there. Racing across the suite, she snatched up her clothes again and dressed as fast as humanly possible. She didn’t sweat the zipper because her coat covered it up. The other shoe was still missing, but fuck it. There were plenty of shoeless people on public transportation. She should blend right in.

  Wait!

  She stopped, certain that she’d forgotten something. My clutch! The last thing she needed was to leave her fucking ID up in that bitch. The cops would beat her home. Abrianna searched around again, mumbling and cursing each time she came up empty. When she was seconds from giving up, she found the clutch underneath the nightstand table—next to the dead body. It wasn’t all she found.

  A gun.

  The murder weapon?

  She stared at it while pieces of a crazy puzzle snapped together in her head. She took in the whole scene. I’m being set up. Once that realization hit her, her mind tumbled back to Kitty.

  “Fuck!” How could she have been so stupid?

  Grab the gun.

  Abrianna hesitated. If she got caught with the weapon, it was game over. She’d never be able to convince anyone that she hadn’t killed this guy What if that bitch planted my fingerprints on it?

  That seemed like a possibility.

  She grabbed the fucking gun. For a few insane seconds, she tried to cram the weapon into her clutch bag, which was stupid. But it was hard to think straight when trying to avoid a murder rap. Finally, another solution occurred to her and she stuffed the damn thing into her coat and held it closed as she raced for the door. Unfortunately, she raced straight into the housekeeper.

  “Uh, no. Sorry.” Abrianna blinked and tried to hustle around the woman and her cart.

  “Okay to clean the room now?” the housekeeper asked after her.

  “No!” Abrianna pivoted. “Uh. My, um, boyfriend is still sleeping. Don’t disturb him right now.” She walked backwards to the elevator bay. “He’s really, really tired—just let him sleep.”

  The woman nodded, but looked at Abrianna oddly. It was probably the one-shoe thing. So Abrianna laughed and hopped on one foot while she removed the other shoe and stuffed it in the coat with the gun. “Don’t you hate it when you break a heel?” Abrianna rambled, feeling the gun shift in her pocket.

  Her heart hammering, Abrianna rushed to the elevators and stabbed the down button. It took an eternity for the elevator to arrive. At last, the bell dinged and the doors slid open.

  Abrianna froze.

  A hotel security man and two Terminator-looking men in suits that screamed government officials attempted to exit the elevator.

  “Excuse us, ma’am,” the security guy said stiffly while moving around her.

  Abrianna wasn’t aware of what she said back, but she watched as the men moved past her and headed in the direction she’d just come.

  The housekeeper looked up and smiled at the men. They moved around her as well and knocked on the hotel room door from which Abrianna just fled.

  Get the fuck out of here!

  Entering the Hay-Adams, Castillo once again felt out of place in a pair of old jeans and an ’84 PURPLE RAIN vintage concert T-shirt in such a grand lobby. Everything about the hotel screamed money and privilege. It was impossible not to feel small beneath the vaulted archways and the baroque filigree ceilings. Castillo marched to the front desk, where she was greeted with a smile. “Good morning,” the woman said. “Will you be checking in with us today?”

  “Uh, no. I’m actually looking for someone who is staying here.”

  “Of course.” The woman picked up the phone. “You have the room number?”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Castillo winced. “Would you mind looking to see if you have a Mr. Kenneth Reynolds registered?”

  The woman’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone checked in by that name.”

  “Are you sure?” Castillo pulled a hundred dollars from her pocket and slid it over the counter.

  The clerk didn’t even bother to look at it. “I’m quite sure.”

  “You didn’t even look in the system,” Castillo complained.

  “I don’t need to look in the system, ma’am. I believe that you were already told that we have no one registered under that name.”

  Castillo looked across the counter at another check-in girl, who was clearly listening in on the conversation. “I see.”

  “Is there a problem?” A man materialized from around the corner. His blue eyes settled on Castillo.

  She quickly read MR. ERIC ANDERSON—MANAGER from his gold-plated name tag and knew it was time for her to make her exit. “Nope. No problems here,” Castillo said, lifting up her hands and backing away from the counter. “Thank you for all your help.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” the front desk clerk said.

  A bell dinged behind Castillo. She turned just as a woman bolted out of an elevator and nearly mowed down an older couple who were unlucky enough to be standing in front of the door.

  “Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me,” the woman said, fleeing past the old couple and toward the front door.

  Castillo caught the woman’s profile and recognized her from her dress as the woman who’d left the masquerade party wit
h Speaker Reynolds. Operating on automatic pilot, Castillo lifted her smartphone and snapped a picture. While the doorman opened the door for the running woman, Castillo looked down at the photo, and her breath caught in her lungs. It can’t be. Can it?

  She glanced back up at the door. The woman was nowhere in sight.

  32

  The first time Tomi’s phone rang, she groaned and stuffed a pillow over her head, thankful when the call finally went to voice mail. However, the caller hung up and called back. “You got to be kidding me,” she grumbled. It was the first Monday she’d scheduled off in years, and she’d really looked forward to sleeping until noon. She ignored the phone as her machine sent the caller to voice mail again.

  Then it started ringing a third time.

  Rocky barked.

  “All right. All right. All right,” she moaned, tossing off the pillow and grabbing the phone.

  “This better be good,” she told the caller.

  “Are you seeing this shit?” Jayson barked.

  “Seeing what shit?” she asked, opening one eye.

  “The news reports. There’s been a bombing at Reagan Airport,” he said, hyped.

  “Whaaat?” Tomi snatched back the sheets and tumbled out of bed. “Terrorists?”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” Jayson told her as she raced into her livingroom to power on the television. The channel was already on CNN, and she watched wide-eyed as they reported live from the scene. “Do they know who is behind the attack?”

  “Nothing definitive, but the usual suspects are all taking credit for it.”

  “Figures.” She watched the journalist talk about the dead bodies and the injured. All numbers were expected to rise.

  “This should be setting everyone’s hair on fire on the Hill,” she said.

  “Boss is calling for all hands on deck. You coming in?” he asked.

  “Damn straight. Be there in twenty minutes,” she told him and then disconnected the line. However, she didn’t immediately rush away from the television. Tomi grew increasingly fascinated by the chaotic scene behind the reporter. It had been years since the country had been hit by terrorists on their own soil, let alone near the seat of American power.