“You did good, Sergeant. I’ll—”
“That’s not all,” the sergeant plowed on. “I called around to local motels to see if a Lionel Ross was registered—that’s the name the guy used in the ER—and I got a hit at the Best Western over on Florida. I sent a patrol car over there—they don’t think the guy’ll be back. They say it feels like he’s gone. Left his stuff, though, including a laptop, and they’re taking it to the station.”
“You did damn good! I’ll mention it to your lieutenant. Put out an APB and let me know if you come up with anything interesting. And let’s run any prints the team lifts, pronto.”
“You got it, sir.”Sergeant Morrison nodded twice, cast a curious look at Sydney, and turned away.
Sydney followed West down a smaller, quieter hall that smelled like hospital food—mushy peas, steamy metal from the lids that covered the dishes, and coffee.
“What was that all about?” she asked from half a step behind him.
“Could be the shooter, could be unconnected,” he said.
“Doesn’t sound unconnected,” Sydney said, half jogging to draw even with him. The movement jarred her throbbing knee and made her aware of an aching shoulder and elbow.
“Agreed. Time—and evidence—will tell,” he said. “For now, our best move is to put you somewhere the guy can’t find you, and do the same for Montoya if he’ll cooperate.” West strode toward a small door with angry red signs warning Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound.
“Won’t the alarm—?” she asked as he banged his palm against the bar. The door sprang open.
“Apparently not.” Bright sunlight and a wall of heat clobbered them on the stoop as West got his bearings. Cigarette butts littered the ground around them and the smoky smell seemed to permeate the very brick of the walls. “C’mon.” He grabbed Sydney’s hand to pull her toward the parking lot.
“Hey, sleepyhead, we’re here.”
West’s voice jolted Sydney. She must have fallen asleep on the ride to the safe house. How could she—? Her body’s natural reaction to the aftermath of crisis, she realized. Out the car window, a block of condos, interchangeable with hundreds of similar buildings in the DC area, rose upward from a base of manicured grass. “Where are we?”
“My place.”
She shot him a look.
“My intentions are pure,” he said with a slight smile. “No one will think to look for you here. This takes less paperwork than getting you into an official safe house, and it’s more secure. The fewer people who know where you are the better until I find this guy.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Sydney swung her legs out of the car and followed West into the building, noting an anonymous mélange of concrete, glass, tile, and potted plants. They got into an elevator along with a suited woman holding a six- or seven-year-old girl by the hand. The girl surveyed Sydney openly and finally asked, “Are you a doctor?”
Sydney laughed ruefully, looking down at her scrubs, and said, “No, honey. But I got these from a doctor.”
The mother pulled her daughter closer, as if afraid of germs cascading off Sydney, and hustled the little girl off the elevator at the next floor.
Sydney crossed the threshold of West’s condo like a scout moving into possibly hostile territory. The perfectly ordinary two-bedroom condo seemed alien. She felt strange staying at West’s place with Jason dead less than a week. It wasn’t that there was anything romantic or illicit to what she was doing; it just felt strange. It was the only word she could come up with. She dropped her purse on the narrow table in the entryway and folded her arms around her waist as West flipped through the mail littering the floor under the letter slot.
“The usual garbage,” he said. “C’mon in.”
She followed him into a small living room lined with books, photos, and traditional furniture in a dark wood upholstered in forest green and chocolate leather. Comfortable looking and typically masculine. She moved further into the room. West cut across to the kitchen and the clink of ice cubes drifted to Sydney as she studied a wall of photos all framed in silver metal.
“You ride?” she asked, looking at a picture of him on a horse, a huge grin plastered across his face. He looked young, tan, carefree, less guarded than he seemed now.
“I grew up on a ranch in Colorado,” he said from the kitchen. “Riding was part of the deal. That and taking care of livestock, baling hay, the usual.” He appeared in the doorway with two glasses of iced tea.
“Thanks,” Sydney said, taking one. “So how come you’re not Rancher Ben, riding the range?”
“My older brother, Brad, wanted to ranch and I didn’t. I had a fling with rodeo, then decided I wanted to be able to walk when I was fifty, so I got out of that. I got a degree in criminal justice and joined the Air Force.” He leaned against the door jamb, watching her as she peered at the photos.
“And now you’re a cop.”
“I was a cop in the Air Force, too. I enjoyed the military, even the deployments, but it was hard on my marriage. Claire got a better offer when I was in Iraq for a second tour. She and her new husband live in Maryland, so I got out of the Air Force to stay near Alexa. She’ll be twelve in October.”
“This her?” Sydney stopped in front of a photo of a girl with brown hair in ponytails and a braces-laden grin that mirrored the one from the other photo. “She’s cute.”
“As a baby wolverine,” he said drily. Despite his tone, Sydney could feel the affection radiating from him.
Sydney laughed. The sound surprised her. She hadn’t felt like laughing lately. “Just wait until she hits her teens. My mom says I was an unbearable combination of hormones and hostility from twelve to fifteen. Then I turned back into a human being, so there’s hope.”
“It seems like the list of things you have to worry about as a father just gets longer as your daughter gets older: driving, boys, grades, getting into college, skanky friends, online bullying, predators … you name it. I miss the days when my biggest worry was keeping her from sticking her finger in a socket or chewing on the toilet bowl brush.”
“It must be wonderful,” Sydney said softly, wondering if she’d ever have a child to raise. She’d hoped she and Jason … The colors in the room seemed muted all of a sudden.
“I’ve got to get back,” West said with a look at his watch. “Make yourself at home. I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours, let you know what’s going on. Stick close, okay? Take a shower if you want.” His brown eyes were serious as they met hers. “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t tell anyone you’re here.”
She let the “stupid” comment slide. “I need to call the hospital and check on my sister.”
“That should be okay. Just don’t mention where you are, not even to your mother. She might let something slip without meaning to.”
The seriousness with which he took the situation unnerved her a bit. She deadbolted the door behind him.
West had mentioned a shower, and Sydney suddenly couldn’t wait to rinse the day’s events off under pulsing water. Exploring a short hall, she found a bathroom that West’s daughter used, if the lavender bathmat and plethora of fruit-scented body washes, gels, shampoos, and conditioners lining the tub were anything to go by. The collection spurred a small smile. She kicked off her sandals and wiggled her grateful toes. Every part of her body hurt. Her hand burned where the scab from the branding iron had been torn off by the asphalt when Reese pushed her down, and the barbed-wire gouge in her thigh stung. Bruises ached on her hips, legs, and shoulders as she stripped off the pink scrubs and her bloodstained bra. Her ankle was swollen to the size of a tennis ball.
Turning the water on as hot as she could stand it, she stepped into the tub and let the water sluice over her, carrying away the dried flakes of blood—Reese’s blood—and some of her exhaustion. Lathering her hair with strawberry-scented shampoo, she massaged her sc
alp hard before squirting a dollop of kiwi-mango conditioner into her hand. She was going to smell like a fruit salad. The thought brought another smile. The smiles were coming easier. Reese was going to be okay. West was going to catch the killer. She switched the tap to cold for a few seconds before she jumped out and dried herself on a fluffy purple towel. She had to re-don the pink scrubs, and wrinkled her nose at them. Nothing could have made her wear the bloody bra, even though her breasts swinging free and heavy were disconcerting. As soon as she could, she’d duck back to the townhouse and get something more presentable. It was hard to feel confident, able to face down the media or a hit man, when braless and wearing pink scrubs.
She called Connie to check on Reese but got her voicemail. Of course; Connie wouldn’t keep her phone on in the hospital. As she was about to dial the hospital’s main number, the phone vibrated in her hand. Connie’s number glowed at her.
With a sudden feeling of foreboding, Sydney answered. “Mom?”
“Your sister has gone back into surgery,” Connie said, in a voice like a thread of glass likely to shatter at the slightest touch. “There was a blood clot. It … it broke free and caused a cerebrovascular incident.”
A thousand thin metal flechettes buried themselves in Sydney’s skin. Her every nerve ending felt seared. “A stroke?” she whispered. They were all familiar with the language of strokes after her father’s strokes. “How is she—? Will she—? I’m on my way.”
“No.” Connie sounded stronger. “No, don’t come to the hospital, Sydney. I can’t—it’s too much. Your father, Reese.” She sounded as if she was going to say more, but then swallowed audibly. “Hilary’s here, and a couple of friends from the neighborhood. I’ll call you when I know anything. You might pray.”
“But—”
Her mother hung up. Sydney slid down the wall to her haunches, putting a fist against her mouth. Her mother blamed her. For her father’s death, and for Reese’s condition. A single sob escaped before she bit down savagely on her inner cheek, determined to keep the tears back. If she gave in now, she would lose it, be no use to Reese or anyone. Pushing through her heels, she forced herself back up. Clothes. She had to have real clothes. Clutching her phone in her fist, willing it to ring with good news from Connie, she grabbed her purse and fumbled with the deadbolt. When it slid back, she hurried toward the elevator, not even thinking to lock West’s door.
48
Paul
Paul emerged from the bank in Chevy Chase with his new identity safely stowed in his wallet and what he liked to think of as an insurance file tucked under his arm. His safety deposit boxes came in handy for securing more than cash, weapons, and the elements of clean identities.
With the Lionel Ross identity compromised by his visit to the ER, he couldn’t risk returning to his room or retrieving his rental car. The cops might even now be sniffing around, lifting fingerprints. Inconvenient but not fatal. His prints would lead to the Army and the Army would pull up the bland file of a soldier killed at Ia Drang. The military bureaucracy had long ago erased any trace of his real identity when he became part of Operation Phoenix. There was nothing to tie him to Nygaard’s murder since he’d ditched that gun at the Ellison woman’s place, and nothing to tie him to today’s fiasco. Except the sniper pistol in his gym bag, wherever the hell it was.
Crossing the street to a mall where he intended to replace his lost gym bag and purchase some clothes, toiletries, and a new laptop, he pondered the duffel’s fate. With any luck the EMTs had overlooked it sitting on the sidewalk when they’d carted him off to the ER, and someone had stolen it. He regretted the loss of his laptop, though all his data was stored on the flash drive safely hooked to his key chain. He jiggled it in his pocket. A slight smile stretched his lips as he thought about the crackhead or petty thief getting arrested. The cops would find his gun, run ballistics, and tie the thief to Reese Linn’s shooting if they recovered the bullet. Justice of a sort.
With the essentials packed in a new black backpack, Paul bought a sub sandwich in the mall’s noisy food court and called home. No answer. He left a brief message for Moira and returned his cell phone to his pocket. A mother with twins in a stroller and a toddler lagging behind dumped her shopping bags on the table next to Paul’s. One of the twins began squalling and the three-year-old demanded “fwen fwy.” The harassed mother picked up the screaming baby, sat, and unbuttoned her blouse, draping a yellow blanket over her shoulder.
Time to go. Paul averted his eyes from the suckling baby and carried his tray to a nearby trash can where he dumped the remains of his meal. He felt tired and his shoulder ached, but the fever that had been clouding his head really was gone. Over dinner he had come up with a new plan for taking out Montoya, and it was time to set the plan in motion. Congressman Fidel Montoya wasn’t going to care whether or not the voters thought he’d make a good senator.
49
Sydney
Outside West’s condominium complex, Sydney looked up, past the pitted brick walls of the building and its neighbors, surprised by the sky’s blueness. On some unconscious level she’d expected darkness, even though it was only early evening and the light would linger till past nine.
She turned automatically toward the nearest Metro stop. The sun soaked into her pink top, trapping heat against her body. Feelings of overwhelming loss smothered her like cling wrap; she could see through the clear film, but nothing from outside permeated the barrier. People strode purposefully toward meetings or loitered outside shops; Sydney steered around them as if they were pylons, not hearing their conversations or their laughter, not smelling the warmth of too many bodies jammed together like logs floating toward a sawmill. Images of Jason sprawled on the floor, his blood pooled around his head, played in her mind, mixing with snapshots of Reese on the sidewalk. She felt Jason’s terror as a stranger thrust a gun at him and fired, his pain as the bullet bored into his flesh, tearing skin and muscle, shattering bone. When the solid metal lump came to rest, had he felt it? Had Reese felt the bullet plowing into her intestines? Had it been cold and alien, lodged near her liver? Or had it been burning hot after its expulsion from the gun, searing her organs?
She descended into the darkness of the subway station, knowing she was responsible. The knowledge she’d been ducking since Jason’s death clobbered her. If she hadn’t been such a coward, if she’d taken the phone immediately to the police, Jason would be alive. She’d killed him, just like she’d killed her father. Like she’d maybe killed Reese by asking for her help. She boarded a train like an automaton, grabbing a strap to steady herself in the press of rush hour commuters. She rocked to the train’s rhythm, bumping shoulders with a youth in a hoodie wearing pungent hair gel and a suited man who smelled vaguely like cat pee. Despite the wall of flesh around her, Sydney felt utterly alone. She became part of the flow surging toward the up escalator when the train stopped and threaded her way toward the exit. She couldn’t stop herself from cycling through a litany of the injuries she’d done to people she loved.
The stroke her father suffered when the Manley scandal broke had killed him, even though he hadn’t died for almost twenty more years. He’d been trapped in a body whose right side was locked up. He’d needed assistance with eating and bathing. He’d worn adult diapers. Worse, his spirit was imprisoned by a brain that could no longer access language except randomly. For a man celebrated for his oratory, his cogent arguments before the Supreme Court, it was a fate worse than being buried alive. Only Connie Linn seemed to know what he was trying to communicate, and then only occasionally. “For better or for worse” had turned into a twenty-year sentence for her mom. That was her fault, too. The thought that Reese might end up the same way …
She stepped off a curb and two cars and a bus squealed to a stop as she crossed against the light. Angry honking brought her head up. She stared at the driver of a green Saturn as he stuck his head out the window and raved at her. Not hearing
a single word, she continued across the street, instinctively headed for home.
“You okay? Miss?” The tentative voice, words slurred through missing teeth, broke through Sydney’s grief. She focused on the man and his dog standing in front of her. Eli, that was it. His bloodshot eyes held an anxious expression and the dog nosed her hand. She felt the wetness on her face and mopped the tears with the hem of her shirt.
“Yes. No.” She floundered for words, undone by the real concern in the homeless man’s voice. The dog sat and bit along the length of his tail. “Oh, I’ve got something for him.” She fumbled with her purse and unearthed the flea collar she’d stuck in it days before. Before Jason died. She bent to buckle it around the dog’s neck, grateful for the opportunity to hide her face. “What’s his name?”
“Duke. After Ellington.” The man shuffled his feet.
“Do you like jazz?”
“I played with Ellington once. Before the alcohol took away the music.” He edged away, and Sydney understood he was regretting the impulse that led him to talk to her.
“I played clarinet in middle school,” she offered. “I wasn’t very good.”
“Piano.” He played a few notes in the air, his large, dusky hands unbearably graceful. Sydney didn’t know much jazz, but she felt the music hovering in the air around them.
“You were good.”
He nodded and let his hands drop to his side. “Still am.” Summoning Duke with a slap on his thigh, he turned away.
“Thank you,” Sydney called after them. She started homeward again, thinking about Eli and the other homeless people in DC. They were almost invisible, she thought, even though they lived out in the open, completely without physical privacy. Exposed, yet invisible at the same time. While she, able to afford fences and gates and a house with doors that locked, had not been able to escape total exposure in the newspapers and on TV. How utterly ironic. The knowledge that she wouldn’t trade places with Eli for anything, not even anonymity, smote her.
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