Beyond Betrayal

by L. T. Ryan

  After they passed the table, Cooley said, “Turn around, away from me.”

  She turned in place, prepared for a chain to be threaded through her arms. Instead, the handcuffs’ lock clinked and her wrists were freed. She instinctively brought them forward and rubbed the sore, red rings around her arms.

  The sound of Cooley’s fading footsteps indicated he had put a few feet of distance between them. Jordan approached her. He still held the SIG and aimed it at her.

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” Jordan said.

  Clarissa took a step back and positioned herself so that she could see both men. Neither were in reach, and both were several feet away from each other. She high stepped over the solid bench, then picked up her other foot and lowered her body onto the steel seat.

  “Place your hands on the table,” Jordan said.

  Clarissa did, thinking they’d cuff her again now. But they didn’t.

  “We’re both armed, and neither of us have any qualms with shooting you if you move. Got that?”

  She nodded. Said, “What am I doing here?”

  Neither man answered.

  “Jordan, what the hell happened out there? And why are we here now?”

  Again, she received no response.

  Five minutes, maybe ten, passed. She began to acclimate to her surroundings and the idea that the room would be her tomb faded.

  Then she heard the door handle turn.

  Chapter 21

  When Beck stepped into the tin can, Clarissa didn’t know whether to cry or smile. He’d left the cellar doors open and bright light flooded past him. She squinted in pain, looking beyond the man to see if anyone followed him in. There had to be another. Why else would he leave them open? He closed the door to the room before she could see anything else.

  With a nod in her direction, he said, “Did she say anything?”

  “Nothing,” Jordan said. “Asked a few questions, but we followed protocol.”

  “Okay,” Beck said. “You two wait out there and let me handle this.”

  “You sure?”

  Beck drew his pistol. “She can’t make it across the table before I can shoot.”

  It felt as though she’d been slapped.

  The men exited, letting the door fall shut behind them. The solid thud led her to believe that the splintered wood was only for show. She looked up at Beck, who glanced away when their eyes met. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She tried to hold them back, but it was of no use.

  “What is going on, Beck?”

  He took a deep breath, exhaling as he took a seat across from her. He set his SIG down on the table to his right. He placed his hand inches from it. The gesture showed some trust, either in her, or in his abilities. Instead of answering her question, he stared at her. She had trouble deciphering the look on his face. He’d been trained to look hard at all times. But there was something else there. Confusion, perhaps.

  She took in a sharp breath in advance of asking again.

  He cut her off. “Ten people knew the location of the vice president this afternoon. Four were part of the Republican House leadership. Five were sworn to protect him. That leaves you.”

  There was no doubt what he was implying. Clarissa couldn’t believe it. “Are you saying I had something to do with McCormick being shot?”

  Beck said nothing. He only stared. His was a waiting game. She knew the more she said, the more he could use against her.

  “I only found out yesterday that I would be working with him. How on earth could I have pulled something like this off?”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “My phone?”

  “Your cell.” He reached out with his left hand. “The one we gave you.”

  “They took it.”

  “They told me they don’t have it.”

  She shook her head. “I…I don’t know what to tell you, Beck. They pried it from my hands.”

  Beck worked the muscles in his jaw. “Dammit, Clarissa. You know how this looks?”

  For a moment she had a glimmer of hope that he believed in her. “I don’t know anything right now, Beck. We stepped out of the building and I heard two shots. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground. I thought I’d been shot.”

  “Why?”

  “The pain.”

  “Where?”

  “My body, where it hit the ground.”

  “Who took you down?”

  She tried to recall, but the only image that popped into her head was that of McCormick and the pool of blood surrounding his head. She shook her head and shrugged.

  Beck pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head back an inch. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling. Hers traveled to his pistol. The table was wide, maybe four or five feet. He’d probably reach it first, but she had to try.

  Before she could make a move, he slid his hand over a couple inches and placed his palm on the handle of the pistol.

  “Were you holding it when this went down?” he asked.

  She looked away from the gun, but didn’t meet his stare. “Holding what?”

  “The phone.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Is that an answer?”

  “Why are you doing this to me? You can’t tell me there’s no footage of this happening.”

  Beck rose, grabbed his SIG and started toward one side of the room. Once he reached the wall, he turned in a half-circle and started the other way.

  “It’s blank,” he said.

  “Blank?”

  “Every single camera.”

  “Who could’ve done that?”

  Beck shook his head. He made another pass across the room. Each step was slow and deliberate, the hard sole of his shoe rapping against the concrete floor.

  “How is McCormick?” she asked.

  He stopped, turned, said, “Dead.” He seemed to study her after, perhaps watching for a tell that would give her away. Only there was nothing to give away. She returned his stare with one of her own, her eyes misting over.

  “I…”

  “Sorry, Clarissa. He’s still alive, but in bad shape. That’s all I know.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door then it opened a crack. Jordan spoke from the other side. “He’s here.”

  Beck pointed at her while heading toward the door. “Stay there.”

  What was next? Her hands went to her wrists and she rubbed the spots where the handcuffs had dug into her skin. The voices outside the room were soft and muffled. She couldn’t make out what they said. Perhaps if she got closer. Clarissa resisted the idea, fearing they would open fire if they opened the door and saw her standing there.

  After another couple minutes the door opened. The last face she expected to see appeared.

  “Sinclair, what are you doing here?”

  Sinclair looked back over his shoulder, nodded and stepped toward her. He held out his hands, then lifted the hem of his shirt.

  “As you can see,” he said, “I’m unarmed. Just like you. I’m here to talk, Clarissa. I need to know what happened today. If you were involved in any way, I might be able to help you. But only if you tell me everything. Hold back, and that could mean the end of your life.”

  Still trying to process his presence, Clarissa said, “I only found out yesterday that I’d be assigned to McCormick. Today was my first day on the job. I hadn’t even spent fifteen minutes with the guy. We took a tunnel to a meeting. I sat in the hall for it.”

  Sinclair leaned forward. “Alone?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I was out there with one of the Secret Service agents.”

  “And he was there with you at every moment?”

  She leaned into the chair and let her head drop back. At one time her hair would have grazed the backs of her arms. Not now. She felt the short strands rise.

  “I think so.”

  “You think?”

  “He might’ve left to take a piss or something. I don’t know. The guy
’s a prick. I tried to ignore him. They’ve gotta have cameras around the place, Sinclair.”

  “As I understand it, the footage is gone.”

  “Even inside?”

  He said nothing.

  “This isn’t something I could have just set up, Sinclair. I don’t think someone like you could have. Not in such a short period of time.”

  “Your phone should have all your calls listed.”

  She shook her head. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone? How?”

  “They took it.”

  He nodded. “They can still get those records and follow up on every number.”

  “There’s no numbers. I don’t think I ever used it.”

  “Nevertheless, they’ll check.” He looked around the room, then settled on her. “Hold out your hands.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she stretched both arms out over the table. He grabbed her wrists in the same spot the cuffs had bound her. He manipulated her arms until her palms faced up. His thumbs clamped down below hers, on her pulse. It didn’t take her long to figure out what he was doing. Sinclair had worked as an interrogator for a long time. Some called him the human lie detector. And now he was going to perform an examination.

  “Answer yes or no to all questions. Is your name Clarissa Abbot?”

  She paused. He glanced up at her. She replied, “Yes.”

  “Were you working under the name Clarissa Weston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your mother pass away when you were young?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your father pass away when you were eighteen?”

  “No.” She felt her pulse quicken. Sinclair glanced up at her again. “He was murdered.”

  A twitch of a smile appeared, then faded. “Were you told yesterday that you would be assigned to work with Vice President McCormick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you told the nature of the work?”

  “No.”

  “Did you order the assassination of Vice President McCormick?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone about the vice president’s whereabouts?”

  “No.”

  “Did you shoot the vice president?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see who shot McCormick?”

  “No.”

  She felt his grip relax, and he looked up once again. “Clarissa, did you see who did it?”

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “What did you see?”

  The memory came back to her. They stepped outside. There was no traffic on the street. The smell of the air, thick with exhaust. The cool air. They stepped forward. The shots were fired in quick succession. Before she realized what had happened, someone was on her, driving her toward the ground. But before that happened, she saw something.

  Clarissa had seen where the shots were fired from.

  Chapter 22

  She rode in the front seat of Beck’s car. He had pushed the sedan past one hundred miles per hour seconds after they merged onto I-95, and he hadn’t backed off since. She relayed the story to Beck, starting when she entered McCormick’s office. From there she recounted the trip through the tunnels, waiting in the hallway, then exiting the building. But this time she recalled something she hadn’t earlier.

  As she scanned north up New Jersey Avenue, something caught her attention. It wasn’t a flash, or muzzle blast. And it hovered toward the top of her field of vision, across the street, maybe the top floor of the Longworth House Office Building. It felt as though the blood drained from her head as she realized that the crack that shattered the silence had originated from that spot. She saw the rifle extending through the open window. It wasn’t much. A few inches, at most. But she saw it.

  “How come you didn’t tell me this before?” Beck asked, glancing between her and the road.

  “I just remembered it. Such a small detail, it didn’t really stand out much at the time.”

  “What did you think it was then?”

  “I…” She paused, staring at the soft red glow coming from the brake lights of the car ahead. Her hand went to the right side of her forehead. “I don’t remember thinking anything of it. There’s a gap where I don’t remember. I think I hit my head.”

  He slowed down and looked in her direction. She shifted in the seat so he could see the red spot.

  He winced, then looked back at the road. “Does it hurt?”

  Clarissa was aware of the injury, but she hadn’t seen it yet. She reached up for the visor and pulled back the flap covering the mirror. Two small lights turned on, illuminating the golf ball sized spot that darkened her skin. More memories of the event came back to her. Shots fired. Falling to the ground. Hitting the ground. Her head slapped the concrete, bounced up, hit it again.

  “You blacked out,” he said.

  She nodded, although her answer was less convincing. “I’m not sure. Maybe?”

  “We need to get you checked out.”

  “You should have had me checked out.”

  He said nothing.

  “What’s the deal with bringing me all the way out to the country?”

  He still said nothing.

  “Is that the way you do things? Just make people disappear?”

  Beck stared straight ahead with narrowed eyes. The skin around the corner of his eye bunched up into tight crow’s feet. She turned away from him, looked up. The sky had darkened, threatening rain, maybe more.

  “It wasn’t my call,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Think it through again, Clarissa. Is there anything else you remember?”

  She shook her head. “How did this happen, Beck? McCormick decided at the last minute that he wanted to go out for lunch instead of returning to his office through the tunnels. How could anyone have set something up that quickly?”

  “You’d be surprised. They had to call for the car, so someone outside the group you were with knew.”

  “No, no one called for a car. One of the agents left to get it. It was totally spur of the moment, Beck.”

  He reached toward the center console, grabbed his sunglasses and covered his eyes with them. She noticed a sheen of sweat pool on his forehead despite the cool breeze coming from the vents.

  Her words had upset him. Had something she’d witnessed violated protocol? Had she inadvertently implicated someone in the shooting?

  “What is it, Beck?”

  “Where was the car when you left the building? What street was it parked on? Were the doors open?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “The car wasn’t there yet. We waited for it.”

  Beck cut across three lanes of traffic, dodging mini-vans and SUVs on his way to the emergency lane. He slammed the brakes. The tires squealed and the car fishtailed, nearly slamming into the guardrail.

  Clarissa’s heart pounded in her chest. She caught her breath, said, “What the hell are you doing? You could have killed us!”

  Beck seemed hardly fazed. He tore his sunglasses off and tossed them toward the console. His eyes were wide. His nostrils flared with each breath. “Are you sure about what you just told me? The car wasn’t there?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You also said that you hit your head and that there were some gaps.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Think it through again. Please.”

  She replayed the events in her mind. “We stepped outside. There was no car waiting. We waited near the curb. The four men surrounded us while the fifth was bringing the car.”

  “Did you see the car approaching?”

  “No. It pulled up right after the shots were fired, though. I mean, it was there right after.”

  Beck looked away as he processed the information.

  “You don’t think,” she began, then stopped.

  Beck waited a second, glanced at her, said, “What?”

  “Could the shots have come from the vehicle?”

/>   Beck seemed to consider this. “But what about what you saw protruding from the window at Longworth?”

  “That could’ve been a woman sitting on the windowsill with her purse hanging out.”

  “What direction did the car come from?”

  “It pulled to the curb on the wrong side of the street, driver’s side nearest us.”

  “From the north,” he said.

  She nodded, said nothing.

  “The direction you were looking, yet you don’t remember seeing the car approach.” Beck leaned back in his seat and eased off the brake. The car rolled slowly along the shoulder while he watched the side mirror, waiting for a hole in traffic.

  Clarissa thought through the events again, this time in reverse. Blacking out, hitting the ground, her grip weak on her phone, feeling the shoulder in the middle of her back. It all happened so fast after those two cracks that changed their lives. Her mind tried to fill in blanks with things she knew hadn’t happened.

  Then she remembered something that had occurred. The reason she was looking up and didn’t see the car approaching.

  “Beck, the shots came from the window.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I guess I don’t. I know why I looked up, though.”

  He tapped the brake and the car stopped. Looking at her, he asked, “Why?”

  “Because Jordan did.”

  Chapter 23

  Beck didn’t bother to park in the Treasury Building garage. They let him through the gates to the White House, and he escorted Clarissa to the doctor’s office within.

  The doctor was middle aged, in good shape, handsome and quick about examining her. He determined she hadn’t suffered a concussion, but encouraged her to call him should she start feeling any related symptoms.

  Beck waited outside of the room. When she emerged, he rose from his seat and took a step toward her.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Seems so. He says it’s a nasty bump, but that everything on the inside is fine.”

  “What about you blacking out?”

  “That might have been stress induced.”

  Beck nodded, shifted his weight from his left to right foot, then gestured toward the hall. “Let’s go to my office.”