"Dammit. I told you to wait until I give you permission to come in here."
Ann stopped cold. Her eyes were the size of saucers, her lips frozen around the first word she had intended to speak. In all the years she had worked for Ambrose Patriota – and by default Eugene Weller – she had never heard the man raise his voice. When Eugene was unhappy he drawled, he snipped, he degraded, he insulted, but he never, ever screamed. Thank goodness he had never done it before since he sounded like a nine-year-old girl when he did.
Eugene swallowed hard. He rotated his neck and raised a hand, flipping his fingers to indicate she may enter. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Come in."
"Senator Patriota's proposed schedule for pre-convention activities."
She approached cautiously and slid this on to his desk. When he didn't move, she put the next one under his nose.
"Mrs. Patriota would like you to arrange for a VIP tour of the capitol including lunch in the Senate dining room. I've listed her guests, their personal contributions, connections, and available dates for the tour."
Ann held her breath.
Nothing.
Her mouth went dry; her brain went into overdrive.
Maybe Eugene was dying.
Maybe he was being indicted.
Maybe Senator Patriota was dying or being indicted.
Maybe Eugene had been fired.
Maybe he got laid.
Maybe he tried to get laid and couldn't manage to. . .
Ann pushed that image straight out of her mind and got on with work.
"Eyes only from NSA."
She put an envelope in Eugene's line of sight. His lashes fluttered. His torqued lips ratcheted tighter. There was a beat, a breath. He was about to manage a thank you but Ann had fled.
He picked up the eyes-only, opened the seal, and gave it his full attention: phone numbers, times, dates, names, and so much more. Michael Horn, Amelia Francis, Bernard Reynolds. And there were other names and numbers: the law firm in Hermosa Beach, a man whose number indicated he was roaming out of area into the northwest. And there was Josie Bates making a nuisance of herself with the DOD, the VA, Fort Hood, Ha Kuna House, the Maui courthouse, and the personal number of Stephen Kyle who ran Keoloko Enterprises. NSA was doing an exceptional job. All of this information was cross-referenced by date and time, duration of calls and in some cases notations on the outcome of the conversations. The picture was coming into focus for Josie Bates, Eugene was sure, but it was sharper for him. The net Bates was throwing was wide and uncontrollable. She wanted simplification but that could only happen with his help and he wasn't about to give it. He dialed Woodrow Calister's very private number. It was answered on the second ring.
"I received a call from our friend in Hawaii. She would like me to expedite a number of requests under the Freedom of Information Act," Eugene said. "I think it's time we have a meeting with Ambrose."
"No. We protect him at all costs. Do you understand, Eugene? Plausible deniability where Ambrose is concerned. That's what we want. I'll look into it. I'll take care of it all."
CHAPTER 22
"The girl's name is Sandy Macintosh. She's a runaway. Pick up if you're there. Okay. I'll fill you in later. Hope everything is going well with Emily. Love you."
– Voice mail, Archer to Josie
Amelia slipped into Emily's room, closing the door quietly behind her even though there was no one in the house who could possibly be disturbed. Amelia nodded to Josie but looked at Emily as she crossed the room. The older woman was ready for bed dressed in a pink nightgown, her short hair brushed to the side, her pale skin pearly in the shadows. Silently she gazed at nothing, thought of nothing, and felt nothing as far as Josie and Amelia could tell.
In the distance there was a flash of lightning. Josie counted the seconds until she heard thunder, a crash and then a roll under the onslaught of rain. She thought of Stephen Kyle, snug in his house with the girls and his special scotch to keep him warm. She thought of Archer in his motel cabin in Oregon. She thought of Faye cuddled up with Max. Josie had tried to call them all but the phone wasn't working and neither were the lights. They flickered, went out, and popped back on again as Amelia slid onto the cot she had set up for Josie. They sat side-by-side across from Emily.
"He's still over at Johnson's place. I don't know what to do. We should have permission for you to stay."
"I doubt he'd throw me out in this weather," Josie said. "Don't worry about it."
"What if I get fired?"
"You don't want to stay here, do you?" Josie asked.
"No, but I want to leave on my own terms," Amelia answered.
"Let's not worry about something that hasn't happened. Reynolds won't even know I'm here."
"True. I stayed lots of times when I couldn't get dad home. I don't think Mr. Reynolds even knew about it. If he did, he didn't care."
"The weather will be better in the morning, I'll be out of here before he even gets up," Josie assured her.
"Okay," Amelia sighed. "Have you heard anything from that man you called?"
"Eugene Weller?" Josie shook her head. "No, it's too soon."
"You didn't mention me, did you?"
"No," Josie said.
The lights popped again. The rain fell harder. Josie thought this must be what it felt like to be Emily: always in the dark, memories of Ian coming and going like the rain. Amelia was more practical. She said:
"You should see how this is done."
"What?"
"Putting your mom to bed. If you're going to take her home with you, you better know how things are done," Amelia answered.
"I don't know if she'll be going home with me," Josie reminded her.
"She will." The lights went back on. Amelia was looking at Josie, her narrow face pinched, her lips pursed and her shadowed eyes looking wearier than ever before. "Come on. Get up. She can't do it on her own."
Amelia got Emily off the bed and the ritual began: gentle direction and encouragement, small steps, pauses. A toothbrush, a hairbrush, more encouragement, sit down, feet up, lay down, cover her with a quilt. A prayer.
"I don't pray," Josie said.
"When you live with someone like your mom long enough you will." Josie glanced at Amelia. The young woman was looking fondly at Emily. This was no complaint on her part, but a notation that sometimes a caregiver needed a higher power to make it through. "She'll fall asleep in a while. It comes on very fast. She doesn't wake up at night. She's not like Ian. You'll be able to sleep at home."
Amelia went to the switch near the door and turned off the light. When she returned, she stood with Josie. Emily's eyes were still open. They glittered. Her hand moved.
"Take it. Give her a pat," Amelia directed.
Josie did, but hers wasn't the hand Emily wanted. Her hand went limp before she raised it again. This time Amelia took her hand, kissed it, and put it under the covers.
"She'll come around." Amelia's voice was tight. Josie had nothing to add. She knew that Amelia was just preparing herself for losing Emily. "Try to get some sleep."
"You, too. Goodnight," Josie said but she was talking to Amelia Francis' back. "Amelia?"
"Yes?" The woman paused looking ghostly in the intermittent light from the lamps that swung on the posts outside.
"Thank you for everything."
"Sure," Amelia said.
"Sleep well," Josie answered and meant it.
***
"Okay, Bernard. It's time. Bernard!"
"What? Yeah? I'm okay. I'm set. Let's do this." Bernard Reynolds jerked up, kicking over the bottle of booze and spilling it on the cottage floor. "I'm sorry. Johnson, it's a mess. I'll clean it up."
"Don't be an ass." Johnson said with disgust.
They'd been at it through the early evening and into the night, drinking and planning, planning and drinking. The guy couldn't hold his liquor and was proving to be more of a wuss than Johnson could ever have imagined. H
e waffled, he wailed, he could think of a hundred unintended consequences but couldn't see the one important intended one – that his butt would be saved. What he didn't know was that Johnson's would, too. If Reynolds wasn't up to the task then Johnson would have to do it on his terms. That wouldn't be good either. There would be way too much to explain if they did it his way so it had to be Reynolds.
"I'm not being an ass. I'm ready. Really. All set to go." Bernard stood up and pushed his hair back. He tucked his shirt into this pants and then pulled it out again. "I'm set. Let's go."
"Good. Put your jacket on. It's still storming out there."
Finding himself a little wobbly, Bernard excused himself and went to the can. When he came back his face was ruddy as if he had scrubbed it hard.
"You solid, Bernard?" Johnson tossed the man's jacket at him. Bernard caught it and put it on while Johnson talked and checked his gun.
"All set," Bernard said.
"Okay. You've got everything you need in the office, right? Enough of that medicine?"
"Yes," Bernard said.
"And you're sure it's the right amount?" Johnson pressed.
"I'm not a doctor, Johnson." Bernard complained. Johnson shot him a look and Bernard backtracked. "Yes, I'm sure this will do it. And I'm sure you won't need that. Just leave it here, Johnson."
Johnson held up his gun, "No can do. I never go out without it. Besides, you want me to have your back, don't you?"
Bernard didn't point out that there was no one interested in his back at the moment. He also did not think now was the time to reiterate that he really, really, really was having second thoughts about this whole thing. Even if the powers that be came after him, there were ten valid arguments to be made for his ongoing deception. Protection of the program and Bernard's superiors was not the least of them. Certainly that would not only be understandable but forgivable. Still, Johnson was a single-minded sort of fellow and a stickler for detail. He threw open the door. Bernard hesitated but finally went for it only to stop when he came abreast of Johnson.
"She's not here," Bernard said.
"Who?" Johnson asked.
"The night girl. Her car's not here and it's late."
"The storm probably hung her up. All the better. Amelia will catch it all in the morning."
"I can't believe Amelia left and didn't wait for her," Bernard said.
"Well, since her car isn't here either, I guess she cut out," Johnson drawled. "Doesn't matter anyway. There's nothing to do at night."
"But that wasn't the plan," Bernard complained.
"It doesn't matter who finds them. It matters that they're found. You report it and the operation is done. They'll have this place cleared out before the fax is dry. They aren't going to put anything else in here for a while so we can hang out. That's the plan, Bernard. That's what we agreed on." Johnson gave the man a little shove.
"Okay. Okay." Bernard pulled his jacket collar up.
Johnson took Bernard's arm and together they ran across the yard, splashing through the mud, their pants wet almost to the knees. They went through the back door and Johnson stopped.
"Take your shoes off," Johnson directed.
"What?"
"If anyone wants to check this out, then we can't have mud all over the place. It's got to look natural."
Bernard thought that was the smartest thing Johnson had said all day; he also thought it was a bit frightening that Johnson was thinking ahead like that. Bernard removed his shoes and put them neatly by the desk in his office. Johnson did the same and then waited while Bernard opened the closet, turned on the overhead light, and took out a box.
"Is that it?"
"Yes."
"Okay, let's go," Johnson said.
Bernard hesitated, holding the box in front of him like a kid disappointed in a Christmas present. Johnson retraced his steps. Bernard looked at him. He opened his mouth but the look on Johnson's face told him all he needed to know. The big man wanted this wrapped up and he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
***
The night girl was upset and scared. She was more scared than she was upset because the road seemed to disappear and reappear with no particular rhyme or reason. Even though she knew she wasn't near the cliffs, now and again she would throw the steering wheel one way or the other believing that she was just about to sail over the edge of one. She wondered where her friend was. Maybe she was already safe at Ha Kuna House. Or maybe she was smart and had stayed home all together.
The night girl sobbed. She sat in her car crying, her hands on the wheel, trying to decide if she should go forward or back. She decided to go forward since it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. She stepped on the gas. The mud was too deep, and her tires too old to gain traction.
"Oh God! Oh God!"
The night girl muttered and wept and wept and muttered as she stared into the Hawaiian darkness, cringed under the wrath of the Hawaiian storm, and wondered if she was going to die of fright.
CHAPTER 23
Scientists in Edinburgh announced that they have completed a mind-meld.
Not exactly a Star Trek Vulcan move but they do confirm that they have successfully connected the mind of a man and a mouse. The man was able to move the mouse's tail just by thinking about it. How's that for a dose of Sci-Fi?
– KFI talk radio
It was almost midnight when Amelia threw off her blanket and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Palms down on the worn fabric, feet solidly on the floor, her chin rested on her chest, and her blond hair fell over her eyes. Those eyes of hers stared through the golden strands and into the darkness, pixilating everything in the room into fields of gray and sparkles of white. As it is with people who work in shadowy places, Amelia saw more than a normal human being would; as with those who work with the sick, she heard more than most people ever could; as with people who are often alone, Amelia could sense when things were amiss and something was amiss in Ha Kuna House.
Amelia stood up, listening again for the sound that had disturbed her uneasy sleep. It was not the old lady calling out. It was not Mr. Traini snoring. It was not Emily, agitated and wanting Amelia's hand to hold. It was not the night girl and her friend giggling. It was not a crack of lightning although that's what she thought it was at first. But it was something because Amelia's nerves were on fire like Fourth of July sparklers. She knelt with one leg on the sofa, her other foot still on the ground, her arms crossed on the back of the couch so that she could look out the tiny dormer window. The rain still fell in sheets, but the wind had died down. Amelia pressed her forehead against the glass and strained to see the grounds. There was nothing out there.
She stood up again, her eyes sweeping the room, landing on the small chair with the broken arm, the boxes Keoloko had delivered a day earlier, the broken padlock hanging from the small closet door that led to an open space under the eaves. Amelia knew that there was a loose board right in front of her so, when she finally did move, she avoided it.
She cracked the door and saw the one to Emily's suite was still shut. She went to the top of the stairs and looked over. The landing was empty. She slid down the steps and stayed close to the wall. On the second landing, she looked over again and that's when she saw the night girl's legs. Another step and she saw the night girl's friend lying beside her. Amelia knew they were dead. It wasn't the blood on the floor, it wasn't the fact that the night girl's eyes were open and unblinking or that her leg didn't twitch. Amelia just instantly knew that they were dead. Whoever had killed them was in the house because she heard an angry voice tumbling down the hall from the kitchen. The voices weren't loud enough to identify, but she knew one belonged to a man.
Amelia didn't run or cry out or panic but she imagined she would soon. Until then her instincts guided her. She retraced her steps, keeping her eyes on the open spaces below. On the second floor she crept into Mr. Traini's room. He would be the easiest to secure. If she got
him into his wheelchair she could get him into the closet. That would be little protection, but it was the best she could do.
"Mr. Traini." Amelia eased back his sheets and leaned close to his ear so that he could hear her whispers. "Wake up Mr. Traini. Listen. You must listen. . ."
Amelia pulled back. Her fingers were trembling when she touched his pulse point on his neck. As soon as she determined there was none, Amelia Francis' grabbed the railing around the bed and doubled over, forcing herself not to throw up.
***
Johnson and Reynolds faced off in the kitchen. Bernard was the color of ice. It wasn't because he was appalled that he had just given the residents a little too much of their medicine – that didn't really feel like murder – but because of what Johnson had done. Johnson was an animal. He didn't look any different for having shot two young women as they came through the front door, wet and grateful that they were safe at last. Now that was murder and the sight of that was enough to make the color drain from Bernard Reynolds' face forever.
"Are you crazy? Are you crazy?" Bernard had said that about twenty times and Johnson was getting tired of hearing it.
"Hey! Hey! What was I supposed to do?"
"Just . . ." Bernard sputtered. His hands were flapping like wings "Just nothing. I mean, for God's sake, you killed them in cold blood."
"You killed the other people."
"They were half dead," Bernard wailed. "We needed the night girl to find them. We agreed. She would find them and assume they all just passed away in their sleep. It's not like it would have been unexpected." Bernard paced. He threw up his hands. "What were we thinking? It was a stupid plan. Now there are two girls with bullets in them. We can't do this. It was wrong from the start. We have to call someone. I'm not going to be running for the rest of my life. I won't, Johnson. It will be fine. If we turn ourselves in now and explain. . . Look. . . Here's how it is."
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