Saving Faith

by David Baldacci

  Lee almost felt like laughing. The whole experience was like a dream.

  But where do I go to wake up?

  "Right now, lunacy seems to be at the top of the list." Faith attempted a smile. "Thank God for lunatics."

  Lee didn't smile back. "From now on, we are Siamese twins. You better get used to seeing a man take a piss because, lady, we are inseparable from here on."

  "Lee-"

  "I don't want to hear it! Just don't say a damn thing." His voice was trembling. "I'm so close to punching the shit out of you, I swear to God." He made a big show of reaching over and clamping one big hand over her wrist, as though a living handcuff. Then he sat back, staring at nothing.

  Faith didn't try to pull her hand away, not that she could have. And she was really terrified he might take a swing at her. This was probably about as angry as Lee Adams had ever gotten in his entire life, she thought. She finally sat back and tried to calm down. Her heart was beating so fast it seemed impossible for her blood vessels to survive the pressure. Maybe she'd save everyone a lot of trouble and just drop from a coronary.

  In Washington you could lie about sex, money, power, loyalties. You could spin falsehoods into truths and simple facts into lies. She had seen it all. It was one of the most frustrating and cruelest places on earth, where one relied on old alliances and quick feet for survival and where every new day, every fresh relationship, could be the one that made you or destroyed you. And Faith had thrived in that world, loved it, in fact. Until now.

  Faith could not look at Lee Adams, for fear of what she would see in his eyes. He was all she had. Although she barely knew the man, for some reason she craved his respect, his understanding. She knew she would get neither. She didn't deserve them.

  Out of the car window she stared at a plane quickly gaining altitude.

  In another few seconds it would disappear into the clouds. Soon the passengers would only be able to see that layer of puffy cumulus beneath them, as though the world below had suddenly disappeared. Why couldn't she be on that plane and just keep climbing, to a place where she could start over? Why couldn't a place like that exist? Why?

  CHAPTER 23

  BROOKE REYNOLDS SAT GLUMLY AT THE SMALL TABLE, chin resting on her palm, and wondered if anything ever was going to go right on this case.

  They had found Ken Newman's car. It had been professionally cleansed such that her team of "experts" were unable to provide her with any real clues. She had just checked with the lab. They were still messing around with the tape. Worst of all, Faith Lockhart had slipped right through her fingers. At this rate she'd be FBI director in no time. She was certain there would be a stream of messages from the ADIC on down when she returned to her office, and none of them complimentary, she imagined.

  Reynolds and Connie were in a private area at Reagan National. They had thoroughly questioned the airline employee who had sold Faith Lockhart her tickets. They had reviewed all the surveillance tapes and the agent had readily picked out Lockhart. Reynolds assumed the woman was Faith Lockhart. The ticket agent had been shown a picture of Lockhart and was reasonably sure she was the same woman.

  If it was Lockhart, she had changed her appearance considerably: a haircut and dye job, from what Reynolds had seen on the airport surveillance tape. And now Lockhart had help. For also captured on the video was a tall, well-built man leaving with Lockhart. Reynolds had initiated the obvious inquiries including checking taxi pickups at the airport during that time. They also had colleagues checking in Norfolk in case the pair had made additional travel arrangements there.

  So far nothing had turned up. They did, however, have one very promising lead.

  Reynolds opened the metal gun case and looked at the SIG-Sauer 9mm while Connie leaned against the wall and scowled at nothing. The gun had already been checked for prints, and they were running the results through the Bureau's databases, but they had something even better: The gun was registered. They had quickly gotten the name and address of the owner from the Virginia State Police.

  Reynolds said, "Okay, so the gun's registered to this Lee Adams. We're getting a photo of the guy from DMV. I'm assuming he's the one with Lockhart. What do we know about him so far?"

  Connie took a mouthful of Coke from the cup he was holding and popped two Advil. "PI. Been around awhile. Seems very legit. Some of the guys at the Bureau know him in fact. Say he's a good guy. We'll get his picture to the ticket agent. See if she can positive-ID him.

  That's all for right now. We'll have more soon." He glanced at the gun. "We found shell casings in the woods behind the cottage. They'd been fired from a pistol. Nine-millimeter. From the number we found, the person emptied half his mag at something."

  "Think this is the pistol?"

  "We haven't found any slugs to match it to, but ballistics will tell us if the pinprick on the shell casings we found match ones fired from that gun," Connie said, referring to the indentation a gun's firing pin makes on the bottom of the shell casing, a mark about as unique as a fingerprint. "And since we've got his ammo, we can test-fire from the source, which is ideal, you know. And were running a print check on the casings. That won't definitely confirm if Adams was there, since he could've loaded the pistol earlier and someone else could have fired it at the cottage, but it's still something."

  They both knew that shell casings were much better surfaces for getting usable prints than a pistol grip.

  "It'd be nice if we could get his prints inside the cottage."

  "VCU found nothing. Adams obviously knows how to do this stuff. Had to be wearing gloves."

  "If ballistics does match, then Adams looks to be the one who wounded the shooter."

  "He didn't fire all those times at Ken, that's for sure, and a SIG is for shit long-distance. If Adams was able to hit Ken with a pistol shot from that distance in the dark, then we've got to get him a job at Quantico on the firing range."

  Reynolds looked unconvinced.

  Connie went on. "And the lab confirmed that the blood in the woods is definitely human. We also found a slug near the spot where all the pistol shell casings were. Struck a tree and stayed there. We also turned up a number of shell casings near the blood. Rifle ordnance.

  Full metal jacket, heavy-caliber stuff. And customized, no manufacturer's code or caliber stamp on the casings. But the lab did say the ammo used a Berdan primer instead of an American Boxer."

  Reynolds looked at him sharply. "Berdan? So European manufacture?"

  "There are so many freaky variations these days, but it looks that way."

  Reynolds was very familiar with the Berdan primer. It differed from the American version principally in that it had no integral anvil. The anvil was constructed right into the cartridge case, forming a miniature T-shaped projection in the primer pocket with two flash holes to allow the exploded primer to get to the powder. It was a clever, efficient design, Reynolds thought.

  When you pulled the trigger of a weapon, Brooke had learned when she joined the Bureau, the firing pin hit the primer cup, compressing the primer between the cup and anvil and causing the primer to explode.

  This mini-explosion, in turn, shot through the flash holes and ignited the powder to temperatures in excess of five thousand degrees. A millisecond later the bullet went roaring down the gun barrel, and before you could blink, a human being was probably dead. Guns were by far the weapon of choice for murder in America, and Brooke knew that homicides happened at the rate of fifty-five times a day in the United States. Consequently, Reynolds and her colleagues would never lack for work.

  "European-manufactured shells might tie in to the foreign interest angle Lockhart was telling us about," Reynolds said almost to herself.

  "So Adams and the shooter were going at it and Adams gets the better of it." Reynolds stared thoughtfully at her partner. "Any connection between Adams and Lockhart?"

  "None that we can see right now, but we've just started digging."

  "Here's another theory, Connie: Adams came out o
f the woods, killed Ken and then went back through the woods. He could've fallen on something and cut himself. That would account for the blood. I know that doesn't explain the rifle slug, but it's a possibility we can't ignore.

  For all we know, he was carrying a rifle as well. Or it could have been from a hunter's gun. They hunt in those woods, I bet."

  "Come on, Brooke. The guy can't have a gun battle with himself.

  Remember the two separate piles of different shell casings. And no hunter I know is going to stand there and pump shot after shot at something. they'll kill their buddy or maybe themselves. Most states require plugs in a rifle's magazine to limit shots for that very reason. And those shell casings hadn't been there very long."

  "Okay, okay, but I'm just not willing to trust Adams at this point."

  "And you think I am? I don't trust my own mother, God rest her soul.

  But I can't ignore facts either. Lockhart drives away in Ken's car?

  And Adams just leaves his boots behind before he takes his jaunt through the woods? Come on, you don't believe that."

  "Look, Connie, I'm just pointing out the possibilities. I'm not saying I'm sold on any of them. The thing that keeps bugging me is, what spooked Ken? If the shooter's in the woods, it wasn't him."

  Connie rubbed his jaw. "Now, that's true."

  Reynolds suddenly snapped her fingers. "Dammit, the door. How could I have been so blind? When we got to the cottage the screen door was wide open. I remember it clearly. It opens out, so Ken would have seen it when he turned that way. What would he have done? Pull his gun."

  "And he might have seen the boots too. It was dark, but the cottage's back porch isn't that big." Connie took another swallow of Coke and rubbed his left temple. "Come on, Advil, do your magic. Well, we'll know for certain if Adams was even there when the lab guys unscramble the video."

  "If they unscramble it. But why would Adams have been at the cottage in the first place?"

  "Maybe someone hired him to shadow Lockhart."

  "Buchanan?"

  "Probably first on my list."

  "But if Buchanan hired the shooter to take out Lockhart, why have Adams there to witness it?"

  Connie bunched up his thick shoulders and then let them collapse, like a bear scratching itself against a tree. "That for sure doesn't make a helluva lot of sense."

  "Well, let me complicate things further for you. Two tickets were purchased by Lockhart for a trip to Norfolk. But only one in her real name for the trip to San Francisco."

  "And you got Adams running after our guys on the airport surveillance video."

  "Think Lockhart tried to give him the slip?"

  "Ticket agent said Adams didn't come up to the counter until after Lockhart had purchased the tickets. And the video shows Adams leading her back from the vicinity of the San Francisco gate."

  "So maybe an involuntary partnership of sorts," Reynolds said. She had a sudden thought as she looked at Connie. Like ours, perhaps? "You know what I'd really like?" Reynolds said. Connie raised his eyebrows.

  "I'd like to return Mr. Adams's boots. We have his home address?"

  "North Arlington. Twenty minutes from here, tops." Reynolds rose.

  "Let's go."

  CHAPTER 24

  WHILE CONNIE PARKED THE CAR AT THE CURB, Reynolds stared up at the old brownstone. "Adams must do pretty well. This isn't a cheap area."

  Connie looked around and said, "Maybe I should sell my house and buy an apartment around here. Stroll around the street, sit in the park, enjoy life."

  "Thoughts of retirement creeping in?"

  "Seeing Ken in a body bag isn't making me want to do this forever."

  They walked up to the front door. Each of them noted the video camera, and then Connie rang the door buzzer.

  "Who is it?" a voice fiercely demanded.