Girl of Rage, Page 4

  It was cold. And she missed her husband.

  But missing Dylan was nothing new, was it? She’d had plenty of practice at that.

  So Alex lay in bed, watching her phone, waiting to hear from the man she loved. Waiting to hear from the man she knew was fighting to keep his head above water but wouldn’t reach out to her for help. Waiting to hear from the man who she’d have done anything for. She didn’t cry. Alex Paris was all out of tears. Now she just lay there, waiting. Waiting, and wishing.

  In the nearby rooms, she knew her sister Carrie slept, baby Rachel in her crib. At the opposite end of the hall, Sarah. None of the three of them were in good shape, but Sarah, in particular, seemed shaky. She hadn’t talked at all in the last couple of hours before they reached the safe house, only answering questions in monotone with as few words as possible.

  They’d been in the safe house for two hours almost, but Alex hadn’t slept. Instead, she lay there in the bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing she could go back in time and change everything. Her wishing was futile. Frustrating.

  She felt like she’d spent most of her relationship with Dylan separated. When they met and fell in love, they’d lived thousands of miles from each other, and that distance had almost killed them. She went to college; Dylan went into the Army. Only through a series of improbable coincidences and near miracles did they have a chance to become a couple again.

  Then Ray had to go and die.

  She knew it was irrational. It wasn’t Ray’s fault. It’s not like he committed suicide. He was murdered. But irrational or not, she was angry with him. She was angry with fate, or God, or whatever it was about the universe that allowed her husband’s best friend to die under those circumstances, leaving behind little more than a messy pile of survivor guilt.

  Alex sighed. She was wasting her time, rethinking about the same things over and over again. She was exhausted and stressed and worried and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She rolled over, staring at the wall. Pale moonlight shone through. She could see the vague shadows of the trees in the frosted glass, swaying and rolling in the wind, the raindrops rattling against the gutters. It must be blowing like crazy, because occasionally the window rapped slightly in its frame.

  Dylan and Andrea were out in that.

  Somewhere.

  Meredith Collins. May 2. 4:30 am.

  Meredith Collins lay in her cold bed alone, staring at the ceiling, listening to the drumming of the rain outside and the echo of her own breath against walls which were too far away in an empty room.

  It was half an hour before Leslie usually rose for the day, and he’d already been out of bed for half an hour. It hardly mattered—she knew he hadn’t slept. For a week or more, he’d been short with her, he’d been late nearly every night, and he’d spent long hours locked away in his office on the phone.

  She sighed. Poor Leslie. He’d spent decades working his way up, enduring dangerous tours in places like Afghanistan and Indonesia. He’d devoted his life to his country, to the safety of others, and now he’d finally reached the pinnacle of his career. And instead of being able to relax, instead of being able to slow down and give orders, he’d become more stressed, more overworked, more—cold.

  It wasn’t fair. Logically she knew that high office meant a lot of pressure. More pressure than ever before, because now not only did he have to do a good job, but he had to navigate the political waters of the White House with a fickle, inexperienced President and a Congress which had a vendetta against the federal government itself. It wasn’t enough to be good in that environment. You had to be perfect.

  But knowing that intellectually wasn’t enough to ease her heart. It wasn’t enough to stop her from worrying as she watched her husband age before her very eyes.

  She slid out of the bed. It was early, but she could at least get some coffee going and prepare to greet the day with some semblance of calm.

  The truth was, she rarely knew what to do with her days anymore. Susan, their eldest, had graduated from Princeton and gone on to the FBI—she was now at the academy at Quantico and reportedly doing well. Woodrow and Franklin, the twins, were undergraduates at Columbia.

  Since the twins had gone to college, her days were frightfully empty. Quiet. Leslie was gone from 5:30 in the morning until late in the evening sometimes, and their house had been too big even for a family of five, much more so for the two of them. Even when he was home, he wasn’t really here anymore. She sometimes filled her days with friends in her bridge club, and served on the board of the McLean Women’s Club, but when she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she unbearably lonely.

  She padded down the hall in her bare feet, passing his office on her way to the kitchen. Unusually, the door was cracked. Leslie had soundproofed his office when the children were very young, and out of habit, he always closed the door.

  She paused just for a second, her feet faltering, when she overheard Leslie say words that shook her to the core.

  “I don’t really care, Danny. I want them found, and I want them dead. No more fuckups. Andrea Thompson and Dylan Paris need to turn up in the Potomac. Am I clear?”

  She stopped, her feet buried in the thick plush carpet.

  Andrea Thompson. Wasn’t that—Richard Thompson’s daughter? She’d been kidnapped earlier in the week; it had been all over the news. What would Leslie have to do with that? It didn’t make any sense. Even though she never got involved in his work, even though she’d never asked questions or wondered or doubted, she found herself paralyzed in the hallway, listening.

  “Yeah, I know,” he was saying. “But don’t worry about that. The Justice Department’s going to be holding a press conference this morning. Richard Thompson is going down. We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts, and she felt her chin involuntarily shaking. Richard and Adelina had been friends for twenty years. This—it didn’t make sense. Why would Leslie be up in the middle of the night plotting against his friend? Taking about killing his friend’s daughter?

  She stumbled as she moved backward away from the door, and her nightgown caught on a closet doorknob. The thin fabric tore along the seam as she yanked the nightgown. She ignored the damage, instead moving as quickly as she could down the hall to the kitchen. Hands shaking, she poured water into the coffee pot and started it brewing.

  She took a breath, trying to calm herself, and looked out the kitchen window into the wet darkness outside. Even though it was very early in the morning, she knew the traffic would already be backed up along Old Dominion Drive, a third of a mile down their driveway. She rarely heard any traffic—the trees fronting the property were too thick to allow much sound through, and the long driveway took a sharp turn halfway there, effectively blocking any lights from the road. Their house was old—a converted farmhouse built in 1842, which was often included in the annual Tour of Homes sponsored by the Women’s Club. The house had been a sore point with her and Leslie—he’d wanted to add a substantial addition, but the Women’s Club and the Historical Society had fought the addition. So, unfortunately, had Meredith. That was five years ago, but she was afraid he still hadn’t forgiven her.

  She realized her hands were still shaking as she stood at the window. What had the phone call been about? The coffee pot was almost finished, the machine making the loud bubbling sounds it always made when it was finished brewing. She turned around and let out a startled squeak.

  Leslie was in the doorway.

  “You scared me!” she admonished.

  He walked to the coffee pot casually, then took the carafe out and shook his head. “The machine generally works better if you put coffee grounds in it, dear.” He poured out the hot water that had collected in the pot. She’d completely forgotten to put grounds in. She stood there, wringing her hands as he started a new pot, grinding the beans for an unusually long time before scooping the grounds into the filter.

  His eyes were li
feless as he restarted the pot. “Something bothering you, Meredith?”

  “I… I—”

  “Perhaps you overheard something?”

  She nodded, still wringing her hands.

  “Meredith, what was it your father used to say?”

  She knew instantly what he was talking about. Her father—George Mason Cutter—had been a Navy admiral. During World War II he’d flown a F2A Buffalo aircraft off the deck of the USS Hornet before he was shot down and spent nearly 24 hours in the water before being rescued. By the Korean War he was squadron commander and a fleet admiral by the late 1960s, but his career ended under a cloud. An accident and subsequent fire on the aircraft carrier USS Forrestal killed 134 sailors and destroyed millions of dollars worth of equipment. Admiral Cutter wasn’t officially held responsible—but he’d been forced to retire, a bitter, aggrieved man. Right up until his death in 2004 at the age of 82, he’d frequently said that no one understood what patriots were forced to do to protect their country.

  Civilians never understand, he would say. Of course it was horrible we lost those sailors. But it was a war. You can’t win a war if you don’t take risks.

  She sighed. “He used to say civilians didn’t understand.”

  Leslie nodded. In a slow, condescending tone he said, “That’s right, Meredith.”

  “Les … what don’t I understand?”

  He turned away from her, a troubled expression in his face. Slowly, he pulled two coffee mugs down from their hooks and walked to the refrigerator, getting out a carton of half-and-half. She stood anxiously; still wringing her hands as he poured the coffee, then poured a splash of half-and-half into each. Neither of them used sugar anymore. He slid her cup toward her.

  “How much do you know about what I actually do for a living, Meredith?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. The question made no sense. She knew nothing of what he did.

  “Meredith. My job is to protect the security of the United States. You know that.”

  She grimaced. “What does that have to do with Richard and Adelina, or their daughter?”

  “Well, it seems that there has been more going on there than we realized. In fact, Richard has been involved in some very shady dealings. Treasonous dealings.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t explain it all, Meredith. He’s involved in some kind of serious drug money laundering, and his daughter, the oldest one, has been assisting him with moving the cash around. Her husband’s a rock musician, you know.”

  Meredith felt her heart slowing down. Of course. There was an explanation, and it was even one that made some sort of sense. Except she couldn’t imagine Richard Thompson being involved in anything so sordid. “It all seems so … greedy.”

  “That’s what happens when people have power, Meredith. They get greedy. I’ve uncovered some very disturbing history about Richard recently, unfortunately. I had to meet with the Justice Department to turn over a lot of it.”

  She shuddered. Poor Adelina. She must be heartbroken.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Leslie raised an eyebrow. “You know the answer to that. It’s all classified. You should never have heard what you did hear.”

  “Explain that, please. Classified or not. I heard you saying … saying…” She couldn’t finish the words. She literally, physically could not finish the sentence. That she’d heard her husband ordering the killing of a teenage girl.

  Leslie shook his head. “What did you hear, Meredith?”

  She swallowed. And whispered, “Andrea Thompson. That … that…”

  “That she was to be killed.”

  Meredith shuddered.

  “Meredith, Andrea Thompson is not what she seems.”

  “She seems like a sixteen-year-old girl who was kidnapped.”

  “The news didn’t report that the kidnappers were known, vicious killers. Both of them heavily involved in the drug trade and terrorism. The news didn’t report that she killed both of them with her bare hands. She may be sixteen, but it’s likely she’s psychotic. Didn’t you ever wonder why the Thompson family never brought her around? As best as we can figure, this was some kind of deal gone bad. These are not nice people we’re dealing with.”

  “But what about a trial? Bringing her into custody? Why would you—?”

  Leslie shook his head. “Sometimes, we can’t do things all nice and clean and neat. That’s what it means to be in a position of power. You have to make decisions that are the best for all. You know that. Your father knew it too. But the thing is … I can’t sit around and wring my fingers and worry. I have to take action. Richard knows I’m on to him now, and I fully expect he’s going to do everything he can to take me down. And—Meredith—he’s the acting Secretary of Defense. He has resources at his disposal I can’t even dream of.”

  “Are you in some kind of danger?” She didn’t like the way her voice rose at the end of the sentence. It spoke of fear and anxiety and dependency.

  He sipped his coffee, and from the set of his lips and eyebrow, she knew he was taking the question seriously. Finally, he nodded and said, “Yes. I’d say I’m in danger. Both professionally and personally. And it’s essential I deal with that danger.”

  “I don’t see—”

  He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Meredith, Richard Thompson is a dangerous, ruthless man. He’s at the top of his career, and he won’t put up with any threats. He’s right next to the President of the United States. If I don’t deal with this, it’s not just me in danger, dear. It’s the country. It’s the President. Now you tell me. What would your father say if he was still alive?”

  She swallowed. Of course he was right. She knew Richard. She’d seen, at a few dinner parties over the years, how dominant he was. How occasionally he would say something to Adelina with just the right tone and she would go silent. Terrified of her husband. A husband Meredith knew was cold as ice. They’d been acquaintances over the years—friends even. But they’d never gotten too close. The Thompsons weren’t people you got that close to, because it was clear that they only opened up so far.

  She sucked in a breath and took a sip of her coffee. Then she said, “Leslie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear anything, and what I did overhear was none of my business. I trust you. I know you’ll do what’s right.”

  Leslie looked at her and said, “You’re going to see a lot in the papers in the next few days and weeks about them. Things that will seem crazy—even unbelievable. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “Trust me, Meredith.”

  “Of course.”

  He took her hand and gave her a smile. But it wasn’t warm. Then he turned away, walking back to his office down the hall. Undoubtedly, he would close the soundproof door.

  She turned back toward the window. The barest edge of the sunrise was visible above the trees, just a slight lightening of the sky. In another hour it would be completely light. Leslie would be gone to work by then, and she had a meeting this morning to plan the annual Tour of Homes.

  Time to put Richard Thompson and his family out of her mind.

  Crank. May 2. 9:25 am.

  Crank’s eyes jerked open when he felt the wheels of the plane touch down with a loud screech, the tiny jet bouncing and bumping down the runway at Stafford Regional Airport forty miles south of Washington, DC. Instantly awake and craving a cigarette, he slid up the plastic window cover and looked outside.

  The sky was ominous, banks of grey and black clouds forming a roof above them. It had been nearly one o’clock in the morning in California before they finally got off the ground, and the second half of the flight had been interrupted by stomach-wrenching turbulence. Five and a half hours later, plus three time zones, and it was already mid-morning here.

  Across the aisle from him, Julia stirred, sitting up. Crank looked outside as the plane taxied to the end of the runway and turned to the left. From here he could see Interstate 95, w
hich they would take to get into the DC area.

  It was a parking lot. Lines of cars were backed up, unmoving, as far as the eye could see. A moment later the plane turned again to taxi back toward the general aviation terminal, and the view shifted to blissful, peaceful woods, hangers and warehouses. No traffic. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. Soon enough, Crank would be stuck in that traffic.

  “What time is it?” Julia groaned. This despite the fact that she already had her phone out and was checking her email.

  Crank didn’t answer. He recognized the expression already on her face—a line, slightly off center, creasing her forehead. She was irritated about something.

  “What the hell?” she muttered. She started dialing her phone.

  “Problems?” Anthony said.

  Crank looked back over his shoulder. The Washington Post reporter was sitting in the seat behind Crank, covering his mouth as he yawned. His eyes were red and puffy.

  “I don’t know,” Crank replied. “Seems like everything’s problems lately.”

  He stopped talking as Julia finally reached whoever she’d been calling.

  “Mary, it’s Julia. Talk to me.”

  Quiet, as Julia listened. Her expression grew more severe, then in a high pitched, strained tone she said, “What do you mean they’re taking everything?”

  Crank met Anthony’s eyes. That didn’t sound good at all. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever discuss with a reporter, but they had been shot at and nearly blown up together the previous night. If he couldn’t trust Anthony Walker at this point, they had even bigger problems than he’d imagined.