Checkmate (36 page)

PART V

The Fourth
Statue

6:34 p.m.

Tessa was in the hospital room alone with Brineesha and Tryphena, who lay sleeping in the bassinet beside the bed.

Ralph and Lien-hua had stepped out to make a few calls. Tony, who'd spent the past two hours there, had left to stay the night at his friend's house.

Now, as Tessa watched the news with Brineesha, neither of them said a word.

FBI Director Wellington was giving a news conference about the train wreck in Charlotte. The Director didn't mention names, but Tessa had spoken with Lien-hua before she left the room so she knew about Patrick's role.

She also knew that her dad was flying back tonight. Lien-hua was planning to pick him up from Dulles at nine.

Tessa had tried calling him twice.

He hadn't answered.

Director Wellington finished up by fielding some rather pointed questions from the press about the Bureau's response to the incident.

“Why was the FBI even involved in this?” one reporter asked. “Rather than FEMA?”

“We were in contact with FEMA officials, but counterterrorism is our mission, not theirs. FEMA responds to disasters. We do all we can to stop them.”

They asked her about the culpability of the Bureau in regard to her decision to approve the intentional wrecking of a train carrying hazardous materials through a major metropolitan city, and she noted that the wreck had averted a far greater disaster. “This event resulted in no fatalities and, from all available data, that would not be the case if we had not acted when we did to stop M343.”

Before closing, she accepted one final question: “You've announced that you're running for Virginia's First District congressional seat next term. How do you think your handling of this situation will impact your political career?”

She replied without hesitation, “There are some things that are more important than a political career. Protecting innocent lives is at the top of that list. Thank you for your time.”

Then she stepped away from the podium, the press conference wrapped up, and Brineesha said to Tessa, “I do believe Director Wellington is going to be known for that quote. Whatever her political career ends up being, that statement is going to stick with her.”

It wasn't such a bad sentiment to have associated with your name: protecting innocent lives as being more important than a political career.

Tessa was just surprised it'd come from Director Wellington. It sounded more like something Patrick would say.

She tried calling him again.

He didn't pick up.

*   *   *

Lien-hua returned, invited Tessa out for dinner, and they walked down the street to a Thai place near the hospital.

The construction crew that had been there all day was setting up to work into the night. Under the glare of bright work lights, one of them was hooking up the hose of an industrial-strength pressure washer.

To Tessa, it brought back a bad memory.

She'd helped Patrick pressure wash the back deck and the porch earlier in the summer and knew that, depending on the tip you used at the end of the hose and your proximity, you could score concrete with one of those things.

She'd been wearing flip-flops that day and had made the mistake of getting her left foot under the stream for just an instant. The jet of water had ripped through her skin.

Thank God she hadn't had the narrow-stream-tip-thing on there. It probably would've taken off one of her toes. Grossed her out just thinking about it.

Move past that, girl.

You're about to eat supper.

Tessa and Lien-hua found a booth in the back of the restaurant, just like she'd done with Beck.

You should be getting used to sitting with your back up against the wall by now.

As those words rolled through her mind, there seemed to be deeper meaning to them, but at the moment she wasn't quite sure what it was.

After they'd ordered their food, Lien-hua said, “Just so you know, Pat's going to be on administrative leave when he gets back.”

“For what? Working with Basque?”

Lien-hua looked at her curiously.

“Brineesha and I have been watching the news.”

“They reported about Basque?”

“I pieced a few things together.”

“Well, yes. Your dad is on leave for working with Richard Basque.”

They were both quiet. As the only two women to survive being abducted by that man, they shared a deep, harrowing connection with each other—but it was something neither of them liked to bring up or talk about.

Tessa took a sip of her root beer. “But no one died in the train wreck and, from what they're saying, that wouldn't have been the case if they hadn't acted—if Patrick hadn't acted.”

“That's true. Hundreds of people—thousands, actually—were at risk of losing their lives.”

“That should count for something, right?”

Lien-hua seemed to be balancing out how to reply. “Things don't always count for what they should.”

“So, basically, for Patrick, today both rocked and sucked at the same time.”

“I think that's not a bad way of putting things.”

The food came. The two of them ate in relative silence, and finally Tessa said, “I haven't called Beck yet, by the way. I don't know if I'm going to.”

“Well, if you are, I'd suggest you do so before your dad gets home.”

“Why's that?”

“Pat's going to have a lot on his mind.” Lien-hua left it at that.

“Yeah.” Tessa wasn't sure that really answered her question, but it didn't seem like the right time to probe. “I guess he will.” Then she asked, “Is my dad going to be okay?”

Lien-hua didn't answer right away. “Yes. He will. He'll be
okay.”

While Lien-hua stepped away from the table to use the restroom, Tessa took out her cell phone and stared at it.

Despite her reluctance to talk on the phone, she needed to actually talk to Beck—not just text him—if she was going to find any closure on this.

A sigh.

A decision.

And then, at last, she went ahead and tapped in his number.

Three rings later he answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, it's Tessa.”

“Tessa?”

“Yeah. Don't hang up.”

“How did you get this number?”

“That doesn't matter.” But as soon as she'd said those words, she realized that they might not serve to get this conversation off on the right foot. “I got it off Lien-hua's phone. Listen, can we talk? I mean, face-to-face?”

“You can't call me, Tessa.”

“I just want to straighten things out. The way they ended last night, the way . . . Well, if you'll meet with me just this once, then you never have to talk to me again. Just don't blow me off. Please don't blow me off.”

A pause. “I'm on an assignment.”

“Until when? When do you get off?”

“I won't be done until nine or ten tonight.”

“That's fine.” She really did not want to wait until tomorrow. “That'll work.”

“Where will you be?”

“I'm not sure if I'll be at home or at the hospital.”

“It might be better if we didn't meet at your house.”

“Um, yeah. Okay.”

“I'll text you when I'm done here. You can let me know where you want to get together.”

“Okay. I'll see you soon.”

“I'll see you soon, Tessa.”

+ + + +

It took Kurt Mason two stops before he found a grocery store that carried balloons with the message on them that he was looking for.

He purchased one and jumped back on the highway, then, once he was on his way, he called ahead to his person in DC. “I'm going to be needing you after all.”

“And then you'll bring her home?”

“Yes.”

“When do you need me there?”

“Nine thirty.”

“And then all this will be over?”

“Yes. Then all this will be over.”

I spent the flight deep in thought.

I ran through what had happened today: dropping Ralph off at the airport this morning, the briefing at the Field Office, the research with Professor O'Brien, meeting with Richard Basque . . . almost catching Mason at the house.

Almost.

And then the flurry of activity as we tried to stop the train to avert a catastrophic anhydrous ammonia spill.

We almost succeeded there too.

Almost.

That seemed to be the refrain for the day.

You almost caught Mason, almost caught Basque, almost stopped the train before it derailed.

Yeah, and you almost kept your promise to Lien-hua about upholding your integrity—but then you chose to work with Basque, agreed to leave him alone with Mason.

I told myself that there was a good reason for it—saving people's lives.

But maybe I was just trying to justify my choice—which was something I've never been very good at.

How much of your integrity are you willing to give up in your quest to save others?

All of it, I suppose, based on the choices I'd made earlier today.

In addition to the case, I had some unfinished personal business, including telling Sherry Ritterman the truth
about what her husband had said to me right before he died: the message that he was sorry about Iris.

And also, I felt like I'd left things unresolved with Tessa.

Before leaving DC, I'd explained to her that I was going to be leaving someone to watch over her and she'd told me, “You're gonna owe me big-time for this.”

Yes, she was eighteen and she was a pretty self-reliant girl, but still, I felt responsible for her and couldn't help but want to do all I could to make sure she was safe.

Now as I thought about her, I recalled the day when she first told me she was going to refer to me as her father.

“Okay, I'm going to officially call you Dad from here on out.”

“I'd like that.”

“Not my stepdad—although I reserve the right to still call you Patrick.”

“Fair enough.”

“But this job of being a dad comes with a lot of responsibility.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So if I ever get married—which I actually doubt, because every guy I go out with ends up being a total loser, but if I do—you'll walk down the aisle with me?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll be there for me if I ever get malaria or scurvy or something?”

“Malaria or scurvy?”

“I'm just saying.”

“I'll be there no matter what. If you need me, I don't care where I am in the world, you need me, you call me, and I'll be on the next flight. You have my word.”

I stared out the window at the clouds.

I wanted things to be cool with her.

Take some time. Sort things out when you get home.

The clouds were billowing into ominous thunderheads that somehow served to shift my attention back to the case.

Currently, we had no leads on Mason or Basque and I knew that more suffering was on its way unless we could come up with something soon.

So, administrative leave or not, I wasn't going to rest until that situation was resolved.

Now seven gods use thirty-eight.

What does that mean?

To Mason everything is significant; it's all part of the story he's telling.

Every detail matters.

Every.

Detail.

Matters.

The case appeared to be all about the train, but I've been in this business long enough to know that when something seems obvious you should be very careful—all too often there's a deeper truth that's running under the surface and things aren't what they at first appear to be.

He told me the climax would be tonight. I just had to figure out what that was going to
be.

Kurt Mason arrived in DC and drove through the industrial district to the abandoned building on 669 Pine Street, where he'd kept his captive locked in the basement since last Sunday afternoon.

He'd chained her ankle to the bed, but had left enough food and water for her to survive for ten days. There was plenty of air. It was warm enough. She wasn't in any danger of dying of hypothermia.

He wasn't interested in torturing her or making her suffer. He'd even left a television and a stack of DVDs down there to help her pass the time. No, he just wanted to make sure she wasn't going to go anywhere.

After confirming that no one else was in the vicinity, he entered the building and knocked on the door.

He heard her crying.

Okay.

She was still alive.

Good enough.

He was the only one who knew she was here.

If anything happened to him she would be left there, locked up. Secure. Until she ran out of food and water.

And life.

He returned to the SUV and left for the place where the climax was going to occur.

9:01 p.m.

*   *   *

After we touched down, I found Lien-hua waiting for me at the curb in her Infiniti Q60 Coupe.

She informed me that Brin was hoping we could swing by tonight so I could see Tryphena before visiting hours ended at ten.

At this time of day it would normally be about a thirty-five-minute drive to the hospital. However, with Lien-hua behind the wheel, we would probably be talking more along the lines of twenty-five.

My cell was still at the bottom of that Rudisill mine shaft, so I borrowed my wife's to call Sherry Ritterman.

“This is Patrick Bowers. Yes, listen; I'm sorry to be calling at this time of night. I need to . . . Well, I'm wondering if we could meet? . . . No, we haven't caught Mason. It's . . . Well, if we could talk in person? . . . Tomorrow afternoon should be fine. Yes, thanks. Two o'clock at your house? Alright.”

Then I phoned my daughter to clear the air.