Desert Dark (30 page)

“I'm Amanda Downing,” she told the receptionist. “I'm here for a visit.”

“Yes, Miss Downing.” The receptionist waved toward a man in white. White coat, white pants, white shoes. “He'll show you the way.”

Libby followed her guide down the carpeted hall. Sconces lined the wall and cast soft light along the crown molding. Small tables held generous vases full of flowers. Each door was numbered with a silver plate.

Libby's stomach twisted in knots.
It'll be different this time. Look at this place—fit for royalty
.

He stopped in front of 147 and knocked firmly. A minute later he said, “Let's check the atrium.”

At the end of the hall the ceiling vaulted skyward, and Libby entered the glass room. Leather sofas and chairs were arranged informally, pulled together for clients and guests. Large, lush
plants gave the room a tropical feel. A waiter circulated, holding a tray of bottled waters.

“She's right over there.” The man pointed. “You want me to take you?”

“No. Thank you,” she said quietly. Libby smoothed her soft wool skirt and adjusted the cornflower blue sweater hanging over her shoulders. She took a deep, shaky breath and began a slow walk to the far end of the room. When she reached her destination she kneeled. She put her hand on the woman's leg and searched her perfect, unlined face.

“Oh for God's sake,” the woman said with a heavy Southern drawl. “Get
off
that filthy floor.”

Libby smiled and squeezed her hand. “Hi, Momma. It's so good to see you.”

A few hours later, Libby and her momma ordered lunch by the pool.

A young woman in a white lab coat approached. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Downing. Are we still on for your four o'clock massage?”

“Like I have something better to do?”

“Excellent.” She smiled. “If you're interested, I have an opening for a facial immediately following.”

Caroline Bishop turned her full attention to the woman. “I did not care for last week's. I looked like I'd been out in the sun picking cotton all day.”

The aesthetician's voice was soothing. “Hmm. Let's try our restorative facial, with organic chamomile, licorice root and white willow powder. It will be perfect for your porcelain skin.”

“Oh, that sounds nice, doesn't it, Momma?” Libby asked.

“Fine.”

“Remember to arrive a few minutes early so you'll have time to enjoy a glass of cucumber water in the Relaxation Garden.”

“A courtyard thick with orchids does not a Relaxation Garden make,” Mrs. Bishop said as the woman left the table.

The waiter arrived with their entrées: roasted pork tenderloin with apricot chutney and grilled Alaskan salmon on a bed of black lentils.

“This smells wonderful,” Libby said.

“I'm still waitin' on my iced tea,” her momma said sharply.

“Oh—I'm so sorry—I completely forgot. I'll bring it right out.”

She snorted as he walked away. “He
forgot
. Like he has so many other more important things to do than bring me my damn tea.”

“It was an accident, Momma. I'm sure it'll be right out. You want my water? I just opened it.”

“I hate this place. It's a
hell
hole.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Libby looked across the lush lawn, past the tennis courts, to the line of mesquite trees at the far end of the property.

“I don't belong here. These people—they have
real
problems.”

“I'm really proud of you for being here.”

Mrs. Bishop leaned forward and grabbed Libby's knee. “You tell your father if he does not get me out of here I will make his life very unpleasant.”

“No, Momma. I'm not gonna do that.”

“Whose side are you on?” she hissed as she yanked her hand away. Libby winced as her mother's nails raked across her thigh.

The orderly who'd escorted Libby to her mother arrived with a tray of paper cups. “Here you are, Caroline,” he said cheerfully. He held one out. Inside were three colorful pills.

Her mother glared at him. “Caroline? What, are we sleepin' together? You may address me as Mrs. Bi—”

“Downing!” Libby interrupted. “She prefers to be called Mrs.
Downing
, if you don't mind.” Libby took the cup from his outstretched hand.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Downing.”

“Well. Go on, then!” Her momma waved him away like she was
shooing flies. “Wait—fetch me that umbrella before you go. This desert sun has not been kind to my daughter's fair complexion.”

“Oh—I'm fine,” Libby said.

“No, darling. You are
not
. Sun damage, like a wealthy husband, is easy to acquire, but most difficult to rid oneself of. Look at Juan over here.” She gestured to the orderly.

“Momma!” Libby's face burned hot.

“Mrs. Downing, my name is Caesar, as is clearly printed on my name tag.”

Mrs. Bishop continued as though he hadn't spoken. “His face is terribly mottled. And once you lose your looks . . . well, it's all downhill from there.”

An awkward silence fell.

“
Why
are you still here?” Mrs. Bishop asked Caesar.

“I am required to stay until you take your medication.”

“Well, that is unfortunate, because I take my pills after I eat, and I don't
eat
with the
help
.”

Libby covered her face with her hands.
Thank the good Lord I brought plenty of cash. I'll be tipping heavily on my way out
.

“I don't need to watch you eat; just take your pills so I can be on my way.”

“I would love to, but maybe you've noticed I find myself without a beverage?”

“Here, Momma. Please,
please
, just take mine.”

“Fine.”
Her mother dumped the contents of the paper cup into her mouth, then stuck out her tongue to show the orderly she'd swallowed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Downing. Enjoy your lunch.”

After he walked away Libby turned to her mother. She wanted to tell her off, yell at her for being so awful to that poor man, but that was not something Libby was permitted to do. “You know, it's this quarrelsome attitude that got you here in the first place. He's just doing his job.”

“Your father is what got me here. He searched for the farthest
place from Washington he could find. Far away from him. He's ashamed of me. I can't even use my real name!”

“Momma, that is not true. I begged Daddy to send you here! I wanted you close to me, in case you needed anything. In case he was out of the country or something.” This was a flat-out lie. Her daddy had told her it was time to soldier-up. And her mission was caring for her momma. “And he registered you under a different name so that when this is all over, you can go back to being who you were without anyone having to know. Remember, Momma? How much fun we used to have?”

“Do not be naïve, Liberty Grace. It is not
my
good name he's tryin' to protect. He's ashamed to have anyone know his wife's in the nuthouse.”

“Not true. And it's not the nuthouse, Momma.” Libby sighed and slipped off her sweater. “Lots of people get help for things like this. It's not like when Nana was your age.”

“No. He's ashamed of his drunk wife. How's that gonna look if he's tapped as the VP?”

“He's not thinking of accepting that offer anymore.”

Her mother looked stricken. “Because of me.”

“No, Momma. It's not because of you.”
Not everything is about you
. Libby paused as a couple strolled past their table. She leaned in and whispered, “It's because he's thinking about going against his party. Daddy's thinking of running for President.”

Her mother sat back in her chair, silent for the first time in Libby's life.

“I don't understand why you couldn't tell me,” Nadia said to Libby. “Why you went to so much trouble to lie—disguising yourself, using a fake ID. I mean, you can see how that looks, right?”

“First of all, I'd all but forgotten Alan's story about a traitor. No offense to him, but I don't always take him seriously. He's a bit of a drama queen, bless his heart.”

Nadia nodded, conceding Libby's point.

“Secondly, in about two years, I may well be the most recognizable teenager in America. Which, by the way, means all my time here is wasted.” Libby's eyes flooded again.

“Not at all! You can do a lot of things with the CIA that don't involve clandestine services. Don't worry about that.”

“Nadia. It's Black-Ops. It's all clandestine!”

“Well, maybe you could—”

“But most of all,” Libby continued, “appearances mean everything to my family. A public scandal would be absolutely horrifying. My daddy's career'd be over—my momma would
never
recover. I had to wear a disguise.” She clutched Nadia's hands. “No one can find out about my momma.”

“A lot of people go to rehab. I don't think it has the same stigma it used to.”

“You don't know a lot about politics, do you?”

“I don't,” Nadia admitted.

“Daddy's opponents will claim marrying a lush demonstrates a lack of good judgment. If he can't sort out his personal affairs, how's he gonna run the country? He can't even keep his own house in order!”

“I guess I didn't think of it that way.”

“And my mother, she would be absolutely mortified if anyone found out. You have to
swear to God
you will not tell another living soul about
any
of this—not even Sensei.”

Nadia stared into Libby's pleading eyes. “Of course I won't. You have my word.”

Libby sighed and looked at the ground. “So. That's it, then. You know the whole, ugly, sordid truth.”

“And I love you just as much as I did an hour ago.”

Libby threw her arms around Nadia. “I'm so sorry I didn't tell you. Withholding the truth is just as bad as lying, and I promise you, I will never lie to you again.”

Nadia returned her roommate's hug.
Speaking of lies of omission
 . . . She wanted so much to confide in Libby—about her fake boyfriend, the frame job, her conversation with the Dean. But she couldn't without disobeying a direct order. Not to mention causing a lot of trouble for Sensei.

And, really, Libby had enough on her plate.

Saturday evening Nadia met Jack in front of Hopi Hall. He'd pulled a dark sedan out of the parking lot. He closed her door and climbed into the driver's seat.

“You're wearing your earrings.”

“Libby made me.”

“They look great.”

“I was going to flush them down the toilet, but I think I might hock them instead.”

He ignored her. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah?” she said, avoiding his gaze.

“I'm convinced you're not the double agent.”

Nadia rolled her eyes. “I don't care what you think, Jack.”

“But Dean Wolfe is not so sure,” he continued.

Her head whipped around to face him. “What—why?”

“I don't know. But I thought if you and I worked together we could figure it out.” Jack stared at her.

Nadia thought about it for a moment before shaking her head. “You know what? I don't believe a single word that comes out of your mouth. This whole thing,” she waved her finger back and forth between them, “is a total lie, and it has been from the start.”

“Nadia, believe me or not—I don't care, but the facts are the facts. You're under suspicion, and I still have orders to watch you. Telling you like this—disobeying a
direct order
—it goes against everything I believe in. And if you repeat this conversation to the Dean of Students I'll probably be expelled. My future is literally in your hands.”

“Then why
are
you telling me?”

He took a deep breath. “I believe you're innocent. Dean Wolfe seems to have concerns about Marcus Sloan and you're caught in the crossfire. I care about you. And if I don't help you, we might never learn the truth. And if we don't learn the truth, the security of our country is at stake.”

She studied his face.
He looks sincere. But his kisses seemed real too
. “I would have to be a complete idiot to trust you again.”

“Fine, but I still want to find the actual traitor and I need your help. Who's been in your room besides you and Libby?”

“You.”

Jack blushed. “Who else?”

Alan. He's the only one. Could it be? Maybe his I-cannot-tell-a-lie bit is a complete act. But he told the truth about Jack intercepting my dead drop. Wait a minute—maybe he only knew because he was the one sent to collect it
.

What if Alan went to get the disc and instead saw Jack taking it? So he came to my room and mentioned it to test my reaction—to see
if I'd told Jack about the drop. He lied about having a crush on me as a distraction, to deflect the situation so my guard would be down when he asked about the disc
.

Nadia looked out the passenger side window.
It could be Alan. I caught him leaving our dorm Sunday after Thanksgiving. Was he in my room?

“Nadia? Who else?”

But what about Libby? Do I believe her story? So her mom's in rehab—big deal. Betty Ford was an alcoholic—it's not like Mrs. Bishop would be the first First Lady to hit the bottle. Libby put on a convincing show, but is that all it was?

Nadia glanced at Jack.
It might be him. He's lied about everything. Maybe he's lying about Dean Wolfe. I caught him in my room—maybe he was planting the airline ticket, not finding it
. She sighed.

Is there anyone I can trust?