Forgotten Witness (30 page)

“Could I just kill whoever was so damn interested in what I did when I was a kid?” she asked.

“Not an option, Lydia.”

“All right then. I suppose I’d say ‘sorry, I was young’. If that didn’t work then I’d spin the hell out of it until everyone was so dizzy they didn’t know what they were looking at.”

Ambrose smiled. She was so wise. He said: “You look particularly lovely tonight, my dear.”

He kissed his wife and counted himself a lucky man. Lydia kissed him back and then looked out the window again. Now, she was really worried.

***

Josie swayed with the pitch and roll as the Molokai ferry made its way across the blustery ocean. Her head rested against the wall, her arms were crossed, and her feet planted on the worn floor inside the cabin she shared with a few other travelers. This time Stephen made no attempt to accompany her and she was glad. He could spend his time hunting down a chemist to look at the medicine packets and she would have some time to think.

Josie thought about Judge Mohr’s understanding of Hannah’s predicament, his concern for Emily’s state of mind since her episode in the jungle, and his admiration for the plan Josie had given him for Emily’s care when she got to Hermosa Beach. She couldn’t have asked for a better judge. She only wished her petition had remained her biggest problem. It wasn’t.

The boat pitched. The woman next to Josie gasped and put her hand to her heart. Josie gave her a quick smile that she hoped was reassuring, rolled her head against the wall, and looked at the other unhappy passengers. Deciding the quarters were too close, Josie minced her way out to the deck and fell onto one of the benches just in time for a rollercoaster drop. She breathed deeply and turned her face into the needles of spray instead of away from it. Molokai rose from the sea, its lush mountains veiled in the mist. Alone on the deck, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from going back to the fly in the ointment: her father.

Upstanding, trustworthy, the brave warrior and selfless father was also a liar if Archer was right about his discharge. And if he lied about his service, logic dictated that he lied about Emily. Even if it was by omission, that was a vile thing to do. She understood why he wouldn’t want to visit some horror on a child but Josie was a grown woman and a lawyer when he passed. She would not have been devastated by a deathbed revelation.

It was the knowledge of her father’s deception that made Josie reconsider the situation she found herself in. She no longer wanted to give up and go home because now there were amends to be made. Maybe not on behalf of her father, but because she had spent so many years placing blame at her mother’s feet. For that, Josie was truly sorry and she would make it up to Emily. Toward that end, she braved the unfriendly sea to keep her visitation appointment. She was determined not to give Judge Mohr or Bernard Reynolds any reason to question her commitment to her mother.

Suddenly, the boat lurched. A wave slammed against the side and every plank shuddered. Josie grabbed onto the cabinet next to her. When the boat started rolling again, she put the hood of her windbreaker up and pulled the drawstrings to close the neck. A few minutes later, the boat entered the harbor. Josie was first off the ferry and inside the Keoloko car when she finally figured out what to do. The idea hit her like a brick. It was so simple Josie couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.

She had questions and they all had to do with the government: Who worked for what agency? What about the discrepancies of her father’s service records? Who really owned the real estate in the middle of a national park? Why did a Department of Defense employee have anything to do with Ha Kuna house? Why was a Canadian scientist employed by the United States government for decades? The list went on and on. The government was an unwieldy beast with a thick bureaucratic skin that seemed impenetrable, but there were people who could cut through it for her.

Josie whipped out her phone, ran through her list of contacts, and pressed the one she wanted. She was so excited by her epiphany she could hardly contain herself. When her call was answered, she said: “Josie Bates calling for Eugene Weller.”

***

Eugene Weller’s conversation with Josie Bates had been surreal. Her call came out of the blue and the sound of her voice unnerved him. She had, of course, been top of mind but only as a concept, just one tab in an ever-expanding file, a name associated with phone numbers in daily reports. She was the grit in his oyster. He had never expected to speak with her again, certainly never expected that she would feel comfortable calling him directly, and definitely certain she wouldn’t feel entitled to a favor.

It had been five minutes since he bade the woman goodbye and he was still paralyzed. His right hand lay atop the telephone, his left was still flat on his desk, his spine was rigid, and his neck muscles so tight he was starting to get a headache.

He sniffed, raising one nostril and then the other. He opened his mouth and stretched it wide and long until his jaw muscles popped. Then he shook himself like a wet dog. He felt the blood starting to flow. Finally, Eugene took his hand off the phone, put his long fingers to his temples and pressed the soft little indentation in his skull. He raised both arms, landed his elbows on the desk and was just about to grasp his pounding head in his upturned palms when he heard the knock, saw the door fly open, and Ann’s compact and competent self walk in.

“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.”

“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

CHAPTER 22

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. He 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.”