The Survivors (26 page)

Suddenly the street was empty. One second the figure was there, then
poof
, vanished. I visualized the block in my mind. There was a short dead-end street somewhere around here. Maybe the driver had ducked in there. I hurried to catch up, and that was my first mistake.

A street lamp lit the mouth of the dead end. I was in full light as I came under it. Back in the farthest corner, there was just enough of a glow for me to see movement. The figure stopped for a split second, then was swallowed up by the darkness.

I could turn around, go back to the Acura and get the license plate number. That way I wouldn't come away empty handed. But to hell with it. My apartment had been broken into, and my office. I could imagine how good it would feel to get my hands on whoever was behind all that.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Come here. I want to talk to you.”

I heard footsteps moving away fast.

I followed cautiously to give my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. At the end of the street were two stone townhomes. Between them was a gap about a foot and a half wide. This was the only place the Acura man could have gone.

I had to turn sideways to fit in the passageway, and the darkness was so deep I couldn't see anything. I felt my way down the walls, hoping there was nothing to trip over. I couldn't understand why there wasn't light coming from the far end. Then my knuckles hit a corner. The passage made a jag there. Once past the turns, I could see faintly. I picked up the pace, almost running. My second mistake.

I came out in a small fenced area, someone's back courtyard. The gate was open a few inches. There was my car, and the balcony of my apartment. It was a complete surprise to me because I'd never noticed the gap in the buildings.

I stopped to listen, and then—no warning at all—I was sprawled on the ground. I heard footsteps thudding away. I was up on my hands and knees before I realized I'd been hit. The back of my head started pounding, and for a few seconds everything was black as I almost passed out.

After a deep breath, I was able to get to my feet. I hadn't been aware of that little passageway between the townhomes, but I still knew the neighborhood pretty well. That was my advantage. That, and how angry I was.

I came out on Church Street, in front of St. Thomas' Parish. Up and down the street I couldn't see anyone. That meant he must have gone into the next alley, beyond the church. I sprinted down it, and, as I came out, I stopped and caught the faint sound of footsteps. Hurrying, but not running.

There was a convenience store on the corner with trash bins parked on the side. I ducked around them and out to P Street. There, my first real glimpse. He had on a dark sweatshirt and jeans and a dark ball cap pulled low. He must have heard me, because his head turned so he could look back out of the corner of his eye. Damn, I wished the light had been better.

He started to run.

“Hey, you!” I yelled—foolishly because he obviously wasn't going to stop. I took off after him.

We were close to Dupont Circle now. There were people around, and when they saw me they stepped out of the way, keeping their eyes down, minding their own business.

I lost sight of him at the next corner and picked him up again as he crossed the street by the Women's National Democratic Club. There was a garden at the edge of the property. Saving a few yards, I cut through under the trees.

Through the branches, I saw the ball cap. I came out on the sidewalk—“Stop!”—and made a long reach to grab a shoulder. That threw me off balance, and I tumbled. Even before I hit the ground, I knew I'd made a mistake.

My back thudded against a parked car. Then a hand smacked me in the cheek. “Get off!” someone shouted. A woman's voice. She'd gone down with me. I felt her foot digging for my groin.

I pushed her back. “Sorry. I didn't mean . . .”

We sat up, face to face.

Jamie Weston glared at me. “What the
hell
do you think you're doing?”

TWENTY-SIX

“W
ell?” Weston said. “You just tackle people at random?”

“There was a man here. You didn't see him?”

“There was nobody here.”

A woman stood on the opposite corner of the intersection. She'd seen the whole thing and had her phone in her hand. About to call the police, I figured.

“We're OK,” I yelled. “No problem.”

“Speak for yourself,” Weston muttered. She rubbed her shoulder and reached to pick up her hat.

“Where did you get that?” I said. It had a logo that said “Quantico Stars.”

“A softball team I played on, why?”

“The man I was trying to catch had a hat like that . . . black anyway.”

“So it's not random. You tackle everyone with a black hat.”

“No, not everyone.” I wasn't sure smiling was the right thing to do, but I gave it a try. She broke into a laugh.

There was a tiny smear of blood next to her lip where she'd scraped her cheek. I pointed at it.

She swiped it with her knuckle and, with a tough-girl shrug, wiped it off in the grass.

I put my hand out for her.

She was lighter than I expected and popped to her feet, pressed against me. I could feel the pace of her breathing. “You sure you're all right?”

She held my eyes and smiled. “You'll have to hit me a lot harder than that to break me, cowboy.”

We headed toward my apartment. “You were out for a run?” I said. She had on a T-shirt and running tights and bright-yellow trainers.

She held up for a moment. “You didn't get my message.”

“I . . . I saw it but didn't listen.”

“You didn't listen to me? That figures.” She started walking again. “I called to tell you we need to talk. When I didn't hear back I went for a ride on the Metro. I decided to get off at Dupont Circle and check to see if you were home.”

“I do that too. Ride the Metro. It helps me think.”

“Really? And what are these great thoughts you think?” She was walking so close our arms touched.

“That if we need to talk, something must be wrong.”

“You got that right.”

We were approaching the front steps of my building. “You really didn't see a man back there?” I said. “Jeans, sweatshirt, dark hat. He definitely was following me—until I started chasing him.”

“Maybe somebody went by on the other side of the street. Just before you hit me, I was checking to see if you'd texted me.”

I glanced down. “You can carry a phone in that outfit?”

She laughed. “And maybe a gun, too, so watch out.” Then her face became cloudy. “You really shouldn't be chasing anybody. That's not too smart now.”

I headed up the steps to the door. “Let's go in and talk about it.”

“It's nice outside. Let's stay here.”

I was surprised and a little disappointed. I would have enjoyed a quiet talk together, just getting to know each other. In an odd way that was because I'd tackled her, and she treated it as if it was just one of life's little bumps. A stupid accident to be laughed off. I didn't think she could fake that. For the first time, I was feeling relaxed with her.

She sat on the bottom step, and I sat next to her. “I've got orders to bring Scott Glass in. They're going to take him for an interrogation. Not just a psych evaluation, but the full dress down.”

“I thought we had this all worked out. Eric Russo wanted—”

“Russo's got nothing to say about it now. Glass is going to be interrogated by pros. They'll find out if he's part of some kind of network. When we pick him up, we're to treat him as armed and dangerous.”

“You think he's a master criminal or something?”

“I don't think. I just have my orders.”

“Come on, what's really going on?”

“I can only guess, and I'm not sure I want to do that.”

“When did all this happen?” I said.

“I got the call from my boss at seven o'clock.”

That was right after I'd seen Markaris. “You met with Howard Markaris this morning. I saw him a few hours ago. How much clout do he and the rest of the people at Braeder really have?”

“OK, sure. They've got the juice to get something like this done. So say that's it. This is Braeder's game. What the hell did you say to Markaris to get him to turn the heat up so much?”

I rubbed my hands together, fighting the urge to scratch my wrist. It was time to give her the truth—all of it. “I don't think it's what I said to him that set him off. It's who I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“My name hasn't always been Cal Henderson. When I was a kid I was David Oakes. Scott Glass was my best friend, and my mother shot him.”

I waited for her body to tense. Maybe she'd jump up, start cursing at me.

Instead, she laughed softly. “I wondered when you were going to tell me.”

I leaned away to look at her. “You knew?”

“I do my homework, Doctor Henderson. I knew who you were before I ever met you.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“I figured I'd give you enough rope, maybe you'd hang yourself.” I kept staring and she sighed. “That's not really it. Maybe it was the first time we met. After that . . . there's been something wrong about this whole thing from the beginning. Too much pressure from the top. Too many alpha dogs sticking their noses in. It should be no big deal: find Glass and make sure he's no threat. So why all the interest? Why don't they just let me do my damn job?”

She realized she'd raised her voice, so she paused to quiet herself. Something about her body changed, too, a softening of the muscles in her back and shoulders. Like me, her defenses finally were coming down.

“It just makes me angry as hell. It's all supposed to be about law enforcement, not idiots running around playing political games.”

I looked away at the houses across the street. “Have you always had trouble with authority?”

She shot me a look, then gave a brittle laugh. “I had a shrink once, during my training at Quantico. He was good, but not as good as you.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “My father was in the Air Force. Master sergeant, maintenance crew. For him, everything had to fit into a nice neat slot . . . even his little girl. Even if she didn't want to.”

And that was a nice, neat explanation for what was probably a very messy childhood.

“So you don't like your boss pushing you around.”

“No, I don't. But that's beside the point.” She bent farther forward, looking at her shoes. “I liked the way you stood up to Cade the first time we met, and I like the way you've tried to look out for your friend. You shouldn't get chewed up in this. It doesn't seem fair.”

I wanted to squeeze her hand to show her how much that meant to me, but the way she was huddled in on herself told me that wouldn't be right. I just said, “Thanks.”

She shrugged, then turned to look at me over her shoulder. “Did your mother really shoot your dad and your brothers?”

“She did. And then I watched her shoot herself.”

“That really, really sucks.”

“Yes it does.”

We spent the next half hour talking. I told her about my mother's work at Braeder and her getting fired. I told her about the connections I'd made so far—Ned Bowles, and Eric and Charlene Russo, and Lois McGuin. I liked the way Weston listened. She sat very still, nodding when she understood some point I was trying to make, but otherwise just absorbing it all.

“All right,” she said when I was done. “Step-by-step there could be an innocent explanation for everything. Maybe Eric Russo really doesn't remember your mother. It was a long time ago. And Ned Bowles firing her—that could have been a misunderstanding or somebody lost their temper. No matter what the circumstances, it amounts to a lot of stress on your mother. You must have thought about whether that would be enough to make her get a gun, do what she did.”