The Survivors (43 page)

He pulled up next to my car. “You and Weston and your friend Glass did good tonight. Feel proud about that. But if you start having trouble, if you need someone to talk to, give me a call. We've got people to deal with that sort of thing.” He handed me a business card. Then he gave a low chuckle. “What am I doing, saying something like that to a psychologist?”

He waved as I climbed out, and I watched him roll away.

I sat for a long time behind the wheel of my own car, trying to figure out how I felt. I wasn't tired; I wasn't numb; I wasn't all wound up. I felt empty, almost as if I was hungry. Hungry for what, I wondered?

I put the key in the ignition. As I turned it, I caught sight of my face in the mirror. The right side was speckled with blood. I'd been with those agents for hours, and they hadn't said a thing about it. Maybe they'd seen so much blood in their time they didn't even notice.

After I parked behind my apartment building, I sat for a while more in my car, thinking. That gnawing feeling in my gut—was that because I knew for sure now that my mother wasn't a murderer? That no taint from her had passed down to me? Had I really been worried about that? No, that wasn't it. Whatever was wrong, I couldn't put my finger on it.

Faint tendrils of dawn were showing as I left the car and headed through the alley to the front of my building. I had my eyes down and almost walked right into him.

“Carl? That's your name isn't it?”

He nodded. “Good memory.”

In the dim light, he seemed unbelievably huge. I remembered what Scottie had said when we were waiting outside Ned Bowles's bedroom. “How do we handle him?”

Like a grizzly bear, I decided, and I backed away slowly. Before I'd gone two feet, I heard someone move at the other end of the alley. I had to look twice to make sure of what I was seeing. He was a perfect replica of Carl, except half a foot shorter. Carl Junior.

I said, “Did you guys ever tell your mother you feel her pain?”

Carl had a nervous habit of clenching and unclenching his fists. He stepped very close and said, “Better watch your manners, OK?”

I patted him on the chest. “Ditto for you, big guy.” I knew it wasn't a good idea to be such a smart-mouth, but the whole thing seemed so unreal. Then there was that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. That had changed, grown to something like an angry little flame.

Carl waved to Junior—“Go.”—and Junior went past us to the street. I heard a car door open and close, and Ned Bowles walked into the alley.

He didn't look good, and it wasn't the kind of thing he could fake. His eyes were puffy, and there was a twitch in one cheek where the nerves were firing at random. He had on a polo shirt and pale pants. The white belt was what made the outfit.

“You on your way to meet Tiger Woods?” I said.

Carl used his forearm to shove me against the wall. “Manners!” he hissed.

Bowles shot him a look that made him back away a few steps. Then Bowles moved in front of me. “I want you to know what you've done. Howard Markaris was a good man.”

“Some people would disagree with you on that.”

He shrugged impatiently. “Then they didn't know him the way I did. He was like family to me.”

“That's why he protected you so much.”

“Yes, he did. And now he's dead because you had to stir up a bunch of old mud.”

“It was Markaris who decided to go to the Tidal Basin. He went there for you. He followed you every step of his life, like a puppy dog.”

“You watch what you say, Doctor. I don't—”

I cut him off. “Guilt—Markaris knew that was your big weakness. You can't stand to feel like you screwed up. OK. If you want to blame somebody for Markaris being dead, I'm your guy. I could care less.”

He paced to the end of the alley and back. “I'm trying to be reasonable here, but you're going to get the message. The only reason you're still standing is because of what I thought of your mother. There's a limit to that.”

“Was that a threat? I didn't think you'd stoop that low.”

Carl took a step toward me, but Bowles held him off.

“There,” I said. “That urge to keep me from getting hurt. You wouldn't feel that way just because you fired my mother from her job.” I wasn't sure where I was headed, but I pushed on. It felt good to be firing at him. “You got too close back then. You knew what Markaris and Russo and the rest were up to. You knew exactly why my mother took those plans. You stood back and watched it all play out, and four innocent people ended up dead. That's why you had to come here yourself and not just send these two clowns to deliver your message. Whatever you did back then—twenty-five years ago—it's still eating you alive.”

“You don't have any idea what you're talking about, Doctor.”

“How much of the whole thing was your plan?” I said. “Did you prod Sorensen along? Did you send him to the house that night?”

Right there, I'd finally put a light on it. That gnawing feeling. I knew my mother wasn't a murderer, but that was only the tip of the story. I wanted all of it. Every dirty piece.

“I'm going to find out,” I said. “I'll keep looking and digging and asking questions, until I have it all. And then the whole world is going to learn what you are.”

He blinked and looked away for a second. The laugh he gave was low and mean. “You are like your mother. She always thought she was the only one who knew right and wrong. Well look where it got her.”

The angry flame inside me bloomed. I'd never felt so out of control.

I stepped into the punch, giving it everything. My fist hit just above his lip, flattening his nose. He bounced off the other wall.

It was exhilarating, and it was totally stupid. Carl had me locked in a vise grip before Bowles hit the ground. Junior scooped him up and got him out of there.

Carl spun me a quarter turn and closed his hands around my throat from behind. “Mr. Bowles is too polite,” he said.

“He didn't seem that way to me,” I gagged out.

His hands tightened. I could still breathe, barely, but something else was wrong. My vision was closing in, like a swirling cloud of black. He was cutting the blood to my brain.

“You're not going to bother Mr. Bowles anymore.” He lifted me straight off the ground. “If we see you, if we hear you've been talking to the wrong people—”

I kicked back with all my might, catching him in the kneecap with my heel. He grunted and flung me against the wall. By luck, it was my shoulder that hit, not my head.

While I stood clutching the bricks so I wouldn't fall, he hobbled to the mouth of the alley.

“If we even hear your name, we'll end you. The books are balanced for your family.”

“
No—not even close
,” I rasped.

He stomped out of sight, and the car started and pulled away.

I leaned over, hands on my knees, gasping. I realized I could hear music.
Thump-thump-thump
. Barry White.

Lucinda and Chelsea, there on the other side of the wall.

For some people, life just rolled on.

EPILOGUE

T
im Regis squirmed while Cal looked over the papers he'd brought. Tim was never comfortable in Cal's office. He wouldn't go near the couch, and the chairs were too small for his huge frame.

Cal looked up. “How did you get these?”

“From an investigator I use for trials. And don't worry—the guy owes me a bunch of favors. There's no charge.”

“I'd like to pay him anyway. I told you that when I asked you to look into this.” Cal glanced at the top sheet. “So a week before my father died, he settled up with his ex-partner.”

“Yeah, paid by check from that New York bank account. It's a standard settlement agreement. Your dad gave one hundred ten thousand dollars; Greg Clawson dropped the lawsuit. They dissolved the partnership and agreed not to disclose the terms of the settlement or say anything that might damage the reputation of the other.”

“All right.” Cal shoved the papers aside. “A loose end tied up.”

Tim didn't like the silence that followed. There were too many of those with Cal lately. “So today's the day. Twenty-five years. You going to do anything special?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Maybe hoist a few.”

“I think I'll make a quiet night of it.”

“I thought you'd say that. Look, Cal, if you need—”

A knock came at the door and Tori walked in. Her stride was slinky in spike-heeled, over-the-knee boots. “Sorry I took so long.” She set two cups of coffee on the desk. “There was a line out the door at the coffee shop.” She glanced at Tim. “You're going to need a pry bar to get out of that chair. Why don't you sit on the couch?”

He ran his eye over the boots. “What is that, your
Resident Evil
outfit? Alice and the zombies?”

“Don't get fresh. I know your wife.”

“So you do,” Tim said, leaning primly away from her.

“Cal, Wendy Stein asked if she could come in half an hour early,” Tori said. “Since you had the time free, I told her it would be OK.”

Cal looked at the clock by the couch. “That's fine.” He stood up. “Send me a bill, Tim, and be sure to include your own time. That was the deal.”

“If you're going to twist my arm,” Tim said, grinning. He'd brought a big barrister's briefcase, and he fished something out. “The investigator got a full rundown on that New York bank account. It was opened three weeks before the payment was made to Clawson. This gives you the whole cash-flow picture—deposits and payouts.” He held out a stack of papers.

Cal hesitated.

“Hey, you're paying, right?”

Cal took the pages and set them on the desk. “Politics—no end to the money sloshing around there.”

Tim took his briefcase and coffee, and he and Tori headed out. “Send Wendy in as soon as she gets here,” Cal said as she shut the door.

Tim stopped with her by her desk. “How much weight has he lost?”

“Do I look like a set of bathroom scales?”

“Dressed like that—hardly. Is he still seeing his patients?”

“Every one of them. He wouldn't let them down, no matter what.”

“That bandage on his wrist—”

“There's a fresh one every morning. He won't talk about it,” she said. “For a psychologist, he's a damn fool about keeping things bottled up.”

Tim looked at Cal's closed door and worried the corner of his lip with his teeth. “You'll keep an eye on him?”

“I always do.”

That day, October 3, was humid and unseasonably warm. Felix Martinez hadn't been happy about making the trip to the Mall. It should feel like autumn, with an apple-cider crispness in the air, not this murky remnant of summer. He wasn't too happy about his companions, either. Scottie Glass was on one side as they strolled toward the Smithsonian Castle, Jamie Weston on the other. They both made Felix nervous.

“He won't return my phone calls,” Scottie said. “I went by his apartment, and the two women who live downstairs said they hadn't seen him in weeks.”

“He's there,” Felix said. “He's just keeping to himself.”

“He won't talk to me either,” Jamie said. “When I call his office, that Tori person treats me like an encyclopedia salesman. ‘Cal's not available now. If he needs anything, he has your number.'”

Felix smiled. “That sounds like Tori.”

“What are we going to do?” Scottie said.

Felix cringed at the whiny tone, and he wished to hell both of them would stop chewing their fingers. “Cal needs to see Dr. Rubin again. So far, he's refused. I've got Tori working on it. She'll break him down.”

“And if she can't?” Scottie asked.

Felix thought of making some soothing comment, but with Scottie that seemed like wasted effort. He just sighed instead.

“There's got to be something we can do,” Jamie said.