The Survivors (44 page)

“Keep calling him,” Felix said. “He'll let you back in eventually.”

A group of tourists was getting off a tour bus. They poured across the pathway, oblivious of everyone else. In the jumble, Scottie dropped back, and he stayed there, staring.

Weston turned. “See something you like?”

“I, uh . . . maybe?” Scottie said.

She was wearing tight, short, running shorts and the oddest-looking yellow running shoes he'd ever seen.

Felix laughed. “On that note, I'd better be going. I've got a hungry dog to feed.”

“Give Coop a pat for me,” Scottie said.

“Stop by someday, do it yourself.”

“Really?” Scottie said with so much glee that Felix almost reconsidered.

“Why not? Just remember to bring a treat—for me, not the dog.”

They watched him head across the Mall, to where he'd parked his car by the Museum of American History. They moved on until they came to the carousel. The calliope music chirped while kids squealed and laughed atop the wooden ponies.

The carousel was ringed by a wrought iron fence, and Scottie leaned back on it. “I followed up on the money, the one hundred ten thousand Cal's father stashed in that New York bank. Seventy thousand came from Braeder, an account managed by Howie Markaris. He signed the check to Cal's dad on the tenth of September that year. Twenty thousand more came in a week later from Eric Russo. The last twenty thousand came from Peter Sorensen.”

Weston was watching the kids on the ride. She waved as a little girl wheeled past. “Blackmail payments,” she said. “It's the only thing that makes sense. Once Cal's parents figured out where those digital camera plans came from, they went after everybody.”

“I don't know,” Scottie said. “The way I remember Cal's mother, it had to be more than that. I think she took those plans because she knew something was wrong with them. She wanted to figure that out, save the day for Braeder and Ned Bowles. Then it all blew up in her face, and the one person she trusted—Bowles—wouldn't let her back in. With the lawsuit facing them, she and Cal's dad got desperate. Blackmail was the only way out. One thing I don't understand is why Sorensen killed them. He'd already paid his twenty thousand.”

Weston scratched in the dirt with her toe, making a dollar sign. “My guess is Cal's parents asked Sorensen for more, a second bite. Sorensen couldn't pay or wouldn't. He went to the house intending to put an end to it, one way or another. Denise's gun, the suicide—all that fell in his lap. He probably couldn't believe his luck, but afterward he couldn't forget it either. Shooting three kids like that . . .” She scuffed away the dollar sign.

Scottie turned and leaned with his forearms on the railing. He smiled at the girl on the carousel. Her mother, standing beside her to help her hold on, gave him a nasty scowl.

“Do you think we should tell Cal?” Weston said.

“Not me,” Scottie said. “I think he'll find out on his own anyway. He's still poking around.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just a guess. But don't forget, I've known Cal since we were kids. He won't give up until he's got everything figured out. It's just the way he is.” Scottie gave her a quick look. “It's just a guess too that your boss took all the files from your investigation and told you to forget about it. That's how O'Shea and Sorensen and Markaris all ended up dead, and nobody cares about the real story. I saw the articles in the paper, buried in the Metro section—Markaris killed in a mugging, O'Shea and Sorensen in a drive-by shooting. A drive-by in the middle of Rock Creek Park?”

“That's the way the world turns. You probably saw in the news that Braeder got its contract extension with the Department of Defense. Nobody wants to rock a boat that big.”

“And Ned Bowles and Eric Russo get to walk away clean?”

“It was a long time ago, and maybe what they did wasn't that wrong. You remember what Sorensen said: ‘Every piece separate.'”

“You sound like somebody who's been around Washington too long.”

“I just got here!” she said, maybe a little offended.

Scottie looked back at the carousel. “Bowles and the rest of them will get what they deserve.”

The coldness in his voice surprised her. “Scottie, don't—”

“I've been wondering about something,” he cut in. “Was it you who was following Cal around? It was an Acura, gray or silver.”

“No, that was Cade—my partner. Direct orders from my boss to keep tabs on Cal. Then the night we ended up in the park, the one time he could have done some good, Cade flaked out, dropped in on some friend's bachelor party.”

“So how does Cade like Alabama?”

“About as well as he would have liked South Dakota, which was his other choice.”

“Was Cade the one in the SUV that night out in Middleburg?”

“No. We weren't able to track that truck down, but I figure it must have been Sorensen. He was already panicking, trying to scare you and Cal off.”

“Or worse,” Scottie said. “Anyway, what about you? I hear you've gotten a promotion. Is that payback for shooting Sorensen and putting a cap on the whole mess?”

“I thought Sorensen was going to shoot Cal—straight truth. Besides, my promotion isn't official yet. It hasn't even been approved.” She turned and studied him. “Who are you anyway? I mean your work. Every step I took trying to find you, something got in my way. I thought it was Ned Bowles and his cronies at Braeder. But maybe you've got a higher power looking out for you. Do you ride your bike out to Langley every day?”

Scottie sniffed. “The CIA? I wouldn't work for those clowns.”

“The White House then,” she said. “NSA. Or wait—one of the private outfits that sell intelligence. Government by consultant. That's it, isn't it?”

Scottie grinned. “Whoever I work for, I'm nothing more than a glorified research assistant. Besides, you know that old saying, if I told you I'd have to—”

“Kill you,” she put in.

“Only instead, I'd nod to that guy over there in the gray coat, and he'd do it for me.”

She laughed, but that turned brittle when she realized the man in the gray coat was staring at them.

They left the carousel, and Scottie offered to buy her a drink from the refreshment stand next door. She decided on a lemonade, and he got one for himself. They walked on, crossing the grass.

“All this stuff with Cal got me thinking a lot about when I was a kid,” Scottie said. “My parents took me to a psychologist. That was before I got shot. Dr. Bourke. I went to see him a couple of weeks ago. He's still in the same office, a strip mall in Bethesda. He still had my file, too. The pages had gotten so yellow he had trouble reading them. I talked him into giving me the same tests from back then. IQ, Rorschach, MMPI. Guess what? I got the same scores on everything. Exactly the same.” He took a slurp of his lemonade. “I got shot in the head and so what? Turns out—this is me. I'm supposed to be like this.”

She moved so she could look him in the face. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I guess . . . I've got to tell somebody.”

The expression in his eyes was so pained, she had to look away. “Like Felix said, Cal will let people back in. Just wait for him.”

“I could get old doing that.” Then he blew a big burst of bubbles in the lemonade, and they both laughed. He cocked his head to the side. “Why did you set up this meeting? Why do you keep calling Cal?”

She shrugged—“I don't know.”—and stared down the Mall at the Capitol Building. “He was nice about my shoes.”

“Those shoes?”

“Uh-huh. My last boyfriend gave them to me as a joke. Only he didn't tell me they were a joke until we broke up. Cal told me he liked them.”

Scottie's eyes narrowed. He sucked thoughtfully on the lemonade. “You like him don't you? I mean, you
really
like him.”

As clueless as Scottie was sometimes, even he could see she was blushing.

At five thirty, Tori straightened up her desk and locked the file cabinets. She knocked on Cal's door to tell him goodnight.

The lights were off. He'd pulled one of the chairs over to the window and was looking out. The sky was leaden over block after block of row houses.

“I'm about finished,” Tori said. “Do you need anything before I go?”

“No, I'm all set.”

She noticed the wastepaper basket was out of place and moved it back beside the desk. Inside, she saw the bank account information Tim Regis had left, torn to bits. “You threw these things out?”

Cal looked around and saw she was holding the shreds of paper. “It doesn't matter,” he said. His hand snuck over, and he started rubbing his wrist.

“Tim wouldn't like to see you treating his hard work that way.”

“Forget about it, Tori.”

In two years together, that was the first time he'd raised his voice to her. She decided she liked it—a little heat between them.

“What are you looking at out there?” she said.

“Nothing really. It calms me down.”

She pulled the other chair over and sat next to him. It was too small for Tim, but just right for her. Even with the stiff boots on, she was able to curl her legs up beside her. She couldn't see anything calming outside, just black-tar roofs and jigsaw-puzzle brick walls.

“There must be something on your mind,” she said.

He sighed softly. She was learning too much from him. “I was thinking about my mother. She said something I can't remember. It's right on the tip of my brain.”

“Don't push. If it's important, it'll come to you.”

He stared at her, then gave her a small smile. “You'd better get going. I'll see you in the morning.”

She got up slowly and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt. “I'll be home tonight. Call if you need anything, even if you just want to talk.”

“I'll do that.”

Cal waited for the click of the door, then closed his eyes and relaxed into the chair. It only took a moment, thinking of a hand waving in front of his face. He'd had plenty of practice now, three or four times a day, flying back twenty-five years.

The drawer in the nightstand was open slightly. The carpet was soft under his feet. He crossed to the wall, leaned in and started the count.

Tori hadn't left, but stood in the shadows by the door. His arms began to quiver, and his head turned as if he was listening hard for something. Somehow she knew he was gone, no longer in the office. She wouldn't leave, and she couldn't bring him back, so she just stayed to watch over him.

Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four . . .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R
obert Palmer is a lawyer and law professor in Washington, DC. His clients have included cops and school teachers, members of Congress, judges, and agency heads—and more than a few psychologists. In his spare time he enjoys distance running, downhill skiing, and backpacking in the Blue Ridge, the Rockies, and anyplace else with mountains. He lives with his wife and son and their Portuguese water dog, Theo. For more, visit
www.robertpalmerauthor.com
.