Authors: Steven James
She hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.”
And with that, I left the hospital to pick up my stepdaughter, the raven who’d been blown onto my doorstep by this chaotic thing called life.
Tessa’s flight was scheduled to arrive at 11:32 a.m. I arrived at the Charlotte Douglas International Airport about forty-five minutes early, and walked up to the US Airways ticket counter.
The woman behind the counter smiled an automatic smile. Spoke automatic words. “Good morning, sir. Have you tried our automated ticketing kiosk set up for your convenience? Just swipe any major credit card and—”
“I’m meeting up with a subject: Tessa Ellis.” I showed her my FBI badge. “Arrives at 11:30 from Chicago. I want her off the plane first and her bags brought around out front, to the curb.”
By the look on her face I could tell I’d just overloaded all of her circuits. None of those words appeared on the script she’d been given. “It’s a very important case,” I added.
“Um . . . yes. Let me see.” She fumbled for a moment at her computer keyboard then disappeared into a back room to ask her supervisor what she was supposed to say. A minute later she reappeared with her smile fastened in place again. “Of course, sir. We will have the bags waiting for you, sir.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
There aren’t many perks to my job. But it turns out there are a few.
The guys at the security checkpoint hassled me a little about bringing in my gun, but when I showed them my paperwork, federal ID, driver’s license, and told them my mother’s maiden name and favorite salsa recipe they finally let me through.
I grabbed some coffee at Chierio’s, the best coffee shop in any airport in the country. Based on the gently nurtured acidity, I guessed their blend came from the mountainous southeastern region of Colombia, the best country in the world to grow coffee beans. And other types of plants too, from what my friends in the DEA tell me.
The coffee was exquisite. And despite all the things on my mind, after three sips I realized that if I were to die right then and there I would die a happy man.
Some people say I take my coffee a little too seriously.
I took another sip of Chierio’s South Mountain Blend.
Naw.
Not a chance.
I headed to Gate C-14.
Alice led her two kids out of the Basilica of St. Lawrence in downtown Asheville and over to the car. She’d started taking them to church a few months ago when Garrett moved out. Those were hard, hard days, especially at first. She needed strength, and even from the start, coming here had seemed to help.
The basilica’s ceiling had the largest oval-shaped freestanding dome in the United States. The beauty and elegance inspired her, helped her look up toward the heavens again. And hearing the singing and the homilies seemed to help her think more about the things that really mattered, seemed to help her hate Garrett a little less for the things he’d done, seemed to help her feel hopeful about life once again, to trust the power of good over evil, of the future over the past. The angels over the monsters.
It was only after coming here that she’d registered for school to finish her degree. To make a fresh start.
She left the church and aimed her car toward Wal-Mart. She needed to pick up a new hairbrush before going home.
I’d anticipated a long wait, but only a moment or two after Flight 642 landed, the doors opened up and Tessa stepped toward me.
She was dressed in black just like I expected. I’d always thought maybe pink was her color, but with black lipstick, black eye shadow, and even her fingernails painted black, everything about her seemed to convey the tone of her mood, of our relationship. Black.
Don’t mess this up, Pat. Don’t mess this up.
“Tessa,” I said.
She drew in a long, narrow breath, clutched her purse to her side. “Patrick.”
“It’s good to see you.” I stepped closer, held out my arms, offered her a hug. She didn’t move.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
I felt my teeth grit. “No, Tessa, when I say it’s good to see you, you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, it’s good to see you too.’ Let’s try it again—it’s good to see you.”
A sarcastic, stupid thing to say. Stupid. Stupid!
Why did you say that? Why?
She shook her head very, very slowly. Tears began welling in her eyes. I’d actually driven her to tears in less than thirty seconds. “Why are you trying to ruin my entire life!” She swung her purse around and scootched it up her shoulder and stomped past me.
I stood there in the wake of anger, mumbling to myself, “‘I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re safe.’ That could maybe follow. That might be a good thing to say next.”
Agent Stanton walked up to me. “And you must be the dad.”
No
, I thought.
She doesn’t have a dad.
“Stepdad,” I said. “Yeah. That would be me.”
After we picked up Tessa’s luggage at the curb, Agent Stanton left us with a feigned salute. I assumed he was flying back to Denver, but I didn’t ask.
“Good-bye, Eric,” called Tessa with a smirk. “Keep up the good work on those puzzles!”
He ignored her. Shook his head. Kept walking.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
She smiled. “Oh, nothing.”
We tossed Tessa’s luggage into the car and headed for the highway. I called Terry and listened as he filled me in on the results of his research. I hung up the phone and turned to Tessa. “Well, did you eat yet?”
“Yeah. So, where are we going, anyway?”
“A place called Asheville. But I have to make one stop first.”
The governor’s mansion looked different in the daylight, more Southern somehow. As if it belonged in Mississippi instead of North Carolina.
Tessa stared out the window as we drove up. “Who lives here?” “The governor does.”
“Sebastian Taylor?”
“How did you know his name?”
“It’s not that complex, Patrick.” She spoke slowly, as if she were explaining something to a five-year-old. “Sebastian Taylor is the governor of North Carolina. We are in the state of North Carolina. It’s called logic.”
“Yeah, well, I know all that, but I guess I was just surprised you knew his name.”
“Why?”
“Because we live in Colorado and most people your age barely know the name of the president let alone the governor of a state on the other side of the country.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m not like most people my age.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Anyway, I just need to talk to him for a minute. Then we’ll get going.”
“What are you going to talk to him about?”
“His role in the massacre of 909 people.”
Ms. Anita Banner met us at the door, and although her eyes turned to coals when I asked her to stay with Tessa while I spoke with the governor, she agreed.
Governor Taylor was in the great room lounging on one of the leather couches when I walked in. He had reading glasses perched on his nose, a book open on his lap, and was dressed in a stylish light gray mohair suit. “Agent Bowers,” he said evenly. He wasn’t even pretending to be polite this time.
I decided to follow suit. “You made the tape.”
That got his attention. “What?”
“Q875.”
He waited, probably to see if I was bluffing.
“CIA. Guyana, South America.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Q875. You made one mistake, though. You left it behind.”
Governor Taylor took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. He took his time. “I worked for the state department in the seventies and eighties, Agent Bowers, researching trade agreements in France, South America, and Spain. It’s all a matter of public record. You can look it up. I’m afraid I was involved in foreign relations, not international espionage.”
“Codename Cipher, reference number 16dash1711alpha delta4,” I said. Terry is very good at his job.
The governor slid his glasses back onto his face. “Hmm . . . I’m guessing either military intelligence or NSA. Am I right? Is that where you went?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Of course you’re not.” He set his book aside and rose from the couch. “How long have you known?”
“Just over an hour. I spoke with my source this morning. He was very helpful.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“How far did it go, Governor? Did you do more than make the tape? Were you there on the airstrip at Port Kaituma?”
The governor stepped around the couch, walked up to me, and stood close enough for me to smell his minty breath. “Dr. Bowers, have you ever been fishing in the ocean?”
“I’ll find out, Governor. It’s just a matter of time. I already know about Trembley, that you sent him to follow me.”
He turned, walked over to the fireplace where the giant fish hung above the mantel. “Swordfish. Or maybe marlin, or like this tarpon here,” he said.
“Governor, did you hear what I said?”
“Of course, tarpon tend to stay closer to shore than marlin or sword.” He stepped back to admire his fish. “I caught this one off the coast of Tampa. Didn’t even realize it at the time, but we were fishing in the most densely shark-infested waters in the world—even more so than the Great Barrier Reef. Most people don’t know that.” He turned to face me. “Dr. Bowers, do you know what the most dangerous shark in the world is?”
Enough games. Enough banter. “Things spun out of control, didn’t they? The place was a time bomb, and you dialed it to zero. Jones imploded after the assassination, and you needed to give your supervisors proof that you’d cleaned things up. But why did you leave the tape behind? That’s the one thing I can’t figure out.”
“The shark, Dr. Bowers. Try to guess the shark.”
“I don’t know,” I said through my teeth. “The great white.”
He smirked. “Yes, you see, most people think so—that’s what everyone says, that or the hammerhead; but no. It’s the bull shark, actually. Likes to stay near shore, and it can live in both salt water and fresh water, very adaptable to different environments. That’s what makes it so deadly.”
He turned to me. His eyes narrowed, became bullets. The change was stunning. “They tell me that around there people don’t always catch what they expect,” he said. “Sometimes the fish at the other end of the line turns out to be a bull shark. Not something you’d want to pull up to the boat.”
I cocked my head. “Are you threatening me, Governor?”
He stepped even closer, and his voice leveled off into a flat, metallic whisper. His eyes, cool black stones. “If you’re going to go trolling through these waters, you better be ready to reel in whatever fish decides to bite.”
“I’m ready,” I said. “Bring on the sharks.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“Neither do you.”
Just then Ms. Banner and Tessa appeared at the doorway. “The young lady is anxious to get going,” said Ms. Banner. My guess was that Ms. Banner was anxious to get rid of Tessa and get back to personally assisting the governor. I watched Governor Taylor’s eyes track across the room, and come to rest on Tessa.
I swear, if he even looks at her the wrong way I’m going to take
him down.
“And who do we have here?” he asked.
“My name is Tessa. So you’re Governor Taylor?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She scanned the room. “Nice tarpon.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The governor smiled. “Well, thank you.”
Her eyes flickered from one painting to the next, scrutinizing them. “So,” she asked at last, “how come you only have paintings of battles that the South won?”
OK. Now that’s just plain impressive.
He hesitated for a moment. “That’s . . . very astute, young lady. You’re a bright girl. I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”
“Well,” Tessa said, “you’d have to ask him about that.”
My heart squirmed inside my skin. “C’mon, Tessa. I’m done here. Let’s get going.”
The governor grinned. “Dr. Bowers, if you and Agent Jiang can’t make it to the luncheon tomorrow, I’ll certainly understand.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” I said. “I’ve heard they’re serving fish.”
He breathed out through his nose like Margaret tends to do. Good. I’d annoyed him.
“Ms. Banner,” he said, “please give our young guest one of the signed photographs.”
And with that, Ms. Banner led us outside without a word, handed Tessa a picture without a word, and ushered us to the car without a word.
As soon as I started the engine, Tessa crinkled up the picture and tossed it out the window onto the governor’s meticulously manicured lawn. “I don’t like the way he looked at me.”
“You’re a good judge of character,” I said. “Keep that up.”
Amazing. We actually agreed on something.
All the way back to Asheville, Tessa rode in silence, her iPod plugged into her ears.
I grabbed my stuff from the hotel, checked out, and drove to the safe house.
Tessa and her iPod rode along in silence.
The safe house Tessa and I would be staying in was a dun-colored ranch-style home on the outer fringe of the city, near the French Broad River. Sheriff Wallace had assigned Officers Jason Stilton and Patricia Muncey to guard Tessa. They were waiting for us at the house when we arrived. I recognized them from the briefing I’d given on Friday.
“Getting colder,” said Officer Stilton as he tossed his cigarette into the grass and led me inside the house.
Tessa and her iPod walked past us in silence.
“Yeah,” I said watching her step past me. “Guy on the radio said something about snow tomorrow morning.”
Officer Stilton grunted, which I guess meant he agreed.
“Don’t mind the toys,” said Officer Muncey as we stepped into the living room. “Haven’t quite cleaned up from the last occupants yet.”
The living room smelled vaguely of cat litter and baby powder. Toddler toys lay scattered across the floor, making the simplest trek through the living room a challenge. But the bigger challenge appeared to be avoiding stepping on one of the two cats that lurked relentlessly underfoot or appeared out of nowhere and sprawled in front of you, waiting for you to scratch them.