Into the Fire (22 page)

They were down to checking out the camping areas outside the Freedom Network compound because they’d had no other leads. They’d come out here to see if they couldn’t trigger any memories. And see if it was even possible for Murphy to have gotten inside.

They’d set up this home camp a good mile from the electric fence that protected the compound’s perimeter. Murphy’d constructed the blind—a hiding place that blended in with the brush and a fallen tree—because Freedom Network security teams frequently left the compound and patrolled the surrounding area. They often traveled up to five miles out from their fence.

Hannah had told him that she knew this for a fact—because she’d gone in there and applied for a job as a member of one of those security teams.

“I was on their membership roster,” she’d reminded him, as they spent most of the day coming up cold in their search for someone, anyone who would be able to provide information as to Murphy’s exact whereabouts last March. “I saw on their website that they were hiring, so…”

She’d told the Freedom Network, via e-mail, that she would be driving up from Southern California for the interview, and would appreciate a place to stay. Her contact, security chief Craig Reed, had informed her that there were guest quarters in the compound that she would be welcome to use.

And so she’d walked straight into the mouth of hell.

“Han.”

She didn’t hear him, of course. She was sitting several yards from him, finishing up her own meal, turned almost completely away.

Murphy picked up a stick and tossed it in front of her, and she spun, weapon drawn, scanning for the threat.

“Whoa,” he said, hands up. “That was me.”

She exhaled hard as she glared at him, then holstered the sidearm that she’d taken from Patrick’s gun case—along with its twin, which was currently tucked under his own arm. “Don’t do that.”

“Then don’t sit with your back to me.”

He could see that she was beyond tired—they both were. But he knew her ankle was hurting her, too.

Finding absolutely no clues in Sacramento—including their discovery that their friends Steve and Paul were not at home—had added frustration and disappointment to their fatigue. Add in that freaky conversation they’d had in the car, where Hannah had admitted to wanting to get busy with him again…

It was not a good combo.

“We should get some rest now, head out toward the compound after midnight,” Murphy told her. Their plan was to see if the compound had a “back door” as Hannah believed.

While inside, she had lip-read a conversation between two guards. She was convinced, from what she’d “overheard,” that a segment of the fence wasn’t electrified so that Freedom Network leaders could leave the compound without having their movements tracked by the FBI, who were keeping the front gate under surveillance.

Hannah now nodded and glanced at the blind. It was just large enough for both of their sleeping bags to fit, side by side. With no room between them.

As it was, Murphy had made it larger than he usually would’ve. In fact, any larger, and he might as well have installed a neon sign on top flashing “Hiding Place.”

Still, for two people who preferred to keep their distance on account of having once had sex…It was going to seem incredibly tight.

“Can I just say something?” Hannah said.

And Murphy braced himself.

“Will you please relax?” she complained. “I’m not going to force myself on you, okay? Jeez, Murph. Ever since I said what I said, in the car? It’s like you’re terrified I’m going to jump you.”

“I think I could probably take you,” he said as he gathered up their trash, “so I’m not real worried.”

She was not amused by his attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, you’re acting all…weird and shit. So just stop.”

Murphy felt his patience fray. “You know, Han, I generally find that I act
weird and shit
when I’m just a few miles away from the site of a murder that I may have committed.”

“While you were temporarily insane,” she pointed out.

“Whoo-fucking-hoo,” he came back. “Hope I don’t snap again and kill someone else.”

She was contrite. “I just…What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry if I made it worse.”

And great. Now he felt guilty for making
her
feel bad. He kicked her boot and she looked back at him.

“None of this is easy,” Murphy told her. “And even though it’s sometimes harder because you’re with me? Most of the time, your being here makes it…bearable.”

Well, that shut her up.

She was sitting there, in the rapidly fading light, gazing at him with those eyes that were so different from Angelina’s. Different, yet similar when it came to spark and life.

He tried to imagine Angelina adjusting to a life of silence. But he couldn’t do it. The same way he couldn’t imagine Angelina doing anything other than turning and running, if she were to meet him for the very first time, as he was now, today.

Damaged, beyond recognition.

His wife’s world had been filled with music and laughter, with light and success. True, she’d spent part of her childhood in darkness, losing her brother to gang violence, but that was then, and she had very much been a woman who’d lived for
now.
She’d told him—many times—that she loved the sound of his laughter, the sparkle in his eyes, the way that he could—as she put it—get the party started, just by walking into the room.

But now when he looked into a mirror, he saw the despair and heartache, the sorrow and pain that dulled his eyes, his face, his entire being. And he knew, had she met him today, Angelina would have kept her distance.

But not Hannah—who could still laugh, even though she couldn’t hear the sound of her own voice. Not Hannah, who remained his best friend, loyal to the bone, despite how much he’d changed. Hannah, who’d walked into the hell of the Freedom Network compound, all alone.

For him.

“I think,” Murphy admitted, stopping for a moment to clear his throat, “if you weren’t here, I’d’ve turned myself in by now. Just, what the hell, you know? I’ll go to jail for the rest of my life. Because who the hell cares?”

“I do,” she said, without hesitation, just as he’d known she would.

“Yeah.” He twisted his mouth into what he hoped was a smile.

“You should care, too,” she said.

It was his turn to be silent then.

“I miss her most at times like this,” Hannah said. “Angelina. When there’s this awkwardness between us that wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t died.”

Murphy just sat there.

“I get angry at her sometimes, too,” Hannah said. “Like, God, she should have fought harder—”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “I do. I saw the autopsy. I just…”

The bullet that had entered Angelina’s brain had done so much damage. Even if she had survived the series of surgeries, she wouldn’t have been the same person. She would have been irrevocably changed.

Kind of the way Murphy had been.

“I’m not going to let you go to jail for something you didn’t do,” Hannah said, then. “I’m going to care enough for both of us, okay?”

“Will you care a little bit more about yourself while you’re at it?” Murphy said. He was still freaked out that she’d gone into the compound.

As usual, she accurately followed his train of thought.

“I was fine,” Hannah reassured him. “Except, you know, for the part where I had to have sex with Tim Ebersole. He smelled kinda bad.” She laughed at the look he shot her. “Bwee, I’m kidding.”

It was Murphy’s turn to not be amused. “He was known for doing that, you know. It was part of the new member initiation. Sex with the women.”

“I know,” Hannah said. “Not big on women’s rights, our boy Tim.”

“I’m surprised they’d even consider hiring you as security,” Murphy said.

“Yeah, well,” Hannah said. “When you signed me up as a Freedom Network member, you did it as H. Whitfield. I filled out my job app as Han. They weren’t too happy when I showed up packing a vagina, but I got the sense they were desperate for manpower, so they did interview me. Briefly. It was hard to say what exactly made me most unhirable—being a woman or being deaf or hobbling around with a cane. Whatever it was, was okay with me, because it gave me more time to wander the compound.”

Words to make his blood run cold.

“I was fine,” she said again, probably because his expression was stony. “When everything was said and done, they offered me a job on the serving staff. See, I pretended that I couldn’t read lips without wearing glasses—I made like I’d just broken them—and the entire interview had to be done by questions written on a notepad, with me peering at them, holding the pad, like, four inches from my face.” She grinned. “It was pretty funny.”

“If your ‘glasses’ were ‘broken,’” Murphy asked, somehow having no trouble containing his laughter, probably because of how
funny
it
wasn’t,
“how did you manage to drive out of there the next day?”

“Um,” Hannah said, which was never a good sound.

“You didn’t,” he answered for her. “How long did you stay in there?”

“Just three days,” she said, a tad defensively. “Until Reed and one of his men took a trip into Sacramento. They dropped me—and my car—at one of those eyeglasses-in-an-hour places.”

“
Just
three days,” he repeated.

“I was treated very well,” she told him, gesturing to herself. “White woman. Hello.”

“Woman,” he pointed out. “Hello.”

“I didn’t see Tim Ebersole at all while I was there,” Hannah reported. “It was all Craig Reed—who is one scary bastard, might I add. I was never in danger,” she quickly said, “but my Craziometer got pinned to sociopath whenever he walked into the room. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he took over as grand poobah or chief dipshit or whatever the official position was that Ebersole held. Provided ability-to-be-a-psycho is a job requirement.”

Great. So much for his hope that, without Ebersole, the Freedom Network would lose its momentum and disappear into forgotten oblivion.

They sat in silence as the light continued to fade.

“So what do you want to talk about now,” Hannah said. “I hear Mel Brooks is bringing
Blazing Saddles
to Broadway.”

Murphy laughed. Yeah, they were definitely stalling. Anything to keep from crawling into that blind together…

“Seriously,” she said, “we got one more biggie to discuss before we lose the light—which has to do with us losing the light. We need to figure out how we’re going to communicate when we’re out there tonight. As talented as I am, I can’t read your lips in the dark.”

D
ALTON
, C
ALIFORNIA

Eden followed the hostess into the Italian restaurant, aware of Izzy right behind her, aware of all the eyes on them.

Him, really. Dressed in his naval uniform, with a chest covered with colorful ribbons, his hair military short, he cut an imposing figure. He was tall and solid and yes, even handsome in the candlelight. Especially when he smiled, as he did after they sat and the woman handed them both menus.

Eden opened hers and—dear Lord. A plate of spaghetti was nearly twenty dollars. Lasagna even more. She’d been craving a hamburger all day, but the closest thing to it on the menu was filet mignon for—cough, choke—thirty bucks. She closed the heavy leather folder, and Izzy looked up at her.

“That was fast,” he said. “Is that a pregnancy thing—that kind of, boom, decision making, or—”

A waiter appeared next to the table. “May I take your drink order?”

“I think the lady’s hungry,” Izzy told him, “so we’re ready to just order it all. Unless…are there specials?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like to hear them?”

“Absolutely.”

Izzy sat back in his seat, giving his full attention to the little man who began describing some kind of Alaskan fish that was cooked in a paper bag for twenty-nine dollars.

“I’m having that,” Izzy interrupted him. “You don’t need to go on.” He looked across the table at Eden. “Unless you want to hear—”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m just…going to have the minestrone soup.” For—yikes—eight ninety-five. But it was the cheapest thing on the entire menu.

“That sounds good,” Izzy said. “I’ll start with that, too. Oh, and a Sam Summer Ale for me, a glass of your finest milk for my lovely fiancée.”

“And your main course, madam?”

Both the waiter and Izzy were looking at her, so she shook her head. “Just the soup,” she said. “Is fine.”

The waiter turned away, but Izzy stopped him. “Hold up there, Jack. She’ll also have the steak, pasta on the side.”

Eden leaned across the table, her voice low. “Izzy…”

“Shhh,” he said, taking her hand, waiting until the waiter left. Then he smiled at her. “I know this place is pricy, but think of this as forty dates rolled into one, okay? If we’re getting married in just a few days, we’ve got to work fast. What’s your favorite color?”

Eden shook her head. “Yellow. What does that have to do with—”

“I like red,” he said. “Yellow is too school bus, and I never really liked school. No doubt due to the repeatedly getting beaten up thing. Favorite song?”

“We should have gone to Denny’s,” she said.

“I don’t know that one,” he countered. “Me, I got this shameful, secret love for Karen Carpenter.
Long ago, and oh so far away…”

She pulled her hand away. “Or Taco Bell.”

Izzy stopped pretending to misunderstand. “Yeah, and I’m going to look Pinkie in the eye and tell him I gave his mother an engagement ring in a Taco Bell? It’s bad enough that it’s Manbearpig.”

“It’s…what?” She couldn’t have heard him right, could she have?

He tapped on the table, and she realized he’d put a little box there, right by her bread plate. It was fuzzy and purple and definitely the kind of box that held a ring.

The same kind of box that Richie had waved at her—
Jerry left this in my car
—that night she’d taken the chain off the door and let him in.

She swallowed hard, aware of Izzy sitting across from her, watching her.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.