3 Lies (15 page)

“But we have a complication.”

Amir could hear a muddied response through the earpiece. His bringing the small girl was undoubtedly the first complication. At least they knew she was a viable hostage. The sick woman clearly produced a more significant problem. She was useless to them dead.

Salif’s conversation continued, but Amir could make out little hearing only the half of it. Salif suggested procuring the equipment for the sick woman from a medical supplier. The man on the other end of the phone would not be convinced. He pressed an alternative into Salif’s ear. Salif ended the call and lit another cigarette. His last one still burned in the ashtray.

“You are to go to the woman’s house and get her machine.”

Amir cocked an ear. With all the time he had spent on a shooting range, his hearing sometimes faltered. “Go where?”

“To the woman’s house. Get her machine.”

“Her house? That seems unwise.”

Salif exhaled a great wind. “Perhaps. But those are your orders.”

“Send for the doctor.”

“He is no longer on duty here. We have only the ferryman left on shore.”

“Her house may be guarded.”

“I am told it is unlikely. Mission control does not want us out shopping for dialysis equipment. He wants us to get her machine.”

“That is not logical. Going back to her house puts the project at risk. If I get caught stealing, then I am expendable. But taking it from her house—” His head shook as if trying to lose the thought. “We invite trouble.”

“We need her alive until this mission is completed. After that—” Salif rubbed his receding black hairline. “It is decided.” He handed the list to Amir. “Pick up the things for the child too. You are going tonight.”

Amir rose and walked to a blackened window, gazing as if there were something there to see. He concentrated on forming his next words. “I will not refuse the orders.”

Salif answered with some other words, but Amir did not wait to hear them. He took the rear stairs down to the control room. In the first monitor he viewed, the golden-haired one lay on the bed.

The little girl sat next to her, and they played some sort of hand slapping game. He could tell that Beth tried to keep the game quiet as she raised her index finger to her full lips when the girl laughed. The other woman read one of the magazines they’d left in the rooms. It was a tranquil scene considering they were hostages. Then Binard entered the room.

He carried a tray of sturdy paper bowls holding some sort of stew and bread rolls. Beth’s mirth bled when she saw him. Her back straightened, and she gathered the child closer to her. Suspicion furrowed her brow. Amir tried to remember if this is how she reacted to him.

Binard’s black ski mask hid his expression. Amir saw only the side of the man’s face. Binard probably preferred women who feared him.

He left the tray on the couch and stood in front of Beth. His stance blocked Amir’s view of her from the monitor. He slipped on his green ski mask. He decided this was a good time to discuss her medical needs. Without ceremony, he opened the door to chaos.

“Get off of her!” The large woman yelled.

Binard’s hand cupped Beth’s reluctant cheek while the black woman pulled on his arm. Amir could not account for the tiny girl, but she wailed from somewhere.

Binard pushed the slim black woman to the floor.

Amir slammed the door. “Are you finished?” The boom of Amir’s voice jolted the women into silence.

“Nearly.” Binard’s hand stroked her face on its slow retreat. “You may go now. I’ll be along shortly.”

“I have business with the woman. You must have something else to do.”

Binard blew her a kiss as he left. “Until later, Goldilocks.”

Beth fished under the blankets and came up with the girl. The large woman tried to help comfort the child, but Emmy fastened herself around Beth’s neck like a mink stole.

Amir observed Beth’s reaction to him. It was different than with Binard, not open, but neither was it punctuated with distress. It surprised him. It surprised him even more that it pleased him.

“Your medical equipment. I am going to get it from your house.”

Puzzlement replaced the remaining fear. “But the one I gave the list to, the one with the blue mask, he said that no one would go back to my house.”

Jaman. He too understood the needless risk.

“Do you have keys outside your home that we may use?”

The change in her expression was subtle, fleeting. The kidnapper now wanted her keys. He knew what she was thinking. “Your jewels and DVD player are of no interest to us. We only want your machine.”

She glanced toward the child. “Me too.” Her shoulders fell from the weight of her admission. “My keys are hooked to one of the ground spikes of a bird feeder next to my house, near the garage. It has a large butterfly on the top.” She caressed the little girl’s arms. “Do you have my list for Emmy?”

He risked his life, liberty, and the mission by returning to her home. Now he was to be lackey for the day care. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it out loud. “Someone will get supplies for the child.”

Appreciation flickered as she nodded at him. Her lashes moistened as she nuzzled the tiny girl, then dropped beneath her glossy mane. Clearly, he was dismissed.

He locked the door behind him and started memorizing the items on the list. The air seemed more still out here. His jaw muscles popped in time to a rhythm he could not name. Concentration was difficult. Saline, crayons, IV pole, a doll, carbon filters. The elements on the list drifted along, bobbing as if on a wave slightly out of reach. Jaman’s words caromed inside Amir’s skull. This mission was most unusual.

He checked the clock. The sun would slip beyond the earth’s curve in four more hours. He had plenty of dark hours tonight to accomplish his goal if conditions at her house were favorable. If not, time was irrelevant.

For the first time since he’d graduated from Belmont High School, Clint entered the Boston Public Library’s palatial McKim building. As kids, he and Todd took the bus into town to “study.” Mainly they pretended that the marble lions protecting the grand staircase stalked the courtyard and prowled among the stacks. In later years, when Paige came with Clint, Todd dropped the lion bit and cruised the grounds for girls.

Between the advent of the internet and his required reading at MIT, Clint had let his library card lapse. He stopped at the grand staircase long enough to rub one of the couchant lions on the tail, less for the asserted forthcoming luck than for old-times sake, then headed to the newspaper room through the Northwest Hall. Despite the memory rush and the architectural display in sculpture, mosaic, wrought iron, and mural, he had no time to reminisce.

The newspaper room, the first of its kind in the nation, boasted over 260 newspapers from around the world. It was Clint’s favorite place in the library. He selected the ten most recent copies he could find of
The Washington Times
and
The Washington Post
plus the oldest of each.

At the communal table, he sat with two young men choosing a club venue in
The Weekly Dig
, an old woman in overalls who moved her lips while reading
Le Monde
, and three junior high girls reviewing British current event topics from
The Times
. A haggardly man in his forties sat at a different table, apparently the girls’ chaperone, and waded face deep in a copy of
Barstool Sports
.

Clint scoured every article for the words Supreme Court as part of the headline. Abe he knew. Justice Cohen had the missing granddaughter, grandniece, or something. The other justices’ names he scribbled from memory onto a tablet in his black leather notebook. Like trying to recall the names of all Seven Dwarves, he could remember only eight of the nine justices. The first relevant article within a copy of
The Washington Times
gave him the judicial equivalent of Bashful.

He culled through several articles to ensure he got the proper name of each justice. But he wanted more than a lineup of the DC nine. He needed to find out where they lived, whom they loved.

Was any part of their inner circle missing?

Clint knew it was time to get serious. Time to harness the speed of light. Time to find a damn computer.

An attendant helped him get his delinquent lending card updated, purchase a card for printing documents, and locate a system for use.

But Clint hadn’t touched a keyboard in three months. His fingers froze, hovering an instant above the fray. He felt like a rider returning to the saddle after a nasty fall.

Screw it. This was for Beth.

He clacked the plastic keys and searched for the first justice.

As he found articles, he printed any that discussed their proceedings, controversial decisions, or cases under consideration. Several cases dealt with the rights of detainees suspected of terrorism.

The Washington Post
ran the closest thing he’d seen yet to a puff piece on the court. The article contained none of the tedious case specifics that might tip Justitia’s scale, but it was exactly what Clint wanted, a brief biography of each justice up to his or her confirmation date.

He pounded the table with his fist.

The noise surprised even him. He whipped around to see if anyone else had noticed. A few people eyed him until he met their gazes with a show of repentance. They returned to their own worlds. The lip-moving, old woman clattered her chair on the floor as she rose. The three junior high girls wheedled the man to take them to a coffee shop. The two young men were gone—now replaced by a woman and a small boy. Clint scanned for a clock. Ninety minutes had passed since his arrival.

He gathered his printouts. For each of the seven justices he found the information he needed: hometowns, spouse names, work history, academic background, professional affiliations; everything required to launch a proper investigation. He left the library with a resolve to return for the simple pleasure of it.

After Beth was safe.

The drive toward home fostered inspiration. He couldn’t run all this down by himself. He needed help. But first he had to help himself.

Until the day he walked out of CatSat, every facet of his life was cut pursuing inorganic solutions to the world’s self-induced needs: manufacturing, diagnosing, analyzing, communicating, playing, computing, commuting—only to face the irony: He was a digital man.

Full on. Or full off. No analog stops in-between for rest.

For the last three months, Clint fled from any semblance of personal technology in exchange for the simplicity of living in a boat, embracing something natural, phenomenal, feral—untamed by the so-called advancements of man. The
No Moor
was too old to have a CatSat chip in it, and he personally ripped out the GPS unit. Clint considered moving to a cabin in the mountains but knew even less about basic survival than he did sailing. If that was possible.

Somewhere during the past two months his priorities shifted. If technology could save Beth, he’d go full cyborg and get electronic implants that made Bluetooth devices look last-century. Comm uplink capability, internet access, T-3 line data access rates available 24/7—all at the push of a belly button.

But for now, he just needed a damn cell phone. The baby of the electronic bath water.

Finding a cell phone vendor was unavoidable. During his techno retreat, he stumbled across them at every dock, market, and kiosk he encountered. He’d been tempted, but was afraid to give in to the urge—afraid that even one concession would doom him to eternal bondage in wireless handcuffs.

But hiding from the facts didn’t solve Beth’s problem. And it wouldn’t solve his. He bought a sleek black unit from the first dealer he found near the marina. When he opened the package, he imagined hearing a clanking sound. Life in shackles for Beth’s freedom. Gladly. If only it were that simple.

He drove to Clement Marina and settled at a table in Nor'easters to make his first call.

Todd’s assistant, Brenda, answered on the third ring.

“You want what?”

“Private investigators. I know Todd uses them, and he only hires the best.”

“For the Supreme Court Justices.” She made it sound like a question.

“Not all of them, only seven. I’ve got the names—”

“Well, I know their names, too.” She paused. “What are you up to, Clint? Is everything alright?”

He steeled his voice. “I’ll explain it all someday, Bren.” His own assistant left the company when he did and would do this for him, but Brenda was better at keeping secrets.

“You finally got a cell phone. It’s about time.” She chided like a mother of seven. “My laptop is humming here. Have you got a pen?”

She dictated the names and numbers of five investigators located around the country while Clint scrambled to write them down in his tablet. He thanked her again and hung up.

At the first number he reached an investigator in mid-town Manhattan, hometown to Justice Patricia DeLancey. The male voice smoothed his Brooklyn edges. Clint explained the details of the job.

“What makes you think someone in the justice’s family is missing?”

“I don’t. It could be a friend. It could be nobody. But I want you to find out either way.”

“Are you related to her?”

“I’m not going to answer any questions. Turn the job down if you want. Or you can take my credit card number and get to work. Choose now.”

Clint gave the PI all the information he’d gathered plus the shiny new number to his phone.

“I don’t know what your interest is, and I don’t especially care. You know? But if you have in mind to check out anyone else, say, Justice Oberman from Pittsburgh or Villanova in New Hampshire, I can cover them, too.”

Clint caught himself smiling. “Working with a true professional is one of life’s simple pleasures.”

“It’s important to keep a clear head in this business.”

He gave the PI all the details for the other two justices.

Todd only hired the best.

The Chicago PI took the justices from Chicago and Miami, leaving the Los Angeles PI to chase down the justices from Sausalito, New Orleans, and to follow-up with Cohen in Denver. Both of these investigators were curious, but Clint didn’t ask for anything illegal, so each took his credit card number and promised to get busy.