All Our Yesterdays (32 page)

I drive perilously fast, gunning the car up to fifty through the crowded center of downtown when there’s a break in traffic, dodging around slower-moving cars, and running red lights. My hands shake against the steering wheel, and I’m convinced that any second I’m going to collide with something or someone.

I watch the other cars as I drive, looking for Richter’s silver sedan amongst the traffic. I spot a silver Lexus at a stoplight in front of me. Richter was driving a Lexus, wasn’t he? I weave my way through four lanes of traffic toward it, but then I catch a glimpse of blond hair and oversize sunglasses in a side mirror.

There’s no way I’ll find them.

I stay on Fourteenth Street as it takes me out of D.C., toward the Pentagon. There are silver cars all around me. There must be more silver cars in the world than any other color. I speed past them, glancing at the occupants with no real hope of finding who I’m looking for.

Then the cars around me grind to a halt. For the first time ever, I thank God for D.C. traffic. I pull off onto the shoulder and start to drive, slowly, scanning the cars that are deadlocked in the actual lanes. If they were headed this direction, I may be able to find them.

The traffic is thick and slow for miles. I’ve driven two, maybe three, on the shoulder when I see a silver Lexus ahead in the far left lane. I slow to a crawl as I approach it, even though there are three lanes of traffic between us, in case one of its occupants should see me. I squint out my window as I get close, and my breath hitches.

I’d know that profile anywhere. It’s James in the passenger seat.

Now what? I didn’t actually expect to find them, so I didn’t think this far ahead. But I guess there’s really only one plan. Kill him before the doctor gets to Marina. Whatever it takes.

I turn my blinker on and ease back into the right lane of traffic. I wish I’d heard from Finn; he should have caught up to Marina by now and called to let me know she was safe. I maneuver the Chevy so that it’s two lanes over from them and several car-lengths behind, and I slowly follow them down Fourteenth Street and onto the exit for Pentagon City.

Pentagon City is like a mini downtown, full of high-rises and huge buildings that house government-consulting firms and private defense contractors. I follow Richter through the streets and watch from a stoplight as he turns his car into the underground parking garage of a nondescript office building sandwiched between two luxury apartment complexes. The only thing that catches my attention about the place is that a man in a suit is standing by the attendants’ station at the entrance of the garage.

I’ve seen a lot of parking attendants in my time, and even the valets at my mom’s favorite restaurant in LA—the ones who take over the keys of movie stars’ Bentleys and Aston Martins—never wear
suits
.

I park the Chevy in a no-standing zone one street over and get out. I check my cell phone for a call from Finn—nothing—and tuck the gun inside my belt, leaving the bag with the rest of our possessions in the backseat. I don’t expect to ever see the car again. Whatever it takes, I’m finding James inside that office building and ending this.

Of course, I can’t just stroll in. Somehow, in my jeans and hoodie, I have to look like I belong in that sleek building for long enough to find him without attracting attention. Finn would know how to do it. I try to think like Finn, and immediately my eyes go to the pizzeria across the street.

I come out of Little Romeo’s a few minutes later with a small cheese pizza—which, even in my state, I can’t help but notice smells like heaven—and a bottle of Coke. I walk toward the office building, practicing my casual face along the way, which is hard to make when my heart is racing so fast. But I have to stay calm, logical. It’s the only way I can help Marina.

Outside the building there’s a brass placard listing the offices inside: Sheen and Goldberg Dentistry, Republic Gas and Petroleum, a few law firms, and something called the Associated Institutes of Research. AIR. The name rings a distant bell in my memory. Rina, one of the people who was taken with us at the house in West Virginia, had worked in intelligence before the world went insane. She used to tell us about all the organizations that served as front groups for different intelligence agencies, and I’m sure she mentioned the AIR. I’d bet my life that the Associated Institutes of Research is really the SIA and that James and Richter are inside.

Which is good, since that’s basically what I’m doing.

I take a deep breath and push open the glass door to the lobby. I’ve walked into places where I had no business being dozens of times, and I know the key is to project confidence. If you look like you belong, people assume you do. I nod at the guard behind the front desk, lifting up the pizza as if to indicate I’m here on a delivery.

“Where you headed?” the guard asks, rising from his chair.

I look down at my receipt. “Sheen and Goldberg Dentistry? I’m looking for Marcy.”

“Fourth floor,” he says, pushing a clipboard toward me. “You’ll need to sign in.”

“No problem.” I scrawl
Elizabeth Bennet
across the sign-in sheet. Is this the extent of the security here? Obviously the SIA has decided to hide in plain sight. “Take it easy.”

“You too.”

As I wait for the elevator, I look at the directory posted on the wall. The Associated Institutes of Research takes up the entire top floor in this twenty-four-story building. Once inside the elevator, I press the button for twenty-four. Nothing happens. The doors remain open, and the button stays dark. I press it again, harder. To my relief, the doors close, but the elevator remains still. Now I’m just standing here like an idiot. That’s when I notice the card reader tucked in beside the emergency phone panel. Well, of course. Even if they’re hiding in plain sight, they can’t have just anyone posing with a pizza gaining access to the floor.

Time for a new plan.

I stand in the motionless elevator for several minutes, racking my brains for a solution. Even if I do get onto the twenty-fourth floor, there will no doubt be guards and all kinds of extra security measures. The odds of my reaching James might as well be nonexistent. I need a plan that gets me near him.

All the while, a little clock ticks at the back of my mind, reminding me that each moment I delay is one in which the doctor might be doing unspeakable things to Marina as his perverse way to get revenge on me. I glance at my phone and try to calculate how many minutes have passed since Finn and I parted. He should have caught up to her by now. I should have heard from him.

Finally, with the best plan I can come up with, I jab the button for the twenty-third floor and cross my fingers as the elevator starts to move.

The doors open onto a receptionist’s desk with a glass sign above it that proclaims this to be the law offices of Holden, Hewes, and Stein. I quickly remember what Finn taught me about how to get what you want from people: pay attention to them, figure out what they want and what they’re afraid of. The receptionist is young, so she’s probably inexperienced and a little uncertain. She’s wearing a floral blouse with big hot-pink flowers on it, so she’s not a stickler for rules. I need to be someone she won’t find intimidating, someone she’ll sympathize with and then forget.

As I step out of the elevator, I summon what I hope is a sweet, dopey smile.

“Hold, please,” she says as I approach, pushing a button on the phone console and giving me a bright smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to bring my dad some dinner.” I gesture to the pizza. “He’s going to be working late tonight.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Mr. Hewes.” Dear God, please let Hewes be a man.

“Let me call him and tell him you’re here.”

“Oh, please don’t!” I lean toward her, like we’re sharing secrets. “He doesn’t know I’m home from college. I want to surprise him.”

She looks uncertain. She’s probably supposed to call employees when they have visitors, but hopefully she’s still intimidated by the partners and doesn’t want to speak to Mr. Hewes any more than she has to. Finally she smiles. “Okay then. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you. You know where his office is?”

I point to my left. “This way, right?”

“That’s right. Have a good evening!”

I walk down the corridor, and as soon as I’m out of the receptionist’s sight, I dump the pizza and Coke in an empty cubicle. They’ll only slow me down and make me easier to spot now. I walk quickly through the office, trying to project an air of belonging and being too busy and important to be bothered, and somehow it works. Despite my ratty jeans and hair that hasn’t been washed for days, no one at this high-class D.C. law firm says a word about my odd presence. I prowl the perimeter of the floor, keeping to the edges, and after several minutes I find what I’m looking for.

The staircase.

I duck into the stairwell, which is made of concrete with metal handrails and floor numbers painted in black on each landing. I climb up to the twenty-fourth floor on quiet feet and stand in front of the door. As I suspected, there’s a key card panel beside it and who knows what waiting inside. I take the stairs up to the landing above, the entrance to the roof. It’s locked, but I don’t care about that. I peer over the handrail at the door to the twenty-fourth floor, gauging the angle and distance. It’s doable. Assuming that a hundred other things I’m depending on don’t go wrong.

I check my phone again as I run back to the law firm. Still nothing. Something’s gone wrong, I know it. I’m still here, so Marina is alive, but I don’t know how much longer that will last. I have to get to James before he gets to her.

I find the ladies’ room in a secluded little hallway near the stairs. There’s a fat sugar cookie–scented candle beside the sink, and I cross my fingers with one hand and grab it with the other. A cheap plastic lighter lays behind it, which may be the first piece of good luck I’ve had. I clutch it in my hand.

“Come on, Finn,” I whisper. “Hurry.”

I was in my father’s office once when the fire alarm went off. Someone silenced it almost immediately, and everyone around us continued working without even looking up. Dad explained that they always sent security guards to check out the area where the fire was supposed to be, because there were so many false alarms. Something as little as a bit of dust getting into one of the detectors could set it off. Only if the guards found a fire would they turn the alarm back on and evacuate everyone.

So, for this to work, there has to be a real fire.

I find a supply closet across from the ladies’ room. It’s stocked with toilet paper, hand towels, and reams of copy paper. I rip into the plastic packaging over a dozen rolls of toilet paper without even bothering to check if anyone’s coming. There’s no time for that now.

The toilet roll catches instantly when I hold the lighter to it. I light a few more and place them on top of the copy paper. I leave the door to the closet ajar to give the fire oxygen and ensure that the smoke will find its way to a detector soon. I run back to the stairwell and climb up to the roof landing, pulling the gun from my belt and checking that the safety is off.

Then I wait, the sick pounding in my head like my pulse counting down the moments until the end. Hopefully mine and not Marina’s.

The first wails of the fire alarm last less than twenty seconds before they go quiet. Just like my father’s office. I count the seconds. For almost a minute there’s silence, and then the alarm comes back on, louder and more piercing than before. I immediately hear the effect it has. There are footsteps all around me, and the doors to the stairwells open on all the levels below, voices spilling out, hundreds of pairs of shoes against the concrete echoing and magnifying. I peer over the edge of the handrail onto the twenty-fourth floor landing. A man in a black suit, like the one I saw at the entrance to the parking garage, is holding the door open and ushering people out.

“Take your time,” he says as workers pass him. “Probably nothing. Our meeting spot is in front of the bank on the corner.”

I watch every face that passes beneath me. No doubt there are multiple exit stairways, but if Richter and James happen to come through this one, I can end this right now.

After a minute or two, the steady flow of men and women slows to a trickle. They must have gone through another exit. I’ll have to go to the bank on the corner. It will be harder to shoot James in a large group of people, intelligence officers no less, but I can do it.

Then a man steps into the stairwell, and even before seeing his face, I recognize Chris Richter.

“Did you see a kid come through here?” he asks the guard. “Seventeen, tall, dark hair?”

I grip the handle of the gun, which is suddenly slick in my grasp. They aren’t together?

The guard shakes his head. “Must have gone down one of the other staircases.”

“I need to go check—” Richter turns back toward his office, but the guard’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you need to evacuate now. It’s procedure.”

“But there may be a kid alone in there,” Richter says, as if he gives a damn for James.

“Hoskins and Grant are sweeping the floor. If anyone’s in there, they’ll get them out.”

Richter swears, and I see the battle in his face. If James is still in the building, he needs to find him. But if he exited via another stairwell, he needs to get to him quickly.