Authors: Richard Doetsch
And if he was standing there, then maybe …
Mia was tougher than any woman he had ever known. If there was even a shred of possibility …
As he stood there in the kitchen, a glimmer of hope began growing in his mind, but it grew only so much as it hit an obstacle. It was as if the memory of the night before was hidden behind a wall that he couldn’t get around, couldn’t climb, couldn’t penetrate. His frustration grew to be overwhelming as he realized that he had lost some part of his mind.
F
RIDAY
, 6:50
A.M
.
F
RANK
A
RCHER STOOD IN
the Keelers’ kitchen, his hand on Jack’s shoulder, his eyes equally confused and relieved, looking as if he were staring at a ghost.
The two had sat in silence for more than three minutes, both coming to terms with the situation. Jack had explained everything he knew. He showed his injuries, the wound in his shoulder, the cuts on his face and neck; he showed his mud-encrusted, wet pants. Finally, he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and slowly rolled it up to reveal the dark tattoo that wrapped his forearm.
Frank looked at it a moment, his eyes darting between the macabre piece of artwork and Jack’s troubled eyes. Jack slowly rolled down his sleeve, waiting for his friend to speak.
“How can you not remember last night?” Frank finally asked. “You were dreading it for weeks. You were so pissed about giving up your tickets for the Yankees game—which was rained out, by the way—having to celebrate the life of the man who had yet to offer you a simple sign of respect. Don’t you remember making him his present? Ten nights you spent working on that thing, creating it from
scratch, all those pieces. You’re a better man than I. I wouldn’t even have bought him a card.”
“I’ve got nothing,” Jack said. “Not an image, a thought. It’s like someone threw a white can of paint on my mind. Yesterday just isn’t there.”
“Think. What time did you and Mia leave the party? Did you leave together? You didn’t just drive off that bridge, did you? And the gunshot wound?” Frank pointed at Jack’s shoulder. “It didn’t just appear. Is someone after you? Which is a distinct possibility. Most criminals hold the man who throws them in jail responsible for the troubles in their lives. You put your fair share away.”
No matter how hard Jack thought on it, his mind was blank.
“Think back,” Frank said. “What is the last memory you had before this morning? You remember me, not that I’m the forgettable type.”
Jack’s mind was on overload, as if it had short-circuited. He couldn’t hold a coherent thought as he tried to reflect back to the last memory before that morning. It was like lifting an impossible weight, his brain straining with the effort.
Last Friday, a week ago, appeared within a fog in his mind. In his office. Images started to come into focus. Reviewing pending cases with his assistant, Joy. But none of the cases was of any significance. He had arrived at work later than usual. Skipped lunch, early dinner with Mia and the girls … and then it completely fogged over.
“Ok,” Jack finally said as he looked up. “Last Friday.”
“Good.” Frank smiled. “It’s a start.”
But his mind was already back on Mia and the hollow feeling of being alone in the world, of grief, how he would tell his daughters that their mother was dead. He couldn’t bear to look in their eyes. He wouldn’t know how to answer “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why isn’t she coming back?”
“Hey,” Frank snapped. “I see your face. Your mind is spinning tales of supposition. Stay focused. Think. Something’s got to spark your memory. A song, a piece of clothing.”
Jack ran his hands down his face. Everything made him think of Mia. The kitchen table they sat at, which she’d bought from a friend and was so proud of after he had sanded it down and polished it in his shop. The kitchen she designed, the wallpaper, the framed pictures of her and the kids on the windowsill. Everything in his life made him think of Mia. She was part of the fabric of his being.
He walked through the house, hoping that something would just pop out and fill in the holes in his memory. Past the living room, glancing at the piano, which sparked a vision of his girls whining about Thursday lessons with Mrs. Henry. Past the dining room, which only pulled up memories of Mia’s home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-eight. The front hall: nothing. Feeling a fool, he headed back to the kitchen, and as he passed the powder room, it hit him. Her perfume, Chanel, hung in the air, its faint scent still lingering from … the night before. It was what she always wore, part of her essence since college, the smell of Mia. It was what filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep, what he smelled on her pillow, on her clothes, on her neck when he held her.
He froze where he stood, motionless by the powder-room door, trying to coax the memory of the night before from the dark hollow of his brain, but it kept slipping away, drifting off just out of reach.
Frank poked his head out of the kitchen, seeing Jack standing there, lost in thought, and remained silent.
And then Jack saw her in his mind’s eye, standing there in all of her beauty, looking at the mirror as she brushed her long dark hair one last time, yelling at him to get dressed, that they were going to be late … again.
It was as if a wellspring opened, flooding with images, thoughts, and sounds. Like from a separate life, distinct and apart from his own. It all came in, all of the joy and sounds of the party, of the never-ending rain, of the catered food. A movie unwinding before him.
He nearly collapsed, grabbing the wall for stability, sliding down against it, coming to rest on the floor as he started to shake. His emotions were building up inside him, and last night’s moments of
joy and anticipation shattered as rage and anger and fury filled him. He felt the pounding of the rain on his face, his body soaked and bloodied. And he finally boiled over as if awakened from one life to be thrust into another, where the shadows were darker, where pain was everywhere and life hung in the balance.
He finally looked up at Frank, tears welling up … for his memory of the night before had returned.
He knew what had happened.
Y
ESTERDAY
M
IA WORE A BLACK
dress, long, elegant, her lithe legs gliding along the floor as she walked arm-in-arm with Jack across the marble lobby of her parents’ house. The stately home was just short of a mansion, a brick dwelling with large rooms and high ceilings that dated back to the 1920s. Servants scampered around, carrying trays, adjusting floral arrangements, preparing for a party.
Jack readjusted a birthday gift under his left arm. Wrapped haphazardly in fishing-themed paper, the eighteen-inch-square box was awkward and difficult to carry.
They opened double doors and entered a small, cozy gentleman’s den. An oversized desk sat before the bay window, nothing on it but a brass elephant paperweight and a humidor. A life’s worth of books filled the shelves, and family pictures were scattered around, of Mia with her mother and stepfather below a white lighthouse, at the beach, skiing, of friends, family, and life, of Mia standing with a strong military man in dress uniform.
“I know it’s a day early, but happy birthday,” Mia said.
On the red button-tuck leather couch sat a white-haired gentlemen,
his broad shoulders projecting strength despite the evident years on his face. Dressed in a pale green blazer and dark slacks, he had an exacting style that matched his demeanor. He finally looked up with cold, assessing eyes at Jack and Mia.
“Your mother will use any excuse for a party,” the man said. His voice was deep, with no sense of celebration.
Jack handed the gentleman the colorfully wrapped package. The man’s dark eyes narrowed as he took in the crinkled paper of the unevenly wrapped gift.
“The girls spent a lot of time picking out that paper,” Mia said as she pointed out the bigmouth bass and the fishing rod. “Open it,” she urged him.
He sat back on his leather couch, placing the package on the coffee table in front of him. He pushed aside his newspapers and muted the TV.
He was born on July 1, and his mother named him Samuel, as her due date had been the Fourth of July and she had grown attached to it. But Sam Norris hated that name and hadn’t gone by it since grade school.
Leaning forward, Sam wrapped his large hand around the present and tore off the wrapping, revealing a polished wooden box, its cherry wood waxed to a high sheen. He lifted the lid of the furniture-quality case to find an assortment of small individual packages adorned in the crooked bows of a child’s hand: a fly-fishing reel, flies, string, lures.
“The girls are still waiting for you to live up to that promise of taking them on one of your fishing jaunts.”
Mia’s stepfather smiled as he held up the box, looking at its detail, at its perfect joints and recessed hinges.
“Jack made the box,” Mia said.
“A box?” Sam looked at Jack, a playful taunting in his voice.
“Well,” Jack began, trying not to sound defensive, “actually, it’s a—”
“Dad,” Mia cut in, “he spent a lot of time on that.”
“Thanks.” Sam smiled as he looked at Jack, stood, and headed for the door.
And as he passed Jack, he leaned into his ear, out of Mia’s range, and whispered, “I hear the campaign is kind of rough.”
“Well,” Jack said, “if it doesn’t work out, I can always make boxes for a living.”
Sam looked back at the box, tilting his head in doubt. “I don’t know much about carpentry, but if you need help with the campaign, you let me know.”
Jack smiled. “Happy birthday, Sam.”
Norris opened up the door to reveal a massive party in full swing, the crowd noise pouring into the den as he walked out.
Jack watched Norris disappear into the crowd of well-wishers, who slapped his back, patted his shoulder, and shook his hand, greeting him as if he were king.
“He never should have retired,” Mia said. “What did he say? Was he taunting you about the campaign numbers?”
“Mia.” Jack laughed. “He was just expressing his appreciation.”
The couple turned and stepped through the doorway, into the joyous mood of the party.
“I don’t believe you. It’s not funny,” Mia said as she grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and passed one to her husband. “For once, I wish he would just say thank you without having to add a comment.”
“Mia, when you’re the former director of the FBI, it’s hard to let go. Sometimes you still need to throw your weight around.”
“Not at the people you’re supposed to care about. Not at family.”
Jack leaned over, looking his wife in the eyes. “He’s a dad. He takes pleasure in ribbing the man who took away his little girl, his only child.”
“After sixteen years, it’s time for him to get over it.”
“You think I’ll be any different with our girls?” Jack smiled.
“Yeah, I do.” Mia paused with a smile. “You’ll be worse.”
“Damn straight.” Jack put on a false grimace.
“How’s your headache?” Mia asked. “I’m sure tonight is really helping.”
“No big thing; two Tylenol and two Cokes, and it’s almost gone.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I’m catching it—”
“Hey, Mia,” a gruff voice whispered.
Mia turned to see a bespectacled, older man.
“Mr. Turner,” Mia said. “You are the last person I expected to see here tonight.”
“And I’ll be the first one to leave,” Turner said. “Already saw your father. I just wanted see you, say hello, and remind you that you really belong on the world stage. The FBI is so limiting.”
Mia smiled. “When it’s time to make a change, you know you will be my first call.”
Turner nodded gruffly and headed for the front door.
In point of fact, Stuart Turner was a man known for tactical genius not only within the world intelligence community but inside the Beltway of Washington. He had been CIA director for the past three years, deputy director for six years before that, and had spent his earlier career in various State Department posts throughout the world. Known as a man who could cut through the bullshit and get things done, he possessed an abrasive manner that struck fear into those who didn’t know him. But after knowing him for eighteen years, Mia couldn’t help but smile at his social peculiarities.
“Jack.” A man approached, his brown hair perfectly parted, his suit perfectly pressed. He warmly grasped Jack’s shoulder as he shook his hand.
“Peter,” Jack said.
“Hi, Mia,” Peter said as he leaned over, giving her a kiss.
“Hey, Peter. Is Katherine here?”
“No, I’m solo. She and the kids are out in the Hamptons. Figured I had to show up to kiss the ring of the man.”
“He’s retired, Peter. No need for anyone to kiss his ring or his ass anymore,” Mia said with a knowing smile.
“But you know that’s my specialty, kissing ass and currying favor.”
“Spoken like a true politician.”
Peter Womack was, in fact, a federal prosecutor. At the age of thirty-six, he was the youngest U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, overseeing the federal government’s most important and visible office. He and Jack had worked together on occasion, while their wives had become friendly at one too many political functions.
“Special Agent Keeler?” a deep voice called out.
Mia spun around to see the current director of the FBI, her boss’s boss, Lance Warren, standing in the hallway behind her. A career government man, having previously served in the military, the CIA, the NSA, and the State Department, Warren was the rare breed favored by both political parties not only for his finesse in coordinating between foreign and domestic intelligence agencies but also for his tenacity and get-it-done yesterday approach. A handsome man, he stood tall in a blue blazer with his hand thrust out toward Mia. Mia took it as he shook it in congratulatory fashion.
“So many jobs well done, Mia.” Warren said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mia …” Warren said admonishingly.