Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (27 page)

And every minute that he sat here
in stony silence staring down an interrogator was just more time the government
was wasting not finding the guy who had the virus.

He sighed heavily. But, he had promised
Sasha he wouldn’t talk. So he continued to clamp his jaw tightly closed and
look wearily at Hank Richardson.

“Leo, give me
something
,”
Hank pleaded.

Leo felt almost worse for Hank
than he did for himself.

Hank had made a show of pulling
all the strings. Leo’s handcuffs were removed, he’d been offered food, drink,
and dry clothes, but still he refused to speak.

Leo merely repeated the one
sentence he’d said to each of the agents who’d cycled through the interrogation
room, “I want a lawyer.”

Hank rubbed his own temple,
mirroring Leo’s movement—whether he did so out of a shared sense of frustration
or a deliberate attempt to create the illusion of a bond, Leo couldn’t tell.
Leo shifted his attention away from Hank to focus on a crack in the corner of
the ceiling that was spidering down the side of the wall. It was the extent of
the windowless room’s decor.

“Son, you may have gone over to
the private sector, but you’re not fooling me. You’re still one of us. You want
to catch this nasty piece of work just as badly as I do. That’s why you came in
to talk to us yesterday. Now’s your chance. But, you know the clock’s running
on this. Help me.” Hank finished his speech and leaned forward on the gray
metal table, staring at Leo.

Leo
did
want to talk to
Hank; he
did
want to help. Not because of Hank’s somewhat heavy-handed
and clichéd appeal. But, because he’d been yearning to jump in and start
digging from the minute he heard about the investigation.

But he wasn’t going to talk to
anyone until they let him speak to the lawyer he knew beyond a shadow of a
doubt had to be sitting out in a waiting room somewhere. There was no chance
Sasha hadn’t gotten an attorney for him within minutes of her leaving the
campus.

Delaying—not denying, but
delaying—a suspect access to his counsel was a time-honored law enforcement
strategy. He knew it. Hank knew it. The task force was in for an awakening,
though, if they thought they could out wait him, Leo thought.

Now he mirrored Hank’s posture,
leaned forward over the table, and said, “Lawyer, Hank. Let me talk to my
lawyer.”

They locked eyes. After a long
moment, Hank shook his head, sadly, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll send her in.”

He pushed back his metal chair
from the table, its legs screeching against the gray-green floor tile. He walked
out of the room without a backward glance at Leo.

Leo figured his attorney, who had
no doubt been kept waiting with a series of excuses, would walk in the door
within three minutes of Hank’s departure. He started to count off the seconds
in his head, as his watch had been confiscated along with his Glock and his
phone.

He made it to a hundred and forty
before the door opened. A junior agent ushered a woman through the door. She
wore square-rimmed glasses with black frames, which matched her short, neat
hair and her black, tailored pantsuit. A large, turquoise-beaded necklace added
a splash of color to her otherwise severe image. Then she smiled, a broad, open
smile, and the room lit up.

He felt himself exhaling. He didn’t
know where Sasha had found this woman, but he already felt better.

“Thanks, Agent Tortetta. I’ll
take it from here,” she said in a firm but friendly voice to the agent, who was
lurking in the doorway.

He dropped his gaze to the floor
and shuffled out into the hallway.

She waited until the door shut
with a loud
click
. Then she crossed the room toward Leo, holding up a
piece of paper that had been ripped from a legal pad. In large, looping
letters, she’d written:
Assume they’re listening in.

Leo nodded. He didn’t have to
assume. He knew for certain that somewhere deep within the maze of the FBI
building a cluster of representatives from various agencies were huddled around
a speaker, waiting to hear what he and his attorney said to one another.

“Hi, I’m Colleen Young-Wetzel,” the
woman said, extending her right hand.

“Leo Connelly,” he said. “Are you
a friend of Will’s?”

“That’s right,” she said,
flashing him another big smile. “And he had wonderful things to say about both
you and Sasha.”

Despite his surroundings, Leo
felt himself smiling back at her.

She held his gaze for a moment
then shifted gears.

“Okay,” she said in a brisk tone,
“this should be the part where I ask you to tell me what happened. Then, I
assure you it’s going to be okay, while at the same time, I manage your
expectations so you don’t think I can work magic and get you out of here today.”

“But, I guess Sasha already told
you what happened?”

“She did, but ordinarily I’d
still want to get my client’s version. However, your friends out there tell me
you’re free to go.” She cocked her head to the side, in an exaggerated display
of confusion.

He blinked at her.

She shrugged her shoulders, palms
up, in a big gesture.

He understood that she was trying
to tell him something was off, that the FBI was up to something, but she didn’t
know what.

“Really?” he said slowly.

“Yep. Agent Richardson did ask if
you would talk to him briefly before you leave. Says he has a favor to ask you.”

Leo’s instinct was to hear
Richardson out, but he wanted to get his attorney’s take on it. “What do you
think? Should I talk to him?”

She tapped a manicured finger to
her lips. “That depends. You have any interest in getting killed?”

It was Leo’s turn to cock his
head in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Colleen spoke in a clear,
confident voice, like she was addressing a jury. “I’m fairly certain, Leo,
that, if a group made up of FBI, CIA, ATF, DHS, and DOJ needs a favor, then the
task is dangerous, ill-advised, illegal, or all of the above.”

She smiled again, cat-like and
sly, and turned her head to the door. As she did so, Hank, trailed by his CIA
and FBI counterparts, hustled into the room.

“Ms. Young-Wetzel, you have a
very suspicious view of human nature, don’t you think?” Hank chided her.

She raised one shaped brow. “I’m
stunned that you were able to hear me from out in the hall, Agent Richardson.”

Hank just smiled; Leo knew it
wasn’t his style to insult her intelligence by claiming they hadn’t been
monitoring the conversation. Besides, it wasn’t as though there was recourse
for the eavesdropping, and everyone in the room knew it.

Ed Appleman, the FBI agent, was
holding Leo’s phone, wallet, watch, and weapon in his hands.

Leo stood and took the gun first,
hefting the black plastic polymer in his hand for a moment before sliding the
gun into its holster. Then he reached for his cell phone and wallet, both of
which he slid into his pocket. Appleman dropped the titanium watch into Leo’s
palm.

After securing his watch around
his wrist, Leo nodded to Hank. “I hear you need a favor.”

The CIA agent cleared his throat
and cast a meaningful look in Colleen’s direction. “We do. But we can’t discuss
it in front a civilian.”

Colleen twisted her mouth into a
wry smile. “Hint taken. Just remember, Leo—dangerous, ill-advised, and illegal.
Good luck to you.”

“Thanks for everything,” Leo
said.

She gave a short laugh and headed
for the door. “They should all be this easy.”

Hank waited until she was gone. Then
he turned and met Leo’s eyes. “She’s got two out of three right. It’s dangerous
and technically illegal.”

Gavin licked his
cracked lips, encouraged by the fact that he was able to work up enough saliva
to wet them. The intravenous fluids that Lydia had started him on must be
helping. His fever seemed to rage less, too.

In fact, he felt almost human again.
Certainly he felt well enough to come up with a plan.

He rested his head on the pillow
and shifted to his side, thinking.

They seemed to be checking on him
frequently, perhaps afraid that he, like Celia, would take a sudden turn for
the worse. The first woman—the kind-eyed Anna—and Lydia alternated visits. At
least, he thought they did. He wasn’t positive, as the first several hours had
passed in a hot, cloudy haze.

But, if he was right, then Anna
should be coming soon. He had to convince her to let him use her phone. Or
overpower her and take it.

One way or the other, he needed
to call Sasha. Tell her what was going on. He was lucid enough to know they’d
probably kill him if the flu didn’t do it for them. He didn’t want to die. He
especially didn’t want to die surrounded by paranoid delusional preppers. If he
had to die, he’d like it to be in his own home, in his bed, with at least one
more cup of decent coffee in his system. But, he wasn’t going to let Bricker
get away with his terrorist act. Not if he could stop it.

He rested, conserving his
strength, and waited. Finally, he closed his eyes to nap.

The sound of the lock turning on
the door startled him awake.

The door opened, the overhead
light flickered to life, and the door shut again. He waited for his eyes to
adjust to the brightness, and then he turned to look: it was Anna.

She walked quietly, trying not to
disturb him. He turned his face toward her.

“Hi,” he croaked.

“Oh, you’re awake. How are you
feeling?” she asked through her mask.

“Better.”

“That’s good. Let’s take your
temperature.”

She removed a digital thermometer
from her pocket, slipped it into a plastic protective sleeve, and stood over
him. He opened his mouth, and she inserted the probe.

While she waited for it to beep,
she checked the level on his fluid bag.

“Do you feel the need to urinate?”
she asked him.

He nodded. He didn’t, not yet.
But, it would be an excuse to get out of bed. He shifted his gaze to her jacket
pocket. He could see a flat metal rectangle encased in pink rubber peeking out
of the corner. An iPhone.

“I’ll bring you a bedpan. I don’t
think you’re up for the walk to the latrine just yet.”

The thermometer beeped, and he
opened his mouth. She removed it and read the display.

“Ninety-nine. You’re on the mend,
Mr. Russell.”

He cleared his throat. “Great. I
guess I won’t be your prisoner much longer, then.”

She frowned. “You aren’t being
held captivate. You’re quarantined. There’s a difference.”

He pushed himself up on his
elbows. He was breathing heavily from the effort.

“Is there? I’m locked in this
room. You—or someone—confiscated my car keys, my phone, and my gun. It sure
feels like I’m being held captive.”

She considered this while opening
a fresh Gatorade for him. She slid a straw into the bottle and handed it to
him.

“I can see how you could feel
that way. But that’s for your own safety. And our safety, too. You should bear
in mind that you’re a trespasser here. We would have been within our rights to
treat you harshly and, make no mistake, some of us wanted to. Jeffrey—Captain
Bricker—insisted we tend to your medical needs in a humane fashion.”

Gavin took a long drink of the
cold, sweet liquid.

“Captain Bricker’s your husband,
right?”

She hesitated for a moment then
said, “That’s right.”

“You have kids?”

“Six.” Her clipped response was
suspicious.

He pressed on. “And it doesn’t
bother you? All the innocent people—children, too—who might die?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Of
course it bothers me. I wish everyone would heed Jeffrey’s warnings and develop
a preparedness plan, learn to be self-reliant. But we can’t force people to
listen, Mr. Russell. When the pandemic comes, I’ll mourn the deaths of the
unprepared, but I can’t prevent them.”

He barked out a laugh, which
turned into a coughing fit. After he regained his breath, he leaned back, his
eyes watering from the hacking.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

She just stared at him.

“Your husband is going to unleash
the virus. He’s going to
cause
the global pandemic you all fear,” Gavin
told her, his voice hoarse with effort.

She shook her head. “No, you’re
confused. We don’t have the virus, we have the vaccine. Celia—and you—didn’t
get sick because you were exposed to the Doomsday virus. Lydia says Celia
developed a similar strain of the flu as a side effect of being vaccinated. It’s
rare, but it happens. You just caught that flu.” She spoke to him in a soothing
voice.

“No. I heard your husband and
Rollins talking. He has the virus, too. And he plans to go to Pittsburgh
tomorrow to infect the population. Your husband’s a killer. And if you don’t do
something to stop him, so are you.”

Her eyes flashed above the mask. “That’s
a lie.”

“Ask him.”

“I don’t need to,” she snapped.

She turned away from the bed.

“Wait. Please.”

She looked back over her shoulder
at him.

Gavin swallowed painfully. “Listen,
please, just ask him.”

She looked at him with sad eyes
for what seemed like an interminable amount of time but was probably less than
twenty seconds. Then she turned and left without answering.

Sasha had passed
Hagerstown and was crossing the border from Maryland into Pennsylvania when her
cell phone rang.

“Sasha McCandless,” she answered
through Connelly’s Bluetooth connection.

“Hi, Sasha, it’s Colleen
Young-Wetzel.”

“Hi, Colleen,” Sasha said, mildly
surprised to be hearing from the attorney again so soon.