Payne sat there, mentally and physically spent. He nearly jumped when Waller tossed a file on the table in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“Your personnel file,” Waller said. “Open it up, thumb through it. Maybe something will jar your memory.”
Haviland motioned to his partner, then moved toward the door.
“Excuse us a moment,” Waller said.
As the two men stood in the hallway outside the conference room, Waller interlocked his hands behind his neck. Haviland spoke first.
“Jon, this isn’t going to work.”
“What do you want to do, Scott, wave the white towel? It’d be a fucking cold day in hell before I admit I caved to Anthony Scarponi. We’d never hear the end of it. And how many other people is he going to kill? How many has he already killed in the past five months?”
“You’ve gotta be realistic. There’s no way we’re going to be able to give Harper enough information that it’ll come out as if it were his own memories. We’re talking about cross-examination. You saw what Friedkin did to him the first time around—”
“Tried to do to him. Harper came through okay.”
“The old Harper did. But he’s had a severe head injury. Did you see the size of that bruise? I mean, shit, he doesn’t even recognize us.”
“You want me to be realistic? How about you be realistic. The director’s on our ass. We’ve got coverage on his family, but how long do you think we can keep that up before one of ‘em fucks up? If Scarponi wants to, he will get to the director’s family. It’s a question of when, not if.”
Haviland massaged his temples. “Maybe once Harper gets into the file, it’ll all come back to him.”
“Or maybe the doctors can give him something to jar his memory.”
Finally, Haviland sighed. “We’ve got to run this by Knox.”
“He’ll give us the go-ahead. He’s got no choice.”
Payne pulled open the manila folder and came across his original application to the Academy. It was just as Waller had said: he was born in Massachusetts, did a stint with the army’s Special Forces, and finally became a field agent with several commendations and decorations.
He looked at the photo from sixteen years ago. His face had a more youthful look to it, that much was for sure. But after what he’d been through—let alone the plastic surgery they’d mentioned... he turned the page and read the director’s letter to him thanking him for the exceptional duty he had performed for the safety of the people of the United States.
Payne shook his head. He wished he could remember these things. How can one lose the memories of a lifetime?
The door opened and Haviland walked in. As Payne looked up from the file, a thought occurred to him. “Was I married? Did I have any kids?”
Haviland took the chair to Payne’s right. “Your wife’s name was Beth. You have a little girl, Randi. I think she was four or five at the time.”
Their eyes met, Payne’s expression asking the question that didn’t need to be verbalized.
Haviland sighed. “I don’t know what happened to them or where they are. They were relocated as well. At first you thought you could keep your family intact. You thought you could protect them. But after the car bomb you realized it would never work out. You were devastated. But you did it to keep them safe.”
Payne sat there, pondering the thought of a wife and child. “I’d like to talk to the marshal, find out where they are.”
“Impossible. If they’re to be safe, you can’t have any contact. None. That’s not up for discussion—or debate. I’m sorry.”
The door swung open and Waller stepped in. “Knox is on board,” he said to Haviland. “We ready to start?”
Payne turned to Waller with a long face. “How are you going to brief me on an entire career, almost two years’ worth of details in an undercover assignment?”
Waller leaned forward. “We’ll coach you, hold your hand every step of the way. We’ll tell you what you need to say. We’ll make it work. We have to.”
Payne sighed and looked at Haviland, who nodded. Finally, Payne sat back in his chair and threw up his hands in frustration. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
At four-thirty, Lauren returned to the Neighborhood Watch Center and spent half an hour with Carla Mae going over the various messages that had come in since she had left.
“The calls have slowed down, which for now I suppose is good,” Carla said. “None of them made much sense, I’m sorry to say. Some people called to offer their condolences, some wanted to bring food over. Then there were the usual pranks. Bottom line, nothing that would help.”
“And these?” Lauren asked, picking up a stack of several message slips.
“Those I would give to Nick, let him do some legwork on them. They were the more promising ones.”
Lauren placed them in her purse and thanked Carla again for her assistance. She then headed out, stopping at a fast-food drive-through to pick up dinner. When she arrived home, Bradley was sitting by the back door, cell phone in hand.
Lauren glanced at her watch. “I thought you were going to meet me at six.”
“I finished what I needed to get done, put out a bunch of calls. Most of the other people I needed to talk with knock off at five, so I left and came here. I figured if I was sitting outside your house, it may deter your friend from coming in and doing the laundry or something.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I guess not. Sorry.” He took the bag of food from her as she fumbled for her house keys. “The fraternities threw a fit, as I expected. I’ve got a call in to Vork for help. But unless we can narrow it down a bit, it could take a week or two just to call all the names on every frat roster. That’s if we have help and get lucky by hitting on the right people sooner rather than later.”
“We don’t have a week or two.”
“It’s just one of many things I’ve got in the fire. I’m sure something else will turn up.”
Lauren pulled out the slips of paper Carla had given her and handed them to Bradley. “Here are some messages Carla took today. Maybe there’ll be some leads in there.”
“I’ll get right on them.”
Lauren inserted her key and unlocked the backdoor. She greeted Tucker with a pat to the head as Bradley placed the bag of food on the kitchen table. “What about all these other ‘things’ you’ve got in the fire?” she asked.
“I’m trying to pinpoint places in Colorado Michael could’ve gone cross-country skiing.”
“And?”
“And you can ski in practically any rural area where there’s snow. That leaves a lot of territory to cover.”
Instead of responding, Lauren began unwrapping the food.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Bradley said. “There are so many angles to take on this and no simple way to narrow it down. He could be in Colorado, or he could be in California somewhere. Or anywhere in the other forty-eight states for that matter.”
Lauren removed a couple of plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, hoping to hold back an outburst of tears.
“We’re not giving up, Lauren. I told you, I’ve got stuff in the works. It’s just not going to be easy, that’s all.”
Lauren nodded. “I bought you a cheeseburger and fries.”
Bradley studied her face for a moment, then took a seat. “Thanks. My favorite.”
They sat and ate their food in relative silence. Tucker sat calmly by Lauren’s side, devouring the occasional french fry she slipped him. When they had finished, Lauren took out the handheld PC and set it down on the kitchen table. As she logged on, Bradley began clearing the table.
“You know, it would be a good idea to send out a message to everyone on your e-mail list, just in case any of them have heard from him.” Lauren started to protest, but Bradley held up a hand. “I know, it’s a huge long shot, but sometimes playing the long shots pays off.”
Lauren frowned and shrugged a despondent shoulder. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt.” She touch-screened through Internet Explorer to get to the Hotmail Website. She clicked on COMPOSE, and began to write her e-mail message. Once she was satisfied with the wording and tone of the message, she touched SEND and waited as the little PC transmitted the appeal across the internet to her eleven contacts.
“Done?” Bradley asked.
“Done.”
She clicked OK on the screen that informed her that her messages had been sent, then began scrolling through the six new e-mails she had received. Two had been sent to her from professional organizations she belonged to, another was a joke forwarded from a friend in Los Angeles, and the fourth one was probably spam, or junk mail—from someone or some company called “lost_in_virginia.”
She skipped the messages from the psychological groups and thought about just deleting the forwarded joke, but figured the humor might do her some good. She was wrong. It was stupid and she immediately zapped it from her inbox.
As she did so, the next message, the one from lost_in_virginia, popped up on her screen. The first line caught her attention immediately. “Oh my God—” She cupped her mouth with her right hand.
“What?” Bradley asked, swiveling around to grab a view of the tiny color screen.
“He’s alive, Nick, and he’s in Virginia!”
Bradley quickly scanned the message, then reached for the telephone. He booked two seats on a flight out of Sacramento to Reagan National, due to leave at nine forty-five in the morning. After hanging up the phone, he turned to Lauren, who had tears rolling down her cheeks.
He took her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder.
Hector DeSantos and Brian Archer walked the circular path across from the inscribed black granite walls of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Between them was Director Knox, a brimmed hat deflecting the drizzle that fell from threatening skies.
“I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement on this,” Knox was saying. “Let me reiterate that there never was an attempt to keep you men in the dark.”
“We understand, sir,” DeSantos said. “Communication is vital to what we do. When we felt we’d only received half the message, we were... concerned.”
Knox stopped and faced DeSantos. “I know you, Hector. You felt betrayed.”
“Yes, sir,” DeSantos said.
“And you, Brian, you were trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Well, you’ll have your pieces.
As we get them,
not days later this time. Agreed?”
Archer and DeSantos nodded.
“There’s something else.” Knox hesitated a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking this may be the end of my...
involvement
with OPSIG.”
“Any particular reason?” DeSantos asked.
“Nothing I care to discuss.” Knox glanced over his shoulder at the security-detail agents leaning against a sedan. “Let’s just say it’s a personal decision.”
“Then it’s going to be a sad day, sir, when this assignment is over,” Archer said.
“I just thought you two should know.”
“What about the others?”
“They’ll all be told, in time.”
The three of them stood there for a long moment looking at each other, the rain whipping against their coats, the cold air snaking around their exposed necks. It was an awkward moment, one where there should have been more emotion evident. But they were professionals, and their silence said enough.
Finally, DeSantos broke in. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
They shook Knox’s hand and the man was off into the wind, which was blowing rain straight at him. He disappeared under the watchful eye of his security detail into his black sedan.
DeSantos looked at Archer. “Well?”
Archer’s jaw moved furiously as he chomped on his piece of Juicy Fruit and considered DeSantos’s question. “I think it’s really sad. I mean, it’s like losing a brother. Knox has been with us since—”
“I mean about Scarponi.”
“Oh.” Archer sighed. “I think the guy’s out of his mind if he thinks he can threaten the director and not have serious heat come down on him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he is out of his mind. Or maybe he feels like he doesn’t have anything to lose.”
Archer shook his head. “Knox is still keeping something from us. I’m not sure what, though. You?”
DeSantos nodded. “Yeah. It’s not all adding up.” He stuck his hand into his pocket and felt a piece of paper Knox had palmed him when they shook. “With these INFOSEC pass codes he gave us, we’ve got access to just about any U.S. intelligence network we could want. I say we get started.”
Archer turned and they began to walk back to their car. “I think we have to look at it one of two ways. Either there’s nothing to be found, or he’s purposely making us work for our information.”
DeSantos chewed his bottom lip. “Something else is going on. For whatever reason, Knox isn’t making it easy.”
Just then, Archer’s phone vibrated. “Man, I hate putting these things on vibrate. Scare the shit out of me every time.” He pulled it off his belt and checked the number.
“Maggie loves mine. She clips it to the front of her pants and then calls herself.”
“You guys are the kinkiest couple I’ve ever known.”
DeSantos pulled down on the bill of his baseball hat to prevent the increasing rain from blowing in his face, then nodded at Archer’s phone. “What’s up?”
“Trish was having some cramping this morning. She wants me to meet her at the OB’s office. That was my reminder.”
“When you’re married, that phone becomes a ball and chain, man.”
Archer smiled. “For you, that must mean a hell of a good time in bed.”
Lauren was singing James Taylor, moving with a twirl or a skip from drawer to drawer while gathering her clothing: “all you’ve got to do is call, and I’ll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah...” She tossed a pair of jeans into her suitcase as if she were slam-dunking a basketball.
Lauren kept checking the time.
Three and a half hours till we leave.
Then, three hours and twenty-five minutes. Three hours twenty minutes. She couldn’t help watching the clock—she was finally going to see Michael again. She could feel it.
Her carry-on almost completely packed, she set it near the door. Bradley had left to get them some breakfast at McDonald’s while Lauren finished gathering her things. The item she really wanted to carry on with her was her daddy’s handgun, but Bradley had told her it would have to be unloaded, locked in a gun box and checked through.