The Witness (12 page)

“In the house,” the brigadier said, “there’s nothing of the daughter’s outside the bedroom. And there’s not much there. What is, is boxed. Like storage.”

“So you see.” Sergei nodded. “I have a different way, one that ends this and leaves nothing of us behind. Tell Yakov to be patient a little longer, Misha. The next time we have a party, it will be to celebrate his return. But now”—he lifted the platter, stacked with burgers and dogs—“we eat.”

W
HEN THE SUMMER DRAGGED ON
, Elizabeth reminded herself that if she were home, she would have given in—most likely—and would be enduring the summer program at the hospital. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have done anything all that different from what she did now.

Study, read. Except now she listened to music, watched movies on DVD or television. Through summer reruns of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
she believed she’d begun to learn contemporary slang.

When she was able to go back to college, she might know more of the language, might fit in better.

To continue her quest for security, she went to the practice range. She’d learned self-defense and poker.

Nothing could bring Julie back, and playing what-if was a useless process. It made more sense to look at the advantages of her summer confinement.

She would never be a surgeon.

At some point, she’d take on a new identity, a new life, and find some way to make the best of it. She could study whatever she wanted. She had a feeling joining the FBI was no longer an option, but she didn’t
ask. It might have been foolish, but not knowing a definitive answer left a sliver of hope.

She embraced the routine, grew comfortable with it.

Her birthday didn’t change routine. It just meant that today she was seventeen. She didn’t feel any different, or look any different. This year there would be no birthday dinner—prime rib with roasted vegetables followed by carrot cake—or any possibility of the car her mother had promised. Contingent on her academic achievements and deportment, of course.

It was just another day, one day closer to her court appearance and what she thought of as freedom.

As neither Terry nor John mentioned her birthday, she assumed they’d forgotten. After all, why should they remember? She gave herself the gift of a day off from studying, and decided she’d make a special dinner—
not
prime rib—as a personal celebration.

It rained, drenching and thunderous. She told herself it made the kitchen only homier. She considered baking a cake, but that seemed self-serving. And she hadn’t yet tried her hand at real baking. Preparing spaghetti and meatballs from scratch seemed challenging enough.

“God, that smells fabulous.” Terry paused in the center of the kitchen, inhaled deeply. “You almost make me think about learning how to make something besides mac and cheese.”

“I like doing it, especially when it’s something new. I’ve never made meatballs. They were fun.”

“We all have our own fun.”

“I can put some of the sauce and meatballs in a container for you to take home. You’d just have to add the pasta. I made a lot.”

“Well, Lynda called in sick, so you’ll have Bill and Steve Keegan. I bet they can pack it away.”

“Oh. I’m sorry Lynda’s not well.” Routine, Elizabeth thought. It always gave her a jolt when it changed on her. “Do you know Marshal Keegan?”

“Not really. John knows him a little. He’s got five years in, Liz. Don’t worry.”

“No, I won’t. It just takes me a little time to get used to new people, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to read after dinner, and probably go to bed early.”

“On your birthday?”

“Oh.” Elizabeth flushed a little. “I wasn’t sure you knew.”

“You have no secrets here.” On a laugh, Terry moved over to take another sniff of the sauce. “I get you like to read, but can’t you come up with anything more fun on your birthday?”

“Not really.”

“Then you need some help.” She gave Elizabeth a pat on the shoulder before she walked out.

Reading was fun, Elizabeth reminded herself. She checked the time, noting that the change of shift was coming up soon. The sauce could simmer until Bill and this new deputy wanted to eat, but she really had made a lot, so she’d put some in containers for John and Terry.

Like a reverse birthday gift, she decided.

“Help’s arrived.”

Elizabeth turned from reaching high into a cupboard for lidded containers.

Terry stood grinning with a box wrapped in shiny pink paper with a big white bow trailing ribbons. Beside her, John held a small gift bag and a white bakery box.

“You … you got me gifts.”

“Of course we got you gifts. It’s your birthday. And we got cake.”

“Cake.”

John set the box down on the table, flipped up the lid. “Double-chocolate fudge with buttercream icing.”

“My pick,” Terry informed her. “Happy birthday, Liz.”

“Thank you.” The cake said the same, in fancy pink piping. It had rosebuds and pale green leaves.

“It’s not carrot cake,” she murmured.

“I have a religious objection to any pastry made from a vegetable,” Terry told her.

“It’s very good, really. But this looks much better. This looks … like a real birthday cake. It’s beautiful.”

“We’ll have to save room for it
and
the ice cream,” John said. “After the birthday dinner. We were going to get pizza, but you started those meatballs, so we adjusted.”

Everything went bright, as if the sun burst through the pounding rain. “You’re going to stay.”

“I repeat, it’s your birthday. No way I’m missing out on ice cream and cake. We’ll wait for the others for eats, but I think you should open your gifts now.”

“Really? It’s all right?”

“Obviously, the genius doesn’t comprehend the power of birthday. Here.” Terry pushed the box into Elizabeth’s hands. “Open mine. I’m dying to see if you like it.”

“I like it already.” And she began to carefully slit the tape.

“I knew it. She’s one of those. One of those,” Terry explained, “who takes ten minutes to open a gift instead of ripping away.”

“The paper’s so pretty. I didn’t expect anything.”

“You should,” John told her. “You should start expecting.”

“It’s the best surprise.” After folding the paper, Elizabeth lifted the lid. She lifted out the thin cardigan with ruffles flowing down the front and tiny violets scattered over the material.

“It’s beautiful. Oh, there’s a camisole with it.”

“That’s not your mother’s twin set,” Terry declared. “You can wear it with jeans, or dress it up with a skirt. It looked like you.”

No one had ever told her she looked like ruffles and violets. “I love it. I really love it. Thank you so much.”

“My turn. I had a little help picking these out. So if you don’t like them, blame my wife.”

“She helped you? That was so nice of her. You have to thank her for me.”

“Maybe you should see what it is first.”

Flustered, thrilled, Elizabeth dug into the tissue paper for the little box. The earrings were a trio of thin silver drops joined together by a tiny pearl.

“Oh, they’re wonderful. They’re beautiful.”

“I know you always wear those gold studs, but Maddie thought you might like these.”

“I do. I love them. I don’t have anything but the studs. I got my ears pierced the day before … the day before. These are my first real earrings.”

“Happy seventeen, Liz.”

“Go, try it all on,” Terry ordered. “You know you’re dying to.”

“I really am. It’s all right?”

“Birthday power. Go.”

“Thank you.” Riding on the thrill, she wrapped Terry in a hug. “So much. Thank you.” Then John. “I am happy. I’m happy seventeen.” She clutched her gifts and raced for the stairs.

“It’s a hit.” Terry let out a long sigh. “She hugged. She never hugs.”

“Never got them. I gave her mother the secure-line number—again. Told her we were going to get Liz a cake for her birthday, and we’d make arrangements to bring her in for it. She declined. Politely.”

“A polite bitch is still a bitch. I’ll be glad when this is over for her, you know? And for us. But I’m going to miss that kid.”

“So am I. I’m going to call Maddie, let her know Liz liked the earrings.” He glanced at the time. “I’ll call in, check on Cosgrove’s and Keegan’s ETA. I expected to hear they were en route by now.”

“I’ll set the table, see if I can fancy it up a bit, make it celebrational.”

She got out plates and flatware, and thought of flowers. “Hey, John?” On impulse, she moved toward the living room. “See if Cosgrove can make a stop, pick up some flowers. Let’s do it up right.”

He gave a nod of assent, continued to talk to his wife. “Yeah, she
loved them. She’s upstairs putting them on. Hey, put the kids on. I probably won’t be home till they’re in bed.”

Terry walked back into the kitchen, thinking she should sample a little of that red sauce, just to make sure it passed muster. Even as she reached for a spoon, John called out.

“They’re rolling in now.”

“Copy that.” One hand on her weapon out of habit, Terry went to the garage door, waited for the signal. Three quick knocks, three slow.

“You guys are in for a treat. We’ve got—”

Bill came in fast. “We may have some trouble. Where’s John?”

“In the living room. What—”

“Bill thinks he spotted a tail,” Keegan said. “Where’s the witness?”

“She’s …” Something wrong. Something off. “Did you call it in?” she began, and pulled out her phone.

She nearly dodged the first blow, so it skated down her temple. Blood slid into her eye as she went for her weapon, shouted to John.

“Breech!”

The butt of Keegan’s gun smashed viciously across the back of her head. She went down, overturning a chair with a crash in the fall to the tiles.

Weapon drawn, John flattened against the wall in the living room. He needed to make the stairs, get to Liz.

“Don’t shoot him,” Keegan said quietly as he holstered his own gun and took Terry’s. “Remember, we don’t want any holes in him.”

Bill nodded. “I got him, John. I got the bastard. Terry’s down! She’s down! Keegan’s calling it in. Secure the wit.”

John heard Keegan’s voice over the drum of rain, rapidly relaying the situation.

And he heard the creak of a floorboard.

He came out, weapon up. He saw Bill moving on him, saw his eyes. “Drop your weapon. Drop it!”

“Terry’s down! They’re going to try for the front.”

“Lower your weapon, now!”

John saw Bill glance to the left, pivoted, elbowed back before Keegan could land a blow. As John dived to the right, Cosgrove fired. The bullet caught his side, burned like a brand. Thinking of Elizabeth, he returned fire as he raced for the stairs. Another bullet hit his leg, but he didn’t slow. He caught a glimpse of Keegan moving into position, fired on the run.

And took a third bullet in the belly.

His vision grayed, but somehow he kept moving. He caught sight of Elizabeth running out of the bedroom.

“Get inside. Get back inside!”

He lurched forward, shoving her in, locking the door before he fell to his knees.

“Oh my God.” She grabbed the shirt she’d just taken off, used it to apply pressure to his abdomen.

“It’s Cosgrove and Keegan.”

“They’re marshals.”

“Somebody got to them.” Teeth gritted, he risked a look at his belly wound, felt himself slipping. “Oh, Jesus. Maybe they’ve been dirty all along. Terry. She’s down. Maybe dead.”

“No.”

“They know I’m in here with you, that I’ll fire on anyone who tries coming in the door.” As long as he could hold a weapon. “But they know I’m hit.” He gripped her wrist with his left hand. “It’s bad, Liz.”

“You’ll be all right.” But she couldn’t stop the blood. Already her shirt was soaked through, and it just kept pouring out of him, flooding like the rain. “We’ll call for help.”

“Lost the phone. Keegan, he’s got connections—in the service, he’s connected. He’s moved up fast. Don’t know who else might be in it. Can’t know. Not safe, kid. Not safe.”

“You have to lie still. I have to stop the bleeding.” Pressure, she told herself. More pressure.

“They should have rushed me. Planning something else. Not safe. Listen. Listen.” His fingers dug into her wrist. “Gotta get out. Out the window. Climb down, jump down. But get out. You run. You hide.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re going. Get your money. Can’t trust the cops, not now. More in it. Have to be. Get your money, what you need. Fast. God damn it. Move!”

She did it to keep him calm. But she wouldn’t leave him.

She stuffed the money in a bag, a few items of clothing at random, her laptop.

“There. Don’t worry,” she said. “Someone will come.”

“No, they won’t. I’m gut shot, Liz, lost too much blood. I’m not going to make it. I can’t protect you. You have to run. Get my secondary weapon—ankle holster. Take it. If one of them sees you, comes after you, use it.”

“Don’t ask me to leave you. Please, please.” She pressed her face to his. He was so cold. Too cold.

“Not asking. Telling. My job. Don’t make me a failure. Go. Go now.”

“I’ll get help.”

“Run. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Out the window. Now.”

He waited for her to reach it. “Count to three,” he ordered as he crawled for the door. “Then go. I’ll keep them off you.”

“John.”

“Make me proud, Liz. Count.”

She counted, slid out. She gripped the gutter as rain lashed against her face. She didn’t know if it would hold her, didn’t think it mattered. Then she heard the volley of gunfire, and shimmied down like a monkey.

Get help, she told herself, and began to run.

She was less than fifty yards away when the house exploded behind her.