"When's the damn trial?"
"Actually, there isn't going to be a trial."
He stared over at her. "Don't tell me that sonofabitch Thornhill copped some sort of sweetheart deal. Don't tell me that."
"He didn't."
"So why no trial?"
"A trial needs a defendant." Reynolds tapped her fingers against the steering wheel and then slid on a pair of sunglasses. She proceeded to fiddle with the heating control.
"I'm waiting," Lee said. "Or don't I qualify for an explanation?"
Reynolds sighed and straightened up. "Thornhill is dead. He was found in his car on a back-country road with a single gunshot wound to the head. Suicide."
Lee was stunned into silence. After a minute he was able to mutter,
"The coward's way out."
"I think everyone's relieved, actually. I know the people at CIA are.
To say this whole thing rocked them to their super-secretive bones is an understatement. I guess for the good of the country, it's better to be spared a lengthy, embarrassing trial."
"Right, dirty laundry and all," Lee said acidly. "Hooray for the country." Lee gave a mock salute to a flag flying in front of a post office they passed. "So if Thornhill's out of the way, why does Faith need Witness Protection?"
"You know the answer to that. When Thornhill died, he took the identity of everyone else involved in this with him to the grave. But they're out there, we know they are. Remember the videotape you orchestrated? Thornhill was talking to somebody on that phone, and that somebody is still out there. The CIA is doing an internal investigation to try to ferret them out, but I'm not holding my breath.
And you know these people will do their best to get to Faith and Buchanan. For pure revenge, if nothing else." She touched his arm.
"And you too, Lee."
He glanced over at her, read her mind. "No. There is no way I'm going into Witness Protection. I can't deal with a new name. I have a hard enough time remembering my real one. Might as well wait for Thornhill's sidekicks. Least I'll have some fun before I die."
"Lee, this is no joke. If you don't go underground, you'll be in great danger. And we can't follow you around twenty-four hours a day."
"No? After all I did for the Bureau? Does this also mean I don't get the FBI decoder ring and free T-shirt?"
"Why are you being such a smartass about this?"
"Maybe I don't give a shit anymore, Brooke. You're a smart lady, didn't that one ever occur to you?"
Neither said a word for the next couple of miles.
"If it were up to me, you'd get anything you wanted, including your own island somewhere with servants, but it's not up to me," Reynolds finally said.
He shrugged. "I'll take my chances. If they want to come after me, so be it. They'll find me a little tougher bite than they think."
"Isn't there anything I can say to change your mind? "He held up the flowers. "You can tell me where Faith is."
"I can't do that. You know I can't do that."
"Oh, come on, sure you can. You just have to say it."
"Lee, please-"
He smashed his big fist against the dashboard, cracking it. "Dammit, Brooke, you don't understand. I have to see Faith. I have to!"
"You're wrong, Lee, I do understand. And that's why this is so hard for me. But if I tell you and you go to her, that puts her in danger.
And you too. You know that. That breaks all the rules. And I'm not going to do that. I'm sorry. You don't know how terrible I feel about all this."
Lee laid his head against the back of the seat and the two remained silent for another several minutes as Reynolds drove aimlessly.
"How is she?" he finally asked quietly.
"I won't lie to you. That bullet did a lot of damage. She's recovering, but slowly. They almost lost her a couple more times along the way."
Lee put his hand over his face, slowly shook his head.
"If it's any consolation, she was as upset as you are about this arrangement."
"Boy," Lee said, "that just makes everything wonderful. I'm the friggin' king of the world."
"That's not how I meant it."
"You're really not going to let me see her, are you?"
"No, I'm really not."
"Then you can drop me at the corner."
"But your car's back at the hospital."
He opened the car door before she came to a stop. "I'll walk."
"It's miles," Reynolds said, her voice strained. "And it's freezing outside. Lee, let me drive you. Let's go get some coffee. Talk about this some more."
"I need the fresh air. And what's there to talk about? I'm all talked out. I may never talk again." He climbed out and then leaned back in.
"You can do something for me."
"Just name it."
He handed her the flowers. "Could you see that Faith gets these? I'd appreciate it." Lee shut the door and walked off.
Reynolds gripped the flowers and looked at Lee as he trudged away, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets. She saw his shoulders quiver. And then Brooke Reynolds lay back against the seat as the tears trickled down her face.
CHAPTER 59
NINE MONTHS LATER LEE WAS STAKING OUT the hideaway townhouse of a man soon to be involved in an acrimonious divorce proceeding with his many-times-cheated-on wife. Lee had been hired by the very suspIcious spouse to collect dirt on her hubby, and it hadn't taken him long to fill up bag after bag, as Lee watched a parade of pretty young things flounce through the premises. The wife wanted a nice-size financial settlement from the guy, who had about five hundred million bucks' worth of stock options at some high-tech Internet outfit he had co founded And Lee was very happy to help her get it. The adulterous husband reminded him of Eddie Stipowicz, his ex-wife's billion-dollar man. Collecting evidence on this guy was a little bit like hurling rocks at little Eddie's bloated head.
Lee took out his camera and shot some pictures of a tall, blond, miniskirted number sauntering up to the townhouse. The photo of the bare-chested guy standing at the door awaiting her, beer can in hand, a goofy, lascivious smile on his fat face, would be exhibit numero uno for the wife's lawyers. No-fault divorce laws had seriously depressed the business of PIs running around digging up dirt, but when it came time to split the marriage loot, the slimy ooze still carried weight.
Nobody liked being embarrassed with that stuff. Especially when there were kids involved, as there were here.
The long-legged blonde couldn't have been more than twenty, about his daughter Renee's age, while the hubby was pushing fifty. God, those stock options. Must be nice. Or maybe it was the man's bald head, diminutive stature and soft pooch. You couldn't figure some women.
Nah, must be the dough, Lee told himself. He put the camera away.
It was August in Washington, which meant just about everybody, other than cheating husbands and their bimbos, and PIs who spied on them, was out of town. It was hot, muggy, miserable. Lee had his window rolled down praying for even the slightest movement of air, as he munched on trail mix and bottled water. The hardest thing with this type of surveillance was the lack of pee-pee breaks. That's why he preferred bottled water The empty plastic containers had come in handy more than once for him. He checked his watch; it was close on midnight. Most lights in the apartments and townhouses in the area had long since gone out. He was thinking about heading on, himself. He had gotten enough stuff in the last few days, including some embarrassing shots of a late-night romp in the townhouse's outdoor hot tub, to make the guy easily fork up three quarters of his net worth. Two naked girls who looked young enough to * be thinking about the senior prom, frolicking in the bubbly water with a guy old enough to know better-this probably wouldn't sit too well with * the upstanding stockholders of the husband's nice little high-tech concern, Lee imagined. His own life had taken on a routine bordering on obsessive monotony, * or so he had dubbed it. He got up early, worked out hard, pounding the bag, crunching the stomach and hoisting the weights until
he thought his body would raise the white flag and then present him with an aneurysm.
Then he went to work and kept at it nonstop until he barely made it to dinner at the McDonald's late-night drive-through near his apartment.
Then he went home, alone, and tried to sleep, but found that he was never able to actually accomplish total unconsciousness. So he would prowl the apartment, look out the window, wonder about a whole bunch of things he couldn't do a damn thing about. His life's "what if' book was filled up. He'd have to go buy another one. There had been some positives. Brooke Reynolds had made it her mission to send as much business his way as possible, and it had been quality good-paying stuff. She also had had a number of ex-FBI agent buddies now in corporate security offer him full-time employment with, of course, stock options. He had turned them all down. The gesture was appreciated he had told Reynolds, but he worked alone. He was not a suit type. He didn't like eating the kinds of lunches that required silverware. Additional elements of success would undoubtedly be hazardous to his health. He had seen Renee a great deal, and each time, things had gotten better between them. For about a month after everything had shaken out, he had barely left her side, making sure that nothing would happen to her because of Robert Thornhill and company. After Thornhill had killed himself his concerns had faded, although he was always on her to stay alert. She was going to come and visit him before school started up again. Maybe he'd drop Trish and Eddie a postcard, telling them what a fabulous job they'd done raising her. Or maybe he wouldn't.
Life was good, he kept telling himself. Business was good, he was in good health, his daughter was back in his life. He wasn't six feet under helping to fertilize grass. And he had served his country. All good shit. Which made him wonder why he was so unhappy, so out-and-out miserable. Actually, he knew, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Wasn't that a kicker? Story of his life. Know the blues, but just can't change them.
A car's headlights flicked across his side mirror. His gaze immediately went to the car that had just pulled up behind him. It wasn't a cop wondering why he had been parked here for several hours.
He frowned and looked over at the townhouse. He wondered if his naughty tech mogul had noticed him and called in some reinforcements to help teach the curious PI a little lesson. Lee hoped that was the case. He had his crowbar in the seat next to him. This might actually be fun. Kicking the crap out of somebody might be the depression antidote he needed; get those endorphins going. At least it might get him through the night.
He was surprised when only one person emerged from the passenger side and headed his way. The person was small, slender, hidden inside an ankle-length coat with a hood, not exactly your recommended attire for a ninety-degree thermometer and one hundred percent humidity. His hand tightened on the crowbar. As the figure came up to his passenger door, he hit the door lock. The next moment, his lungs had locked up and he was gasping for air.
The face looking in at him was very pale and very thin. And very Faith Lockhart. He unlocked the door and she slid in.
He looked at her, finally found his voice down near his knees. "God, is it really you?"
She smiled, and suddenly she didn't seem so pale, so drawn, so frail.
She slid off her long, hooded coat. Underneath she had on a shortsleeved shirt and khaki shorts. Her feet were in sandals. Her legs were very pale and thinner than he remembered; all of her was.
Months in a hospital had decimated her, he realized. Her hair had grown out and was longer, though far from its original length. She looked better with her real hair color, he thought. Actually, he would have taken the woman bald.
"It's me," she said quietly. "At least, what's left."
"Is that Reynolds back there?"
"Nervous and upset that I talked her into it."
"You look beautiful, Faith."