But then, everyone has secrets.
Bridget swallows. “You know I would never do anything to intentionally cause trouble for Morris.”
“Oh my,” Howard says.
“I would never want to embarrass him. Never.”
Howard studies her. “Well, let’s see…” He looks her over, like he’s trying to guess how much Morris spent on her diamond earrings. If he’d guessed twenty grand, he’d have been right, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about. It was what kind of trouble Bridget had gotten herself into.
“It’s money, or it’s sex,” he said. “Or it’s both. There’s really nothing else. No matter what you’ve done, it’ll come back to one or both of those.”
“It’s both,” she says.
“I see,” Howard says. “Just how bad is it?”
Bridget looks down into her lap, then back to Howard. “Bad.” She collects herself. “I’m being blackmailed, Howard.”
“So, there’s the money part. And the leverage your blackmailer has over you, that will be the sex part. Unless, of course, I have this all totally wrong, and you’ve gone and killed someone.”
“I haven’t killed anyone,” she says.
“Well,” Howard says, as the drinks are placed in front of them, “there’s a cause for celebration. Although, I’ve seen people bounce back from murder convictions.” He takes a sip of his scotch and watches the waiter retreat. There is a part of him, Bridget suspects, that’s probably actually enjoying this, because Howard thrives on problems. But if he is enjoying this, she doesn’t think it will last for long.
He asks, “And there aren’t pictures out there of you having sex with a goat or anything, are there?”
“No.”
“Well, anything else should be a breeze to deal with by comparison. Out with it.”
“I had an affair,” Bridget says.
Howard nods wisely, as though he has been expecting this. “We’re talking about something recent, something that has transpired since you and Morris engaged in the bonds of holy matrimony.”
“Yes.”
“Is it over? This affair?”
“Yes.”
“Do I know him?”
Bridget pauses. “No.”
Howard cocks his head slightly. “That was a troubling hesitation, Bridget. It means I may know him, and you’re lying, or you’re responding truthfully in a deliberately obtuse way. Let me see if I can discern which it is.” His eyes bored into her. “I think it’s the latter.”
Bridget says nothing. Howard is, if you can take a step back, which is rather difficult for Bridget at this moment, amazing to watch.
He keeps his eyes on her another moment, then asks, “Who is she?”
He really is something. “Her name’s Allison Fitch.”
Howard’s eyelids flutter rapidly. It’s what he does when he’s searching through his mental database. “You are right. I don’t know her.” He drinks more of his scotch. “You know, Bridget, you might have mentioned, after I arranged for you and Morris to connect, and I quietly asked you whether there was anything compromising in your history, that you were a muff diver.”
Bridget sits rigidly in her chair and says nothing.
“Did you make it known to this Allison Fitch that you were the wife of a prospective governor, the state’s current attorney general?”
“No. I gave her another name altogether. But she saw me on television, on the news, at a function with Morris, and there wasn’t much to put together after that.” Bridget gives him the Reader’s Digest version of the story. Where they’d met, how many times they’d seen each other, the time they’d gone away together.
Howard smiles humorlessly. “I mentioned pictures of you with a goat a moment ago. What about with this woman? Are there any photos? Hidden camera, that kind of thing? A goat, now that I think of it, might be less politically damaging.”
Bridget’s gaze narrows. “Are you worried about their blackmail potential, or did you just want me to get you a copy?”
“So they exist?”
“I don’t think so. Allison never mentioned it. I don’t see why she would have filmed me. She didn’t know, at the time, who my husband was.”
“Then what proof has she? One possible strategy is to ride the thing out. It’d be ugly, but we stonewall, deny, suggest that your husband’s opponents choreographed the entire episode. In the meantime, we dig into her past, find something good on her that destroys her credibility, and believe me, we will find something even if we have to make it up, and after the press has some fun with it for a while, everyone gets bored and we continue on as though it never happened. In fact, without any proof, I make some calls and a police investigation is initiated and before you know it she’s up on an extortion charge. Handle it like that talk show host, what’s-his-name with the teeth, who was getting blackmailed by the guy who said if he didn’t pay up he’d tell the world he’d been sleeping with half his staff. Brought in the cops, set up a sting, the bozo did time. Difference with you is, you’ll stick to the line that you don’t know this woman. Maybe you bumped into her someplace, on vacation, at some function, but you have no idea who she is. By the time we’re done with her no one will believe her if she says it’s raining in the middle of a Katrina.”
“There are texts,” Bridget says.
“Say again?”
“No pictures, but there are texts. Between us. Phone records, and texts.”
“And what do these texts say, Bridget? What is their nature?”
“They’re…I guess the word would be salacious.”
“And would you be the author of any of these salacious texts, or are they all written by Ms. Fitch?”
“Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”
Howard runs his tongue over his teeth. “How much is she looking for, and what does she intend to do should you not meet her demands?”
“One hundred thousand. Or she goes public, to whoever’ll pay the most for the story.”
“I see. Not very imaginative, is she?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If I were her I would have asked for at least a million. And how do we know she won’t take the money and sell her story, anyway?”
“She said she wouldn’t do that,” Bridget says.
Howard leans back in his chair and opens his arms. “Ahh, well then, nothing to worry about.”
“I know what you’re thinking. That she’ll come back again and again, always asking for money.”
“I think that’s very likely, Bridget. Perhaps, with the right degree of persuasion, she can be happy with one reasonable sum. And then she agrees to go away, and we never hear from her again.”
Bridget sighs. “I knew you’d know how to handle this. You’re just so…so cool and collected about these things.”
“It’s all about putting out fires, my dear. We want to douse this one before it consumes an entire forest, that’s all.”
“Howard, I don’t want Morris to know about this. I mean, Morris and I have been very frank with each other about our…idiosyncrasies, but he doesn’t have any idea that I’ve seen someone else since we were married. You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
He shakes his head and reaches out to touch her hand. “What purpose would that serve? I love you both too much to do that. You have a beautiful future ahead of you if you learn to control your…impulses.”
“It was a slip,” she says. “It’s never going to happen again.”
“Of course not,” he says, still patting her hand, “because I will not—repeat, not—allow anyone to get in the way of Morris’s destiny, and that includes you. So if there is a repeat of this kind of behavior, then I will personally strangle you with your own brassiere, chop you into bits, feed you to the Central Park squirrels, and find a way to pin the whole thing on your husband’s opponent. Is that clear?”
Bridget nods. “Perfectly.”
FOURTEEN
“WE’D like to come in and speak with you,” FBI
Agent Parker said. She wasn’t asking.
“What’s this about?”
“We’ll discuss it with you inside.”
I asked to see their IDs, which they both flashed at me, then motioned for the two of them to enter the house. I gestured toward the living room couch and chairs, but they chose to stand. I did the same.
“We need to see some identification,” Driscoll said.
“Do I need a lawyer or something?”
“We’d just like to establish exactly who we’re talking with,” Parker said.
Not knowing whether I should cooperate or not, but fearing the consequences of being disagreeable, I reached around for my wallet and dug out my driver’s license. Parker took it in her hand.
“You’re Mr. Kilbride,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“Ray Kilbride.”
“Yes.”
“You ever go by any other names?” she asked. There was an accusing tone in her voice, as though she suspected me of having a raft of aliases.
“No. Of course not.”
“What do you do, Mr. Kilbride?”
“I’m an artist. An illustrator.”
“And just what kind of things do you illustrate?” Agent Parker asked. Her tone suggested she was probably thinking porno comics.
“My work’s appeared in newspapers, magazines, Web sites. I had something in the Times Book Review the other week.”
“So, if you do work for a Web site, I guess you do a lot of your work on the computer.”
“Sure,” I said.
“And you live out here and do that?”
“I don’t live here. I live in Burlington.”
Agent Driscoll stepped in. “Then whose house is this?”
“It’s my father’s.” I cleared my throat. “It was my father’s.”
“What’s that mean?” Agent Parker snapped.
“It means he’s dead,” I snapped back, looking her right in the eye. I’d thought that might put her in her place, however briefly, but it didn’t faze her.
“What happened to your father?”
“He died in an accident out back of the house a few days ago. A lawn tractor rolled on him and killed him. His name was Adam Kilbride.”
Agent Driscoll said, “Did your father have a computer?”
I shook my head, still wondering what the hell this was about. It should have bit me by now. “What? Yes, he did. A laptop.”
Agent Parker had her notebook out. “What day did your father die?”
“Friday, May fourth.”
She nudged her partner with her elbow, showed her notebook to him. “Messages that day, and since.”
Now I was getting it.
“You’re Ray, and your father was Adam,” Agent Parker said. “Is there a Thomas Kilbride who resides here?”
“Yes.”
“And what would his relationship be to you?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Is he here now?” Driscoll asked.
“Yes,” I said again. “He’s upstairs.” I was already ill at ease, but my discomfort had now multiplied exponentially. What the hell had Thomas done to bring the FBI down on us? And how was he going to react when he learned that they were here to see him? “My brother stays in his room most of the day. I don’t know what you want with him, but he’s absolutely harmless.”
“What’s he doing in his room?” Parker asked.
“He’s on his computer.”
“He’s on it a lot, is he?” she asked.
“Look, my brother has certain psychiatric issues. He prefers to spend a lot of time on his own.”
“What sort of psychiatric issues?” Driscoll asked.
“Nothing that anyone else needs to worry about,” I said. “He’s got his problems, but he never bothers anyone. He’s very…docile, basically.”
“But he likes to send e-mails,” Parker said.
This wasn’t getting any better. “What kind of e-mails?”
“Do you monitor your brother’s communications?” Driscoll asked.
“What? No. I don’t. I’m not even aware of his communications. I told you he keeps to himself.”
“Are you aware that Thomas Kilbride has been e-mailing the Central Intelligence Agency on a regular basis?”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
“And that many of these messages have been addressed to former president Bill Clinton?”
I felt my insides liquefying. “Please tell me these were not threatening messages. That you’re not here to arrest him or anything.”
The two glanced at each other, exchanging some unspoken decision, and Parker said, “No, not threatening. But…concerning. You want to call him down or shall we go upstairs and get him?”
I hung my head and shook it. “Wait here.”
I went upstairs, opened Thomas’s door without knocking.
“It’s too soon for me to start dinner,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
“I need you to come downstairs, Thomas,” I said.
“What is it?”
“You have visitors.”
I expected him to ask who, but instead he just said, “Oh.” He stood from the chair, and as he was heading for the hall I grabbed him gently by the arm.
“They’re government people,” I warned him.
That stopped him. It took a second to register, and then he nodded quickly a couple of times, as though he’d been expecting this to happen sooner or later. “Oh,” he said. “That’s great.”
“Thomas, it’s not great. What the hell kind of messages have you been sending to the CIA?”
“Progress reports,” he said, and slipped past me for the stairs. Once he hit the living room, he went straight for them, the woman agent first, then Driscoll, shaking hands.
“I’m Thomas Kilbride,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The president never said anything about you dropping by for a visit.”
“The president,” Agent Parker said.
“Well, former president,” Thomas said. “But Mr. Clinton said you can still call him that. But I hardly need to tell you this if he’s the one who sent you.”
“Why would he have sent us?” Driscoll asked, stone faced.
For the first time, Thomas looked concerned. “Aren’t you from the CIA?”
“No,” Parker said. “Agent Driscoll and I are from the FBI.”
Thomas was unable to hide his disappointment. “FBI?” he said. “I thought you’d be from the CIA.” He reminded me of a kid who opens up a Christmas present he thinks is a video game, and it turns out to be socks. “They’re the ones I’ve been in touch with.”
“Actually,” Parker said, “they contacted us. We’re helping them out today.”
“Is this about where I’ll do my work? Because I’d like to be able to work from home. I don’t want to go to Washington. Tell them, Ray. I like it here.”
“Mr. Kilbride,” Driscoll said, “why don’t we all have a seat.” The agents took the two chairs, and Thomas and I sat on the couch on the other side of the coffee table from them.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. The FBI does a good job, too. But I was expecting the CIA.”
“Well, we all work together,” Driscoll said. “All on the same side, right?”
I was detecting the slightest change in tone from him. Less edge. Now that they had met Thomas, they could see—I hoped—that he did not present a threat.
“You’ve been writing to the CIA about a computer virus that’s coming,” Parker said. Maybe Driscoll had lost his tone, but not Parker.
“Well,” Thomas began, “I’ve already explained this in my messages to the CIA, and President Clinton and I have talked about it.”
Just recently, I thought.
Thomas continued, “But I don’t mind going over it again. I don’t actually have any inside information on the virus. It’s speculation on my part. I don’t even know if it will be a virus. It might be a s
olar flare, or a kind of nuclear explosion. It could even be caused by a meteor hitting the earth. That kind of thing can be very cataclysmic.”
“Uh-huh,” Parker said. “So, whatever it is, what is it you think it’s going to do?”
“Wipe out all the GPS systems and maps that are stored on computers. All gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, but he was never very good at that, and the action hardly made a sound. Thomas then explained his role in helping the country through this catastrophe; how he was memorizing the streets of all the major cities in the world. “And, as you know, I’m at the ready, should any agents of the U.S. government be on the run in a metropolitan area anywhere in the world, to offer guidance. Street locations, alleys, that kind of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” Parker said. “Thomas, you wouldn’t be trying to write some kind of virus yourself that would cripple the computer systems of the U. S. government, would you?”
“No,” he said, not the slightest bit offended. “I’m not really that good with computers. I mean, I’m on mine a lot.” He looked my way, perhaps expecting me to weigh in with a critical comment. “I know how to turn them on and do e-mail and how to use Whirl360 to get around, but that’s about it. I don’t know how to take them apart. When my computer needs to be fixed my dad takes it to a shop in town.” He paused. “But not anymore. My dad died.”
“We heard about that,” Driscoll said. “Sorry.”
“I found him,” Thomas said. “The tractor killed him.” He said this almost formally, as though he wanted our guests to be very clear about what had happened.
“So your brother said,” Driscoll said.
“And what is it you want from the CIA, Thomas?” Parker asked.
Thomas sat up a little straighter. “I don’t want anything from them. It’s what I have to give. I’m offering my services. You should already know this if you’ve seen the e-mails. When all the computer maps crash, I’ll be able to assist the government.”