“Where was Dylan?”
“Out on the deck reading a book. We’d … we’d had an argument. Anyway, Ralph said he was on duty and was just curious about how Dylan and I met. He’s a nice guy.”
Bear frowned. “He was a nice guy. He’s dead now.”
Carrie flinched, and for just a second she felt a flash of irritation at Bear. She knew it was irrational. But she couldn’t stop herself.
“The attackers killed him?”
Bear shook his head. “No, as best we can tell, Dylan Paris did. Myers was one of the attackers.”
Alexandra gasped, and Carrie’s irritation at Bear shifted to anger. “Mr. Wyden, do you think you can consider—”
“No. I need to know,” Alexandra said. “What happened?”
Bear sighed. “We’re still trying to reconstruct the events, and some of it I can’t talk about. But as best we can figure, when the attack came, Andrea went over the side of the balcony, and Dylan stayed to ambush the attackers.”
“Andrea did what?” Carrie asked.
“She tied a blanket to the balcony rail and used it to swing down to the floor below, then smashed in their sliding glass doors and let herself out on the 19th floor.”
“Badass,” Sarah murmured.
“And what happened after that?”
“The shooters killed Mick Stanton, and wounded Leah. Once she was down they busted open the door to the condo. As best we can tell, Dylan was hiding behind the door—he took down one right there, and the other one in the living room.”
Carrie said, “He took them down?”
“The evidence seems to indicate he stabbed them with kitchen knives.”
Alexandra gasped and covered her mouth.
“At that point,” Bear said, “it’s not clear what happened next. He had blood in his shoes—it looks like he went into Andrea’s room and took some of the cash. We’re still reconstructing the scene. But he left the building via the elevator at that point. The car he threw his phone into was near the Metro station, so we think he may have gone that way, or he might have taken a cab. We’re having some trouble getting the surveillance video from the Metro station analyzed.”
“Maybe you should leave him alone,” Sarah said.
“Sarah,” Alexandra commented. “We need to find him.”
“Seriously,” Sarah replied. “Think about it. He’s taking Andrea underground, because someone is trying to kill her. Will you get that through your head? The last thing he needs is to have the cops breathing down his neck. And frankly,” she said, looking now directly at Bear, “you need to spend more time figuring out who is trying to hurt Andrea and less time trying to stop her from getting away from them.”
Bear frowned. “I’m going to be straight with you, but you’ve got to be straight with me. Why didn’t any of you tell me the IRS was investigating the family? Don’t you think that might have been relevant information?”
Carrie stared at Bear, stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t bullshit me. The IRS seized your sister Julia’s offices this morning. They’ve had an investigation running for some time.”
She turned to Alexandra. “Do you know anything about this?” At Alexandra’s head shake, she said, “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I haven’t talked with Julia since the middle of the night last night. She’s on her way here, last I heard.”
Bear shook his head. “No one’s questioned you? Asked any questions? Sent even a letter in the mail?”
“From the IRS? Nothing.”
“I don’t get it.” Bear looked genuinely puzzled.
“Neither do I. Just in case you missed it, we’ve been basically housebound since the day Andrea arrived in the States.”
Bear leaned forward and looked closely at Carrie. “Look, Carrie, I know you and I haven’t exactly hit it off in the last few days. But I need you to level with me. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with all of this stuff, but you can bet if what I’m hearing about the IRS is true, you’ll have agents coming to see you. FBI, treasury agents, who knows what. You’re certain you know nothing of this?”
Carrie looked him in the eye. “I’m certain.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re safe. You and your sisters and your daughter. What I need you to do is keep talking to me. You hear me? You have to let me know what’s going on.”
Carrie took a deep breath and sat back. She looked up at the ceiling. Did she really have any good reason to trust Bear Wyden? So far nothing in her experience led her to trust any federal agent. She remembered all too well sitting in a room across from Janice Smalls and Jared Coombs only a year ago as they prepared to destroy Ray’s life.
Something about Bear, though … made her want to believe. He wasn’t a soldier—he never had been from what she knew. He looked nothing like Ray. He was a barrel of a man, with few social niceties. But the fact was, she needed to trust him.
Before she knew what she was doing, she said, “I think this is all somehow related to whoever my father is.”
“Secretary Thompson?”
“No,” she replied. “No. Apparently, he … is not my father.”
Bear nodded. “I suspected so. Nor is he Andrea’s.”
“That’s right.”
“What makes you think that has anything to do with all of this?”
Carrie shrugged. “Obvious, isn’t it? No one’s ever tried to kill any of us before. But now, when we’re getting blood tests related to a genetic disease? Are you familiar with the term Occam’s Razor?”
Bear shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“Basically it’s a principle used in science—in short, if you have a bunch of competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions is most often correct. You start out with the simplest explanation and work your way up.”
He nodded. “Yeah, they teach the same principle to detectives. Because it’s the truth—ninety percent of the time, the obvious perp is the one who did it.”
“But not always,” Alexandra said.
“No, not always.”
Sarah asked the next question. “So what’s the simplest explanation here?”
Bear shrugged. “Your father isn’t Richard Thompson. Someone else is. And that someone else doesn’t want to be found out.”
“You would have to be one cold-hearted bastard to kill for that.”
“If there’s power and money involved, you can assume that. Who are our candidates to be your father?”
“My dad—shit…” Carrie stopped. “I’ve always called him that. My—whatever he is—says Senator Chuck Rainsley is my birth father. I have an appointment to see him later this morning. Or rather, Andrea and I had one.”
“I’ll take you,” Bear said, sighing. “I’ll get with the kids this afternoon.”
Carrie sighed. “Thank you.”
“There’s one more thing you need to consider, Carrie.”
“Yes?”
“Whoever is trying to hurt Andrea—if it’s because of who her parents are—then we need to be concerned about your safety too. And Rachel’s.”
Andrea. May 2. 10:15 am.
The rhythmic thumping from the headboard of the room next door did nothing to ease Andrea Thompson’s frustration, nor the fact that it had been going in spurts all night. The pattern was clear. Twenty minutes would go by. The door would open, and she’d hear voices. Then the building seemed to shake as the steel door slammed shut, and a few minutes later it would start, usually slow, then faster and faster. Never more than a few minutes. Then the door slammed again. The television Andrea kept on wasn’t loud. She didn’t bother—it would have to be all the way up to block out the noise from next door.
It was a few minutes after ten and this had been going on all night. An internal debate had been running through her head after she lost count sometime in the early morning, awakened every forty minutes or so. Was the woman next door a prisoner? Was she trafficked?
Or a prisoner of her own addictions? Who knew?
What Andrea did know was that she herself was effectively a prisoner, a fugitive. It presented an interesting ethical problem for both her and Dylan. If the woman next door was a prisoner, they should call the police. But of course, the police had clearly demonstrated they couldn’t protect her. And Andrea did not want to die.
Right now, however, she was nervous and frustrated and frightened. Dylan had left almost an hour before to get cigarettes and find out what he could of the news. An hour later he still hadn’t returned, and she was worried that whoever was after them had somehow found him. Was he laying somewhere injured? Was he dead?
Andrea replayed her doubts and worries over and over again, a never ending loop of anxiety and stress, a film on repeat that kept showing her the same images. Hairy Chest, his dead and swollen face as he collapsed in the car. The sight of Dylan, psyching himself up to a killing rage, knives in both hands, as she swung down off the balcony. But even further back. The disapproval on her father’s face. She remembered the looks he’d given her when she was young, but they’d never made any sense. The looks of slight disgust and solid disinterest. She remembered her mother’s tears and protestations that they loved her.
Then why do you keep sending me away? Andrea had asked once. Three years ago? It was right before her thirteenth birthday, in June of 2010. My birthday is in two weeks. Why are you sending me away?
Her mother had sighed and said, It’s best, Andrea.
She hated her mother. Her father she could understand—he was a cold bastard and rarely came out of his office to spend even five minutes with any of his children. But her mother? Why?
It had never made any sense. Until she discovered that Richard Thompson wasn’t even her father. Then the ugly stares, the disinterest, the bitterness of her exile all made sense. Andrea was the evidence of her mother’s infidelity. Richard was a bastard, but he was a bastard for a reason. Because of their mother.
Andrea started at a knock on the door. She sat up straight then grabbed for the long serrated kitchen knife Dylan had left with her. She didn’t answer the door.
Another knock.
She tensed. Dylan was supposed to identify himself by voice if he came. So who the hell was at the door?
She slipped off the bed where she’d been sitting, and moved in a silent crouch to the door. The blackout curtains were ineffective, weak light slipping around them in all directions, but they were enough to block her view of the outside. She slowly came to her feet and put her eye to the peephole in the door.
She froze. Outside, standing in the oppressively dim light, was the hotel manager or desk clerk, a grizzled Indian or Pakistani with nearly white hair and beard. Next to the manager was a bored looking police officer. The hotel manager said something in words too quick to understand, and the cop said, “No, don’t open it. What about the next one? That’s where you said the noise was from?”
Shit! Andrea thought quickly. Someone, maybe the hotel manager, had called the cops reporting suspicious activity? Maybe reporting whatever was going on next door?
Did they think she was somehow involved in that?
A moment later she heard the thumping stop next door. A loud voice, the words unclear, then she heard the words clearly. “Open up. Police.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Andrea leaned close to the blackout curtain. Careful to not move it, she put her eye near the gap between the wall and the curtain, trying to get a view of whatever was happening next door.
Movement. Then a loud noise, and the door next door slammed. The cop moved into the room, and the manager stood outside. Loud voices. Shouting. A male voice, the john maybe, begging.
A moment later she saw a man come running out. Grey suit, his shirttail hanging out. He walked past the hotel manager, looked back, and then ran.
The door slammed. Andrea started to back away from the blackout curtain, but then she noticed that the manager hadn’t moved. What the hell was going on? He stood, his back to the door next door, hands clasped behind his back. His right leg bounced a little. He swayed on the balls of his feet, turning slightly toward Andrea’s room. She jerked back from the opening.
Then she realized exactly what was going on. Because she heard a female voice cry out. Loud. Someone had called the cops, and this was the result. Whoever that poor woman was next door, the cop had decided to exploit her too, instead of helping.
The rage that flooded through Andrea right then was nearly uncontrollable. She sank down, resting on her haunches, shaking with anger. She squeezed the knife in her hands tighter, wanting nothing more than to run next door and use it on the cop who was abusing his position.
Jesus Christ, what could she do about it?
And what would happen if Dylan came back right now? Would he blow his temper? Go next door? Would he get them caught?
Or was Dylan out drinking somewhere? She didn’t know much at all about him, except that he was a war veteran. Sarah had said he was a reformed alcoholic who had started drinking again. Andrea knew about addicts and alcoholics, and the one thing she knew was they couldn’t be trusted if they weren’t in some kind of serious recovery.
The noise started again, the headboard of the flimsy bed banging into the flimsy wall of the crappy room next door, and Andrea realized that she had no choice.
None.
The bathroom had a small window that she could climb out. She stuffed her few things into her plastic shopping bag, then walked to the phone. She closed her eyes, then picked it up and dialed 9 for an outside line. Then 911.
“Prince George’s County 911, what’s your emergency?”
“I’m calling from the Annapolis Road Motor Inn. A girl was prostituting herself next door, and someone called the police. Now the police came and they’re screwing her.”
“Ma’am, what is your room number?”
“I’m in 112. They’re next door, the door to the right of my room. The police officer is in there right now, screwing her. Do you hear me? Instead of helping her, he’s fucking her while the hotel manager keeps watch.”
“We’re dispatching someone right now, can you tell me your name?”
“No. I have to go.”
Andrea set the phone in its cradle and walked to the door. She set the chain on the door and turned the deadbolt. Then she ran for the back window. It was small, but she should be able to fit through. High above the toilet, the glass frosted. She slid the window back.
It stuck.
Damn it. What was she thinking? She should have checked the window first. But the rage, the thumping next door, all of it was just too much. She yanked at the window again, bracing her right leg against the corner of the wall. Slowly, she felt it beginning to separate. Finally, with a sudden crack, the window snapped back and she slipped off the toilet, falling to the floor and hitting her head on the wall. Her vision went white, for just a second.
Jesus. She had to move. Back on her feet, she stretched for the window, lifting herself up and through it with both arms.
Her window was directly above the bed of a white, dirty pick up truck. She let her body fold through the window, hanging on with both arms and flipping over, landing in the truck feet first. The truck was parked in a dirty alley behind the motel. A ten foot high chain link fence, tangled with weeds and brush, was about ten feet from the back wall, the space between worn and potholed concrete. Puddles of filthy looking water filled the potholes.
Andrea jumped to the ground from the back of the truck. Old crushed beer cans and condom wrappers scattered the alley. She ran to the end of the alley then calmly walked out from behind the building. The motel, a grey painted building that looked as if hadn’t been maintained since the 1990s sat on a corner of a two lane road and a larger, six lane divided highway. Annapolis Road was lined on both sides by fast food places, mini-malls, check cashing places and pawnshops.
She walked, back erect, across the two-lane road and sat down at the bus stop. Dylan would be back soon??
?she could keep an eye out for him here.
Three police cars were already in the parking lot of the crappy little motel, lights flashing. She couldn’t tell from here what was happening. But she knew she didn’t want to be over there.
There was Dylan. He was walking up the street toward her, a new backpack slung over his shoulder and a large shopping bag in his hands. His eyes darted from her, to the hotel, then back to her. No change of expression. The police out front were obvious.
He sat down next to her at the bus stop and lit a cigarette. “What happened?”
With as few words as possible, she explained the situation. When she talked about the police officer exploiting the woman in the room next door, his fists clenched.
“You did the right thing,” he finally said.
“We need to find a new place to stay,” she replied.
“Yeah. Here, I got you some clothes. I hope they fit. Jacket, pair of jeans. Size six shoes. I thought we’d head to the public library, get on the Internet. I want to touch base with Alex, then we’re going to have to disappear again.”
Andrea nodded. “Okay, Dylan. It sounds like a good plan. But somewhere along the road, we stop running. I want to know who my father is, and why this stuff is happening.”
“Yeah, me too,” he said.
They stood up when a bus slowed down. “Let’s take this one,” he said. “If it goes to a train station, we can go from there.”
She nodded, and they waited on the edge of the sidewalk as the bus came to a stop.
Andrea glanced over her shoulder toward the motel. An ambulance had arrived at the hotel, and a young woman was being led to it by two female police officers. She had a black eye.
The no-longer-bored police officer was handcuffed and being led by two of his fellow officers to a car. Andrea gave a grim, satisfied smile and stepped onto the bus.
Adelina. May 2. 6:55 am Pacific
“We have to get going, Jessica. Let’s get you together, and then you can sleep again in the car, okay?”