Beth, he kept repeating. Why did you lie to me? Who are you? Who on earth is Diana Scolari?
A clock on the Ford’s dashboard told Decker that the time was shortly after one in the morning, but he felt as if it was much later. His head throbbed from fatigue. His eyes were raw, as if sand had been thrown into them. More, his body ached from the bruises and scrapes he had suffered during the fight in the van and the subsequent accident. Dropping onto the transport truck had jolted him to his core. For the past year, he had deluded himself that by exercising regularly— jogging and playing tennis, for example—he had kept in adequate physical condition. But now he realized that he had been coasting. He hadn’t been maintaining a professional level of preparedness.
For what? he raged. I left that life behind me. I reinvented myself. What did I need to be prepared for?
Everything! he insisted as he sped past a pickup truck, his headlights blazing. I was crazy to let my guard down! Beth, he inwardly screamed.
Or maybe he screamed Beth’s name out loud. His throat felt strained, his vocal cords tensing. Why did you lie to me? Shot your husband? Took two million dollars from a safe your husband had in the house? What the...? Had the gunman told the truth? Was anybody telling the truth? What about McKittrick? How was he involved in this?
Now he definitely was screaming Beth’s name out loud, the angry outburst amplified by the Ford’s interior. As he urged the Ford up the long, dark curve of La Bajada hill, exhaustion and pain caused him to be overwhelmed by the confusion of emotions surging through him. He couldn’t separate them, couldn’t tell them apart. Was it love he felt, the certainty that there had to be a valid explanation, that Beth would provide the explanation, convincing him when he found her? Or were his emotions the opposite—hate, anger, betrayal? Did he want to save Beth?
Or did he want to catch up to her and punish her?
The Ford rushed to the crest of the hill, and in turmoil, he suddenly faced the lights of Santa Fe. The English translation of the city’s Spanish name struck him with its bitter irony: holy faith. He had to have—he prayed for—faith.
EIGHT
1
Decker’s house seemed a stranger. Having wiped his fingerprints from the stolen car and left it on a dirt road off Old Pecos Trail, he ran wearily through the darkness toward his home, but despairingly he felt no identification with it. For the past year and a quarter, it had been his sanctuary, the symbol of his new life, and now it was merely a place, no different from the apartment he had given up in Alexandria, Virginia.
Wary, he checked for surveillance on it, detected none, but still felt the need to be cautious, approaching up the piñon-treed slope behind it, as last night’s attackers had done. Fumbling with his key in the gloom beneath a rear portal, he unlocked his back door and eased inside. In case the police might drive by and see any lights he turned on, he didn’t reach for a switch, just quickly locked the door behind him and used the moonlight streaming through the wall of windows at the back to guide him into his ravaged bedroom. Litter was everywhere. The stench of cordite remained. That now was the symbol of his life.
For the third time in less than twelve hours, he took a cold shower and put on fresh clothes. This time, he packed a small travel bag. He gathered his few items of jewelry—a gold bracelet, a gold chain, a jade ring. He never wore these. They were a vestige from his former life, objects that he could barter if he ran out of money in an emergency. The same was true for the pouch of twelve gold coins that he had thrown disgustedly into a drawer when he moved in. He had intended to cash them in or store them in a safe-deposit box but had not gotten around to doing either. Now he added his jewelry to the coins in the pouch and set the pouch among the clothes in his travel bag.
Almost ready. He carried the bag to the door that led to his garage. That door was off the kitchen. He grudgingly paused to open the refrigerator, slap together and wolf down a ham-and-cheese sandwich, and gulp what was left in a carton of skim milk. Wiping drops from his mouth, he went into his study and checked his answering machine in hopes that there would be a message from Beth. What he heard instead were reporters wanting to talk to him about the attack on his house and the bombing next door. Several friends from work had also left messages, surprised about what they had learned on the news. There were half a dozen messages from Esperanza. “Decker, as soon as you hear this, phone me. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. By God, if you’ve left town ...” Solemn, Decker returned to the kitchen, picked up his travel bag, and went out to his garage. His Jeep Cherokee’s powerful engine starting without hesitation, he roared away into the night.
2
“Uh. Just a ... What time is ...?”
Holding his car phone to his ear as he drove, Decker said, “Esperanza?”
“Decker?” The detective’s groggy voice immediately sounded alert. “Where have—”
“We need to talk.”
“You’re damned right we need to talk.”
“Your home phone number is on the business card you gave me but not your address. How do I get to where you live?” Decker listened. “Yes, I know where that is.”
Eight minutes later, Decker pulled into a dimly lit trailer court on the south side of town, the sort of unglamorous district that tourists roaming the glitzy shops on the Plaza weren’t aware existed. A pickup truck and a motorcycle were parked on a shadowy dirt driveway next to a trailer. Yuccas studded the gravel area in front. A flower garden hugged the front wall. Esperanza, wearing black sweatpants and a top, his long dark hair hanging to his shoulders, sat under a pale yellow light that illuminated three concrete steps that led up to the metal front door.
When Decker started to get out of the Jeep, Esperanza gestured for him to stay put, walked over, and climbed in, shutting the passenger door. “Your phone call woke my wife.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s what I said. It didn’t help the problems she and I are having.”
Esperanza’s personal remark came as a surprise. Decker had been so preoccupied by his own problems that he hadn’t thought about what kind of life Esperanza had outside his job. The detective seemed so objective and professional, he gave the impression he was like that twenty-four hours a day. Decker would never have guessed that the man had problems of his own.
“She keeps telling me I don’t earn enough for the risks I take and the hours I put in,” Esperanza said. “She wants me to quit the force. Guess what she wants me to be? You’ll love the coincidence.”
Decker thought a moment. “A real estate broker?”
“Give the man a cigar. Do you get calls in the middle of the night?”
Decker shook his head.
“But in your former line of work, I bet you did. And for damned sure, tonight you did. I went over to your house several times. You weren’t around. I kept phoning. All I got was your answering machine. Funny how a person can jump to conclusions. I had a notion you’d left town. If you didn’t show by tomorrow morning, I was going to put out an APB for you. Where the hell have you been?”
“Out walking.”
“Since four in the afternoon? That’s almost ten hours.”
“I stopped and sat a while.”
“Quite a while.”
“I had a lot to think about.”
“Like what?”
Decker looked squarely into Esperanza’s eyes. “I’m going after her.”
Esperanza’s gaze was equally challenging. “Even though I want you here in case I have more questions?”
“I’ve told you everything I can. This is a courtesy visit. So there aren’t any misunderstandings. So you know exactly what I’m up to. I’m going after her.”
“And where exactly do you think she’s gone?”
Decker ignored the question. “I’m telling you my plans because I don’t want you to put out that APB you mentioned. I don’t want to have to worry that the police are looking for me.”
“And in exchange? Why on earth should I agree to
this?” Decker ignored those questions, too. “Did the Albuquerque airport mention any sign of Beth and McKittrick?” Esperanza stared at him in amazement, then broke out into bitter laughter. “You really expect me to help? From the start, you told me as little as possible, but I’m supposed to share what I know?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“I intend to. Right now, what I want is for you to come into the house.”
Decker straightened. “You expect me to stay here while you phone for a patrol car to take me to the station?”
“No. I expect you to stay while I get dressed. Wherever you're going, I’m going. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got company. I’m tired of being jerked around. You obviously know a lot more than you’re letting on. From now on, you and I are going to be like Siamese twins until you give me some answers.”
“Believe me, I wish I had them.”
“Get out of the car.” Esperanza opened his passenger door. “Her real name isn’t Beth Dwyer,” Decker said. “It’s Diana Scolari.”
Esperanza froze as he was getting out.
“Does that name mean anything to you?” Decker asked. “No.”
“U.S. marshals were watching her. She was supposed to fly to New York and testify about something on Monday. I can think of only one explanation that fits.”
“The federal witness protection program.”
“Yes.”
Esperanza got back into the Cherokee. “When did you find this out?”
“Tonight.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know. But if you’re serious about helping, there’s a man you can tell me how to find.”
3
Decker rang the bell a fourth time, banged on the door, and was pleased to see a light come on inside the house. He and Esperanza had tried phoning, but after four rings, they had gotten only an answering machine. Assuming the man Decker needed to talk to hadn’t left town in the twelve hours since they had last seen him, they had decided to go directly to where Esperanza knew he lived. It was a modest adobe on a side street off Zia Road; a low wall enclosed well-tended shrubs. Like many districts in Santa Fe, there weren’t any streetlights. Taking care to step back from the door when its overhead light came on, showing themselves so they wouldn’t seem to be threatening, Decker and Esperanza waited for the door to open.
FBI agent John Miller challenged them from the shadows behind an open window. “Who’s out there? What do you want?”
“It’s Sergeant Esperanza.”
“Esperanza? Why the— It’s almost four in the morning. What are you doing here?”
“I have something I need to talk to you about.”
“Can’t this wait until a decent hour?”
“It’s urgent.”
“That’s what you said this afternoon. I haven’t forgotten how you tried to set me up.”
“You’ll be setting yourself up if you don’t listen this time.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“The man who was with me this afternoon.”
“Shit.”
More lights came on in the house. The scrape of a lock being turned was followed by the creak of the front door as Miller opened it. He wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt that showed his athletically lean arms and legs. His rumpled hair and whisker stubble contrasted with his bureaucratically neat appearance the previous afternoon. “I have a guest,” he said. Blocking the entrance to the house, he pointed toward a closed door at the end of a short hallway. Miller was divorced, Esperanza had told Decker. “She’s not used to people pounding on the door at four in the morning. This had better be good.”
“I want to know about Diana Scolari,” Decker said.
“Who?” Miller gave him a deadpan.
“Diana Scolari.”
Miller pretended to look confused. “Never heard of her.” He started to close the door. “If that’s all you came here about—”
Decker blocked the door with his shoe. “Diana Scolari is Beth Dwyer’s real name.”
Miller stared down at where Decker’s shoe blocked the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She’s in the federal witness protection program.”
Miller’s eyes changed focus, sharper, more alert.
“That’s what the attack on my house and the explosions at her house were about,” Decker said.
“I still don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Granted, the FBI isn’t as directly involved with the witness protection program as it used to be,” Decker said. “The U.S. Marshals Service is mostly in charge. But you and they work closely enough together that they would have told you if they were relocating a major witness to Santa Fe. On the other hand, the local police would not have been told. It wasn't necessary for them to be told. The fewer people who knew, the better.”
Miller’s features became harder. “Assuming what you say is correct, why should I admit anything to you?”
“Brian McKittrick,” Decker said.
Miller stopped trying to close the door.
“He’s the man who picked up Beth when she ran from her house just before it blew up,” Decker said.
Miller’s suspicion was obvious. “How do you know this man?”
“I used to work with him.”
“That’s a stretch. You’re telling me you used to be a U.S. marshal?”
“Marshal?” Decker didn’t understand what Miller was referring to. At once the implications struck him. “McKittrick is a U.S. marshal?”
Having unintentionally given away information, Miller looked chagrined.
“No,” Decker said. “I never worked for the Marshals Service.” Pressed for time, he had to take Miller by surprise. “I knew McKittrick when we worked together in the CIA.”
It had the appropriate effect. Startled, Miller assessed Decker with new awareness. He turned to Esperanza, then looked at Decker again and gestured for them to come in. “We need to talk.”
4
Like the exterior of the house, Miller’s living room was modest: a plain sofa and chair, a small coffee table, a twenty-inch television. Everything was scrupulously clean and ordered. Decker noticed a .38 revolver on a bookshelf and suspected that Miller had been holding it when he peered out his window to see who was pounding on his door.
“I don’t suppose you can prove you worked for the Agency,” Miller said.
“Not at the moment. We didn’t exactly use badges and business cards.”
“Then why should I believe you?” Miller frowned toward Esperanza. “Do you believe him?”
Esperanza nodded.
“Why?”
“You haven’t been with him since this time yesterday. The way he handles himself in a crisis, it’s obvious he’s a professional, and I don’t mean at selling real estate.”
“We’ll see.” Miller returned his attention to Decker. “What do you know about Brian McKittrick?”
“He’s the most fucked-up operative I ever worked with.” Miller stepped closer.
“Wouldn’t obey orders,” Decker said. “Thought his team members were scheming against him. Took serious action without permission. Exceeded his authority at every opportunity. The assignment I shared with him ended as a disaster because of him. Numerous casualties. It was almost an international incident.”
Miller studied him, as if debating how candid he wanted to be. At last, exhaling, he sat wearily in the chair opposite Decker. “It’s not giving anything important away if I admit I’ve heard rumors about McKittrick. Nothing to do with the CIA. I didn’t know anything about that. His behavior as a marshal—that’s what I heard rumors about. He’s a hot dog. Thinks he knows better than his superiors. Doesn’t obey the chain of command. Violates procedure. I never understood how he got into the Marshals Service.”
“I can make a good guess,” Decker said. “The Agency must have given him first-rate recommendations when they let him go. In exchange for his not embarrassing them by reveali
ng details about the disaster he was involved in.”
“But if McKittrick caused the disaster, he would have been harming himself if he talked about it.”
“Not if he convinced himself he wasn’t to blame,” Decker said. “McKittrick has a reality problem. When he does something wrong, he manages to delude himself that it’s always someone else’s fault.”
Esperanza leaned forward. “You sound especially bitter about that.”
“I was the one he blamed. I resigned from government work because of him—and now the son of a bitch is back in my life.”
“By coincidence.”
“No. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that Beth just happened to buy the house next to mine. Not if McKittrick was in charge of her protection. The only way the scenario makes sense is if McKittrick kept tabs on me after I quit the Agency. He knew I was in Santa Fe. He had a witness to relocate. He did a little more investigating and found out the house next to mine was for sale. Perfect. Why not put Beth next to me? She’d have a next-door neighbor as extra protection, an unwitting bodyguard.”
Miller thought about it. “The tactic might have been cynical, but it does make sense.”
“Cynical doesn’t begin to describe it. I was used,” Decker said. “And if I’m not mistaken, Beth was used. I think McKittrick went over to the other side.”
“What?”
Decker vividly remembered his telephone conversation with McKittrick. “I think McKittrick told the mob how to find her, provided they killed me in the bargain. I think he blames me for the CIA’s decision to kick him out. I think he’s a sick bastard who planned to ruin my life from the moment he was assigned to help turn Diana Scolari into Beth Dwyer.”
5
The small living room became silent.
“That’s a serious accusation.” Miller bit his lower lip. “Can you prove any of this?”