Girl of Vengeance

  Every word felt like another punch through her heart. Adelina stared at her daughter in shock. Suicide? She’d known all along that Julia was hurting, was isolated, but every time Adelina reached out to her, she jerked back. Her little girl had tried to commit suicide! Because of her. Because she was a failure. Because as hard as she’d tried to protect her daughters, she’d failed every single one of them.

  Adelina started to cry. I … she whispered. I didn’t know it was so bad for you. You’re my daughter. I just wanted … I wanted you to be better.

  Bitterly, Julia had replied, You wanted to protect yourself.

  Adelina shook her head, clutching her hand to her chest, trying to soothe the pain that was radiating from her sternum. She couldn’t tell Julia the truth. Richard would—no … she couldn’t even think of what he might do. What he might say. How he might hurt Adelina or one of the children. She remembered his horrible voice.

  I’ll take Carrie and sell her to the highest bidder.

  Would you kill this baby to save that one?

  She scrambled for words that would express part of the truth, but would protect the awful secrets at the heart of their marriage. No … that’s not it at all. Your father and I … we went through a really rough time in Belgium and in China. We thought … we’d fallen out of love. And he had an affair in Belgium. And … yes. I did in China.

  Julia’s face twisted in disgust and contempt, and Adelina swayed on her feet. So you were just too preoccupied.

  Julia … what happened in China?

  Then her daughter told the awful story, of getting involved with Harry Easton, the British Ambassador’s son. That she’d been pushed into sex far too early, that she’d gotten pregnant. That the awful night she came home hours late, covered in snow, had been after an abortion. That the illness Adelina had believed was the flu had been the effects of too much bleeding. Adelina had kept her own secrets, and her daughter had learned to do the same.

  It was hell, that they both could say so many words and at the same time obscure the real meaning behind them.

  The blackness swept over Adelina. It swallowed everything, every thought and emotion and even her sight. Because Julia was right. No one had helped her. No one had been there for her. Her sociopath father had so effectively isolated Adelina from her own daughters that they hated her.

  That was confirmed when Carrie, the daughter Adelina had always depended on, the one she knew she could count on no matter what, dismissively looked away from her.

  Carrie murmured to Julia, “You’ve got family now. You’ve got me.”

  And that was right. Because, after all, it was Carrie who took care of Adelina’s daughters. The grief she felt at that moment was greater than she’d ever felt before. Greater than the loss of her father. Greater than the loss of her own life when Richard so carelessly enslaved her. Because what she’d lost wasn’t a thing, it was her daughters. The pain was so bad that she knew if she didn’t get away right then she was never going to stop screaming.

  So she ran. Adelina ran from her daughters because she could no longer face them. She ran into her room and locked the door and buried her face in a pillow and screamed her rage and pain and loss at God. God didn’t answer. She’d lost the ability to feel Him, and even that loss didn’t compare with the pain of losing her daughters.

  In the dream, Richard somehow came into her room, he stood there above her, his face bright, his lips curled up in cruel amusement, as he said, You see? None of them will ever believe you. You think they do, but they’re mine. Just as you are.

  In the strange way dreams do, her room grew and lengthened. It became the ballroom at the Embassy in Beijing. Richard stood in front of her, hate and contempt in his eyes. Julia and Carrie were behind him, and they were tied up in a web of spit and lies, while George-Phillip pleaded with her. Leave him, Adelina.

  Leave him!

  I can’t! Her daughters were behind Richard, and he would do anything to keep her enslaved, he would do anything to win. He turned to Julia and Carrie and began to whisper and croon in their ears, even as his hand behind his back crept forward, a wicked curved knife curling from his palm.

  He was the devil. She was married to the devil. And she would never be free.

  The violence of her screaming shook the walls and windows of the tiny motel in Abbotsford and awakened all three of her daughters. Jessica moved sluggishly, bringing her knees to her chest, her eyes wide as Adelina thrashed, terror in her eyes, as she scrambled back to the head of the bed, eyes searching everywhere for Richard.

  It was Sarah who ran to her, followed shortly by Andrea. Then all three of them had their arms around her, and her screaming subsided into unfettered sobs.

  Bear. May 8.

  When Bear arrived at the house in suburban Virginia, he was, as always, startled by how neat the landscaping was, how precise the rows of flowers and rock beds were, how neatly the mulch surrounded the trees. Bear had never been suited for a life in the suburbs, and when he and Leah had lived together, their yard always had the ragged look of a bad haircut too many weeks in the past. Now, she lived in a home where the Kentucky bluegrass lawn was cut precisely two and a quarter inches long, where the flowers were nourished into a parade of colors.

  It was days like this when Bear hated the man who had married his ex-wife.

  He walked up the steps (which had obviously been swept that morning) and knocked on the door.

  Gary Simpson answered. Of course. He looked much better than he had the last time they saw each other, a few hours after Leah was shot.

  “Bear,” Gary said.

  “Gary. How is she?”

  Gary said, “Come on in. The kids have been asking for you.” He moved into the house, his huge frame surprisingly delicate.

  Before Bear even made it in the door, a flash of brown hair and blue eyes raced to him, and then his daughter Rebecca’s arms were around him. He lifted her up; arms wrapped around her, and breathed in the scent of her hair.

  “Daddy,” she whispered.

  “Hey, sweetheart. How are things?”

  He set her down. A few feet away, Jimmy, her fourteen-year-old younger brother, eyed Bear with a wary expression.

  “I missed you,” Rebecca said.

  “Missed you too,” Bear said. He blinked his eyes and rubbed them. Damn allergies. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s getting better,” Jimmy said in a serious tone. “Have you caught the people who shot her?”

  Bear walked in and sat down on the couch. “I’m working on it. Getting closer.”

  Jimmy frowned. “Why are you here, then?”

  Bear sighed.

  “Leave him alone, Jimmy.” Rebecca’s tone was contemptuous. “He came to check on us. And Mom.”

  “Shut up.” Jimmy’s tone was curt.

  “You shut up.”

  Bear grimaced, then reached out and grabbed both of his surviving children and pulled them into a rough hug. “Both of you shut up. You don’t need to fight.”

  Jimmy struggled for a moment, but Bear didn’t relent. Finally the boy sighed and let his arms down. Only then did Bear let him go. He stood and said, “All right. Let me talk to your mother.”

  “She’s in the back,” Rebecca said. “I’ll show you.”

  Bear felt distinctly uncomfortable as his daughter led him down the hall to the bedroom Leah shared with Gary. He didn’t especially want to see the room. But he wanted to know she was okay. Ex-wife or not, he wanted her to be okay. It’s not like they had parted in a wave of recrimination and rage. Their marriage just died, right alongside Leanna, their eldest daughter.

  Rebecca knocked on the door and opened it at Leah’s prompt.

  Leah was sitting up on the bed, a pile of pillows propping her up. She had a book laying face down on the bed next to her, and a copy of Guns and Ammo was on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

  “Hey, Leah. You’ve looked better.”

  She snorted. “I looked worse a few da
ys ago. They let me out of the hospital yesterday. But it still doesn’t feel good to have a hole in my side.”

  “When are you gonna be back at work?”

  “Doctors say thirty days at least. I might have to do physical therapy. So light duty for the next few months.”

  Bear’s face fixed on a large painting on the wall. It was three feet by four feet. Oil on stretched canvas. A mostly tan background, cloudy, as if up in the sky. Or in heaven. Because stretched across the canvas in a joyous pose was an angel, wings swept back. The angel bore the face of Leanne.

  He choked a little and felt his eyes tear up. He looked away from the painting, then back to it. “Ahhh, crap,” he muttered. “Where did that come from?”

  Leah said in a near whisper, “Rebecca painted it for me. Sometimes it helps. You know. To remember she’s happy now.”

  “Shit,” Bear whispered. Then he did something no self-respecting lawman did. He choked back a sob. Suddenly he felt his younger daughter’s arms around him.

  “We miss her too, Dad,” she whispered.

  “You painted that?” he asked.

  She nodded, her face sober. “Last year.”

  “Well.” He took a deep breath, trying to get a hold of himself. He wiped the back of a fist against his eye, smashing the tear before it had a chance to roll down. He looked at Leah. “You know it’s not too late to leave that scrawny accountant and come back.”

  Leah gave him a sad smile. “You know it is, Bear. Don’t start that again.”

  He nodded. “Yeah I know. Joking.”

  “How’s the case going?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe it. You been watching the news?”

  “A little. I watch it, but I don’t understand it. Someone shot down Prince George-Phillip’s plane last night? Fox News is going insane, they’re talking about bombing Syria.”

  “Keep watching. And check the Post. Anthony Walker. I think the whole story’s going to be out there soon. But I’ll tell you this. It’s nothing like we thought it was when that girl was kidnapped two weeks ago. And it sure isn’t what the news thinks it is.”

  “You’ll solve it if anyone can.”

  “I’ve got some help,” he said. His voice was steadier now that they were talking work and cases. “Look … I just wanted to check on you. I’m gonna get the sons of bitches who did this. I promise.”

  Her reply was a whisper. “Thanks.”

  He stood. Then awkwardly, he rested a hand on hers for a second. Then he jerked back. Rebecca was still near the door.

  He said, “All right, kiddo, I’ll catch you later. You take good care of your mom. And your brother.”

  “I always do,” Rebecca said, her lips curling up in a grin.

  Their goodbyes were brief and awkward, as always. Then he got back on the road, headed into the city. He still had a lot of work to do. But emblazoned on the back of his mind was the painting Rebecca had created, showing her older sister in heaven.

  Richard. May 8.

  The hearings had adjourned for a couple of days, though they were due to resume on Monday, with Leslie Collins testifying. In the meantime, Richard Thompson received a call from the White House, requesting his presence at a meeting at the State Department.

  The White House Chief of Staff, Denis McCullough, had said to him, “Given the sensitivity of the situation, we’d like you to come in the back entrance at the loading dock. Be there at eleven and you’ll be met.”

  Richard had nearly refused. You didn’t ask a US Ambassador and former acting Secretary of Defense to meet at the back door like a criminal or servant. At the same time, a request from the White House wasn’t a request; it was an order.

  So at eleven that morning he’d approached the loading dock entrance of the State Department. A young man in a plain suit stood there next to the armed security guards. “Ambassador Thompson? I’m Rick Nabors, with Diplomatic Security. Please follow me.”

  Richard followed him. Down the ramp and into the cavernous garage at the back end of the Main State building. In the heat, he smelled the stench of garbage coming from a dumpster. Two delivery trucks were backed up against a filthy loading dock. Richard felt his rage building as he followed the arrogant young man up the stairs to the loading dock. They cleared another guard then he followed down the hall of the basement.

  Despite his thirty-year diplomatic career, he’d only once been in the basement of this building. The bowels of the State Department were reserved for functionaries and mechanics, computer administrators and transportation functionaries. The cogs who made sure the organization functioned, but not the leaders, not the men and women who made the decisions.

  Consequently, he was livid when Rick Nabors stopped at a bare door halfway down the hall. Richard could still smell the dumpster outside.

  Nabors opened the door and said, “Please have a seat. You’ll be joined in a few minutes. I’ll be just outside the door if you need anything.”

  Richard stood and eyed the tiny conference room with a jaundiced eye. A metal conference table, painted steel grey, sat at the center of the room. Six cheap looking chairs with fabric cushions surrounded the table. Against the wall was a wall of metal shelving stacked with various kinds of equipment Richard had no name for. Circuit boards and boxes and wires. It was dusty in here.

  A pitcher of water with ice sat in the center of the table with four glasses.

  This was appalling. It was as if the meeting had been engineered solely to tell Richard that he was no longer in good graces. He took out his phone, ready to fire off an angry email to the Chief of Staff at the White House, when he realized he didn’t even have a cell phone signal in here.

  Then the door opened. He didn’t need to call the Chief of Staff.

  James Perry, the former Massachusetts Senator turned Secretary of State, entered the room first. Behind him was Denis McCullough, the White House Chief of Staff, responsible for the political survival of the President. Stout and grey haired, McCullough looked ridiculous standing next to the lanky James Perry. The third man to enter was Admiral Barry McFarlane, the National Security Advisor.

  Richard came to his feet.

  McCullough spoke first. His voice was jovial, friendly, despite the fact that they were meeting secretly in the basement of the State Department. “Richard! So nice you could make it.”

  The men shook hands and McCullough said, “Why don’t we get started.”

  Interesting. Of the three men, McCullough technically had the lowest rank. The fact that he seemed to be leading the meeting made it clear that this was more political in nature than it was related to national security.

  “All right,” Richard answered.

  McCullough leaned forward. “Ambassador Thompson—”

  “Richard. Please.” Richard tossed out the pleasantry automatically.

  McCullough’s face soured a little. “Ambassador Thompson—we’ve got a few issues we need to discuss with you. As I’m sure you can imagine, the President never imagined when he tapped you as Secretary of State that we’d be facing corruption investigations, kidnappings and murders.”

  Richard leaned forward and said, “Those are hardly my fault—”

  McCullough said with a straight face, “Please do not interrupt me again.” He picked an imaginary piece of lint from his coat sleeve.

  Don’t interrupt me again. Richard felt those words rush down his spine like poison. If a low level political functionary like Denis McCullough could speak to him like that, then he was sunk. It was over.

  McCullough went on. “As I was saying, the President never imagined this series of events would take place. Fox News is having a field day. Afghanistan has lodged a complaint with the International Criminal Court. And the Chief of the SIS was shot down over American territory last night.”

  Good riddance, Richard thought.

  “In short, Ambassador Thompson, you’re embarrassing the President and the Administration. We’re losing approval ratings
in the polls. We need to find out how to put a stop to that bleeding. Now.”

  Perry looked at McCullough as if he’d discovered he was sitting next to a giant bug. His nostrils were flared and his eyes narrowed. He turned away from McCullough and leaned forward. “I have one question for you, Thompson. Were you responsible for procuring the chemical weapons which were used against the civilians in Afghanistan?”

  “No. I was not.”

  Admiral McFarlane just sat there, not saying a word. It was disturbing.

  Perry said, “Do you have any way of corroborating that? Any evidence? You told the Senate committee that you filed an official report. But there’s no evidence of that.”

  “Collins probably destroyed it long ago. He’s the deputy director of the CIA. If anyone could do it, he could.”

  McCullough interrupted. “We want you to fall on your own sword. The President will guarantee you’ll never see the inside of a courtroom or jail cell. But this needs to end. We want you to take full responsibility, tell the world that you lied and that the President knew nothing.”

  Richard leaned forward and said, “And what about justice for those civilians? Does Leslie Collins walk away free?”

  Perry shook his head. “You are the most cynical human being I’ve ever encountered, Thompson.”

  McCullough said, “Do it. We’ll guarantee your immunity, Thompson.”

  Richard shook his head, then spoke, his voice rising in volume as he continued. “Never. Those banks accounts were frauds set up by Leslie Collins, and he’s the one responsible for killing the civilians. I’ve been in government service for thirty years. I’ve been Ambassador to China and Russia and was President Bush’s envoy to Iraq to try to stop the war from happening. I’ve been through a thousand background checks and there’s never been a breath of scandal. How dare you?”