The Eyes of Others Page 14

  “I don’t submit to blackmail,” I tell Garrett, only partly meaning it.

  “I know. I don’t expect you to do what Colby wants.”

  “Then why you are telling me all this?” Everyone in D.C. has an agenda. It’s practically a requirement to get a driver’s license after moving here. I need to figure out what his is.

  “Colby Washington is scared, Miss Attison. That fear is making him unpredictable, lousy at his job, and possibly even dangerous. Now he’s got your fiancé caught in the middle, and is dragging you there as well.”

  “What are you going to tell him when you go back?”

  “That I did as he directed and made you the offer. I’ll leave the rest of the stuff out since he explicitly ordered me not to tell you about how we got the file and why.”

  Garrett starts to leave for the door. So many thoughts are racing through my mind that it’s hard to organize them. There is one question burning brighter than the others, though.

  “Mister Turner? You think Colby’s the mole, don’t you?” He stops at the door, but doesn’t turn around. He just glances at me over his shoulder.

  “Just get that file to your fiancé and let him know what I told you. He’ll know how to handle it.”

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 29 ~

  Eugene “boston” hollinger

  “I almost wish you hadn’t invited him,” Tara opines as she adds seasoning to the sauce in the pan.

  “Maryland or Louisiana?”

  “Both, actually.”

  I was a little surprised Maryland showed up, especially on a work night. I know he has little interest in pursuing this, but maybe the guilt trip I laid on him had the desired effect. Since the moment he arrived, the two of them have been arguing about every conceivable topic. From politics and sports to music and television; all they’ve agreed on is that they have almost nothing in common.

  Now that the clock is approaching dinnertime, Tara and I used the need for food to flee the scene and head to the kitchen. She’s a vegetarian, so cooking a couple of steaks was out of the question. We settled on some penne after she insisted her tomato sauce was to die for.

  “You were right. They do always carry on like an old married couple,” Tara remarks as the newest battle between Louisiana and Maryland rages on in the adjoining living room.

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “So they’ve never liked each other very much?” Tara asks. She’s a psychologist by training and is probably wondering what makes us all tick.

  “They are different people from different worlds and have very different perspectives on life. When we were on active duty together, they had a mutual respect for each other though.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “The ambush changed all of us. When we were discharged, we all coped in different ways. Maryland just wants to do what he’s good at, so he went into the intelligence community. Louisiana took a more … adventurous … approach.”

  “And you?”

  “I stayed in intelligence just to get some answers.”

  “Have you ever found anything?” she asks, dumping the whole box of penne into the boiling water.

  “Only breadcrumbs, as I like to call them. Nothing more than little irregularities here and there that could be something or be nothing at all. This is the first real break I’ve had.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you really think I can make the memories sharper so I can understand them better?”

  “This is uncharted territory in the medical world, Boston. I’ve explained to you the most common techniques used to recall and sharpen dreams, but these aren’t dreams. It could take years to master them, assuming they work at all.”

  “Is that why you’re helping me? Because you want to get published in the New England Journal of Medicine or something?” It’s an innocent question, and one I’d like the answer to, considering her initial reaction to me.

  “I’m not that kind of doctor, Boston,” she scolds.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t fascinated by your case and think that there are thousands of professionals in my field that wouldn’t be equally intrigued.”

  Her answer makes sense, but it still doesn’t explain why she’s decided to help. Her initial reaction to me wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t warm either. I want to ask what her reservations were, but it doesn’t seem like the right time. Besides, there’s another question nagging at me.

  “So why let Louisiana into your house considering …”

  “Considering he humiliated me last night?” she finishes. “I thought about that. Maybe it’s because someone broke in here at some point when I was showering or asleep. Someone was in my bedroom alone with me. Don’t think for a second that doesn’t scare the hell out of me. If letting someone as obnoxious as him stay here makes me feel the slightest bit more at ease, I’m all for it. The same goes for you and Maryland. Right now, the more men the better.”

  “You could have asked Mark to come back,” I tell her, causing her to turn her attention to the pasta now slowly returning to a boil.

  “What does it say about how good our relationship was that I’m willing to have three almost complete strangers stay here instead of him?”

  She doesn’t elaborate any further, but she doesn’t need to. In reality, Mark probably made her feel just as vulnerable as the man who broke into her house did. I can empathize. I have my own problems with wanting to rely on someone for strength and support and not getting it.

  I put my hand on Tara’s shoulder and she turns back and looks at me with her bright, beautiful blue eyes. She’s a complicated woman―intelligent yet naïve, strong yet vulnerable. We remain still for a moment, almost in a trance, until the sound of Maryland’s newest admonishment of Louisiana carries into the kitchen.

  “They don’t stress you out?” Tara laughs, breaking the tension, or whatever it was between us.

  “I’m used to it,” I laugh awkwardly. “They’ve been stressing me out for years now.”

  “How do you deal with it? Stress in general, I mean.”

  “Gina is in a very high stress job. I have my own fair share. When we are both at the end of the rope, we pack the car and head to a little cabin in the mountains of West Virginia.”

  “That sounds nice,” Tara says without any genuine conviction at all. For a moment, I forgot that she and Gina didn’t exactly hit it off well at breakfast on Sunday.

  “It is, although it’s a white knuckle experience getting to it. The road is a single lane and parts of it are literally carved into the mountainside and subject to rockslides that can cut you off from the world. Once you get there, the view is breathtaking. The whole area is very serene and very peaceful.”

  “You said the cabin is a secret. How are you able to pull that off?”

  “It starts by not blabbing about it to a shrink.” I get rewarded with a scolding look. “The cabin belonged to a friend of Gina’s who inherited it when her father passed. She didn’t want to be responsible for a place in the boonies, so she handed the keys and paperwork over to Gina. There’s no official record of the transfer and Gina keeps the deed in a book on the shelf in our bedroom. We never mention its existence in public or private. Whenever we talk about needing to get away and go, it’s done in code.”

  “Code?”

  “When we want to head there for a weekend, we say we need ‘Merlot.’”

  “Merlot?”

  “Yeah. Like the wine.”

  “I know what Merlot is, Boston. What I don’t know is why a manly guy like yourself would choose that particular codeword.” I smile at her description of me.

  “The first time we went there, we didn't know that the only places around were gas stations with little convenience stores in them. They aren’t known for their wine selections, as you can imagine.”

  “Can they even legally sell them there?”

  “I have no idea, but this one did. Beer was ou
t of the question since we wanted to celebrate, and the only thing left was this god-awful bottle of cheap red wine. We both hate Merlot, so we laughed about it all weekend and decided to name the cabin that. So now our trips there are known as needing Merlot.”

  “That’s a nice story.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “I’m surprised I told you that. Like I said, nobody knows about it except the two of us … and now you.”

  “So why did you tell me?” Tara asks, turning to face me.

  “I don’t know, I guess it’s because I find you easy to talk to.”

  “I’m a dream therapist, Boston. I better be easy to talk to.”

  “Well, it’s more than that, Tara,” I try to clarify. “I find myself trusting you, and that doesn’t happen much these days. If everything you say is true, I know this mole. I know the person who tried to kill me. You have no idea how much that bothers me.”

  This time it’s her turn to console me. She puts her hand on my arm and gives me a gentle squeeze. She forces a sympathetic smile and looks like she wants to say something, but is having trouble finding the words.

  My cell phone sounds the familiar ringtone from the pocket of my jeans. I don’t need to look at the caller ID to know I need to answer it. Some calls you just don’t ignore. I swear she has the strongest sense of intuition I’ve ever seen.

  “Hey, honey! What’s up?”

  .

  ~ chapter 30 ~

  eric “maryland” williams

  “As we have been reporting, it is appearing more likely that the assassination of the son of the vice-president at the hands of a suicide bomber in Iraq may have been planned by ISIS based on information leaked from one of our own intelligence agencies,” the female television pundit says in preamble. “Joining me to discuss this is Karen Weisz, Executive Assistant Director of the Security Branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thank you for coming on the program, Director Weisz.”

  “Thank you for having me.”

  “She looks like one of her parents was a bird or somethin’,” Louisiana observes from the other couch.

  “Shut up, will you?” I scold, causing me to miss half of the first question. He’s been carrying on all night, and I’m really tired of his crap. He’s more obnoxious now than he was on active duty. A feat that I never imagined could be accomplished.

  “There is an ongoing FBI investigation into all relevant agencies,” Weisz explains to the show’s host. “It’s early in the inquiry, and would be premature for me to comment on whether we are focusing on any particular agency.”

  “Director, the assassination in Baghdad was tragic, but there have been reports speculating that it’s not the only instance where classified information was given to our enemies. Some of them have directly resulted in the loss of life.”

  “Are you talking about the kidnapping of the Americans accompanying the convoy in the Anbar Province?”

  “Amongst others, yes,” the pretty female anchor replies.

  “Are all cable news chicks this hot now?” Louisiana asks, again distracting me from the question. “Because if they are, I need to start watchin’ more television.”

  “We are looking into that as well,” is the director’s terse reply.

  “I find that incredible, Director. Is this administration asleep at the wheel? I mean, if this is true, and has been going on for a long time, I’m wondering if people are doing their jobs. I’m also wondering if the people elected to hold them accountable are doing theirs.”

  “Yeah, because if they were, I wouldn’t need to be here,” Louisiana tests my patience once again by commenting from the peanut gallery.

  “We are doing everything in our power to identify if there is, in fact, a breach of our classified intelligence information and to find out who is violating the nation’s trust by passing those secrets to our enemies.”

  “Director, I understand the need to stop this from happening,” the anchor argues, “but someone has to be held accountable. Whether it’s the president, or members of Congress, some of our elected officials must be culpable for not identifying there was a problem.”

  I turn the television to a different channel. It’s prime time and I’ll take any sitcom over listening to this. Americans are fighting and dying over there. All she cares about is assigning blame so it can be used in the next election. I hate the media.

  “I was watchin’ that, bro,” Louisiana cries.

  “I don’t care.”

  “What’s the bug up your ass?” Louisiana asks me from the sofa opposite the couch.

  I never should have agreed to come here. Whatever Boston is working on has nothing to do with me. He’s risking everything on the validity of what he’s seeing in his head, and now I’m angry that I’ve come along for the ride. Boston is my friend, and I want to help him, but I don’t know if my loyalty runs this deep.

  “Nothing.” I can’t tell Louisiana any of that. He’d be the last person who would understand. He’d storm the gates of Hell with Boston if he was asked to.

  “You pissed because it turns out Boston was right?”

  “We don’t know that yet. They’re still investigating,” I defend.

  “Are you serious, bro? Or are you just in denial?”

  “I work for the DIA, moron. They’re investigating the very department that I work in. The mole could very well be someone I know. Now the media is kicking this whole thing around like a political football to get their ratings up. The only thing Americans love more than a scandal is government ineptitude. They are going to watch the circus as our friends … our brothers-in-arms … fight and die over there. And when the curtain finally comes down on the show, do you know what’s going to get lost in the end? The truth! So, yeah, maybe I am a little in denial and, either way, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Okay, relax, bro. Geez.”

  Louisiana pulls the black duffle bag onto his lap from the floor next to him and starts taking a myriad of strange-looking devices and cylindrical objects out of it. You don’t have to know him for that long to conclude that most of the stuff in there goes boom, and they’re things no law-abiding citizen would ever want to get caught using.

  “Is any of that stuff legal?”

  “I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it. Or are you gettin’ all shifty again?”

  “What do your little devices have to do with the mole?”

  “Because one of them is going to have his name on it, that’s how,” Louisiana deadpans.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few, guys. Sorry it’s taking so long,” Tara informs us after emerging from the kitchen. “Boston was supposed to be helping, but he’s on the phone with Gina.”

  “No problem, honey, don’t worry your pretty self about us,” Louisiana consoles with a wink. She rolls her eyes and returns to the relative safety of the kitchen.

  “So why isn’t Boston kickin’ it with the doc? She’s a dime piece, bro.”

  “Have you ever met Gina?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “So what? The doc wants the jambalaya and all our boy is givin’ her is the gravy and rice?”

  “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “It means she digs him, the lucky bastard. Just wonderin’ why he doesn’t help himself.”

  “He’s a one-girl guy now, and that girl’s drop-dead gorgeous and a bigwig staff member for a United States senator who’s pulling down almost six figures.” I might as well give it in terms the Neanderthal from the swamp can understand.

  “So? Just don’t tell her,” Louisiana looks down the hallway toward the kitchen where Tara is making dinner.

  “It’s called monogamy, jackass. If you can ever manage to get your mind wrapped around the concept of settling down, you should try it.”

  “Oh, I understand the concept just fine. Monogamy is like reading the same book over and over. Promiscuity, on the other hand, is like readin’ the first page of ever
y book in the library.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “And you clearly have. You’re more uptight than ever.”

  “Whatever man.”

  I’m spared whatever witty retort Louisiana was about to burst out with when Boston emerges from the kitchen and immediately heads over to the expensive wooden blinds that cover the living room window. He pulls two of them apart and scans the street outside.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Louisiana questions.

  “I just got off the phone with Gina. She had a conversation with Garrett on Capitol Hill.”

  “Why would she do that?” I ask, wondering how the two of them ever ended up in the same room together.

  “He tracked her down in the Russell Building.”

  That’s a strange move for Garrett Turner. I can’t think of any reason he would reach out to her unless he was trying a different approach to get to Boston. Considering Boston is peering between the window blinds like a paranoid cat, Gina passed on whatever Garrett told her and it has him on edge.

  “What did he say to her?”

  “Remember when I told you guys that someone broke in here and stole Tara’s notes?”

  “Yeah,” Louisiana responds, suddenly interested.

  “It wasn’t an isolated incident. Whoever took them is still outside.” Boston releases the binds and turns back to us. “We’re being watched.”

  .

  ~ CHapter 31 ~

  Gina attison

  “Excuse me, Gina?” one of the senator’s staffers asks, poking her head in my office.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a Special Agent Tom Grimman from the FBI here to see you.”

  “Thanks, Olivia. Please send him in.”

  I get out of my chair and put my three-button suit jacket on. With heels and dark pants, the outfit is the Capitol Hill power suit for women. It’s going to be one of those kinds of meetings.