We Know

Caruthers said, "Thank you, Agent Brown."

My attention skipped, a rock on the surface of my memory-James, Agent Brown, James Brown,

Godfather of Soul-and landed on the line Kim Kendall had overheard when she'd called Mr. Pager: Godfather's with Firebird, all's clear

My head roared, but my face could show nothing. I'd stumbled into the lion's den. Now could I get out alive? A clumsy excuse and a rushed exit would tip my hand. Should I make a break for it? That athletic aide was conveniently out front, guarding the exit. The sliding door was less than five strides away, but the tall fence penning in the patio would take too long to get over with Brown on my heels.

Agitated, I picked at a thumbnail, stopped when I saw Caruthers taking note. If I sat here much longer, they'd read me.

I said, "I think I have to throw up."

I rose. James Brown did not step back to allow me more room. A drop of sweat held to the edge of his sideburn, though his face was as impassive as I hoped mine remained.

Walking down the hall, I could hear a semi barreling by on the freeway, blaring someone out of its lane. Behind me Caruthers and Brown conferred in hushed, urgent voices. I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and took a few deep breaths. A tiny window, just big enough for me to fit through. With painstaking slowness I slid it open, wincing at the sound. Stepping up onto the toilet, I squirmed out.

I backed to the stucco wall, trying to stay calm, and got my bearings. I was on the east side of the building-a few feet of concrete and then the fence. Alan was in the bedroom, James back with Caruthers, and the political aide was just out of view around the corner-I could hear him pacing and talking on his cell phone. Three steps to the fence. I scaled it as silently as possible, making sure my shoes didn't knock against the wood, and dropped to as quiet a landing as I could manage. Then I sprinted to the car.

I took off swiftly and drove as fast as I dared. If I got pulled over, I'd find myself back in the system, and right now that wasn't a safe place to be. My eyes flicking continually to the rearview mirror, I turned onto the freeway.

I didn't have a phone number or I might have called ahead, but part of me needed to hear it in person.

I had forty minutes to clear my head.

Still, pulling over in front of the house, I took a moment, closed my eyes. I pictured Frank the first time I ever met him, in our kitchen, too big for the little chair. Hand on my mom's knee. That stupid Garfield clock with its clicking eyes and tail. English Leather and Maxwell House. There will always be a place for your father in this house.

I climbed out, my steps heavy up the walk.

No.

I rang the bell.

Not Frank.

A moment later the door creaked back and Lydia Flores peered out at me. Her face lightened-a break from the crossword puzzles and the cheesy soaps and the porcelain cats and the dead family history depicted in photos on the unused piano and the too-high fence penning it all in, the final insult to a lifetime of injuries.

"Nick," she said. "Hello." She pushed the screen aside, and her expression shifted when she saw my face. "More questions for your article?"

I blurted, "Whose campaign?"

"I beg your pardon?"

My words were a jumble. I couldn't figure out how to convey what needed to be conveyed, or what was riding on it. "The campaign- Did Jane work…? Who was she working for?"

Lydia shook her head, concerned by me and also taken aback. "Jasper Caruthers, of course."

Chapter 46

Gunning along the freeway, I heard my crappy phone ring. My hand chased it around the passenger seat, and then I answered.

Caruthers said, "Nick."

The voice caused sweat to tingle across my shoulders. Blood rushed to my face, the cut in my cheek aching again.

"Where to from here?" he asked. I didn't answer, so he said, "I'd imagine you're not after money."

"I'm after the truth."

"And getting it out? Think of the ramifications. You want Andrew Bilton back in office? The world is at stake and he's spent the last four years grabbing his ankles for the special interests."

"Yeah, but I'm not holding evidence of his crimes."

"Come over. We've got plenty."

"He didn't kill Jane and Gracie Everett. Charlie and Mack Jackman. Or my stepfather."

"Baseless claims."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"I want you to go back to your life, Nick. But with peace this time. Nothing hanging over you. At least give me the opportunity to try to talk some sense into you."

"You killed your own baby. You want to talk to me about sense?"

"Son, trust me, you're not ready for this game."

"Don't call me 'son,' Senator."

"Nick, we don't want to do this. I'll erode your credibility so hard your head'll spin. Think about your past. Your suspicious involvement in Frank's death. A conspiracy theorist who has an ax to grind with the Secret Service? I'll have you brought in, and once you're in the jaws of the system, you'll get chewed up faster than you can say Scooter Libby, and I'll sail to two terms."

"I have evidence."