We Know

A silence. Then he laughed. "Oh, that's clever. Really clever. Quite a spin job they foisted on the public. To the tune of three percentage points." It was hard to gauge his surprise, but it seemed genuine. He rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. For the first time I could recall, he looked his age. Four of the buttons on the phone were now blinking. "So what do you think is really behind this?"

I shrugged. "Why do you think I would know?"

"Milligan asked for you."

"Not really. He asked for Frank Durant's stepson."

"Still. Why?"

"I don't know. If you think the agents know something more, can't you just demand the information?"

"I'm a member of the Senate, but only a candidate for the presidency. The Service and I have a strictly protector-protectee relationship. As Alan pointed out, the agents are only guarding me since I'm in the race. They're under no obligation to present to me investigative details about every nutjob who wants to disrupt the election." He smirked. "Beyond that, it's the rules of the game. Bilton's the Man now. Eight years around the White House taught me the need to protect sensitive information from political rivals."

I said, "So you think there's sensitive information."

"That's another of the rules-any information is sensitive. Case in point: Mike Milligan with a bomb is a terrorist. Without, he's just a criminal…"

"And a dead terrorist is more useful to the incumbent in an election news cycle."

Caruthers offered me a slow nod, just down. "If you need anything, or if this thing takes a spin on you… well, Alan gave you the number at headquarters? I'll make sure you can reach me at any time." He saw my discomfort, and his face softened. "I understand you don't want to get sucked into all this. I get it. Believe me, I get it. But the offer will be there." He cocked his head, the light coming through his fair hair, the pronounced nose punctuating his thoughtful frown. I couldn't help but think of his Service call sign, Firebird. "I've been told that you don't want any recognition for your role in last night's events," he said. "Is that right?"

"The nail that sticks out gets hammered," I said.

He fixed those trademark green eyes on me. "You sound like your stepfather."

"That's because it's his line."

"Maybe I've been in politics too long. People who don't want something make me nervous."

"Sorry. I don't mean to make you nervous."

"Please. Christ, maybe I'll learn something from you." Caruthers's smile softened. "Frank Durant. What a tragedy that was." His eyes gleamed with a memory. "One year back then, we were at President Kinney's ranch for New Year's. After dinner the president brought a glass of port over for Frank-I mean, he didn't send it, he carried it himself. Frank was working, so he politely refused. The president pressed him a bit, but Frank held firm. It couldn't have been an easy situation. Finally President Kinney said, 'Special Agent Durant, I know you're working, but it's just a half glass.' And Frank said, 'It just takes one wrong turn to get off course.'"

I smiled and felt the familiar tug in my chest.

Caruthers said, "He didn't talk much, but he deployed his words well."

I looked away so he wouldn't see the emotion in my face. "Frank spoke very highly of you," I said.

Caruthers nodded kindly, but he was a man used to taking compliments and didn't understand the weight Frank's assessment carried. He rose and offered his hand. "I hope I see you again, Nick."

"Nice meeting you, Senator."

When I walked out, I glanced over my shoulder. Caruthers was standing again at the window, silhouetted against the light, lost in his thoughts or troubles.

Chapter 10

Though I was a high-school senior, I was trembling like an eight-year-old. First the sedan beyond the curtain. Then the gruff voice over the phone, the implicit threat against Callie-Your mother was just seated at a corner table at Giammarco's. I had little choice but to go outside and face whoever had come for me.

I edged through our front door into the cool night. The sight of that dark sedan nearly made me take off in the opposite direction, but I thought of Callie and willed myself not to bolt, not to freeze, not to slow. I became horribly aware of every part of my body-my arms swinging unnaturally, my feet rotating to slap concrete, my shoulders ratcheting up toward my neck. The sedan's windshield was tinted; I might as well have been staring at a wall of obsidian.

When I got within five feet, the back door popped open. Just a few inches. The handle felt cool under my fingers. I got in. Two men up front, mid-forties, high and tight hair. The smell of the leather interior.

The guy in the passenger seat turned around, placed a thick hand next to the headrest. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear my voice. "I'm here," I said. "I came. Please leave my mom alone."