Far Gone (22 page)

It’s up to you now. You need to be strong for your brother.

Some total stranger had given Andrea the words she’d lived by for years.

She looked at Jon in the dimness. They came from such different places in so many ways.

“How’d you get into this?” she asked him.

“What, law enforcement?”

“The Bureau.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. “My uncle was DEA. He used to take me fishing a couple times a year. I looked up to him.” He paused. “He worked in the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City, back in ninety-five.”

“You mean—”

“He died in the blast.”

Andrea cringed. “How awful.”

“It was.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she watched him, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

“I followed the trial pretty close,” he said. “What amazed me was McVeigh. His complete lack of remorse. Those children he killed, he called them ‘collateral damage.’ ”

Andrea shook her head.

“Total lack of conscience,” he said. “I think we’re dealing with the same thing now.”

Andrea watched his face, noted the steely look in his eyes. She could see this case was personal to him. She admired that about him. People were always telling cops not to let the job get personal, not to take the work home. But she didn’t think that was possible. The best cops she knew put their hearts into it.

She studied his profile, and her own heart fluttered. She looked away.

“Maybe he views it as a war,” she said. “A take-no-prisoners type of thing. Maybe he’s sick. God knows I’ve seen enough head cases on the job.”

“Same.”

They sat in silence for a while, with Andrea shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to fight off the chill. She felt cold to her bones. “Ever wish you’d stuck with the law firm?” she asked, trying to lighten things up. “You’d be making more money.”

“I like what I do.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he turned to look at her. “I’m good at it.”

He stated it as a fact, and she believed him.

“What about you?” he asked. “You like your job?”

“If I still have it.”

He frowned. “Is that really in doubt?”

“Didn’t you read the news stories?”

“You’re talking about that article that said you should have shot the pistol out of his hand, like it’s the Wild West? You can’t worry about crap like that, Andrea.”

It had been an op-ed column, and she
wasn’t
worried about it. It was absurd. But the supposedly factual news articles that implied the same thing bothered her.

She looked at Jon again. He seemed so strong and competent. She was tempted to open up to him, and she sensed that he really wanted to listen. She’d never been in a relationship like that. Not with a man, anyway.

He was watching her, waiting.

“I broke protocol,” she said. “I should have summoned backup if I’d thought the subject was mentally disturbed or there was potential for violence.”

“Instead, you followed your instincts.”

Her instincts. The same instincts that had made her look twice at the kid in the trench coat, the same instincts that had made her confront him—those same instincts had made her hesitate. And hesitation was deadly.

She’d walked into that kitchen and been ambushed by his humanity. The kid holding that gun was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s ex-boyfriend. And she’d ended his life.
She’d
ended it. And even now, with bureaucratic forces lined up on opposite sides against her—she’d acted too late, she’d acted too soon, she shouldn’t have acted alone—none of that mattered now, because it was done, right or wrong, and she couldn’t undo it.

Looking back, the situation was clearer. From her perspective, anyway. No matter what any review board concluded, she knew that her biggest mistake was that she’d hesitated, she’d frozen up, and in doing so, she’d put innocent people at risk.

Despite all her training, all her experience, she’d hesitated in a crisis, and now she questioned whether she really had what it took to be a cop.

Jon rested his hand on her knee. She looked at him, faintly shocked by the warmth of the contact.

“You did the right thing,” he said.

She looked into his eyes, and she wanted so much to believe him. And selfishly, she wanted the review board to see it that way so she could go back to work.

She missed her job. Desperately.  And she had no idea what she was going to do with herself if she couldn’t get it back.

His fingers slid over her arm and found her hand, making her loosen her grip on herself. He squeezed her fingers.

“You’re freezing.”

She didn’t say anything. She watched him. She could feel her chest rising and falling as she looked at his eyes, his mouth. He was warm and strong, and she hated feeling needy, but that was how she felt right now.

He leaned in, and she stiffened.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling her close. She let him. She leaned against him, and his breath was warm against her temple.

He kissed her, and she pulled back reflexively.

He sighed. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“No.”

It was a lie. She did trust him. She didn’t know why, but she did.

She wished things could be simpler. She wished they could just be two people getting to know each other, using each other for warmth. Maybe if they’d met under different circumstances, she could cave into what she was feeling right now, instead of burying it deep inside herself.

His hand slid down her neck, and he rubbed his thumb along her jaw. His eyes were dark now, and the intensity in them made her pulse pound.

“We’re the same, Andrea.” He kissed her temple again, then tipped her chin up and found her mouth. “We’re both alone.”

His mouth settled on hers, and she gave in this time. He tasted warm and male, and she leaned into his heat as his arms wrapped around her, and he shifted her almost into his lap. He pulled her closer and kissed her. There was a hungry insistence about him that reminded her of the way he’d looked at her the night they first met. She’d known then that he’d be this way. She’d known he’d be powerful and commanding, and it excited her.

He tipped her head back and kissed the underside of her jaw, and she felt the rasp of his stubble against her skin, and her pulse was racing now. The air around her was cool, but warm ripples ran up and down her skin as his mouth moved over the sensitive side of her neck.

She slid her arms around him, and his mouth found hers again, and she felt his fingers gripping her hip as he kissed her and pulled her even closer.

A phone buzzed, and she jerked back. For a second, she didn’t move. Then she groped around and found the phone wedged under her leg on the chair. She stood up and turned away, ignoring Jon’s gaze.

“Andrea Finch.”

“It’s Ryan.”

The words were slurred, and she had to think a moment.

“Ryan Copeland.”

“Ryan, hi. What’s up?”

“Is it true?”

She looked at Jon, who was watching her intently. “Is what true?”

“About Carmen.”

She glanced around, making sure they were still alone out here. “Carmen Pena died in an explosion last night. Her son is in the hospital.”

“Oh, God.”

“The incident is still under investigation.”

Silence.

“Ryan?”

“I think I killed her.”

chapter eighteen

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN,
you killed her?”

Jon stood up and stepped closer, his brow furrowed.

“I didn’t mean it. I never thought . . .” Ryan’s voice trailed off into a muffled sob.

“I need you to explain what you’re talking about.”

“I never meant for this to happen.”

“Ryan—”

“I talked to that reporter. I wanted her to get fired and—”

“You’re saying
you
were the source of the rumor?”

“Yes.”

“Was it true?”

She heard a rattle on the other end of the phone, like ice cubes in a glass. She felt a pang of sympathy for him and hoped he was home, at least, and not at some bar.

“Ryan, was it true?”

“
Yes
.” His voice was filled with misery. “But I didn’t know this would happen. I just wanted her to get fired.”

She didn’t say anything, wanting to let him talk.

“You think it’s the same guy, don’t you? That killed Julia. He’s going after all of them.”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss details of the investigation.” God, now she sounded like Jon. She looked at him, and he was motioning to her to mute the phone.

“Tell him we’ll send an agent over tomorrow to talk to him,” Jon said. “Sometime in the morning.”

“Ryan, an FBI agent will be visiting you tomorrow morning to get a statement, all right? Until then, don’t discuss this with anyone else.”

Silence.

“Ryan?”

“I’ll be here,” he said, and hung up.

Andrea looked down at the phone in her hand. She looked at Jon. “He feels responsible because he leaked the story about Carmen and the senator to the press.”

Jon gazed down at her, and she looked away. In the parking lot, someone started up a diesel pickup and pulled out. She watched it fade down the highway. Jon eased closer and reached for her hand. She stepped back.

“I should get to bed.”

He watched her. “You can’t hide from this forever, Andrea.”

This what? This case? This . . . thing they’d somehow started that didn’t make any sense? Her pulse jumped as he reached out and feathered her hair away from her face. The gesture was soft. Tender. And the look in his eyes wasn’t hungry now but determined and patient.

And that made her pulse race even more, because she knew he wasn’t going to let it go. He wasn’t going to let her off the hook until she dealt with this.

He stared down at her for a long moment. Then his hand dropped, and she stood stock-still as she watched him walk away.

♦

She fell into bed thinking about him. She slipped into a restless sleep and woke with her heart hammering and her cheeks wet and a breathless, panicked feeling like someone was sitting on her chest.

She sat up and checked for her gun on the nightstand. It was right where she’d left it. The clock showed 6:14. She glanced across the room, and in the predawn dimness, she could see that the latch was still secured.

She closed her eyes and let the dream return. She was standing in the crowded kitchen. It was hot and airless, and everyone was staring at her, their faces twisted with revulsion. She looked down at the gun in her hand and touched the muzzle. Still warm. She lifted her gaze to the body sprawled across the floor. She took a step forward, and her feet were like cinder blocks. She took another step. Blood spread out along the floor grout.

Andrea shuddered, trying to shake it off. She felt the impulse to call Jon or go knock on his door. She’d been spending more and more time with him. More talks. More cracks in her defenses. Last night by the pool, she’d caught herself searching his eyes for something, as if he could understand her somehow or maybe even fill the void.

Andrea rubbed her forehead. It was probably the stress, the anxiety of the last few weeks wearing her down. A man couldn’t fix her problems. She needed to tackle them herself.

Her phone rattled on the nightstand, and she answered without checking the screen.

“Hey, it’s Ben,” the caller said, and it took a moment for her to conjure up an image of the cyber-detective with the goatee. “Sorry to call so early, but I’ve been working on that info you wanted.”

“No, it’s fine.” She got out of bed and pulled on the jeans she’d tossed over a chair. They had a flight to catch in three hours and still had to return the rental car. “Tell me what you found.”

“Well, first of all, you were right. The FBI
was
missing something.”

Her nerves skittered.

“But in all fairness, it’s not surprising, given the situation.”

“What situation?”

“The comm setup. They’re using a SNAP, and it’s a nice one, too. Not one of those crap-in-a-box things you buy on eBay.”

She shook her head to clear it. “They’re using a what?”

“An SIPR/NIPR Access Point. A temporary satellite terminal that allows for encryption. Although whether they’re actually encrypting anything, I don’t know.”

“Wait. Back up. You’re talking about a sat phone?”

“A temporary satellite
terminal
. It’s portable, comes in a few tough boxes. You can hook up a laptop to it and get satellite Internet.”

“So . . . they’ve got a satellite dish?” How had the FBI missed something so obvious? It would have shown up on the surveillance photos.

“Yeah, but like I said, it’s portable. Looks like they put it away when they’re not using it, which is most of the time. I ran a broad-spectrum analysis of the area for almost thirty-six hours before I picked up on it.”

“So they
do
have Internet access at the ranch? And it’s encrypted?”

“Yes and maybe,” Ben said. “Someone’s definitely accessing the Net, but I don’t know if they’re encrypting communications. Didn’t get that far. To intercept what they’re doing, I’d have to do node-to-node back-stepping. Are you familiar with that?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a major pain in the ass, and now that the weekend’s over, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to take that on. Is your agency planning to hire us, do you know? Alex made this sound pretty informal.”

“No—it is. Informal. And thanks for your time on it.”

“Not a problem. I had to work the weekend anyway. But like I said, intercepting the communications would be a bigger deal, especially if they’re encrypted. Even if they’re not, I wouldn’t be surprised if the person using this is hopping on an anonymizer site to cover his tracks. Whoever’s running this is pretty obsessed with invisibility.”

Gavin was probably running it, which meant he’d lied to her about what he was doing at the ranch. What else had he lied about?

Andrea felt numb. People lied to her all day long. Every time a suspect’s lips moved—lie, lie, lie. But somehow she’d thought that with Gavin, she’d know. After twenty-two years, she’d thought she’d be able to tell.