Inside Threat (9 page)

Riley swung open the Durango's door with a
thwunk
, adding another crease to the multitude that already existed in the Sheetrock wall.
That's what this place is missing! Maybe they could have dumped one of the bedrooms and put in an extra couple hundred square feet of garage space!

The Virginia evening felt hot and muggy after the truck's air conditioning. He pulled his bag out of the backseat and walked into the mudroom.

“Lucy, I'm home,” he called out as he slipped his shoes off.

The response he got from Skeeter was just as he expected—silence. To say that Skeeter Dawkins was a man of few words was like saying that outer space was a place of little gravity.

Riley walked through the kitchen, tossing his keys on the counter, and spotted Skeeter in his usual chair, the ever-present book in his hands.

“Watcha reading now?” Riley asked, plopping himself down on the couch opposite his friend.

Skeeter held up the book.

“
Agricola and Germania
by Tacitus,” Riley read. “I don't even know what that means.”

“Agricola was his father-in-law.”

“What? Whose father-in-law?”

Skeeter pointed to Tacitus's name on the cover. Then he turned his attention back to the book.

“And Germania is obviously Germany. So this Agricola was a Roman guy who was involved in conquering Germany,” Riley deduced.

Without looking up from his book, Skeeter pointed toward Riley and then tapped his own temple a few times.

“You know, I've been thinking about getting a dog. Figured at least it might give me a little more conversation.”

“Mmmm,” Skeeter replied.

Laughing, Riley got up and stretched. “You see any of the game?”

“Been reading.”

Skeeter didn't usually watch Riley's games. He was much more of a basketball fan. Tonight, Riley was glad of that fact.

“Getting something to drink,” Riley said, moving toward the kitchen. “You want anything?”

“I'm good.”

You know, a dog might not be a bad thing. Got enough hunt clubs around here. I could train him to . . .

Riley stopped as he opened a cabinet to get a glass. All his dishes and glasses were gone. In their place stood rows and rows of green paper Gatorade cups. He spun to look at Skeeter and caught his eyes quickly dropping back to the book. Nothing, though, could disguise what the laughter was doing to his six-foot-seven frame.

Riley looked in the next cabinet and found the same thing. Opening three more doors gave him the same result.

“Skeeter, all of our cabinets seem to be filled with Gatorade cups,” Riley said, trying to stay serious.

“Mmmm?” Skeeter replied, a lot higher than usual.

“Do you possibly know how this might have happened?”

Putting down his book, Skeeter said, “Don't know.” Then, spreading his fingers, he waved his hands in an outward arc. “Must have been . . . magic.”

Seeing Skeeter do that was as funny as the prank itself. When Riley could speak again, he said, “Very nice, Skeet, very nice.”

Leaving the cups alone, Riley pulled a can of Diet Coke out of the fridge and headed for the den. As he was closing the door, he saw that Skeeter was still slumped down in his chair laughing—book dumped on the floor.

Riley snatched a handheld from his desk, stretched out on a couch, and dialed Scott Ross's number. As it rang, he took a deep swig from his can, then set it on the floor.

“Is this the Great Covitini?”

“Really, Scott?” Riley chided, as he pulled a throw pillow from behind his back and tossed it on the floor. “You've had how many hours to think this through, and that's the best you could come up with?”

“Yeah, that was pretty lame. How about, ‘The Mysterious Covington, where the phone is quicker than the eye'?”

“Probably ought to stick with Covitini.”

“My thoughts exactly. Now, let's hear it—leave nothing out. What in the name of Ann-Margrock were you thinking?”

Riley took another pull of his Diet Coke. “Dude, I have no idea. At the time, dropping the phone into the bucket seemed like the most logical thing to do.”

“Forget that! That I understand perfectly. In fact, I'm going to burn that little scene off of my DVR so I can show it to James on a regular basis as he gets older.”

“Always happy to be a role model.”

“What I can't figure out is the whole locker room thing. One minute you're getting a new orifice bored out by Dr. Suit, and the next you're pulling a coin out of his ear! Classic! I mean, that was bizarre behavior even by my standards!”

It was good to talk to Scott.
Even when you think you've quite probably screwed up your whole world, Scott'll find a way to grab the situation and put a big red clown nose on it.

“That was the thing. Wiens—that's Dr. Suit, head of PR—he wasn't chewing me out. He was definitely trying to make it seem that way with his arms all monkey-flailing around. But his words were like, ‘Mr. Bellefeuille wants to make this work out. Just go along with the program. Yada yada yada.'”

“No way! Tara, you were right, baby! Suit-dude wasn't laying into Riley.” The sound was muffled, like he was holding his hand over the phone. “Okay, that's fine. Whatever. What? No, I'm not going to ask him right now. . . . Listen, we'll talk about it later. . . . I said, we'll talk about it later.”

While he waited, Riley turned on the TV. ESPN was showing him pulling the coin out of Wiens's ear. On CNN, he watched himself drop the phone in the Gatorade bucket. He flipped it to CNN Headline News and saw himself pulling the coin out of Wiens's ear, but from another angle. On FoxNews, Sean Hannity had convened a Great American Panel to discuss the incident. MSNBC was showing a slow-motion shot with his hand highlighted as he slipped the coin out of his pocket.

Too bad Olbermann's gone. This would have been another great right-wing conspiracy for him.

Scott came back on the line. “Hey, sorry about that. Me and the missus had a little discussing to do.” Riley could hear the tension in his voice.

“So, what aren't you going to ask me about right now?” Riley shut off the TV.

“Never mind. Finish your story.”

“Not much else to say. He told me to give the media a show, so I gave them a show.”

“You're beautiful, man,” Scott said, laughing.
That's the great thing about Scott. His emotions are like the weather in Colorado. You don't like what you've got? Give it a few minutes.
“You keep pulling stunts like that, you're going to make yourself famous someday. What's the scoop now?”

“Who knows? On the flight home, they were talking to me some more about a Tuesday press conference for a public apology.”

“You gonna do it?”

“I haven't gotten that far. They're also considering releasing a statement saying they want me to be evaluated for post-traumatic stress disorder,” Riley admitted, a little embarrassed to be saying the words.

“You? PTSD? Dude, you're the most balanced person I know—well, next to Skeeter.”

Relief spread in Riley. He didn't realize how nervous that possibility was making him until he actually verbalized it. “So, I'm not nuts?”

“First of all, PTSD is not technically nuts,” Scott said, taking on a mock-academic tone. “Second, it's not like you decked the dude or started shooting the place up or something. All you did was dump a phone into a Gatorade bucket, then pull a coin out of a guy's ear during an argument on national television—which as I'm hearing these words spoken out loud does in fact sound approximately two large steps beyond the far side of Whac-A-Mole.”

Riley sat up and started spinning the TV remote on a nearby coffee table. “Thanks, buddy. You're always the encourager.”

Scott laughed. “Yeah, it's a gift. Listen, Pach, you're at a place in your life where whatever you do next is really your call. You want to stay in football? You play Bellefeuille's game. You want to get out? You get out. It's not like you need the paycheck. You could buy me ten times over.”

“Not with the way your eBay bids are going up.”

“Sweet. Gotta check that out. What I'm saying is, if you're done with the game, then be done with the game. The return for you torturing yourself is diminishing rapidly.”

Riley didn't answer right off. Just like that, Scott had gotten to the source of his frustration with his life.
But what should I do? If I stay, I could—

“And don't try to figure it out right now,” Scott said, interrupting Riley's thoughts. “You yourself told me never to make major decisions when you're tired or in a weird place. You're two for two.”

Riley chuckled. He took a long drink from the Diet Coke, stifled a belch, and said, “You're right. Enough about me tonight. Now, what does Tara want you to ask me?”

“Good turnaround, my friend. Nicely played.”

Silence filled the connection. Riley began tossing a baseball-size rubber ball against the brick fireplace in front of the couch.

After three catches, he said, “Oh, Scotty?”

“Okay, man, so everything was going great today. We're playing with James, watching the game, laughing together. Then suddenly she drops this bomb. She's like, ‘Scott, you know you could have died out there yesterday.' I say, ‘Yeah, but I didn't.' And she's all, ‘Scott, you know you're a dad now. James needs his father. What if you had been killed?' And I say—and here's where, admittedly, I may have gone a bit the wrong direction—so I say, ‘Look at me, baby! Guys like me are a dime a dozen at any bar in DC.'”

“Couldn't you have just pulled a coin out of her ear?”

“Would've been a better play because, let me tell you, it was not pretty. She's all . . . Actually, I'm just going to stop there. You made me promise once that I'd never talk bad about my wife in front of anybody. So I'm just going to shut up.”

“Crap,” Riley said, as the ball bounced off of his hand and onto the Diet Coke can, spilling its remaining contents out on the carpet.

“What? Dude, that's what you told me.”

Riley was on his feet looking for something to clean up the spill. “No. You did the right thing. I just . . . never mind. What's the question?” Not seeing anything to soak up the pop, he pulled off his shirt and began mopping up.

“Should I step out of ops? Tara wants me to ride a desk.”

The door to the den opened, and Skeeter looked in, obviously alerted by the sudden commotion. Riley was kneeling on the ground, naked from the waist up, phone cranked on his shoulder, holding his shirt to the carpet.

Skeeter shook his head and said, “You need a hobby, man.” Then he closed the door again.

Riley sighed, then laid another part of his shirt on the spill. “Listen, I can understand what she's saying. Yesterday probably scared her spitless. You ever consider any other options?”

“Like . . . ?”

“I don't know. Private security. Something like what Khadi does. Or even starting your own firm. I've told you before I'd back any business venture you wanted to step into.” Lifting his shirt, he felt around the floor.
Feels all right. Let's hear it again for dark brown carpet.
He tossed the wet shirt toward the door to deal with later.

“I know. I appreciate it. But can you picture me yessirring and nosirring some rich, old-money dude or his spoiled, entitled, punk son? I'd probably end up shooting the kid myself—and the dad.”

“Yeah, or dropping them in a bucket of Gatorade.”

“There you go.”

“Well, just be thinking of options. A wise man recently told me never to make important decisions while you're tired or in a weird place.”

“Sounds like a smart guy.”

“Occasionally,” Riley said as he lay down on the couch, his bare back squeaking against the leather. “Now go find your beautiful wife. Apologize to her. Admit you're a pig and that you'll at least think about her question. Then make up however you young married kids make up these days.”

“Usually it's a few hands of gin rummy; then we hold hands watching the sun set.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Or we just have sex.”

“TMI!”

“Later, buddy.”

Riley hung up the phone feeling a lot better than when he had picked it up.
It's good to have options. A little prayer, a little time, things just might work out after all.

Monday, September 12, 7:15 a.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Khadi tried to laugh along, doing her best to keep her emotions in check. But she had a feeling that her fuse didn't have much further to burn. She was sitting at a crowded table in an upscale coffee bar in downtown DC. Tightly packed around her was her usual Monday morning group.

To her left in the circle was Jonathan Kattan, then Josiah, Korinne, Kierra, Jordan, Jackson, Jed, and finally Audrey, who was on Khadi's right. All were involved in security or law enforcement, and all were single.