Point of Balance (21 page)

24

I put the paper bag and its deadly contents under the seat, started the car and headed north again. And here my plan had a big hole in it, which I wouldn't be able to plug unaided.

I looked at the phone and held it in front of me while I drove.

“Where?” I asked it.

There was no reply. The blank screen merely showed my own reflection. One block, two blocks. The Eleventh Street Bridge was drawing near.

“Listen, White, I'm playing by your rules and I'll win my place in tomorrow's op. I can do it. But I can't do it alone. So tell me, where?”

The Lexus's wheels exchanged the smooth hum of the highway for fitful juddering as they rolled over the bridge's expansion joints. A worker in orange overalls stepped out and held up a sign saying STOP. Men were at work on the bridge, and I heard jackhammers ripping into the concrete.

The cell phone was deathly quiet.

I bit the inside of my cheeks, thinking things through. The engine was ticking over, with 345 horsepower chomping at the bit, and the steering wheel shook in my hands with a restless rumble.

Finally, the message landed.

LAZ PARKING NEXT THE MAYFLOWER, SPACE 347. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES, OR YOU MISS HIM.

Five miles in rush hour. That's not possible.

The workman in the orange overalls finally stood aside and I put my foot down.

I don't know how I did it. I avoided three intersections normally jammed with traffic. I went through two red lights and grazed a messenger's bike with my rear bumper when I turned a corner. The guy landed on the hood of a parked car. My heart stopped for a second, but I did not slow down.

I can't, buddy, I'm sorry.

In my rearview mirror, I saw him get back on his feet, holding up a buckled bike wheel in his hand. Judging by the lively way he used his other hand to give me the finger, I guessed he hadn't broken anything.

Eight minutes and nine seconds after receiving White's text, I drove into the LAZ lot next to the Mayflower. No attendant came to meet me, so I figured it was unmanned. A machine made me pick up a ticket before it raised the barrier.

I went past rows of cars, looking for space 347. It was on the second floor, although I had to work out the number from the two adjacent spots. The one I was looking for was covered by the tail end of a huge and very badly parked maroon Porsche Cayenne.

I had no doubts that outlandish object was Hockstetter's. It was sadly like him to drive a $150,000 SUV but park it in a commercial lot rather than the hotel one to save nickels and dimes. Once I saw him stiff a waitress out of a two-buck tip in the Johns Hopkins canteen, for crying out loud.

That was his car, but he was nowhere to be found. The garage was full, but at that time of day all the owners would be busy at their desks. There wasn't a living soul in sight.

I didn't understand why White had given me that location, but it was perfect. I just had to find an escape route afterward. I parked on the floor above and sat on the backseat, where I had left a sports
bag. I stripped off double quick and changed out of my suit into a sweat suit, tennis shoes and ski mask I had bought before I crossed the river. I put the ski mask on my head like a cap, with the bottom rolled up, and went back to the driver's seat.

I groped around underneath and pulled out the paper bag.

It seemed to weigh much more than before. Gingerly I put my hand inside it, as if it were full of scorpions. I withdrew the contents very slowly.

There it was. A Glock nine-millimeter. At least that's what it said on the side. Personally, I don't know one end of a gun from the other, just that you point the hole the way you want the bullet to go. That big lump of metal smelled of oil and something else besides, something filthy and wicked.

I wrapped my hand around the handle but didn't dare put my finger on the trigger. Guns are reputed to endow the owner with bravery and a false sense of security. To make you feel more powerful and invincible when you hold them.

I was just shitting myself even more.

I struggled with folds of cloth, attempting to put the gun down the back of my pants. The elastic waistband stretched a lot and I was scared of dropping the gun on the floor. I pulled on the drawstrings at the front and felt the cold steel dig a little deeper into my skin, but at least the pistol held steady.

I got out of the car.

I left the door ajar and the keys in the ignition. If all went well, I wouldn't have a second to lose after I rushed back. Nor could I risk dropping them. As they were part of a personalized electronic locking system, the cops would track me down within hours.

I glanced at the cameras in the corners. I could do nothing about them. I could console myself with the thought that the place was poorly lit. I wished I had remembered to take off the Lexus's license plates before leaving the hospital, but it was too late now. When the cops went over the recordings they would be onto me; that was obvious. I could only hope they wouldn't have time before the operation.

I walked down the ramp that led from the top floor to minimize the risk of meeting somebody on the stairs. As I went along, the soles of my brand-new shoes made a squeaky sound on the concrete.

HE'S COMING DOWN.

GET READY.

The text made me jump. I was wondering where in hell I could lie in wait for him without his seeing me. I had expected to have a few seconds more, but it was not to be.

Hockstetter's Porsche was next to a pillar that partially blocked the car's right side. It was painted crimson, rust-stained and covered in metal pipes. The space between it and the wall lay in shadow, making it a great place to hide. But in that case the car would be in my way. To attack Hockstetter I would have to traipse around the beast and he would hear me coming, which would give him time to get in the car or run off.

On the other side was a black Lincoln Navigator and very little space to hide in. The stairs were down at the end of the floor, on the side of the pillar, so I would have to choose one spot or the other.

In the distance I could hear a ping, telling me the elevator had arrived.

I ruled out the pillar. Too risky. I kneeled behind the Lincoln and realized too late that the ghastly fluorescent light behind me cast a shadow on the floor.

I set my teeth and prayed Hockstetter would not notice. I could hear his steps approaching. He dragged one of his feet and the sound of his soles on the concrete got louder and louder. I wanted to sneak a look but knew that would give me away, for sure. My heart beat faster and I panted. I lowered my ski mask to cover my face. The wool trapped my hot breath and burned my skin.

His footsteps rang out loud and clear, until they stopped dead. He was next to his car.

Now, Dave. Up and at him.

I went to stand up but couldn't do it.

My feet refused to move. I was rooted to the spot. Thus far I had
done nothing irreparable, but this was too big for me. I had come to the point of no return.

I tried again, as I heard him fiddle with the keys at the trunk. But I couldn't do it. I was mortified.

He turned off the car alarm with a beep and the door locks clicked open. He was going to get away. I was about to miss him, and with that the chance to save my daughter.

Help me, Rachel. Help me.

And so she did. She sent me a memory.

I remembered that dinner.

While I was making the macaroni, I told myself, over and over again, that I had to talk to Julia. To give her comfort and affection. When I was my daughter's age, I got next to none of that, so I always made a point of kissing and hugging Julia as much as I could. I particularly liked lifting her up and carrying her all over the house while she hung on to my chest with her arms and legs like Velcro straps.

“Stowaway on board!”

The journey always ended up with the intruder thrown overboard and onto a soft landing—bed or sofa—by the swift expedient of squeezing the soft flesh on her tummy with both thumbs at once. She would have an attack of the giggles, loosen her grip and fall. That moment of weightlessness, eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear; that was happiness.

But after Rachel died, there was no horseplay or tickling, simply whispers laced with sadness. My wife had not left behind a gap; she had rent a yawning hole in our lives, and it was an especially hard one to fill. Julia didn't quite get it yet. She had come to her mother's funeral and kept hold of her grandmother's hand the whole while. But when the reception was over, when the distant relatives had departed, when the neighbors were done snooping under the guise of offering food and condolences, when we were alone at last, Julia asked:

“Will Mommy be home for dinner?”

I left the dishes and went up to my little girl. A week had gone by since Rachel had passed away, and Julia hadn't asked after her
mother once. Now she was squatting on the living room floor, with a handful of dolls perfectly lined up in front of her.

“Julia, sweetie, Mommy can't be with us anymore.”

She didn't look up from the dolls.

“Because she's dead,” she said, using the word for the very first time. A drop of cold sweat rolled down my spine.

“Yes, baby,” I forced myself to say.

“You're a very good doctor. Mommy told me so, she said you're one of the best. Can't you make her live again?”

“No, Julia. I would love to. If there was the slightest way I could help her, I'd do it, but I can't. Death cannot be undone.”

She was quiet for a bit. She rearranged a couple of dolls and sank her head into her shoulders.

“And will I die?”

I had the entire range of aphorisms possible for such a question on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken out loud. Easy answers to complex questions.
God only takes away good people. Mommy's in a better place. Everything will be fine.

“Yes, Julia. We all have to. But you're little, and many, many years will go by before you die. You'll be much older than Grandma.”

“And what happens when we die?”

“I don't know, darling. Nobody knows. That mystery is part of life.”

“You'll die, too.”

“That'll also be a long time coming.”

“You don't know that. You might choke on an Oreo, or have a
corony
.”

I didn't know what to answer, so I just kept quiet and put my hand on her shoulder. She raised her head, at last, and when I looked her in the eyes I could see she already knew the answers to all of those questions, that she had merely been preparing the ground for what was really eating her up inside. In a smart girl, that didn't surprise me. But I was terrified at what could be so awful as to make her beat about the bush.

“Daddy, did Mommy love us?”

“More than anything in the world, Julia.”

She hesitated a second.

“The Blacks' daughter says she gave in. That she went down without a fight. That if she loved us she'd have faced up to cancer.”

The Blacks' daughter, who lived two blocks away, was nine. She would have picked those words up from her parents at the dinner table. They were head lice in the mind she had brought to our house and infected Julia with. Maybe the hardest thing was to realize she had already thought it all out. As a neurosurgeon I had seen patients react in myriad ways after receiving a hopeless diagnosis. The vast majority turned to their nearest and dearest and made the most of every second they had left with them. In no time, those who had always been ornaments in the background took a front-row seat, ushered there by the final curtain. And strange to say, many were happier in those weeks they spent with their family than they had been their whole life.

Rachel knew all that as well as I did. But she had also seen the other side. She knew about the blurred vision, the sickness, the maddening migraines, the personality disorders, the dementia. She had seen glioblastoma patients talking normally one second, then three seconds later tearing their clothes off in the middle of a crowded corridor and rolling in their own feces. In front of a family who would never forget it.

“Julia Evans,” I said, raising my voice a little. “Your mother was an incredible woman. Full of life and wisdom. She became an anesthesiologist so others wouldn't feel pain. She could put you to sleep in a second so the worst was over as quickly as possible. And then she would watch over you while you slept on the operating table, so everything was okay. She didn't go without a fight, she simply fought in another way.”

I realized I was crying. Julia hugged me and tried to comfort me by patting me on the back. I was kneeling on the floor, the roles reversed, me being consoled by a little girl.

“Oh, Julia. I love you so much.”

“It's okay, Daddy. We'll fight for Mommy.”

And I'll fight for you, Julia, baby.

I took three deep breaths, like a swimmer about to plunge in the deep end, then gripped the pistol and stood up.

Kate

A phone number written down on a scrap of paper. Ten digits in scrawl as thin and tight as a spider's legs.

Kate memorized them before she shoved the paper into her pants pocket. She drove the whole way back with her hand in her pocket, guarding that bit of pulp that was her only operable lead.

The question was, what to do with it.

She drove south until she found an acceptable coffee shop near the Inner Harbor, and ordered the biggest, strongest and hottest coffee on the menu. A triple espresso, the first sip of which made her hands tremble slightly but did little to wake her up. She decided to take a walk along the waterfront to stretch her legs and try to think up the best way forward. The fresh, salty breeze brought her to her senses.

I can't call the suspect cold. With no more details than his name and with no face time, all he would do is hole up and never come out again.

She had to track him down first, but that was the hard part. Vlatko would need to have his cell switched on, and the necessary tools were in Washington HQ. To complicate matters further, she would need authorization from a superior before conducting a search—and in theory, a judge's warrant, although the Secret Service always skipped that formality if there was a serious threat to the president's life.

She couldn't go to DC to do it herself. She ran the risk of bumping into McKenna or one of those chosen for tomorrow's detail, which would mean she'd have to drop the search for Julia immediately and join the assignment. There was only one option, and that was to seek outside help. She had to trust somebody else, even if that meant going out on a limb.

Finally she decided to call headquarters. She tried to remember
who was on duty that Thursday, someone who wasn't a dick or by-the-book flunky. There was a techie named Barbara Hill who owed her a favor. No big deal; Kate had done no more than slap around a couple of wretches who sprayed graffiti on her parents' storefront at night. It was a small favor to call in compared to what she was about to ask, but it would have to do.

She punched in her department's number and waited for them to put her through.

“Hill.”

“Hi, Barbara, Robson here. I need you to triangulate a device for me.”

“Okey-doke. What's the case number?”

Kate cleared her throat.

“There is no case number.”

“Well, you're going to need one before I activate the system. If you like, I can put you through to the supervisor and—”

“No, Barbara. I don't want this on record.”

On the other end of the line, her colleague could be heard shifting about.

“What the hell are you mixed up in, Kate?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Nothing that'll get you into hot water. But I just have to find this person.”

“Kate, I could get into trouble simply for discussing this with you. The bosses don't give a goddamn if a search isn't clean as long as it's part of an active investigation. Talk to Soutine, he always cuts us some slack . . .”

“Barbara, this isn't—” She interrupted herself to clear her throat again. “This isn't about work. It's personal.”

“Now I'm sure you're out of your mind. You can't use the department's resources to find out if your boyfriend's playing around, Kate.”

“Barbara, I wouldn't ask you if it weren't important. I swear. I need help.”

The other woman tut-tutted.

“Damn it, Kate. All searches are recorded. An alert will pop up on the boss's monitor.”

“Then assign it an old number from a cold case. Please . . .”

“Tell me more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me why my ass is on the line. If I get caught, they throw me out, so the least I want to know is what sad story's at the back of this.”

Kate waited, pretending to mull it over. She wondered whether Barbara could hear the seagulls squawking in the background.

“Swear you won't tell anyone?”

“Girl, my lips are sealed. Remember the guy from ID Theft who knocked up someone in Accounts? I knew before everyone else and said nothing. Not a word.”

In her eagerness, her voice seemed to have gone up an octave. Not for one second did Kate imagine Barbara would keep her secret. She could just see her, eyes wide open and twirling her fingers around the telephone cord, thinking how to get the most mileage out of this gossip by the water cooler. Dishing up other people's dirt, bit by bit, spicing it up with her shamefaced jokes and trying to feel better about her own humdrum life. There is no more valuable merchandise in the Secret Service corridors than gossip about colleagues, and better still if it's to do with body parts below the belt. Kate only hoped she'd keep her trap shut for a few more hours.

“I met a guy a while back. He's with the Company, in Langley. Recently we've been an item, but he goofs off for days at a time. He blames it on the job, but I think there's someone else. I need to know where he's at.”

“Is he cute?”

“Tall, slim, sad green eyes. Sensitive and smart,” Kate rattled off, before she was aware, with a shudder, that she had just described David Evans.

“Wow, girl, I want to meet one of those, too. He got any ­brothers?”

“He's an only child.”

“What a drag. At least tell me he's got an ass you can crack nuts with.”

“His ass is okay.”

“Way to go! And are you really sweet on him? You hear, like, wedding bells?”

This time Kate didn't have to fake her hesitation.

“Yes, I'm in deep. I've been smitten ever since I first saw him.”

There, you've admitted it.

Barbara squeaked a quick titter like a happy rodent with a lump of cheese.

“Say no more, I'll come through for you. But next week we must do dinner and drinks,” she warned, in her element. “Your treat, I get to choose where. And you owe me, big-time.”

“Sounds like a plan. You won't regret it.”

“Give me the number. And be patient, I'll have to wait until the coast is clear before I can track him down.”