Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (13 page)

Cranford Motel
Outside Mallardville, Virginia

Wednesday night

B
lessed could walk now, his steps steady and smooth. He could even run if he had to, but not far, no, not too far yet. He was getting stronger by the day, though it was slow and hard going. But what was even harder to bear was realizing the part of him that was missing, a power that had bathed his very being with light and strength for as long as he could remember.

He was common now, only an ordinary man, no longer even young or strong. He wanted to howl with the loss, and with the fear he would remain common and powerless for the rest of his life.

It was cold. The old vagrant’s coat he’d stolen after he’d stuck a knife in his heart smelled musty, with a layer of fruit and chewing tobacco, probably from the old man’s crib. Blessed marveled at how easily the knife slipped between his ribs, directly into his heart. Of course, Blessed knew exactly where to slip the knife. His father had shown him and his brother Grace, pointing his old fingers with his sharp curved nails at what he called the X Spot. He
remembered his father telling him and Grace,
“If you boys can’t use your gift, then you will do what you have to do, but never forget, do it kindly.”
He’d wondered whether how you killed someone would matter that much to that person, but he’d never asked. His father wasn’t one to ever question. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Father was dead now, as was his precious mother. And his brother Grace. And Martin. Only Autumn, Martin’s daughter, was alive, but that child of his blood would have killed him, if she could, and very nearly did.

He tasted the remembered fear, cold and acid in his mouth, and swallowed. A little girl had left him hollow, a shadow, a man of no account at all.

The old vagrant had given out only a short sigh, then slumped forward in Blessed’s arms. He’d gently pulled out the knife he’d bought at a pawnshop for five dollars, most of the money the orderly had had in his wallet. He felt a leap of energy fill him when he’d walked out of that cold, bleak state hospital filled with crazy people and blank-eyed orderlies and nurses and doctors who looked through you, never at you. He’d wiped off the knife, slipped it back into its webbing at his waist, laid the man against the alley wall and took the heavy old coat.

Blessed missed his father. Had he smelled a whiff of him on the old man whose coat was now on his back? No, maybe that was how old people smelled. Blessed would have preferred sending the old man walking off an overpass on Highway 75 with a look, but he couldn’t do that any longer. He wanted to curse until he remembered the old couple in Georgetown who’d seen him leap away from his down motorcycle and limp away. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, but he’d looked at them and said quickly, “You did not see me.” And he’d seen something in their eyes, something
that reminded him of his old self. He wondered what they’d told the police, what they’d told Agent Sherlock.

She’d shot the motorcycle right out from under him. She was still alive and walking around and his mama was dead, with only him left to care, to remember her and his family, and what they’d all been to one another. Now both that damned agent and her husband were looking for him, he knew it to his belly. But did they know who he was? They would soon, he would see to that.

He thought again of that old couple and felt his pulse leap. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe his power was coming back. Maybe. But now that he thought about it, was it possible they hadn’t seen him clearly enough because they were too old?

Blessed walked back to his end motel room, unlocked the door, and closed it quietly behind him. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fried chicken. He tossed the motel room key on the bed. He didn’t even have his stolen motorcycle now. Tomorrow, he’d steal a car, maybe an old Chevy Camaro. His daddy had loved the old Camaros. But it had to be close by. He rubbed his legs, raising one, then the other. They wobbled a bit. He had to work them more, but not tonight. He’d done enough for tonight.

He didn’t take off the coat, simply stretched out on the stingy mattress, crossed his arms over his chest. He remembered his mama stroking his head in her last moments on earth, whispering to him that she loved him.

“Blessed, Blessed,” she’d said, her voice wispy and soft, “I knew I would see you again. But I will have to leave you soon, Blessed, I don’t have much time. My heart feels like it’s slogging through thick mud and it’s hard to breathe. Those two terrible people who put us here—you must promise me you will make them pay for
what they did. You kill them for me. You will give me revenge and peace. Will you promise me?”

He had cried, beside himself, the pain was so great. “No, Mama, don’t go, don’t die, you’re all I have left. Martin is gone. Grace is gone, Father’s gone. Don’t leave me. Don’t.”

The wispy old voice grew softer, as if drifting away from him. “I wish I could stay with you, Blessed, but I can’t. Your little niece, Autumn, is the only one who will be left of us, but I won’t send you after her again. She’s dangerous to you because she doesn’t understand. After you’ve taken our revenge, you must find a woman of power, have your own children. Make us continue. They will have your gift, and you can build our family again. You can become the Father.”

Blessed had whispered, “I will, Mama, I will, I promise.”

Now he whispered again into the dark air of his motel room, “I will, Mama, I will.”

Perry’s condo
Vanderbilt Street, Washington, D.C.

Wednesday night

P
erry was standing in the middle of her living room, barefoot, still wearing that black glove of a dress she’d worn to the restaurant. It hadn’t taken him long to get there, not after she’d yelled into the phone, “My Harley! Someone trashed my Harley!”

Before he’d come into the condo, he’d gone around the side to see another officer with a Maglite standing over the remains. The beautiful machine wouldn’t see life again; something like a sledgehammer, he thought, heavy, repeated blows. Rage in those blows. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it one bit. This was a serious escalation from the note in the
Post
’s men’s room.

He looked over at her, arms crossed over her chest, seriously pissed, ready to rip someone’s face off. He couldn’t blame her. When she spotted him she was looking ready to blow. He looked at the dress, then up at her face. “I’m hoping you didn’t put butter on your dinner roll. You couldn’t afford one more pound on your butt in that dress.”

She grinned, couldn’t help it, and let her hands fall to her sides.
It was her turn to look him up and down. Black Nikes on his big feet, a leather jacket pulled over his Redskins sweatshirt, his hair standing on end. She felt the rage ease off, began to feel relief that he was here, and wondered why.

Davis patted her face and turned to Detective Ben Raven, Metro PD. “Good to see you, Ben.”

Ben Raven shook his pen at him. “Sullivan, Perry said she called you. You looked at the Harley?”

Davis nodded. “It’s a shame. It was a fine machine.”

“Looks like trespassing and felony destruction of private property. Unfortunately, she‘s been less than forthcoming with me about who might have done this, and why. I’m also wondering why you’re here.”

“Maybe she thinks of me as the real cavalry, Ben. Hey, Black, why did you bother calling him if you’re not talking?”

Perry was down on her knees at that moment, black dress and all, striking a match at her fireplace. She had it going in a few seconds, rose gracefully and eyed him. “Ben’s wife, Callie, is an investigative reporter at the
Post
, and a friend of mine. As I was telling Ben, I need a police report for my insurance, and trust him to try to keep this quiet.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Ben said, “but why keep it quiet? You know who did this, don’t you, Perry?”

“Ask Agent Sullivan. I’ve been told not to talk, Ben, sorry.”

“Well, Sullivan, are you going to talk? Or are we waiting for Savich?”

“Yeah, probably, since I called him,” Davis said. He studied her face, knew she was okay now. “You’re as tough as your mother, even though you’re short.”

Perry let out a little laugh, and the two other cops who’d come
into her living room turned and looked at her. Davis imagined they were thinking,
Really, she’s lost her Harley and she’s laughing?

Perry sat down in a deep wing chair near the fireplace, watching the officers speak in low voices to Ben. She was cold, and knew it was a mix of anger and fear of the monster who’d destroyed her Harley, who’d also probably left the graffiti in the men’s room.
Why?

Ben Raven said, “Davis, I know the Bureau has an interest here, because of Ambassador Black. But this is a property crime, and Perry doesn’t appear to be in immediate danger. We’re happy to accommodate her, gather the evidence for our report, and leave it at that. But you don’t want to appear to upstage me, it isn’t nice.”

Perry rose. “He won’t do any upstaging, Ben. Now, is anyone up for coffee?”

•   •   •

It was after midnight
before Ben Raven left Perry’s condo and Davis sat with Savich and Perry in her kitchen, drinking his second cup of coffee. “Sorry there wasn’t any tea, Savich, even in her junk drawer. You wouldn’t believe what she has stashed in there, but not a single tea bag.” He paused. “Raven’s not happy, but he knows enough to keep out of it.”

Perry said, “Callie tells me he mutters around the house sometimes, sorting through a case. He’s got to know everything about everything, or he’s seriously annoyed.”

Savich said, “I spoke with Ben. It’s true he isn’t happy since he likes to dive headfirst into a case like this, but he’s going to back off. His report will describe a simple property crime, nothing more.”

Davis said, “This is Washington, which means he’s got more than enough on his plate. He’ll get over it.”

Savich said, “I’ll have Sherlock call Callie. She’ll help talk him around.”

“No, she won’t,” Perry said. “She’s as bad as he is. She wants to know everything. She’ll know this attack on me tonight ties in with my mom and she’ll be on my case before breakfast.”

Savich looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “I should be getting back. I left Sherlock muttering about wrecking some of my major body parts because she couldn’t come with me, not with Sean asleep down the hall.” He looked at Perry. “Did anything happen after you left the Hoover Building, something that could be connected to that threat in the men’s room? Something that would lead that person to want to up the ante?”

Davis said, a bit of rancor in his voice, “She had dinner with the secretary of state’s son, a lifelong friend, a coal lobbyist.”

Perry frowned at Davis. “I’m thinking wrecking my bike was more about my mother than about me, since, really, I didn’t do anything else today except work and talk to you. What do they want from us? That she should resign? Lie down in the middle of the road at rush hour? Call a press conference and tell everyone she’s a lying, heartbreaking psychotic? What, exactly? Why would anyone care so much about an ambassador to go to all this trouble? Take all these crazy risks? Oh, goodness, guys, I don’t want my mother to know about this. I don’t know what she’d do, but I don’t want them to win, not by threatening me.”

Savich said, “Natalie doesn’t need to know about this, at least not tonight. You’re sure Callie won’t report it out?”

“Callie thinks she’s a great kickboxer and I take her down regularly. Plus, we eat tacos together. She won’t report it out.”

“There’s a strong bond,” Davis said.

“You bet. And Ben told me a property crime report rarely attracts any attention.”

Savich said, “All right, then. Davis, can you stay? Make sure the perp doesn’t come back? As long as these people are escalating, I want Perry safe. Maybe you can eat tacos together.”

“Of course I will,” Davis said, as he turned a paper plate loaded with Fig Newtons in his hand. He said easily, “Nice place you’ve got here, Black, except for the little spots of dust and grease here and there. You want me to ask Monroe if he could fit you in?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t about the grease and dust, it was about Davis Sullivan staying here, with her, in her condo. Did Dillon really think she could be in danger? The graffiti, then her Harley—he could be right. She eyed Davis, saw he was thoughtfully chewing a Fig Newton, never taking his eyes off her. Slowly, she nodded again, and thought,
I really don’t want someone to destroy me like they did my Harley.

“Okay,” she said, “okay. Davis can move in.”

Savich eyed the two of them. People handled shock and fear in different ways. Perry was stand-up, thankfully, and Davis had a nice light hand. He said, “Good. I’m going home, try to talk Sherlock out of her snit, convince her she didn’t miss any excitement. Sleep well, Perry. The bozo can sleep on your sofa with his size twelves hanging off the end.” He grabbed a Fig Newton as he jerked his head toward Davis on his way to the front door.

Perry walked to the kitchen door so she could hear them talking. Dillon kept his beautiful speaking voice low, but she had no problem hearing him. “I don’t like how this is developing, Davis. And we haven’t identified that kid who left the graffiti yet.”

“Show me his photo,” Perry said, stepping into the entryway.
Davis said to Savich, “I’m not surprised she’s lurking. Eavesdropping, Black? Come and look.”

Perry looked down at Davis’s iPhone, at a color still from a lobby video camera at the
Post
. He was a tall, skinny, dark-skinned teenage boy. No, he wasn’t a teenager; he was twenty years old. She couldn’t believe it. She looked up.

“I know him.”