The Clouds Roll Away (27 page)

In the amethyst living room where Linus had witnessed to the two children, half-naked women danced around the modular couch. Moon sat front and center with three other men lounging on the other sections. The ceiling projector beamed a rap video— more dancing, more women wearing less clothing.

Moon glanced over as I closed the front door. He nodded and a girl dropped on his lap. She wore a leather miniskirt and a white tube top that was losing its battle with gravity. Running her eyes over me, she made me feel invisible and known at the same time.

“XL's in the kitchen,” Moon said.

I walked down the hall. The front door opened behind me, but I didn't immediately turn around. I waited two counts, then casually glanced back. A Raider stepped inside, pushing back his hood. He followed me down the hall and I tightened my grip on my clutch purse. Cell phone, money. The Glock.

“Right on time,” XL said as I came into the kitchen. “I like a lady who knows when to show up.”

I could barely breathe. The stench of scorched microwave popcorn was so thick I could taste it. Outside, the dogs woofed, clawing at the back door.

“I hope it's ready this time,” I said, annoyed.

He smiled in a way that never reached the sloe and languid eyes. “Make yourself a drink. It'll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

“You said it would be ready.”

“Chill, girl. Hang with the party.”

“I've got an appointment.”

It was the last word. Even as it left my mouth, I knew it was wrong. But it had already passed over my lips and when XL's eyes shifted, a quiver of adrenaline shot across my shoulders. I turned around. The Raider held a gun to my head. Nine-millimeter Beretta. With silencer.

“Gimme the purse.” The Raider held out his free hand. His mustache looked like grime.

I glanced over at XL. “You've got to be kidding. You're gonna pull this crap?”

“Precautions, baby.”

“You play too many games.” I shook my head, disgusted. “Forget it, keep your stuff. I'm outta here.”

I was two steps across the filthy kitchen floor when the wall exploded, spitting chunks. I dove, trained to instinct. Hitting the floor, I rolled left and shoved my right hand inside the clutch. My hand came up, index finger beside the Glock's trigger.

But nobody had moved.

XL wasn't even looking in my direction. Staring into the aluminum pans, he poked the white slop with his knife. The Raider poised the Beretta at my forehead.

“What I thought,” XL said. “You know exactly what you're doing.”

A second Raider stepped into the room. He held a .45 and grabbed my right wrist, squeezing the gun from my hand. He tossed my purse to XL. The little man with the horn-rimmed glasses caught it effortlessly. I looked down, shaking my head, and stole a glance at my watch. Three minutes something.

“If you're not a cop,” XL said, “what're you carrying a piece for?”

“I live two blocks from Gilpin Court. I sell product. You think I'm stupid?”

He flipped open my cell phone. “No name?”

“Yeah, Nadine.” Agent phones had no identifying names, and our names didn't come up on other people's caller ID.

He smiled. This time, his eyes went along with it and my blood ran cold.

He pushed the buttons on the phone, searching. My heart bumped a pulse into my neck and I took a breath of stench. I inhaled four beats, held it four beats, and released it on another four. Then I started over again.

The phone rang. I assumed he hit something accidentally.

But he looked up, his grin bigger than ever.

“Let's see who this is,” he said, as if this was a fun game.

He stared at the LCD display. But his grin disappeared. He looked at the second Raider with a face like granite. “Tell Moon to get in here.”

The Raider stepped over the blasted pieces of drywall.

“Now!” XL yelled.

Moon came running down the hall, heavy feet like thunder. XL lifted the ringing phone, holding it out.

“It's Zennie,” he said. “Why is Zennie calling her?”

Moon shifted his eyes toward me, unfazed by the gun at my head. Taking the phone from XL, he hit the talk button. “Zennie?”

In the quiet, my pulse pounded. Too hard, too fast. Down the hall a girl laughed. It sounded like a scream.

“Yeah, it's me,” Moon said.

Another pause.

“She's right here.”

I rolled my eyes, glancing at the windows. Moisture dripped on the dark glass. And the dogs were quiet. My pulse kicked up.

“Talk fast. XL's got a piece pointed at her head.”

There was a long pause while he listened. Moon's eyes shifted around the kitchen, calculating her words. I tried another four-count breath, but adrenaline killed it at two.

Moon grunted and handed the phone to XL. “She wants to talk to you.”

XL held the phone away from his ear, as though it carried a disease. Zennie's voice sounded like a malicious bee. XL reached into the purse, throwing the wad of bills to Moon.

Moon counted out hundreds. I reached up, scratching my neck, glancing at my watch. Seven minutes something. My neck was damp.

“One G.” Moon rolled up the bills.

On the phone the high buzz took off again.

“Watch that mouth, Zennie.” XL snapped the phone shut. “You buying for her?”

“Why, is that a problem?” I said.

XL looked at Moon.

“Zennie's running her own deal here,” Moon said.

“You believe her?” XL asked.

“It's Zennie. She cuts us out, that surprises you?” He shrugged. “I ain't that surprised.”

Down the hall, the girl laughed again. No dogs barked. I imagined SWAT approaching, hitting the animals with tranquilizer guns.

“How do you know Zennie?” XL asked.

“She's my hairdresser. I told her what Sully did. When I said I was buying, she put in some money.”

“And Sully . . . ?”

“From school, that's how I know him. Look, if I'm a cop, why did I drive back here with Sully? That's insane.” I opened my hand, my fingertips numb. “Gimme my money.”

XL glanced at Moon.

Moon said, “Zennie's mean, but she ain't stupid.”

I rolled my fingers, one thought slamming against my skull:
Hurry, hurry, hurry
.

XL put the phone back in my purse. “No hard feelings.”

“Maybe not for you. I want my money and my gun.”

He gave a smile that turned my stomach, placing the roll of bills in the purse. “My associate will walk you out,” he said. “You can have the gun outside.”

I turned for the front door, clicking down the hallway. The heels and tight pants felt like lead on my ankles and I begged time to stop, stop, please, stop. But it was like racing down an endless tunnel. The faster I walked, the more the front door receded. I no longer heard music, only blood rushing through my ears, my pulse pounding.

But another pounding told me time was up.

Glass shattered in the kitchen behind me.

“FBI, on the floor! Down! Down!”

The front door burst open. I threw my hands in the air, holding the purse away from my body. I made eye contact with the masked SWAT agent, diving in the direction he indicated. I rolled across the floor. Two grenades passed over my head. I squeezed my eyes, clamped hands to my ears. And red fireballs ignited my eyelids. Shock waves punched my bones.

On the floor, I felt footsteps running past. When I squinted, trying to get my position, the walls spun. The living room was already filled with smoke. And screaming.

I scrambled for the open front door, falling across the threshold. Cold air stung my burning throat. I stood, but suddenly doubled over. My stomach convulsed with dry heaves, eyes watering. I pressed one hand against my solar plexus, trying to stop the spasms, and looked at the street. Green spots swam everywhere. I blinked.

Two Raiders.

I blinked again. They sat on the curb. More blinks revealed they were cuffed, headlights beaming into their faces. Pollard stood over them, holding a shotgun.

I stumbled down the stairs.

“Guns,” I gasped.

“We took the kitchen first.”

Pollard's face swirled with colors. I tried to read his expression.

“One more minute, that's all I needed. I was coming out the door—”

He kept his eyes on the Raiders. He said nothing.

I turned, shielding my face and wiping away the tears.

chapter thirty-three

T
he following morning I sat by the carriage house window with a yellow legal pad and a pot of coffee.

In the courtyard below, Madame sniffed the garden perimeter, inspecting the dormant foliage and leftover autumn leaves for intruders. Her paws melted the frost on the blue slate, leaving small dark prints until the courtyard looked like a connect-the-dots image.

I glanced back at the yellow legal pad.

My head still foggy from last night's flash-bang grenades, I made my first list simple.

Across the top of the page, I wrote
Christmas Presents
.

I listed my mother, Aunt Charlotte, Wally, and DeMott, since he'd brought gifts for us. I left my sister Helen off the list because she preferred to ignore Christmas. I stared at the list. It didn't seem possible. What happened to all my friends? My mother's friends? So many people came to my father's service, the overflow covered the sidewalk outside. Now I had four people to buy gifts for. Counting Madame, five. No wonder she wanted to return to St. John's. We built a protective fortress in the aftermath, and it worked all too well. Suddenly I heard DeMott's words, ringing in my ears that day on the croquet lawn.
“I know you. If some purpose
isn't attached, you won't come.”

I made a second list.
People to Call on Christmas Day.
I was eleven names into it when Madame barked.

I looked down. She stood at the garden wall, tail stiffened. A gray squirrel darted back and forth on the flat brick ledge. It gripped an acorn in its mouth.

Madame barked again.

I poured another cup of coffee and started my third list. It was based on my dad's advice for dealing with worry. Face the worst. Look it in the eye. Write down every worst-case scenario you can think of, then plan your strategy.

At the top of the page, I wrote
What Will Phaup Do Now?

Toxic memos in my personnel file.

Formal reprimands.

Suspension.

Transfer.

Under the word
transfer
, I made a sublist of field offices far away from Richmond, followed by resident agencies, the Bureau holes that didn't even qualify as field offices, and when Madame barked again, sounding furious, I looked outside.

The squirrel jumped from the wall to the bare maple, still clutching the acorn.

Bismarck, North Dakota.

Selma, Alabama.

Provo, Utah.

The next page began with
How to Survive
.

But nothing came to mind.

I looked out the window again. The squirrel realized Madame was out of reach. Standing on the branch, it removed the acorn from its mouth and nickered at the dog.

Madame barked and barked and barked, losing her cool.

The French door opened, my mother called her into the kitchen. Madame threw one last bark, letting the squirrel know the war wasn't over.

When the door closed, the squirrel put the acorn back in its mouth and dashed back across the garden wall.

After autumn flamed red, orange, and yellow, one of the most beautiful sights in Virginia was the clear winter sky. An endless dome, it began the morning with a faint color, deepening throughout the day until by evening the luscious lapis ceiling brought thoughts of heaven.

On Thursday morning, after the scouring Atlantic wind pushed the clouds west, I drove north to Hanover County under that winter sky, arriving at the town of Beaverdam with an icy halo still on my windshield. The 1840s train depot looked like an heirloom photograph. I followed back roads to a farmhouse that had witnessed two detonations of that train depot, both by Yankees, including one by General Custer. The air around the farmhouse was filled with incendiary smoke and the percussive boom of a rifle.

I came around the side of the house calling, “Hold fire!”

But the man with the rifle couldn't hear me. He wore headset ear protection and pointed the gun downfield, toward a tin target shaped like a deer. I stuck my fingers in my ears. He fired. When the smoke cleared, the deer was down.

“Hold fire!” I yelled, coming closer.

Tolliver Lambert pointed the rifle at the ground, turned, and squirted tobacco juice into the tall grass.

My father had other good advice besides worst-case scenario lists. He believed a woman should have certain skills. She should be able to drive in reverse with the same degree of skill that she drove forward. She should know how to sew on a button. Cook a steak, change a flat. Shoot a gun.