In the Blood

5 THE HAND THAT FEEDS

Seattle, WA—FBI Field Office

March 22

HEATHER KNEW HER LIFE depended on how she answered the question just posed to her by ADIC Monica Rutgers. If she said yes, she’d be little more than a marionette for the Bureau to stage and pose—albeit a well-paid, breathing marionette. If she said no, they’d find a way to strip the truth from her mind, and then, in one way or another, she’d die.

“I’m honestly stunned,” Heather said, managing to curve her lips into a smile. “And honored. But a decision this important deserves careful consideration.”

“Of course,” Rutgers replied from the large-screen monitor nestled into the west wall. Graying curls framed a stoic face weathered by decades of subterfuge. “How about Monday? That gives you four days to mull it over.”

“Monday would be fine, ma’am,” Heather said.

She sat in one of two plush chairs positioned in front of what used to be Stearns’s oak desk and his office. His energy still seemed to permeate the room, steady as granite. And, at times, she thought she caught glimpses of him from the corners of her eyes—behind the desk, standing at the rain-ribboned window looking down into the street. Imagined she smelled coffee and Tums.

“We believe you’ve more than proven your merit and mettle,” Alberto Rodriguez said from behind Stearns’s desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Heather said. She glanced at the interim SAC and flashed him what she hoped was a winning smile. “Still, it’s a big decision…”

“You’ll make a fine SAC.” The shitty sound system rendered Rutgers’s voice as thin and flat as her face. “I believe this is a move Craig Stearns would’ve approved.”

Heather doubted that, considering the truth Stearns had learned in New Orleans.

You’ve been marked for termination. Me too.

How high up does this go?

I think it’s best to behave as though it goes to the top.

“I appreciate your confidence, ma’am,” Heather murmured, throat tight.

Rutgers folded her hands on the polished surface of her desk, an ill-fitting smile glued to her lips. She studied Heather from the D.C. side of the webcam. Heather forced herself to relax into the chair.

“The latest report from your doctor states that you’re fit for duty,” Rodriguez said.

Heather swiveled her chair slightly so she could see both him and the monitor.

He tapped a finger against a folder in front of him on the desk, his angular, clean-shaven face thoughtful. “Though, frankly, he’s amazed by your recovery. It’s nothing short of a miracle.”

“I was lucky, that’s all,” Heather said. “If the bullet had been a centimeter to the left…” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t be here. No miracle, just luck and prompt medical attention.”

“We still have a few questions—” He looked up when the door opened, then snicked shut again. He nodded his head in acknowledgment.

Just as Heather glanced over her shoulder to see who’d joined the meeting, she caught a whiff of Brut aftershave.

I knew it.

He looked older than she remembered—thinner, hair streaked gray and white, more lines etched into his face.

“I apologize for being late, ma’am,” SA James William Wallace said, nodding at the monitor. He stood just inside the door, his rain-spattered, tan trenchcoat draped over his left arm. “The traffic was bad.”

“No apology necessary,” Rutgers said. “You came up from Portland on very short notice.”

“If I may ask, ma’am—why was my father asked to attend?” Heather straightened in her chair. “We’ve never worked together. He couldn’t possibly assess—”

“He’s here as an advocate for you,” Rutgers said, leaning forward against her desk. “We don’t want any misunderstandings. And you need to know what’s at risk.”

A chill iced Heather’s spine. “At risk, ma’am?”

James Wallace folded his trench over the back of the remaining chair and sat down beside Heather. With a wink and a smile, he swiveled his chair around to face the com-con monitor and Rutgers.

“She’s ready to get back into the saddle,” her father said.

“My father does not speak for me. Just so we’re clear,” Heather said.

“Relax,” James Wallace murmured. “I’m on your side.”

Heather refused to look at him. “Ma’am, you mentioned a risk?”

“That’s correct. A few other things for you to consider while you contemplate your decision.”

Rodriguez flipped open the file, thumbed through the pages. Special Agent Bennington mentioned during his debrief in D.C. that he believed Dr. Moore had intended to use you as ‘psycho bait,’ but he wasn’t sure if you were meant to lure Jordan or Prejean.” He looked up at Heather. “Any thoughts as to why in either case?”

Heather forced her hands to remain open and relaxed in her lap. She frowned, then shook her head. “I really think Bennington would know more about Dr. Moore’s motives than I would.”

“And you maintain that when Dr. Moore shot you,” Rutgers said, “she was aiming at Jordan? Are you certain she hadn’t intended to kill you along with Jordan?”

On the monitor, a man—most likely an assistant—stepped into camera view, a finger to the Bluetooth curving against his ear. He paused to speak into Rutgers’s ear, then walked out of viewing range again. The ADIC’s expression became grim.

“I’m not certain of anything, ma’am. Between the drugs and the bullet in my chest at the time, very little is clear,” Heather said, keeping her voice level. “Again, as to Dr. Moore’s intentions, Bennington would know more than I do.”

“It could’ve been friendly fire, just like Heather said in her statement,” James Wallace put in. Fabric whispered as he crossed his legs. “Like it was with Craig Stearns when a bullet from Heather’s gun ended up in his shoulder during a fire-fight.”

Heather finally looked at her father. Even though her pulse pounded hard and fierce through her veins, ice frosted her from the inside out. “That’s all in my original statement,” she said, jaw tight. Her father met her gaze, his own composed. “And it has nothing to do with what happened at the center.”

“Just pointing out how easy it is and how often it happens,” he said.

“Regrettably, yes,” Rutgers said. “But I keep coming back to one question….”

Heather shifted her gaze back to the monitor. The knot in her belly tightened. “Yes, ma’am?”

“If Moore had intended to shoot you, why? Was she hoping to trigger Prejean?”

Heather’s pulse spiked. “I don’t understand,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Trigger Prejean?”

“Bad Seed,” Rodriguez said. “Does that ring any bells, Wallace?”

Heather looked at him. His deep-set eyes zeroed in on her. She shook her head. “Bad Seed? No, should it? Again, if this is something Moore had been working on, maybe you should be asking Bennington and not me.”

“Unfortunately, we no longer have that option,” the ADIC murmured. “Special Agent Bennington is dead.”

Heather held herself very still. She stared at Rutgers’s pixilated image. “Dead?”

Face grim, Rutgers nodded. “Heart attack nearly two weeks ago.”

Heather judged that Bennington had been in his early thirties and fit. A coronary would be unusual, but not impossible. All the same, she had the chilling feeling that Bennington had been helped into a convenient death, just like Anzalone, the ME in Pensacola.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she managed to say, the knot of dread in her belly pulling tighter. “I can’t answer your questions, ma’am. You’re asking me things I don’t know.”

Rutgers studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. While you’re mulling over our offer, please keep in mind that refusal or a resignation could result in certain information being leaked to the press.”

“Ma’am?” From the corner of her eye, Heather caught a glimpse of movement and another whiff of Brut as her father straightened in his chair.

“Mental illness has claimed two members of your family so far, your mother and sister, I believe.” The ADIC’s voice was level, conversational.

“That’s false, ma’am,” James Wallace interrupted. “My wife was an alcoholic—”

“Bipolar,” Heather said. “Mom was bipolar. Annie, too.”

Rutgers’s gaze bricked over, hard and cold, and she shifted it to James Wallace. “I won’t brook any more interruptions from either of you.” She returned her attention to Heather.

“I’m listening, ma’am,” Heather said.

“It’ll be made clear that you are the third member of the family to become ill,” Rutgers said. “We’ll express our regret at seeing one of our finest tragically brought low by ill health. We’ll also let it be known that we wouldn’t hold you responsible for any delusional comments you might make. And we’ll promise to provide all the medical and psychological help needed for you to regain your health.”

James Wallace’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbow to knee, hand to chin. “So you’d shred Heather’s credibility and sabotage my career as well.”

“Your daughter would be doing that,” Rutgers said. “Not us. It’s up to her.”

Heather locked gazes with the ADIC. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Gentlemen?” Rutgers murmured. “Anything else?” Her face was impassive, but Heather detected tension in her body language, in the tight set of her shoulders.

“No, ma’am,” Rodriguez replied.

James Wallace shook his head.

“Then we’re finished. Until Monday, Wallace. Consider carefully.” Rutgers tapped a button on her desk. The monitor went dark.

Rising to her feet, Heather glanced at Rodriguez. “Sir,” she murmured. Without even a glance at her father, she strode from the office.

HEATHER CROSSED THE PARKING garage in quick strides. Fury burned a hole in her gut. It’d stopped raining outside, but the air was cool and humid and smelled of rubber, old oil, and car exhaust. She unlocked the Trans Am with her smart key and reached for the door handle.

“Heather!” Her name boomeranged against the concrete.

She whirled around to face her father, her purse bumping against her hip. “What the hell do you want?”

“I believe the traditional greeting is hello,” James Wallace said, voice neutral. He stood a yard away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tan trench. His glasses reflected light from the buzzing overheads. “I came here to vouch for you. We’re still blood, whether you like it or not. And my word carries weight.”

“I’ve never wanted or needed your weight.”

“I know,” James Wallace said. A smile touched his lips. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

“Don’t you know they just used you?”

“I do…now.” He sighed. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You never have before. Why start now?”

James Wallace slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure of that?” He suddenly looked weary and worn, in need of a shave; a worried father. He slid his glasses back on without once looking at her with uncovered eyes. “I want us to be a family again, Heather. All of us.”

“Really? I don’t remember you visiting me in the hospital or even calling,” she said, voice low. Tension pulled the muscles in her shoulders taut.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you injured and in pain. Not you, Pumpkin. I hope the media left you alone.”

Genuine concern? Interrogation technique? It bothered Heather that she didn’t know. “Why do you care if the media left me alone or not?”

He pulled his hands from the trench’s pockets and folded his arms over his chest. “Experience. I remember how insane it was when your mother died.”

“Murdered.”

“I did my best to protect you kids. I wish you could understand that.”

“I understand you didn’t get Annie the help she needed.” She felt her nails bite into her palms. She realized she was slipping into a loop with her father—she accusing, he defending—the same argument over and over.

“How will it help your sister if you dig up the past? Look to the future and let the dead remain dead.”

Heather stared at him. How had he found out so fast? Planted bugs? Spies? From Lyons? Or had he been informed by a clerk just in passing? How didn’t matter, really. He knew.

“No,” Heather said.

“Just no? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Think of your sister, your brother,” Dad said. “They don’t need to know all the details of your mother’s murder.”

“I am thinking of them,” Heather said. “And if you’d been honest with us from the start, we could’ve helped Annie much sooner. I think the truth will be good for all of us. I’ve got to go.”

Shrugging her purse strap up higher on her shoulder, Heather turned and opened the car door. Her father’s hand wrapped tight around her wrist. She stopped, glanced up at him. His gaze, hazel-eyed and clear, met hers.

“Let go,” she said.

“I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re alive. Glad that Prejean saved your life. If Stearns had killed him…” A muscle jumped in James Wallace’s jaw.

“Stearns risked his life for me. When he shot Dante—” Heather fell silent, heart pounding. He’d slipped that comment in so casually, so smooth. Hooked her like she was fresh out of the Academy.

Glad that Prejean saved your life.

How could he possibly know?

She’d told only one person what Dante had done; a whispered phone conversation with the only person who wouldn’t judge her or think her nuts. A tumbler of brandy in her hand, her throat aching with each word, she’d shared Dante with her sister.

I didn’t walk away. I just stepped back for a bit. To figure things out.

Then call him, Heather. Let him know you’re worried about him, that you care.

Heather jerked free of her father’s hold. She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. She breathed in the faint odor of vanilla from the Starry Night air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. She felt as tight and hard as a fist. Struggled to breathe around the twisted knot of anger in her chest.

James William Wallace stepped back, a rueful smile tilting his lips.

Bureau man. Father. Husband. And a coldhearted, lying bastard.

Had her phone or Annie’s been tapped?

She keyed on the engine, slammed the Trans Am into gear, and peeled out of the parking garage

She needed to warn Dante.

THE DOOR CLICKED SHUT behind Caterina and two sets of eyes watched as she crossed the room to stand in front of the ADIC. Rutgers’s assistant, SA Brian Sheridan, stood behind Rutgers’s chair like one of the royal guards Caterina’s mother had described from her time centuries before in the Italian court, his gaze distant and his face serene despite the sweat drying on his forehead.

“I wasn’t aware you were in D.C., Cortini,” Rutgers said with a frown. She tapped a finger against a neat stack of folders on her desk.

“That was the idea,” Caterina said, seating herself in one of the chairs positioned before the desk. Leather creaked. She glanced at Sheridan. “Our conversation needs to be private.”

Sheridan’s gaze was no longer distant, but fixed on her, hazel-eyed and sharp. Midthirties, and judging by the fit of his well-tailored suit, in excellent shape. No doughnuts and lattes for this royal guard.

“Go ahead,” Rutgers told him.

Gaze still on Caterina, Sheridan said, “Yes, ma’am.” He walked across the office in quick strides. The door shut quietly behind him.

Caterina set up her audio jammer on the ADIC’s desk. The slim, dark metal device was designed to look like an iPod, but she had no doubt that Rutgers knew exactly what it was and why it was being used. Caterina switched it on. It chirped and burbled and squealed as it desensitized all audio recording equipment in the room.

“I’ve been sent to deliver a message,” Caterina said, holding the ADIC’s gaze. “A decision has been reached.”

Rutgers stiffened. “A decision? Regarding…?”

“The Bad Seed fiasco and the Bureau’s mismanagement of the aftermath,” Caterina clarified, although she knew perfectly well that Rutgers understood her.

“But we’re still looking into the matter,” Rutgers protested, leaning forward in her chair. She rested a hand on the stack of folders as if protecting them. “We’ve destroyed all evidence.”

Caterina shook her head. “Not all. The footage from the center’s med-unit security cameras is still missing. And some of the evidence is two-legged, walking, and definitely not destroyed.”

Rutgers closed her mouth. Her hands slid from the folders to her lap. She regarded Caterina for a long moment. “Dr. Moore and Dr. Wells are the people responsible for Bad Seed. If anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s them.”

“Moore’s still missing and Wells retired from the project five years ago. So responsibility falls to you.”

“Am I to understand you believe me at fault in this? This wasn’t just a Bureau-directed project. Your handlers played a part as well.”

“What I believe is of no concern. What is of concern are my instructions.”

“I see. And what are your instructions?”

“I’m to take care of all loose ends.”

Rutgers drew in a sharp breath. “All?”

“All, but one.”

“Dante Prejean,” Rutgers said, her voice flat. “And what about Wallace? We’ve offered her the SAC position in Seattle. You can’t mean to—”

“She’s no longer your concern,” Caterina cut in. “End your surveillance of Wallace. Call your people off Prejean. And, if Moore should turn up, please let me know immediately.” Caterina had a feeling Moore was dead, scattered ash. But, until she’d confirmed that suspicion, she’d operate as though the missing scientist were alive.

Rising to her feet, Caterina added, “If anyone rabbits, I’ll assume they were warned. And I’ll assume the warning came from you.” She held the ADIC’s brown-eyed gaze until the woman finally glanced away, jaw tight. “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

“Completely.”

Caterina scooped up the audio jammer from the desk, but didn’t switch it off. She held it in her hand. “This decision is final. There’s no appeal.”

Rutgers looked at her then, and her eyes were as dark and bitter as scorched coffee. “There never is.”

Caterina switched off the jammer and slid it into her pocket. With a quick nod of her head, she spun on her heel and crossed the now silent room to the door.

“I feel like I’m working in the dark here,” Rutgers said.

Caterina opened the door. “You shouldn’t. Adapting to darkness isn’t difficult in our profession.” She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. “That’s the problem.”