“Are you playing shrink on me, Patrick?”
“No. Just calling your ‘payback’ what it is. When Robledo waved all that money under your nose, it wasn’t so hard for you to grab it at my father’s expense, was it?”
“Not as hard as it might have been. But that’s all in the past. Let’s deal with the present. I don’t want to have to hurt your sister.”
“I don’t want you to hurt her, either.”
“Then forget what you know about your father and me. Forget that I gave him Robledo’s name. Forget especially that I ever mentioned Operation BAQ or the CIA to him.”
I didn’t know the ins and outs of constitutional and criminal law, but I was pretty sure I recognized the voice of a former FBI agent who was looking at potential charges that ranged from obstruction of justice to treason.
“That’s fine with me, Scully,” I said. “Everything that was said in the hospital was between my father and me. Just don’t hurt my sister.”
“Good. Now, I need you to follow my instructions-to the letter.”
“I’m not going to help you go on the run with an escape plan, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You will, or your sister pays.”
I swallowed hard. Saying it would have sounded like heroic hyperbole, but I truly thought it: I wished he had taken me instead of her.
“I want to talk to Connie,” I said.
“Shut up and listen.”
“No. I need to know she’s still alive. Put her on.”
He didn’t refuse right away, which I took as a good sign. I was about to prod one more time when he answered.
“Fine. I’ll let you hear her voice.”
Andie gave me the stretch sign, though she was openly frustrated that her tech agents needed still more time to pinpoint the call.
“That’s not enough,” I told him. “How will I know it’s not just a recording? She has to talk to me-to answer a question from me.”
Again, I took his hesitation to mean that he was considering it. I nudged.
“A former FBI agent should know my request is reasonable,” I said.
“Fine. You can ask her a question.
Andie gave me a signal that said her techies were almost there. But Scully was no dummy, and I had the sense that he knew exactly how long he could stay on the line without being triangulated. The thought of his hanging up seconds before his position could be determined was more than I could bear.
“Patrick?” said Connie.
I could hear the fear in her voice, but I knew Connie wasn’t the type to be beaten by fear.
Scully was back on the line. “Ask your question, Patrick. You got ten seconds.”
He was definitely timing the call. Andie gave me the stretch sign again, and I could see the angst in her expression. Triangulation wasn’t the answer. It was time to take things into my own hands, and the right question suddenly popped into my head. I was thinking of a conversation that Connie and I had once had about our mother, after her death. We’d talked about what a terrible mistake it is to get in the car when you know it’s a one-way ride. How you should kick, scream, pull hair, and gouge eyes-whatever it takes not to end up in the car.
And if the abductor still manages to force you inside the car, you do everything you can to crash it.
“Connie,” I asked, “what should Mom have done?”
64
Connie was staring straight ahead through the windshield. The snowflakes were huge, and they splattered against the glass on impact, making it virtually impossible to see more than one or two car lengths in front of their SUV. It was not a night to be out on the road in New England.
Connie’s hands were tied behind her back. The side of her head was still throbbing from Scully’s backhanded slap. She was at his mercy, but Patrick’s question energized her. It gave her hope. It gave her a plan. She could hear the packed snow beating against the floorboard, drawn up from the road by the spinning tires. Scully was driving with one hand on the wheel, his right arm extended so that he could hold the cell phone to Connie’s ear.
Connie opened her mouth, but no words came. She bit down on his hand, her jaws locking onto him, her teeth digging down to the bone.
Scully screamed like a wounded snow monkey.
Connie leaned to her right, refusing to let go, hanging on to her prey with the tenacity of a hungry pit bull. She pulled so hard that she dragged his upper body halfway across the console, nearly into her own seat. Connie was in control-but their SUV was completely out of control, spinning, whirling across the icy highway. It slammed into the guardrail with too much force and at precisely the wrong angle. It hopped the rail and rolled over once, then again, continuing to roll all the way down the steep, snowy embankment.
More rolls than Connie could count before she blacked out.
65
I waited outside the hospital room. Connie was inside. With my father.
Scully’s telephone had remained on through the crash, even after it. The FBI tech agents were able to triangulate the signal, and emergency personnel were there within minutes. Scully was pronounced dead at the scene. Connie was brought to Lemuel Shattuck. Her arm was broken, and she was pretty beat up. But she’d fought her way out of the ER to have a moment with Dad. Her
Andie sat in the hallway with me, waiting.
“How are the two corrections officers he shot?” I asked.
“The second one just got out of surgery and should recover. The first one…” She stopped, shaking her head slowly. “A wife, two kids in preschool. Horrible.”
She was right. The park ranger, Evan Hunt, and now a corrections officer. Their deaths were all horrible.
“This wasn’t done right,” she said. “We should have had snipers on the roof, more agents. The problem was that I was already supposed be back in Miami. It’s just impossible to pull together that kind of support when the plug has already been pulled, but I should have-”
“Andie,” I said, stopping her. “This was not your fault.”
I probably hadn’t convinced her, but she did seem to appreciate the sentiment.
We sat in silence for a moment. I was thinking about the ambulance ride with Connie. She’d recounted her conversation with Scully-how he’d cut a deal with Robledo, how he’d lied and told Dad that the CIA was behind the threats to expose his children if he didn’t confess to the murder of Gerry Collins. He’d made my father believe that he was just more collateral damage in the financial war on terrorism. Andie suspected that it was fear of charges of treason-or perhaps some lingering loyalty of an FBI agent to his country-that had kept Scully from telling Robledo what he’d managed to piece together about Operation BAQ.
Still, there were things that confused me.
