people need to…disappear.”
“Ah, Caty. I understand that. I do. But why you?” Her dad was silent again, but only for a moment. Then he gave a short, wondering laugh. “I guess I know the answer to that. But how in the world did you get into-”
“The Internet, of course.” Her lips hadn’t forgotten how to smile, after all, though it only lasted for a moment. “It was my first year away at college. I was lonely, homesick. And I’d get to thinking about how lucky I am…you and Mom…the way you two met…” The sentimentality embarrassed her; she shrugged it away with a sniff. “I wanted to find out more about it, that’s all-domestic violence, abusers, stalkers, all that stuff. And, well, that’s how it began. I’m sorry.”
“Caty, honey. I’m the one who’s sorry…” To her dismay, her father’s voice was choked…thickened. Unable to think of words that would comfort him, she groped for his hand and patted it awkwardly.
From behind the glass partition nearby, C.J. watched the emotions play across Caitlyn’s face, graphic and revealing as those lines of closed-captioning dialogue on the television screen. He watched her father bow his head to hide the anguish in his face from eyes that couldn’t see it.
He’d been eavesdropping unabashedly, with arms folded and jaw tight…knots in his stomach he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times he told himself he wasn’t responsible for those people being here, and this way. She’d made her choices, Caitlyn had, long before she’d ever met him, and she’d made him part of her crusade without ever asking him if he wanted to be. No sir, legally he wasn’t to blame-probably not ethically, either.
He had a fairly clear understanding of all that. He also had a clear understanding, deep down amongst those knots in his belly, that there was another standard of measurement, one he didn’t know the name of or where he’d learned it-the one that says when it comes to helping out another human being in dire need, a man doesn’t stop to count the cost to himself. By that standard he’d fallen miserably short, and he was having a hard time living with that.
Furthermore, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself until he’d figured out a way to make it right.
Right now, watching the two of them together, the father and his daughter, Wood and Caitlyn Brown, watching their faces-the grief in his, the fear in hers-what was giving him those knots in his belly was the realization that there maybe wasn’t going to be a way to make this right. Ever.
Though C.J.’s eavesdropping hadn’t given him much with which to console himself-and quite a lot that didn’t make a lot of sense to him-he’d heard enough to be pretty sure the subject matter wasn’t something either party to the conversation would want the FBI to know about. So when he saw his in-law-once-removed, Special Agent Jake Redfield, and his lawyer, Charly, approaching, he stepped around the partition and announced himself and them with a warning cough and a gruff “Hey.”
“C.J.-” Looking relieved, Wood rose and motioned him over. “I was just telling Caty-” ingrained honesty won out and he amended it to “-was
Though Wood backed out of the way of the gathering crowd around his daughter’s bed, C.J. noticed he didn’t leave the room. Finding himself a corner, he settled into it and stood erect with his arms folded on his chest in classic military style, like a sentinel. Like a bodyguard, C.J. thought, vigilant and ever ready. Determined to keep watch over his little girl but maintaining a low profile about it.
With so many pairs of observant eyes in the room, C.J. tried his best to avoid looking too long or too hard at the woman lying in the bed, lest he give away more of what he was feeling than he wanted to. But a glance gave him an image that lingered, of those delicate, fairylike features set in an expression both guarded and intent, and at the same time faintly annoyed. He focused on her hands, lying curled and slightly overlapping on the blanket that covered her to her waist, and a different kind of memory, sensual memories of their featherlight touch on his folded arms made his voice gruff as he introduced Charly, then Special Agent Redfield of the FBI.
The hands on the blanket jerked and clenched into fists. “I won’t answer any more questions,” Caitlyn said in a thin, remote voice. A voice beyond caring, C.J. thought; a voice that said to the world, “What more can you do to me?”
Unperturbed, Jake Redfield arched his eyebrows at Caitlyn as if she could see him. He’d taken the position at her elbow across from C.J., with Charly back a little and toward the foot of the bed. “That’s okay,” he said quietly, “I don’t plan on asking you any. Not right now. What I’d like you to do, though, is listen to what I have to say. Can you do that?”
Chapter 5
The silence in the room was intense. By contrast, the world outside seemed cluttered with sound: the rhythmic shushing of a ventilator in a nearby cubicle; the muted chirp of a telephone; a mutter of voices; the sandy slap of footsteps. C.J. found himself becoming aware of silences and sounds as if he were experiencing the world from the perspective of the woman lying in the hospital bed. A woman without sight.
The FBI man’s long face and downward tilted eyes gave him a perpetually doleful expression that reminded C.J. of a hound dog he’d once known. He knew enough about Jake Redfield, though, to be pretty certain that behind those eyes lurked a keen intelligence-maybe even a sense of humor. Also a single-minded determination when in pursuit of bad guys that bordered on obsession. Which was not unlike a hound dog, come to think of it.
Now that keen and melancholy gaze was focused on the woman in the bed as intently as if she could actually meet it.
And almost as if she felt that gaze, Caitlyn’s hands slowly uncurled, then brushed at the blanket in a self- conscious sort of way. Stabbing a sullen look in Redfield’s direction, she uttered a quiet but firm, “All right.”
When the FBI man seated himself on the edge of the bed and half turned so he was facing the woman lying in it, again as if she were capable of seeing him, as if she were someone he wanted to maintain eye contact with, a strange and unfamiliar disquiet stirred in C.J.’s belly. He hated to think it might be jealousy. He sure hoped it wasn’t-he’d never been subject to such a thing before.
Nevertheless, he found himself squirming inside as Jake said in a soft, almost intimate voice, “Good for you… glad to hear it.”
Then he paused, long enough for Caitlyn to stir restively and mutter, “So,
When he continued, the FBI man’s voice was brisk, all business. “Okay. Here’s the deal. The man whose daughter you took-Ari Vasily-is a dangerous man.”
Caitlyn interrupted with a faint snort. “Tell me something I
“We-the Bureau, that is-are very interested in Mr. Vasily,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “We have been for some time.” Caitlyn had grown still and was listening intently, and though she couldn’t see it, Jake nodded his approval. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on some of Mr. Vasily’s business dealings since before the 9-11 terrorist attacks-we’ve always believed him to be a major player in the illegal drug and arms trade, possibly
To C.J. the atmosphere in the room felt thick, as if there weren’t enough oxygen to go around, and when Caitlyn finally spoke, her voice sounded starved for it. “If you believed that, why haven’t you stopped him?”
C.J. jerked his eyes from her hands to her face, then wished he hadn’t. Her voice had been so thin, so frail-he wasn’t prepared for the silvery flash of accusation in her eyes; the swollen, shiny look of her face, as if from the pressure of too much held-back pain, and the words unspoken:
