Brodell nodded and scratched his head like a lazy farmer. “Well, sir, that may be true. If you could just get on the phone to my supervisor, and have him contact the sheriff, then I’ll know for sure.”
If Chappelle had been red-faced before, now he looked purple. But he wasn’t a stupid man. He knew when he’d been defeated. “Stay away from our prisoners,” he warned.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Christopher Henderson was scratching out work assignments on a pad of paper because his computer wasn’t booting up. Someday soon they’d have an entire tech department of their own, he told himself, but right now he’d settle for a guy from the Geek Squad.
He needed more staff. There was funding for it — in fact, he had to talk to Chappelle about spending more money, or someone in Washington would cut their budget for next year. But CTU was still having trouble recruiting, especially in field operations. Most of the top-quality operators saw the domestic agenda as the boondocks of counterterrorism work. Yes, the World Trade Center bombing had served notice that the bad guys could and would try attacks on U.S. soil, but the truck bomb hadn’t brought the building down, and memories faded.
That’s why Henderson wanted Bauer so badly. Jack had military experience, law enforcement experience, and hands-on intelligence work. Hell, the man had even studied literature at UCLA. He was a complete package. CTU could really use a man like Bauer.
“Jack Bauer will never work for CTU!” Ryan Chappelle howled. He’d managed to maintain his level of rancor all the way from the Twin Towers.
Henderson nearly jumped. “What? Why?”
Chappelle described the events at the holding cell. “He’s a loose cannon. Insubordinate. Dangerous to the completion of any case, unless we want to give the terrorists a get-out-of-jail-free card for civil rights violations!” He glared at Henderson as though the entire affair had been his fault.
Henderson rubbed a hand on his head. If Jack did come on board, he told himself, this would not be the last of such conversations. He sighed. “He’s a doer, sir. He gets the job done. If we’re facing the kind of people you and I both think we are, that’s going to be important.”
Chappelle shook his head furiously. “There is no way that man is working for CTU. Ever.”
“Hey,” Jack said, putting a hand on Teri’s shoulder and kissing her neck from behind.
Teri Bauer leaned back into the kiss, mewed with pleasure, then said, “Who is this?”
Jack laughed. “I’m the blond one.” He walked around her and the cafe table, and sat down in the lounge chair across from her. Knowing his habits, she had chosen the chair with its back to the room.
Teri put down her book and sipped her latte. “You want one?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m already pretty wired. I need to unwind so I can get some sleep.”
“Rough day?” she asked, reaching across and putting her hand over his. Her hands looked small compared to his; she had always liked how strong his were.
He nodded, but didn’t say more, and she didn’t ask. She understood that his work with the CIA was often sensitive, and she had long ago decided not to ask too many questions. But there was one area that was open for discussion.
“That man, Christopher Henderson, called again today. Did you speak with him?”
Jack laughed. “Yes. And I got to see the CTU offices. Our garage looks more organized.”
“Oh,” she said.
He leaned forward and connected his free hand to hers. “You want me to take this.”
She shrugged in a what-do-you-want-me-to-say? manner. “It might keep you in Los Angeles more often. That would be good. You’d still be doing work you like. And with Kim going into high school, it’ll be good for you to be around as often as you can.”
Jack nodded. “Where is she?”
“Home. Asleep, I think.”
“I still can’t get used to the fact that she’s old enough to be left home alone.”
“Still young enough to want her daddy around.”
“I’ve thought of that. I’m not married to the CIA—” They both balked at the expression. He regretted using it, but said nothing and moved on. “I like it, but I could leave if the right thing came along. But I’m just not sure what CTU is all about, what their mission is. I’m not even sure they know yet.”
“You like Christopher Henderson.”
“Who’s not really in charge. Some guy named Chappelle is. I met him today. He’s a tool.” Jack laughed. “I think if I work for that guy I’ll end up shooting him in the head.”
Jack’s cell phone buzzed, and a number he hadn’t seen in years flashed on the screen. “Bauer,” he said.
“Jack, it’s Harry Driscoll, Robbery-Homicide—”
“Hey, Harry, long time.” He mouthed an apology to Teri, who shrugged. “How’s business?”
On the other end of the line, Harry Driscoll chuckled. “Never slow, always plenty of customers. Listen, word gets around, and I know that you’ve got some interest in the Sweetzer Avenue thing.”
Jack hadn’t heard the term before, but he recognized Sweetzer Avenue as the street where the three suspected terrorists shared a house. “If you mean the Three Stooges and their box of goodies, yeah, I’m interested.”
“Well, we’ve got a kind of lead on it. Thought you might be interested in tagging along.”
Jack paused. “So now LAPD is involved? What’s Robbery-Homicide got to do with it.”
“Long story. Well, actually a pretty short story. It’s a turf war. Some new Federal unit is trying to throw its weight around. We think they’ve got their head up their ass, we want to get involved, especially when houses blow up in our backyard.”
“Yeah, houses with me in them,” Jack said. “Tell me where to go.” He snatched Teri’s napkin and a pen and scribbled down some directions. “On my way.
“I’ve got to go, honey,” he said, standing and kissing her. “I shouldn’t be too late. We can talk more about whether I should work for CTU.”
His back was already to her when she said softly, “Seems like you already are.”
Aaron Biehn kept tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was his favorite T-shirt, bright yellow with squiggly monsters drawn on it and the name of the band Lido Beach. It was his favorite, but it felt too small on him now. He was choking.
Aaron shuddered again thinking about that. He wanted to forget that it had ever happened, but it was there, the guilt in his mind, the horrible feeling in his body, every time he thought about the Mass or said his Hail Marys or went to confession, which his mother insisted they do each week.
He knew he couldn’t tell his mother. She wouldn’t believe him. She was a devout Catholic and very active at St. Monica’s. “The priests are the apple of God’s eye,” she always said, copying the phrase from her mother, Aaron’s grandmother, who lived in Dublin. And if she did believe him, she’d be crushed.
But Dad was different. He was a Catholic, too, but more because his parents had been and it pleased his wife. He was sure his father would believe him, but he was afraid he would be ashamed. Don Biehn was big on self-reliance. He had always made Aaron deal with elementary school bullies on his own, rather than telling his teachers.
But Aaron had to do something. The thing of it… he wasn’t sure what to call it; was it guilt, or a vile memory, or terror? Whatever it was, it lived in him like a snake wriggling inside his body. Its head lived in his chest, gnawing
