The woman behind the counter smiled an automatic smile. Spoke automatic words. “Good morning, sir. Have you tried our automated ticketing kiosk set up for your convenience? Just swipe any major credit card and-”
“I’m meeting up with a subject: Tessa Ellis.” I showed her my FBI badge. “Arrives at 11:30 from Chicago. I want her off the plane first and her bags brought around out front, to the curb.”
By the look on her face I could tell I’d just overloaded all of her circuits. None of those words appeared on the script she’d been given. “It’s a very important case,” I added.
“Um… yes. Let me see.” She fumbled for a moment at her computer keyboard then disappeared into a back room to ask her supervisor what she was supposed to say. A minute later she reappeared with her smile fastened in place again. “Of course, sir. We will have the bags waiting for you, sir.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
There aren’t many perks to my job. But it turns out there are a few.
The guys at the security checkpoint hassled me a little about bringing in my gun, but when I showed them my paperwork, federal ID, driver’s license, and told them my mother’s maiden name and favorite salsa recipe they finally let me through.
I grabbed some coffee at Chierio’s, the best coffee shop in any airport in the country. Based on the gently nurtured acidity, I guessed their blend came from the mountainous southeastern region of Colombia, the best country in the world to grow coffee beans. And other types of plants too, from what my friends in the DEA tell me.
The coffee was exquisite. And despite all the things on my mind, after three sips I realized that if I were to die right then and there I would die a happy man.
Some people say I take my coffee a little too seriously.
I took another sip of Chierio’s South Mountain Blend.
Naw.
Not a chance.
I headed to Gate C-14.
Alice led her two kids out of the Basilica of St. Lawrence in downtown Asheville and over to the car. She’d started taking them to church a few months ago when Garrett moved out. Those were hard, hard days, especially at first. She needed strength, and even from the start, coming here had seemed to help.
The basilica’s ceiling had the largest oval-shaped freestanding dome in the United States. The beauty and elegance inspired her, helped her look up toward the heavens again. And hearing the singing and the homilies seemed to help her think more about the things that really mattered, seemed to help her hate Garrett a little less for the things he’d done, seemed to help her feel hopeful about life once again, to trust the power of good over evil, of the future over the past. The angels over the monsters.
It was only after coming here that she’d registered for school to finish her degree. To make a fresh start.
She left the church and aimed her car toward Wal-Mart. She needed to pick up a new hairbrush before going home.
I’d anticipated a long wait, but only a moment or two after Flight 642 landed, the doors opened up and Tessa stepped toward me.
She was dressed in black just like I expected. I’d always thought maybe pink was her color, but with black lipstick, black eye shadow, and even her fingernails painted black, everything about her seemed to convey the tone of her mood, of our relationship. Black.
Don’t mess this up, Pat. Don’t mess this up.
“Tessa,” I said.
She drew in a long, narrow breath, clutched her purse to her side. “Patrick.”
“It’s good to see you.” I stepped closer, held out my arms, offered her a hug. She didn’t move.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
I felt my teeth grit. “No, Tessa, when I say it’s good to see you, you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, it’s good to see you too.’ Let’s try it again-it’s good to see you.”
A sarcastic, stupid thing to say. Stupid. Stupid!
Why did you say that? Why?
She shook her head very, very slowly. Tears began welling in her eyes. I’d actually driven her to tears in less than thirty seconds. “Why are you trying to ruin my entire life!” She swung her purse around and scootched it up her shoulder and stomped past me.
I stood there in the wake of anger, mumbling to myself, “‘I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re safe.’ That could maybe follow. That might be a good thing to say next.”
Agent Stanton walked up to me. “And you must be the dad.”
No, I thought. She doesn’t have a dad.
“Stepdad,” I said. “Yeah. That would be me.”
62
After we picked up Tessa’s luggage at the curb, Agent Stanton left us with a feigned salute. I assumed he was flying back to Denver, but I didn’t ask.
“Good-bye, Eric,” called Tessa with a smirk. “Keep up the good work on those puzzles!”
He ignored her. Shook his head. Kept walking.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
She smiled. “Oh, nothing.”
We tossed Tessa’s luggage into the car and headed for the highway. I called Terry and listened as he filled me in on the results of his research. I hung up the phone and turned to Tessa. “Well, did you eat yet?”
“Yeah. So, where are we going, anyway?”
“A place called Asheville. But I have to make one stop first.”
The governor’s mansion looked different in the daylight, more Southern somehow. As if it belonged in Mississippi instead of North Carolina.
Tessa stared out the window as we drove up. “Who lives here?” “The governor does.”
“Sebastian Taylor?”
“How did you know his name?”
“It’s not that complex, Patrick.” She spoke slowly, as if she were explaining something to a five-year-old. “Sebastian Taylor is the governor of North Carolina. We are in the state of North Carolina. It’s called logic.”
“Yeah, well, I know all that, but I guess I was just surprised you knew his name.”
“Why?”
“Because we live in Colorado and most people your age barely know the name of the president let alone the governor of a state on the other side of the country.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m not like most people my age.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Anyway, I just need to talk to him for a minute. Then we’ll get going.”
“What are you going to talk to him about?”
“His role in the massacre of 909 people.”
Ms. Anita Banner met us at the door, and although her eyes turned to coals when I asked her to stay with Tessa while I spoke with the governor, she agreed.
Governor Taylor was in the great room lounging on one of the leather couches when I walked in. He had reading glasses perched on his nose, a book open on his lap, and was dressed in a stylish light gray mohair suit. “Agent Bowers,” he said evenly. He wasn’t even pretending to be polite this time.
I decided to follow suit. “You made the tape.”
That got his attention. “What?”
“Q875.”
He waited, probably to see if I was bluffing.
