Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“And if I don’t?”

“You think I hurt you last night. You don’t know what hurt is.”

Silence for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally.

“Yes, you are. Now get dressed and haul your ass over here. I haven’t got time for this bullshit. I have real problems to contend with.”

He ended to call and stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.

Bruises. Jesus.

So he’d gotten her a little marked up. It wasn’t like he’d broken any bones. Bruises would heal. In a few days, a week or two at most, she’d be wearing her summer clothes again.

Unless he decided to pound on her some more, teach her a lesson for her disloyalty, her lack of respect.

Maybe he would. But he had other lessons to teach first, starting with Andrea Lowry.

And after her, Abby Sinclair.

Andrea had never been inside the Beverly Center. Shopping malls were always so bright and so crowded, and years of darkness and isolation had left her afraid of places like that.

The drive there took thirty-five minutes. She left her car in a self-parking area and rode a dizzying series of escalators that climbed the outside of the building, enclosed in Plexiglas tubes. Were there FBI people somewhere behind her on the escalators? If so, she couldn’t spot them when she glanced over her shoulder.

A map of the mall showed her the way to Williams-Sonoma, a store she had never visited in her life. As she entered, she caught sight of Abby browsing in the kitchenware section. In what she hoped was a casual manner, she sidled up next to Abby and pretended to look at a ridiculously overpriced toaster.

Abby spoke in a low voice without looking at her. “Thanks for coming.”

“What’s this is about?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Is somebody watching me? Or listening-”

“We’ll get into that. Right now I want you to pick up the item at the counter. It’s already paid for, and it’s in your name. Then go up to the food court on Level Eight and meet me in the ladies’ room.”

Andrea swallowed. “Okay.” She almost moved away, then hesitated. “What exactly is a garlic genius?”

“It’s this little handheld metal doohickey that minces garlic cloves. No household should be without one.”

Andrea found it easier to obey than to ask any more questions. She accepted the package from the salesclerk and carried her shopping bag out of the store. Abby, she noticed, was already gone.

On the eighth floor, near a food court called Cafe L.A., she found the ladies’ room. It was empty except for Abby, who handed her a cell phone as soon as she entered.

“Keep this turned on and with you at all times. It’s how I can contact you and speak freely.”

“So… someone is listening to my calls?”

“Yes.”

“And watching my house? Following me?”

“Yes.”

“Who? The FBI?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, God. They know who I am.” It was not quite a question.

“I’m afraid they do.” Abby glanced at the door. “There are two agents tailing you now. I saw them window-shopping near Williams-Sonoma when I left.”

“I didn’t see anybody.”

“You’re not trained to see them. The good news is, they’re both male.”

“How is that good news?”

“If there was a woman on the detail, she might come in here. Our gentlemen friends will probably be discreet enough to stay outside.” Abby gave her a discerning look. “You seem pretty frazzled. How are you holding up?”

“Not too well. I hardly slept at all, and when I did, I had these terrible dreams. I dreamed the men were breaking in again, with ski masks and guns, and you weren’t there to protect me…” She ran a hand through her hair, pulling distractedly at the locks.

“You don’t need worry about that now,” Abby said. “No one’s going to get into the house again. Not with the FBI looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me.” Andrea almost laughed. “Yes, sure. Until they decide to arrest me for using a false identity.”

“You won’t go to prison for that. And although the FBI may be somewhat interested in you, they’re a lot more interested in Congressman Reynolds.”

Andrea felt a rush of blood from her head. She held on to a sink to steady herself. “But they can’t know… they can’t…”

“They do.”

“How can they? Nobody knows. I never told…”

“Don’t worry about that now. They know about it, and so do I. But you need to tell me something about your relationship with Reynolds.”

“What?”

Before Abby could answer, the door opened and a woman walked in. The two of them busied themselves at the sinks, taking an inordinate amount of time to soap up and rinse off their hands before drying them. Finally the woman left. Abby picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“Any significant detail. Something that only you and he would know.”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Don’t ask for whys and wherefores. I’m asking you trust me. Which I guess you do, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes. I do trust you.” Andrea realized this was true. It was the first time in twenty years that she had trusted anyone. The thought seemed to lighten her burden just a little. “All right. When he and I were… dating, we used to meet a lot of times on his boat.”

“Where was the boat?”

“In the marina at Newport Beach.”

“What was the name of it?”

“ The Mariner. It was an old boat he bought secondhand, and he used to call it the ancient Mariner. Funny how I remember that. I haven’t thought of it in a long time.”

For a moment the old days came back to her, the liaisons at the marina, hours of intimacy in the cramped quarters below deck, then the quiet time afterward when, in darkness, they would share a drink under the stars and watch the water ripple against the mossy pylons of the dock.

She caught Abby watching her with sympathy. “We always have nostalgia,” Abby said in a low voice, “even for the things we regret.”

Andrea nodded.

“Thanks for the info,” Abby added more briskly. “Now get a bite to eat at the food court. Otherwise your friends may wonder why you came up here. Then go home and stay put. And keep that phone close to you. I’ll be calling later.”

“You have some kind of plan, don’t you?”

“I always have a plan.” Abby hesitated. “In this case, I may need you to act fast.”

“To do what?”

“To get away from the watchful eyes of the federal bureaucracy. Don’t worry. It’s easier than it sounds.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, eventually. In the meantime you’ll just have to go on trusting me, if you can.”

“I can. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I’ve done such bad things. I’m not sure I deserve your help.”

“We’ve all done bad things. I know I have.”

Andrea met her eyes. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Abby didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Did they deserve it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that makes it all right, then.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Andrea looked away. “The ones I killed… they didn’t deserve …”

“I know.”

“What I did-it’s something you go to hell for. I think about that sometimes. Being in hell.”

“Seems to me you’re already there.”

“I’m only punishing myself, that’s all.”

“That can be the worst kind of punishment.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s enough. I don’t know if anything can ever be enough.”

A beat of silence passed between them. “Andrea,” Abby said quietly, “can I ask you something? You could’ve told the world about Jack Reynolds, ruined him, ended his career. But you never did.”