Michael Prescott: Mortal Faults

Tess stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. “Believe it or not, Richard, that’s just the way I want it.”

He believed her. Abby could see it in the way he straightened too abruptly and turned awkwardly away. “Attach an administrative section to your report on MEDEA. For the director’s eyes only. Leave nothing out. I want the full extent of your misconduct on the record-even if it never sees the light of day.”

“Anything to oblige a friend.” Tess got up.

Abby followed her lead. “I guess I’m free to go, huh, Dick?”

He winced at her use of the nickname. “You can go. But remember, Ms. Sinclair, you’re not so low-profile anymore. We’re aware of you and your activities. And we will be watching you.”

“Remind me to shut my blinds.”

She and Tess didn’t speak again until they were out in the hall.

“Well,” Abby said, “that worked out better than expected.”

Tess looked at her, a confusion of emotions on her face. “Abby …”

Abby waved off whatever the next words might have been. “Sorry. I'm not in the mood for a heart-to-heart. I'm going to reclaim my belongings and get out of here.”

“I did what I thought was right.”

“That's the problem,” Abby said quietly.

She walked off, leaving Tess behind.

Tess returned to the squad room, where she was, predictably, the object of stares and the subject of whispered asides. She ignored them. Crandall was watching her with peculiar intensity. She ignored him, too. Hauser’s secretary let her in to see the squad commander, who looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Then again, neither had she.

“I just wanted to say I’m clearing out,” she told him. “And to say you did a good job on this case. I’m sorry if I made it more difficult.”

Hauser looked up at her from his desk. “I know you’re not being disciplined, Agent McCallum. I want to say… I still think you did the Bureau wrong. And I’ll never respect you again.”

He returned his gaze to the paperwork in front of him. After a moment she let herself out.

In the hall outside the squad room, Crandall caught up with her. “Hey, Tess. Heading home?”

She was surprised by the friendly tone. “Battered but unbowed.”

“Said your goodbyes to Hauser?”

“More like a good riddance, from his point of view. It appears I’m more of a persona non grata than ever.” She smiled. “How about you, Rick? Will you ever respect me again?”

“I’m not as much as a hardass as Hauser. Tess, if I’d known you were going to come clean to Michaelson, I never would’ve-”

“How could you have known? Even I didn’t know what I was going to do until I did it.”

“I still feel bad about it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do. But I’ve taken steps to redeem myself.”

“What steps?” She studied him, an idea forming. “Rick, are you the media’s anonymous source?”

“Me? What kind of media contacts do I have in L.A.?”

“The leak didn’t originate in L.A. It came out of D.C.-where Ralston Crandall is currently posted as deputy director.”

“Let’s not bring my father into this.”

“The question is, did you bring him into it?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Tess.” He left that statement hanging enigmatically in the air, then clapped her on the shoulder and added, “Have a safe trip. And stay in touch, okay?”

Crandall went back inside the squad room, and Tess was left thinking that, despite it all, she still had one ally in this town.

By nine in the morning Andrea had run out of ways to distract herself. Watching television was out of the question. She’d made the mistake of turning on the TV and had caught part of a report on the arrest of Congressman Reynolds, which included a garbled recap of what the newscaster called “the MEDEA child murders of twenty years ago.” Radio was even worse. The call-in talk shows were a fever swamp of speculation by the uninformed and the self-styled experts, none of whom understood a thing.

She couldn’t sleep with the constant noise and couldn’t concentrate enough to read or to work a crossword puzzle. All she could do was pace the floor and occasionally sneak a glance through the curtains. The crowd of journalists and curiosity seekers surrounding her house never grew smaller. If anything, it had increased in numbers as the story spread.

After the attack on her home, there had been three or four TV news vans and a few other reporters. Now the vans lined the streets, representing not only the local TV channels but national cable outlets. Every news radio station had sent somebody, as had every newspaper within five hundred miles, it seemed. Not to mention half the population of the Valley, who apparently had nothing better to do on Sunday morning than stand outside her house. Enterprising vendors had already set up carts selling hot dogs and tamales, and somebody had printed T-shirts with her picture on them from twenty years ago.

What did they all want from her-the journalists and the spectators tramping on her lawn and snapping photos of her porch? Well, the answer was obvious enough. They wanted a comment, a statement, or failing that, a sighting, a few seconds of footage to run on their next newscast or a blurred image to print on the newspaper’s front page.

She knew better than to give it to them. They would not be satisfied with only one statement or one appearance. They would want more, always more.

Of course, it might be in her interest to cooperate. She could tell her side of the story, get the truth out to the public after two decades of lies. But she couldn’t be so pragmatic about it. The simple fact was, she hated the press. They had hounded her for years. They had forced her to change her name and live in hiding. She would give them nothing now. They could go to hell.

Her phone rang again. She was so tired of that sound. And yet-she blinked in surprise-her phone couldn’t be ringing, could it? Hours ago she had unhooked it from the wall.

It was her cell phone, then-the one Abby had given her. And only Abby knew the number.

She found the phone amid the items she’d brought home from the downtown hospital where she had been examined for injuries suffered in the car crash. There had been nothing serious, only a few scrapes and bruises. She had endured a long interrogation by a nice young man named Crandall and, much to her astonishment, had been released with no charges filed.

On the eighth or ninth ring she answered. “Hello,” she said tentatively, ready to end the call if a reporter had somehow gotten hold of the number.

“Hey, kiddo. How’s tricks?”

“Abby. Where are you?”

“Eating a late and much needed breakfast at a yogurt shop in Westwood. It’s within walking distance of the federal building, which is good since my Mazda is still in an alley downtown. Unless it’s been towed by now.”

“I was afraid you were in trouble. They said something about pressing charges against you.”

“They were bluffing. You know these Eliot Ness types. All talk, no action. I hear they let you go, too.”

“Yes. Though I’m still not sure why. I abducted Jack Reynolds. I shot him.”

“You weren’t yourself.”

“I know. I was acting crazy. I don’t even know what I intended to do. I mean, I thought I was going to kill him, really kill him, but if that’s all I wanted, why did I bother to make him go anywhere? I could have killed him at any time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Want my take on it?”

“Even if I said no, it wouldn’t stop you.”

“True enough. I think you were conflicted. Part of you wanted revenge on Jack. Another part wasn’t willing to pull the trigger. So you compromised. You put off taking any final action.”