Michael Prescott: Mortal Faults

“I would have had to choose eventually.”

“You weren’t thinking that far ahead. And if you have chosen, you would have made the right choice.”

“You believe that?”

“I really do.”

“Well I hope you’re right. You probably are. You’ve been right about most things. But I wouldn’t have thought that kind of explanation would get me very far with the authorities. There was no way I expected to be released. I’m still thinking they’ll show up at any minute and take me back into custody.”

“They won’t. What you’re not taking into consideration is a little thing called extenuating circumstances. To prosecute, they have to be reasonably assured of a conviction. Now, what jury is going to convict you after hearing the tape I made?”

“I suppose that’s true. I have to admit, though, that I was prepared for the worst.”

“Well, that makes two of us. But you know what they say. Always prepare for the worst, and most of the time you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“They advised me not to say anything about you if I talk to the press.”

“That’s a good idea. But you’re not going to talk to the press, anyway, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Didn’t think so. You weren’t too eager to be interviewed the night I pulled that stunt to get into your house.”

“I held a gun on you. I’m sorry.”

“All in a day’s work. So who are you going to be from now on?”

“What?”

“Andrea… or Bethany?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. What matters is how you feel.”

“How I feel?” Andrea closed her eyes. “Well, I’m encircled by those jackals from the press. There are television vans parked up and down the street. People won’t stop ringing my doorbell. I think they’d climb in a window if I left one open. I had to disconnect my phone. Every time I turn on the TV or radio I see pictures of myself from twenty years ago. I can’t even think of looking at a newspaper. I’ve become a celebrity again. Only this time I’m not Medea anymore. This time no one is saying I killed my babies. They know I didn’t. And I know I didn’t. I know I never killed anyone.”

“So how do you feel?”

“Free, Abby,” Andrea whispered. “I feel free.”

After finishing her breakfast, Abby hiked from Westwood Village to the Wilshire Royal, where she found Vince and Gerry on duty at the front desk. They were both properly outraged by the search of her condo last night. She told them not to worry about it. “Just a minor misunderstanding,” she said lightly. They pretended to believe her, the same way they pretended to believe she was a sales rep. Denial could be a beautiful thing.

She checked the garage and found her Hyundai still in its reserved space. Later she could bum a ride off Wyatt and pick up her Mazda. At least for now she had her backup car.

The elevator took her to the tenth floor. She opened up her condo after stripping off the crime scene ribbon festooned on the door.

The place was a mess, of course. The feds had not been gentle when searching the premises. Every drawer had been opened, the contents strewn on the floor. For some unaccountable reason her sizable collection of CDs had been scattered. The clothes formerly hanging in her bedroom closet had been cast around like rags. Her computer was gone, taken to a crime lab for analysis, though she’d been given assurances that it would be speedily returned.

The search had never posed any threat to her. She wasn’t careless enough to leave incriminating information in her home. Sensitive material-ID kits, client lists, illegal weapons and eavesdropping devices-was kept in Santa Monica in a storage locker she’d registered under an assumed name. Electronic data of a private nature were stored on a secure Internet site. No one could find the site by examining her PC; a sophisticated program permanently erased all record of her online activity with every shutdown.

She’d worked too many cases where a stalker had stashed incriminating photos under his bed or left damaging emails on his computer’s hard drive. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.

Still, the impossibility of finding anything to use against her hadn’t stopped the federales from trying.

With a sigh, she set to work cleaning up the mess. She had succeeded in reorganizing her music collection when the intercom buzzed.

“Yes?” she said.

Gerry answered. “An agent from the FBI is here to speak with you.” He made no effort to conceal his disapproval of the visitor.

Abby frowned. Just what she needed. Another feeb to make her life hell.

“Send him up,” she said in resignation.

She placed the last few CDs back on the shelf before the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, Tess was there.

“Oh,” Abby said. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“You’re looking well.”

“Cut the crap, Abby. May I come in or not?”

“Make yourself at home.” She gestured at the disaster that was her living room. “Your fellow jackbooted thugs already have.”

Tess entered and stood awkwardly amid the disorder. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re real broken up. It wasn’t too long ago that you thought I was good for Dylan Garrick’s murder.” Abby knelt and began gathering up her smaller but still considerable collection of DVDs.

Tess spread her hands helplessly. “What else was I supposed to think? Everything pointed to you.”

“Tess, if you would watch more TV, you’d know it’s never the most obvious suspect.”

“Well, forgive me for taking the evidence at face value.”

“You could have tried taking me at face value.”

“You were lying.”

Abby started putting the DVDs in alphabetical order. “Not about anything important. I told you I didn’t kill Garrick. That part was true.”

“You should have told me the rest.”

“Couldn’t risk it. You might not have believed me.”

“Maybe I would have. I never wanted to think you were capable of murder.”

“And yet you thought it, anyway. You’re always underestimating me. But I can’t entirely blame you. Sometimes I underestimate myself.”

“Now, that I don’t believe.”

“You should.” Abby arranged the first third of her DVD library, from A to H, on the shelf. “Remember how, in the Boiler Room, you asked whether my conscience was enough to keep me in line?”

“I remember.”

“Well, it was a fair question. In fact, I started wondering the same thing after Friday night. Wondering if maybe I’d become too much of a desperado. Whether I need somebody to ride herd on me. Whether I’m getting out of control.” She put titles I through P on the shelf. “I came pretty close to shooting Dylan Garrick. Closer than I admitted to you.”

Tess took a step forward. “How close?”

“I wasn’t sure. What I knew was that something he said changed my mind. It was just a little thing. He said we were both pros. He said the hit on Andrea was just a job for him-a job like mine.”

Tess nodded, understanding. “He said you were the same.”

“Right.” The videos from Q through Z were added to the shelf. She really did have a Z. Two of them, in fact- Zoolander and Zulu. “He said we were the same. And suddenly I… well, I didn’t want it to be true.”

“If he hadn’t said those words…”

“Would I have gone through with it?” She turned to face Tess. “That’s the question I kept asking myself the next day. And I didn’t know the answer. And it scared me. It made me doubt if I could really go on-or if I even ought to go on. You know the old Nietzsche thing, about how when you fight monsters you risk becoming a monster yourself? That’s what worried me. I thought maybe I’d crossed the line. But I didn’t. And I won’t.”