David Kent - The Triangle Conspiracy

They’d stayed out until after ten at Different Roads, a small folk club on Classen Boulevard, where Faith’s friend Alex Bridge played fiddle and flute with a Celtic band. Though Faith wasn’t much into folk music, preferring contemporary jazz, she always tried to catch Alex when she played locally. They’d lived through a nightmare together a year ago, and the bond between them had grown strong.

When it had approached ten thirty last night, Faith and Hendler decided by an almost silent mutual assent to go to her house. Hendler lived in the northern suburb of Edmond, and Faith’s home in The Village area was a good ten miles or so closer in. So they slept together in her queen-size bed, and both were up shortly after five a.m. to run. Faith knew Hendler preferred to sleep later, and she also knew he preferred more “organized” exercise to running, but when he stayed with her, he rose with her and ran with her with no complaints.

They’d done three-plus miles on an overcast spring morning that promised rain later in the day, when they rounded the corner of Faith’s block. Her modest brick home, built in the fifties as most homes in The Village had been, was in the middle of the block, north side of the street. The garage was full of junk, so she always parked her Miata in the driveway. Hendler’s sensible Toyota was parked behind her. In front of the house, on the street, sat a dirty dark green Jeep Cherokee with a man sitting behind the wheel.

“Hmm,” Faith said, slowing.

Hendler pulled up beside her. “What?”

“In front of my house.”

Hendler frowned, stopping beside her, stretching out his legs. “I don’t have my gun. It’s in the house.”

“I have mine.” Faith had learned the hard way about keeping her weapon with her, even on the run, so she now always wore a large fanny pack in which she kept her gun. The Glock that she’d had for so long had been washed away into the waters of Galveston Bay a year ago, and she’d bought a SIG Sauer nine-millimeter, the “Cadillac of pistols,” not long thereafter.

She unzipped the fanny pack halfway.

“Maybe your paper boy, here to collect?” Hendler said.

“Maybe,” Faith said. But she’d gone to that unreachable place where everything clicked off except instinct.

Her long vision wasn’t that great, but the man in the Jeep had started moving. He was making no attempt to be furtive, movements smooth and natural. Of course, that meant nothing. In the world where Faith lived, people and places and things were often nothing like what they appeared to be.

The man’s head popped out of the Jeep. “Holy shit,” Faith said.

“Hey, that’s my line,” Hendler said.

“It’s my brother.”

“Your what?”

“My brother.”

They were two houses away from hers now, from the Jeep and Sean. In a movie, Faith supposed they would have run toward each other and embraced madly. Brother and sister hadn’t seen each other in nearly three years, not since the last time they were both at the famous Kelly Memorial Day picnic in Chicago. But this was no movie, and they weren’t hugging people.

The sight of Sean did elicit a smile, though. Aside from the red hair of the Kellys, she and her brother had inherited the height and slender build of their mother’s family, the O’Connells. Their father’s people were all short and round, but she and Sean were five ten and six three, respectively, big boned and well built. Faith realized with a pleasant rush how happy she was to see him.

She jogged the last few feet, Hendler trailing discreetly behind, and leaned over the hood of the Jeep. “I hadn’t seen your new wheels,” Faith said. “I was ready to shoot on sight. Can’t be too careful with all the riffraff about.”

Sean smiled through a day’s growth of beard. “Well, I’m the riffraff of the family, that’s for sure. Still obsessively running while normal people are in bed, I see. And now you’re dragging innocent bystanders along with you.”

Faith smiled. “This is my friend Scott Hendler.”

Hendler extended a hand and Sean shook it.

“Sean Kelly,” Sean said. “I think Faith mentioned you in an e-mail at one time or other. Aren’t you with the Bureau?”

“That’s the one,” Hendler said. “It’s good to finally meet you, Sean.” Hendler did a few stretches. “You two have a lot of catching up to do.” He squeezed Faith’s shoulder. “I’ll get my stuff. I’ll go shower at my place, then I’ve got to get to work.”

He jogged up the driveway and let himself in the house. Sean watched with interest, then looked back at Faith.

“Don’t start,” Faith warned. “He’s a good guy.”

Sean shrugged. “A little on the geeky side. Bald spot the size of Rhode Island up there. Kind of short. You never went for that type before.”

Faith shrugged to mimic him. “What can I say? When it’s there, it’s there.”

They walked up the front steps together. “I never thought I’d see the day when Faith Siobhan Kelly would cut off all her hair, though.”

“It’s comfortable.”

Sean laughed. “I guess if the Bureau likes it-”

“Sean Micheal Kelly.” She gave the middle name the Gaelic pronunciation of MEE-hall. “I’ve never changed any aspect of myself for a man, and I’m not about to start. I did it for me. And yes, he does like it, incidentally. Where the hell did you come from?”

“Tucson, remember?”

“I remember Tucson. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t you read your e-mail anymore?”

“I’ve had a very busy couple of days this week. I had a…” She swallowed back the words. She couldn’t talk about Department Thirty and Leon Bankston to her brother. “…project to work on,” she finished.

“Ah.” Sean made quotation marks with his fingers. “ ‘Special projects’ for DOJ.”

“Yes, sir. That’s me. I’m all about special projects.” She mimicked his finger quotes.

“Smart-ass.”

“Learned from the best.” She elbowed him in the ribs. That was as good as a hug for the two of them.

“Well, anyway, I e-mailed you yesterday and told you I was coming to town.”

“What brings you this way?” Faith asked. “Homeland Security in the heartland?”

They reached the front door, and as Faith opened it, Hendler came out, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, carrying his briefcase. “See you two later,” he said, pecked Faith quickly on the cheek, and jogged to the Toyota. A minute later he was gone.

Faith and Sean walked into the house. Sean took a look at the newspapers on the floor, a few stray items of clothing here and there, cups and glasses still on the table. The place smelled musty.

“Man, sister, you never learn,” Sean said. “Still can’t pick up after yourself.”

“Don’t start, you. I have a lot more interesting things to do than worry about whether there’s a place for everything and everything in its place.”

“I believe you.” Sean sat down on Faith’s paisley-patterned couch. “I drove straight through. I’m sort of on leave from ICE, and I picked up a little freelance job.”

Faith pulled off her green headband and tossed it onto the dining room table. She wiped her sweaty face with a towel. “On leave? What, you mean on vacation?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s twice you’ve said ‘sort of.’ ”

“Don’t worry about it.” He looked at her, his blue-green eyes finding her darker green ones. “It’s good to see you, Faith.”

Faith nodded. “Yeah.” She wiped her face again. “Look at us. One or two-line e-mails now and then, a call on Thanksgiving, not seeing each other for three years. Once upon a time, neither of us could get rid of the other.”

Sean looked surprised. “Boy, that’s deep. I guess hanging out with the Bureau has made you sensitive or something.”