Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

“Still…” Kelly tried to think of an appropriate response. Much of what he was saying was true, but the thought of a bunch of skinheads taking over the government still sounded preposterous.

“Still nothing. All it would take was some sort of cataclysmic event to coalesce people. Remember that 9/11 could very well have gone another way. Rather than rallying behind the president, people could have blamed him for not keeping the nation safe. And imagine the outcome if that had happened, and people took to the streets.”

“You were born in the wrong era, Mark. Should’ve been a ’60s radical,” Kelly teased.

His voice lost some enthusiasm as he said, “Maybe you’re right. I know you can’t tell me much, but please, if you learn anything…”

“I’ll call. And, Mark, let’s keep this between us, all right?”

He hesitated before saying, “All right. But if things are in motion, I expect a phone call.”

“Definitely.” Kelly hung up and thought about what he’d said. She turned back to her laptop and enlarged a photo of Jackson Burke. He was wearing a tuxedo, the portrait of well-fed contentment, mouth half-open in a laugh. “An American bin Laden, huh?” she said, examining it. “You don’t look like someone who’d enjoy spending time in a cave.”

Madison sat next to Bree’s hospital bed, picking at her cuticles. Ironic that twenty-four hours earlier Bree had been sitting beside her. The guy who gave her first aid was right, Bree would be fine. She had conked out while they were bandaging her arm. Madison envied her. She’d never been so tired in her entire life, but every time her head nodded she jerked awake. It would probably be a while before she slept through the night again, if ever.

The doctors had examined her leg and changed the cast since it got beat-up during their escape. Her lungs had checked out fine, too, although they felt tight from the smoke. The nurse said that would probably go away in a day or two.

Madison glanced at the door. Her mother was talking to one of the FBI agents. For some reason she felt less safe having them as guards. The commando-boys had been scary, but that made them seem more effective. Her mother had her arms crossed over her chest and was examining the floor tiles, nodding occasionally while the agent explained something. She looked old, Madison suddenly realized. Her mother used to be so pretty, back when she and Dad were still together.

The agent left and her mother remained there for a moment. She turned to find Madison watching her and suddenly straightened, forcing a weak smile.

“Any news about Dad?” Madison asked, as her mother leaned in and smoothed the covers over Bree.

“Not yet, sweetie. But they’re checking planes and trains to see if they can track him down. I’m sure he’s fine.”

She can’t even make that sound believable, Madison thought. It was just like when she told Madison they’d never get divorced. Then three months later, boom. “What about his credit cards? Are they checking those?”

“Yes. I think so.” Her mother slumped into the other chair. “They know what they’re doing, Maddee. They’ll find him if…”

“If what?” Madison pressed.

“If he wants to be found.”

Madison processed that. Her mother was implying that maybe her father hadn’t been taken by the bad guys, maybe he’d left on his own. But he’d never leave without them. Her mother, maybe, but he’d take her and Bree along. Wouldn’t he?

“We should try to sleep for a bit,” her mother said. “The nurse said the bed in the next room is empty. Would you like to lie down?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Well, I’m going to try.” Her mother used the arms of the chair to push herself up. “If you need anything one of the agents will get it, okay?”

“Okay.”

On her way out she placed her hand on Madison ’s head, then bent and kissed her. It had been a long time since she’d done that, and Madison ’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s going to be okay, honey, I promise,” she said in a low voice before leaving.

Madison sank deeply down in the chair. The only thing she was sure of was that nothing was going to be all right, ever again.

Jake started awake. He had dozed off while leaning back in a desk chair with his feet propped on a conference table, and they’d slipped to the floor. He shook his head to clear it. Syd was sitting across the table smirking at him.

“Comfortable?”

“These chairs were designed by sadists,” Jake complained, trying to stretch out a kink in his back. George had appropriated office space from the Sacramento field office, and told the two of them to stay put while he dug up information on Randall Grant. Jake had tried to convince him to let them go to a motel, but George made it clear it was the office or a holding cell. And frankly the way his eyes lit up when he mentioned the cell gave Jake pause. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Yup.” Syd pointed down. “Stretched out on the floor.”

“Really?” Jake eyed it dubiously. The rug was of questionable vintage, covered with old coffee stains.

“It beats a cave in Pakistan where they’re burning dung for fuel.”

“I suppose.” He checked his watch: 5:00 a.m. They’d been here for nearly twelve hours, and his stomach was rumbling. Even cafeteria food sounded good at this point. He should call Kelly back, too, now that things had settled down. It was 7:00 a.m. in Texas. She was probably already awake. But better to talk to her on a full stomach, he reasoned. “You up for a trip to the mess?”

“I got the sense we weren’t allowed to leave this room.” Syd raised an eyebrow.

“And that’s stopped you when?”

“Good point. Let’s go.”

George opened the door as they were about to step out. “Making a break for it?”

“Just heading down for some food,” Jake said. “We’re wasting away in here.”

“Doesn’t look like it would kill you to miss a meal,” George joked, eyeing Jake’s stomach. “Desk work has done you in, my man.”

“Bullshit. I’m still at my fighting weight,” Jake said defensively, trying not to be obvious about sucking in his gut.

“Not you, my dear, you’re perfect.” George winked at Syd. “Anyway, you might want to hold off on the prison break. I’ve got news about your boy.”

“Yeah?” Jake’s heart sank. George’s humor sounded forced.

Syd sensed it, too. “Bad news,” she said flatly.

“Yeah, I think so.” George opened a file and slid out a photo. “This your guy?”

Syd looked at it first. Without commenting, she simply nodded, then handed it to Jake. Typical morgue photo, the flat light made it look black-and-white even though it wasn’t. It was Randall Grant, all right. Someone had shot him at point-blank range near the temple. Death must have been mercifully quick, if there was such a thing.

“Crap.” Jake handed it back. “Where?”

“ Texas. When I accessed his fingerprints from the lab, I saw that another field office had matched them this morning. Made a few calls, but they’re not releasing any information yet.”

“Meaning what? They don’t know who killed him?”

“Meaning, I get the sense they’re dealing with something big down there. Mobile units were called in, and they’re raising the threat advisory level to orange, maybe even red on the basis of this.”

“Just because a scientist was killed?” Syd asked, puzzled.

“This guy Randall was a physicist, right?” George asked. “And you think he might have been smuggling nuclear info to the wrong people?”

“Maybe.” Syd turned it over in her mind. “But how did he end up in Texas?”