Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

On the monitor, a man—most likely an assistant—stepped into camera view, a finger to the Bluetooth curving against his ear. He paused to speak into Rutgers’s ear, then walked out of viewing range again. The ADIC’s expression became grim.

“I’m not certain of anything, ma’am. Between the drugs and the bullet in my chest at the time, very little is clear,” Heather said, keeping her voice level. “Again, as to Dr. Moore’s intentions, Bennington would know more than I do.”

“It could’ve been friendly fire, just like Heather said in her statement,” James Wallace put in. Fabric whispered as he crossed his legs. “Like it was with Craig Stearns when a bullet from Heather’s gun ended up in his shoulder during a fire-fight.”

Heather finally looked at her father. Even though her pulse pounded hard and fierce through her veins, ice frosted her from the inside out. “That’s all in my original statement,” she said, jaw tight. Her father met her gaze, his own composed. “And it has nothing to do with what happened at the center.”

“Just pointing out how easy it is and how often it happens,” he said.

“Regrettably, yes,” Rutgers said. “But I keep coming back to one question….”

Heather shifted her gaze back to the monitor. The knot in her belly tightened. “Yes, ma’am?”

“If Moore had intended to shoot you, why? Was she hoping to trigger Prejean?”

Heather’s pulse spiked. “I don’t understand,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Trigger Prejean?”

“Bad Seed,” Rodriguez said. “Does that ring any bells, Wallace?”

Heather looked at him. His deep-set eyes zeroed in on her. She shook her head. “Bad Seed? No, should it? Again, if this is something Moore had been working on, maybe you should be asking Bennington and not me.”

“Unfortunately, we no longer have that option,” the ADIC murmured. “Special Agent Bennington is dead.”

Heather held herself very still. She stared at Rutgers’s pixilated image. “Dead?”

Face grim, Rutgers nodded. “Heart attack nearly two weeks ago.”

Heather judged that Bennington had been in his early thirties and fit. A coronary would be unusual, but not impossible. All the same, she had the chilling feeling that Bennington had been helped into a convenient death, just like Anzalone, the ME in Pensacola.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she managed to say, the knot of dread in her belly pulling tighter. “I can’t answer your questions, ma’am. You’re asking me things I don’t know.”

Rutgers studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. While you’re mulling over our offer, please keep in mind that refusal or a resignation could result in certain information being leaked to the press.”

“Ma’am?” From the corner of her eye, Heather caught a glimpse of movement and another whiff of Brut as her father straightened in his chair.

“Mental illness has claimed two members of your family so far, your mother and sister, I believe.” The ADIC’s voice was level, conversational.

“That’s false, ma’am,” James Wallace interrupted. “My wife was an alcoholic—”

“Bipolar,” Heather said. “Mom was bipolar. Annie, too.”

Rutgers’s gaze bricked over, hard and cold, and she shifted it to James Wallace. “I won’t brook any more interruptions from either of you.” She returned her attention to Heather.

“I’m listening, ma’am,” Heather said.

“It’ll be made clear that you are the third member of the family to become ill,” Rutgers said. “We’ll express our regret at seeing one of our finest tragically brought low by ill health. We’ll also let it be known that we wouldn’t hold you responsible for any delusional comments you might make. And we’ll promise to provide all the medical and psychological help needed for you to regain your health.”

James Wallace’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbow to knee, hand to chin. “So you’d shred Heather’s credibility and sabotage my career as well.”

“Your daughter would be doing that,” Rutgers said. “Not us. It’s up to her.”

Heather locked gazes with the ADIC. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

“Gentlemen?” Rutgers murmured. “Anything else?” Her face was impassive, but Heather detected tension in her body language, in the tight set of her shoulders.

“No, ma’am,” Rodriguez replied.

James Wallace shook his head.

“Then we’re finished. Until Monday, Wallace. Consider carefully.” Rutgers tapped a button on her desk. The monitor went dark.

Rising to her feet, Heather glanced at Rodriguez. “Sir,” she murmured. Without even a glance at her father, she strode from the office.

HEATHER CROSSED THE PARKING garage in quick strides. Fury burned a hole in her gut. It’d stopped raining outside, but the air was cool and humid and smelled of rubber, old oil, and car exhaust. She unlocked the Trans Am with her smart key and reached for the door handle.

“Heather!” Her name boomeranged against the concrete.

She whirled around to face her father, her purse bumping against her hip. “What the hell do you want?”

“I believe the traditional greeting is hello, ” James Wallace said, voice neutral. He stood a yard away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tan trench. His glasses reflected light from the buzzing overheads. “I came here to vouch for you. We’re still blood, whether you like it or not. And my word carries weight.”

“I’ve never wanted or needed your weight .”

“I know,” James Wallace said. A smile touched his lips. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

“Don’t you know they just used you?”

“I do…now.” He sighed. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You never have before. Why start now?”

James Wallace slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure of that?” He suddenly looked weary and worn, in need of a shave; a worried father. He slid his glasses back on without once looking at her with uncovered eyes. “I want us to be a family again, Heather. All of us.”

“Really? I don’t remember you visiting me in the hospital or even calling,” she said, voice low. Tension pulled the muscles in her shoulders taut.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you injured and in pain. Not you, Pumpkin. I hope the media left you alone.”

Genuine concern? Interrogation technique? It bothered Heather that she didn’t know. “Why do you care if the media left me alone or not?”

He pulled his hands from the trench’s pockets and folded his arms over his chest. “Experience. I remember how insane it was when your mother died.”

“Murdered.”

“I did my best to protect you kids. I wish you could understand that.”

“I understand you didn’t get Annie the help she needed.” She felt her nails bite into her palms. She realized she was slipping into a loop with her father—she accusing, he defending—the same argument over and over.

“How will it help your sister if you dig up the past? Look to the future and let the dead remain dead.”

Heather stared at him. How had he found out so fast? Planted bugs? Spies? From Lyons? Or had he been informed by a clerk just in passing? How didn’t matter, really. He knew.

“No,” Heather said.

“Just no? That’s it?”