“That’s convenient,” Jake said. The bastard was lucky, because Jake had already planned on making sure he felt every bit of the pain Kelly was experiencing. A heart attack was merciful in comparison.
“And whoever prepared the iridium for the dirty bomb screwed up-it was packaged in such a way that it wouldn’t disperse. So they’ve given the all clear for Phoenix.” George rubbed his eyes as he spoke. He appeared to have aged years in the past two days.
“Randall,” Jake said, thinking that maybe he hadn’t given the guy enough credit. Despite everything, he’d made sure the bombs wouldn’t wreak as much havoc as they could have.
“I’m headed to the cafeteria, you want anything?” George asked.
“Not hungry.” Jake rubbed Kelly’s hand again to warm it. The blip on the monitor kicked up. His eyes darted to it, but almost immediately it settled into the familiar rhythm.
“C’mon, just a banana or something.” George paused at the threshold. “Doctors said there probably wouldn’t be any change tonight. You might as well eat something, or try to get some sleep.”
“Leave it alone, George,” Jake said, more forcefully than he’d intended.
George raised both hands in defeat. “Fine.”
He passed Rodriguez on the way out. Jake heard them exchange a low murmur, then Rodriguez entered, looking concerned.
He wished people would leave them alone. Jake wanted to bar the door and keep everyone out, stop them from poking and prodding her every five minutes. He imagined scooping her up in his arms, tucking her in the car and driving away. They could go to the beach-Kelly had grown up on the East Coast, she’d never seen the sun set over the ocean. He could give her that.
Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow this was his fault. If he’d refused to get the company involved in Syd’s private bullshit, then maybe Kelly wouldn’t be lying here. She would never have heard of Dante Parrish, wouldn’t have been in San Diego, miles away from him, when that maniac set off a grenade. Part of him knew it was ridiculous, but the guilt was tough to shake. Plus he had to admit, the past few days he’d spent more time thinking about Syd. If Kelly didn’t make it, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
Rodriguez was still standing by the door looking uncomfortable.
“You can go home, you know,” Jake said without looking up.
“Yeah, I know,” Rodriguez said, eyes locked on Kelly’s inert form. “She was a great agent.”
Jake wanted to throttle him for using the past tense. But he took a deep breath, nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Forty-Two
Kelly rose and fell on the waves. Every so often a noise intruded, the background bleats and calls of enormous undersea creatures, but as the swell kicked up even that receded. It was so peaceful here, so warm. The long rays of a setting sun dusted her skin with traces of pink and lavender. Invisible arms wrapped around her, cradling her close.
The low murmur again. In spite of herself Kelly strained to hear. The voices sounded familiar, and she suddenly realized where she was. Growing up she’d replayed this day over and over in her mind, claiming it as the last remaining shred of what her family had been. But she hadn’t thought about it in years. It was odd that it came to her now.
It was the day before her brother vanished. She was standing on a stool at the kitchen counter, helping her father make pancakes. Alex came in from taking out the trash, and their mother made him wash his hands before setting the table. Fingers still wet, he poked a finger in the batter she was stirring, flicking it at her. She yelled at him to stop, but he just grinned. Her father barked at both of them to be quiet, it was impossible to concentrate on flipping with all that racket. He was making her favorite, one large pancake with two smaller ones serving as mouse ears: “Mickey Pancakes,” they called them. Alex usually claimed he was too old for them, but that day he ate without complaining. The smell of sizzling bacon mingled with fresh-cut grass. Her mother sat at the table, sipping her coffee and reading the paper. A typical weekend morning, like hundreds of others they’d shared. There was nothing particularly significant about it. If Alex hadn’t disappeared the next day, it would have slipped into the patchwork of her other childhood memories, fuzzy and indistinct and frayed.
The image spun away from her on the next wave. She halfheartedly reached for it, feeling the warmth trail through her fingers. Kelly caressed it once, then released it with a faint sense of regret. It was too pleasant to resist. She let go of everything and floated away.
Author’s Note
Books have their origins in all sorts of strange places. This one started with a late-night conversation over drinks, when a friend who works for the FBI mentioned that hate groups have doubled their membership in the past decade, but the level of surveillance on them has dropped significantly. All of the information and statistics contained in the text are accurate to the best of my knowledge. I did, however, invent the job that Randall holds; as far as I could determine, no one is currently overseeing low-level radioactive materials, and the U.S. government is not working to consolidate them in secure locations, despite the fact that many sources are lost or stolen each year. It’s enough to inspire a serious case of insomnia.
As always, there are countless people to thank for their gracious assistance with my research. Any mistakes are solely my own. Dr. Sidney Drell helped me sort through the seeds of ideas to find one with the potential to sprout. Camille Minichino worked tirelessly through many drafts to ensure that a writer who truly can’t tell the difference between an isobar and an isotope got the “radiation stuff” right. Robin Burcell helped with police procedures and terminology. Lee Lofland not only answered multiple niggling questions, he also directed me to Richard McMahan and Michael Roche, my “bomb squad” who helped me figure out what would and wouldn’t work (and as promised, Mike, I left San Diego relatively unscathed). The real-life George Fong is even cooler than his fictional counterpart, and always patiently answers countless questions about FBI procedure and gangs, in addition to arranging my once-in-a-lifetime tour of Quantico.
Mark Potok of the Southern Poverty Law Center was kind enough to answer questions about the current status of hate groups in our country and some of the threats we face. Dr. D. P. Lyle always comes through with an innovative and undetectable way to kill someone (which inspires not just admiration, but a healthy dose of fear).
My beta readers, whose keen eye for typos and inconsistencies made each draft better than the last: David Gagnon, Kate Gagnon, Vickie Browning, Deborah Indzhov, Richard Goodman, Raj Patel. Everyone at the Sanchez Grotto for providing such a warm, supportive writing community and being excellent procrastination buddies: Raj (again), Shana Mahaffey, Alison Bing, Paul Linde, Diane Weipert, Sean Beaudoin, Ammi Emergency, Jeff Kirschner, and Whimsical Doggo Doug Wilkins, who makes it all possible. And of course the inestimable Kemble Scott, who always remembers my events in his newsletter (even when I have forgotten them) and has been a great friend, confidant and sounding board.
My fellow bloggers on The Kill Zone: Kathryn Lilley, Joe Moore, Clare Langley-Hawthorne, John Ramsey Miller and John T. Gilstrap, for always inspiring stimulating dialogue and tolerating my occasionally rambling, late posts. And my fellow Norcal Sisters in Crime and MWA groups have been invaluable resources.
Everyone at MIRA Books has been incredibly supportive, especially my editor, Lara Hyde, a tireless advocate who is a pleasure to work with (I realize that the same cannot always be said for me, and for that I’m sorry). At MIRA I also owe a huge debt to Valerie Gray, Margaret Marbury and Emily Ohanjanians. I’m grateful to the best sales team in North America: Don Lucey, Tracey Langmuir, Heather Foy and everyone else who works so hard to promote my books.