Girl of Rage (33 page)

He was currently the Deputy Head of Mission at the UK Embassy in Washington.

Julia only knew about that because of an article in the
Post
three weeks before, detailing the implementation of the latest trade agreement between Britain and the United States. Harry had been quoted in the article.

She sighed out loud, then said, “I know someone at the Embassy.”

For the first time since he handed Julia her drink, Crank spoke up. “Fuck, no.”

“Crank, it’s necessary—”

“No. We’ll find another way. He screwed you up way too much. I won’t have you going to him asking for a favor.”

Bear interceded. “What are we talking about here?”

Carrie sat up, clutching Rachel to her. “Julia, no. I can find another way.”

Alexandra looked baffled, and Anthony’s eyebrows drew together as he put together the story. “You aren’t talking about—”

Julia spoke in a loud, sharp tone. Not a shout, but loud enough to cut through the sudden chaos. “Everybody be quiet!
I’ll
be the one to decide who I talk with.”

Silence from the others.

She took a steadying breath and said, “All of that happened almost twenty years ago. I’m going to go make the call.” She stood, and Crank rose with her.

“Crank—I need to be alone, all right?
Please?”
She looked in Crank’s eyes, trying to communicate through that gaze how much confusion and discomfort she felt. She needed to do this alone. She needed to process this call by herself, and not have to talk about it in front of other people.

He gave a minute nod. He understood.

She was ashamed of the sudden relief that flooded through her. So she leaned forward and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, then walked away from the group and into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, puzzling through the feelings that flooded through her.

She was a grown woman in her early thirties. She ran a multi-million dollar corporation, moving hundreds of people all over the globe. She was competent, skilled, and in command of her own life.

But inside, part of her was still that desperately lonely fourteen-year-old girl who was abandoned emotionally by her parents, who’d gotten involved with a much older boy who took advantage of her loneliness and insecurity. Some days, even though she’d met the love of her life, she still woke up with a gaping pit of need that could never be filled. Even after twelve years with Crank, she still sometimes looked at him like he was a stranger. Not because of him, but because deep inside, she couldn’t trust, couldn’t open up, couldn’t reveal the terrified little girl inside.

She didn’t want to make this phone call.

So she unlocked her phone and dialed 411. An automated voice asked her for the listing she wanted. “Washington, DC. The Embassy of the United Kingdom.”

A toneless voice, a computer, which had no understanding of the emotional weight of its words, said, “Stay on the line to be connected.”

Two clicks, and then a ring. Another ring. She felt queasy and wrapped her left arm across her stomach. A third ring, then a pleasant female voice answered.

“Embassy of Great Britain. How may I help you?”

Julia cleared her throat. Then said in a voice far too tentative for her liking, “Harry Easton, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Please tell him it’s Julia Wil—Julia Thompson. He’ll remember me from the International School of Beijing.”

“Yes, ma’am, please hold.”

Julia cleared her voice again. She would
not
let her voice shake when she was speaking with Harry.

Then his voice. The same melodious voice which had once whispered in her ear,
That wasn’t so bad,
was it?
Only now he sounded tentative and uncomfortable.

“Julia.”

She cleared her throat, suddenly choked with anxiety. She couldn’t force any words out.

“Hello? Julia?”

Get. A. Grip.
She clenched a fist and said, “Harry. Hello.”

“I was … surprised … to hear it was you.” His voice sounded oddly tentative. “I’ve seen the news about your family—I’m sorry to hear you’ve had such tragedies.”

Julia reminded herself that Harry Easton had no power over her now, unless it was power
she
gave him. And she wasn’t going to do that anymore. Not after all these years.

“Honestly,” she replied, “I didn’t expect to be calling you. But I’m finding myself in need of a favor. And you’re the person in a position to assist.”

She heard him take a deep breath. He waited a moment, as if he couldn’t find the right words to say. Then he responded in a low, sober tone, “If there is anything in my power, I will. I owe you that much, certainly.”

Prepared for—arrogance, or anger, or contempt—Julia hadn’t expected that tone of voice or those words. She flinched.

“I—” she started to speak, but cut herself off.

“Listen, Julia…”

“No,” she responded. “You don’t need—”

“I do,” he said. “I … I’ve carried regret for many years for the way I treated you. I was so terribly wrong.”

Julia wanted to scream with rage. She wanted to throw her phone across the room. She wanted to shout at him, or scream, or do anything she could to throw the words back at him, to not have to hear the remorse and sorrow in his voice.
He didn’t get to be sad about what he’d done.
He didn’t get to ask for forgiveness.

She shook. But she didn’t say anything. Finally Harry spoke again.

“Julia, I’d never dare or presume to ask for your forgiveness. But all the same, I hope one day you’ll offer it. I’m deeply sorry. I’d do anything to change it.”

All of it flooded back. All of it. The shame and fear and sadness. The horror of walking through the halls of high school her senior year, with the words
slut, whore
whispered around her. The awful photo. The crushing shame, and the sharp pain in her wrist when she sliced it open.

She’d thought that she had left it behind. She’d thought that it didn’t affect her anymore—that her career and her life with Crank had robbed those experiences of their power to make her hurt. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t healed, she hadn’t walked away from it, and some of it still had the power to drag her right back.

But now she had a choice. Now she had a choice to move on and grow up and live her own life. It was the choice she’d made every day for the last twelve years, and the choice she was going to keep making.

There was no choice really. Not if she wanted to live the life she wanted. Because the only way to release the power Harry Easton had over her was to give up any power she might have over him. She heard the sadness in his tone. The shaking in his words. Somewhere along the way, he’d gained some—what? Wisdom?

She exhaled, letting out the tension. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. With that rush of air out of her lungs, she felt herself let it go.

“What happened?” she asked. “What changed?”

“Everything,” he said. “But—the big thing was—I’m a father now. A little girl, she’s three. And some day she’s going to be in school and will be around boys and all I can do is pray she’ll be treated better than you were. I’m truly sorry, Julia.”

Julia closed her eyes. Something so simple, yet profound. A baby. Harry had no way of knowing that Julia couldn’t have children. He had no way of knowing the utter rage she carried. A tear rolled down her cheek. Harry Easton walked away with some remorse, but he got to have a daughter. But thanks to him, thanks to the back-room abortion in that awful clinic in China,
she
would never bear a daughter of her own.

She didn’t want to forgive him. She didn’t want to let him off the hook. She wanted to reach through the phone and tear his guts out.

Julia closed her eyes. She thought of the affirmations her therapist had given her, and the prayers she’d learned to say. She sought the inner peace that was sometimes so elusive.

Finally, she whispered, “I forgive you.”

Then she clenched her fist against her stomach, because she didn’t know if she meant it. But even if she didn’t, she had to act like it.

Harry gasped. Then, incredibly, she heard him sniff, as if he was tearing up. “I don’t deserve that,” he said, his voice broken.

She sighed. “Let it go, Harry. Move on. Raise your daughter, and protect her.”

“I will,” he replied.

“Now for the favor I need.”

“Anything.”

“My sister Carrie and I need to meet with Prince George-Phillip.”

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. Finally he said, “Surely you’re kidding.”

“No, Harry. It’s important.”

“I don’t—Julia, he’s the head of the Special Intelligence Service. And a member of the royal family. I’ve got no power to arrange such a meeting.”

“I need you to try,” she replied.

“I would have to go well outside normal channels to arrange such a thing. Which means I’ll need to give explanations.”

She sighed, and said, “It’s intensely personal.”

“What personal business could you possibly have with him?”

She coughed. Then said, “This is related to the attack on my sisters. If you can get the message to him that Adelina Thompson’s daughters want to meet with him, he’ll know what it is about.”

“Not
Richard
Thompson’s daughters?”

Julia snorted a bitter laugh. “He’ll understand either way.”

“Then I’ll do the best I can. Can I reach you back at this number?”

“This is my cell.”

“I’ll be in touch, Julia.”

Dylan. May 3.

It was late afternoon, almost evening, as Dylan looked out the window of the kitchen. Mendoza sat at the table smoking a cigarette in front of an untouched deck of cards. Dylan imagined Mendoza’s mother would give him hell later for smoking in the house. Andrea sat across from him, scanning through the Washington Post on the tablet they’d bought the night before. Along with the tablet and half a dozen disposable phones, they’d bought two dozen pre-paid SIM cards from half a dozen locations, dragging Mendoza along for a three-hour odyssey from store to store.

Dylan still worried that it would be dangerous to get online, but they had little choice. They needed information.

“Look at this,” Andrea said. “It says your President is caught in an internal dispute about whether or not to rescind the nomination.”

“Yeah?” Dylan said.

She slid the tablet across to him and he scanned the article. Dylan didn’t follow politics at all, so most of the names mentioned in the article were unfamiliar. But one thing was clear—the President was caught in a bind, whether or not to support his nominee for Secretary of Defense. The confirmation hearings were set to begin in just a few days.

“I bet the President’s hoping your father will withdraw.”

“Richard Thompson is not my father,” she said. Her tone was final.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But I’d prefer you spoke with some precision. At this point we don’t know who my father is, but we do know that man is not him.”

“Okay,” he replied. Slowly.

A large black SUV with flashy chrome rims was coming down the street. Dylan leaned a little closer to the window to see it. It came to a stop directly in front of the house and the door opened. A man got out—short black hair, black stubble darkening an angular face.

Dylan tensed, and Andrea followed his lead, rising half out of her seat. “Heads up, Mendoza. You know this guy?”

“Yeah. Relax. He’s our delivery guy. Just stay here.”

Mendoza stood and walked out of the kitchen. Andrea pointed to the other exit from the kitchen, a side door that led to a narrow space between homes. Dylan leaned back and unlocked the door, then carefully turned the knob to crack the door. He wanted to be able to move quickly if they needed to.

A minute went by, then another. Dylan could hear voices in the front entrance, Mendoza and the other guy, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying.

A year ago, Dylan would never have doubted Mendoza. They’d served together. But things were different now. For one thing, Mendoza got hurt and left their unit early on. For another, the members of Dylan’s platoon had turned on each other like frenzied sharks when it came time to save their own asses. Dylan trusted nobody but family now. Slowly and casually, he slid his hand under his shirt and rested his hand on the pistol grip of the weapon he’d taken from one of the dead killers. It was a .45 Glock patterned after the M1911 Colt automatic, and felt comfortable in his hand.

Andrea raised an eyebrow.

“Just being careful,” he whispered.

The front door closed with a thump, and Dylan heard footsteps coming back toward the kitchen. His grip tightened on the pistol.

Outside, the guy with the SUV was walking back to it.

Mendoza froze in the doorway when he saw Dylan. “Paris—everything okay?”

“Yeah, man, it’s all good.”

The guy out front got in his SUV and drove away.

“I got your IDs. They’re pretty good.”

Mendoza dropped a card in front of Dylan and another in front of Andrea.