Into the Fire (45 page)

Black ops were operations or missions that were so top secret, so covert, that there were no records kept, no paper trail. Early in his Agency career, Decker
had
been approached, very much in a sideways manner, about the possibility of his accepting a black op assignment. He’d gotten as far as a psych eval, but then all talk stopped. “I’ll bite,” he said. “Why?”

“According to your file,” Dr. Heissman said as she sat back down across from him, tucking her legs up underneath her, “you were considered too much of a straight arrow to be considered for such an assignment. Again with the moral compass. I believe the phrase
too grounded in a fact-based reality
was used to describe you.”

“Too
what
?” Had she really meant what he’d thought she’d meant…?

“They didn’t believe they could successfully manipulate and therefore control you,” she translated.

“And you’re saying Nash was…”

“A ghost,” she finished for him. “That was our little psych department nickname for the black sector operatives. It would explain why his file never appeared in our bimonthly meetings.”

Decker nodded. “But you don’t know for sure.”

“I saw him go through that door.”

“What were
you
doing down there?” Decker asked.

“It was toward the end of my tenure with the Agency,” Dr. Heissman told him. “Doug Brendon had just been appointed new director, and I was naively hopeful he would bring about some desperately needed changes and, well…He changed things, all right. At that time, though, he was interviewing everyone in the department, because his goal was to expand the black ops sector. I was told by my supervisor that I was up for a particularly important promotion, and she gave me what she called the correct answers to all the questions Brendon was intending to ask in the interview—questions about how the department should be run, questions about basic procedures—such as required downtime between difficult assignments—procedures that were put in place years ago to keep our operatives healthy…” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do it. I went into the interview and answered his questions with truth, not this…cockeyed truthiness he wanted to hear. He didn’t want our input, he wanted yes-men and -women. Needless to say, I wasn’t given the promotion, so I never made it past that locked door. And shortly after, I tendered my resignation.” She smiled. “I suspect there’s now a note in
my
Agency file that says,
too grounded in a fact-based reality.
”

They’d sat for several long moments, in silence, and then she’d leaned forward and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have more definite information about Nash to share with you, but I’m pretty sure, as it stands, I’ve broken the law forward and backward and upside down by telling you all that I have.”

He’d nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“We’re on the same side,” she’d told him.

Decker had nodded again, even though now, in the harsh light of day, he still wasn’t convinced of that.

He’d just unzipped the side pocket of the doctor’s bag when he heard the keycard in the door. He quickly zipped it shut and was in the bathroom, toilet seat up and taking a leak before she got the door open.

“Hello?” she called.

“I’ll be out in a sec,” he called back, taking time to wash his hands and try to smooth down the sorry mess that was his hair. He finally gave up and stuck his head under the faucet, and used his fingers as a comb.

“I brought you coffee,” she said, when he finally emerged.

She was wearing a dark pair of pants and a colorful, flowing blouse that made him think of photographs of women from the sixties. Kent State. Haight-Ashbury. Woodstock. It worked with her hair, loose from its braid in full earth-mother splendor, and with the bright red toenail polish revealed through the leather straps of her sandals.

She was holding out a hotcup with a lid, and he managed to take it from her without their hands touching.

“So, did you go through my bag?” she asked while he was trying to pull back the plastic opening in the lid.

Of course her direct question made him burn his fingers. It took all he had not to react. Still, he answered her honestly. Why the hell not? “Most of it. Yeah.”

She nodded, not at all perturbed. “It was a gamble, but I was starving, and I was pretty sure that an opportunity to violate my right to privacy would trump your need to run away, as far and as fast as possible.” She smiled. “Provided you woke up. When I left the room, you were sleeping extremely ferociously. Do you still have trouble sleeping?”

Decker took a sip of coffee and it burned all the way down. “Shouldn’t you put out your sign?
The Doctor is In.
”

“Darn,” she said. “I almost made it through an entire month without a single
Peanuts
joke.”

“I really have to go,” he said.

To his surprise, she acquiesced. “All right.” But then she said, “My ride has been temporarily sidetracked. Can I trouble you for a lift over to FBI headquarters?”

D
ALTON
, C
ALIFORNIA

Murphy’s laptop was ancient. Hannah tried not to be overwhelmed by her frustration as she coaxed it to connect with her camera.

It was, after all, a miracle that he still had his laptop at all. He’d lost his truck during the months she was coming to think of as the Time of Darkness. Someone had rolled him and he’d woken up without his keys, his truck never to be seen again.

But he’d had his laptop in long-term storage in Juneau and had retrieved it during the trip he’d taken there after going through the Fresh Start program.

Because the cabin in Dalton was small, he hadn’t bothered to set it up in the living room. Instead, he’d kept it in the loft. But as Hannah climbed the ladder, she saw that he’d taken his computer out of both his duffle and its case. It was open, out next to the mattress that lay directly on the floor because the ceiling was so low up there, it didn’t make sense to set up a real bed.

Murph’s laptop was plugged into the loft’s single outlet, and powered up. His screensaver—a series of photos that were clearly of Alaska—presented a continuous slide show.

Mendenhall glacier.

Juneau’s harbor, taken from the windows of the Hanger—Murphy’s favorite place to break for lunch. It was summer—cruise ships were docked at the deep-water port.

The breathtaking view of the mountains, from the deck of the
California Dreamin’,
Pat’s boat.

Hannah, jubilant, as four different whales simultaneously breached off the stern side of the boat.

God, she looked impossibly young in that picture, but she still remembered the day that photo had been taken. She and Murph had gone out that night, to see Rory Stitt in concert over at the high school, and she’d been so certain that Murphy was finally going to kiss her after they’d stopped for a beer at the Triangle on their way home.

Instead, he’d told her about his stepmother moving his father into a nursing home, because the old man didn’t recognize her anymore, and had held her at gunpoint—this strange woman he’d found in his house—until the police came.

The elder-care facility was a nice enough place, clean and bright, and Murphy said his dad seemed puzzled but happy to be there. Still, the lock-down security had made Murph’s skin crawl. He understood—it wouldn’t do to have one of the patients go walkabout—but it still seemed oppressive, particularly for a man who’d spent most of his life out-of-doors.

And the way his stepmother vanished from the old man’s life had shaken Murphy, too. She’d disappeared completely, as if her husband of seven years was already buried and gone. Still, Murphy couldn’t blame her. It was as if, to Murphy’s father, she’d never existed. When he asked for his wife, it was Murphy’s mother he was looking for, Murphy’s mother he spoke of with love and affection.

Murphy, too, often went unrecognized by his dad. It wasn’t uncommon for the old man, lost in his memories of Vietnam, to accuse Murphy of being an agent for the Viet Cong. The racial slurs that had come out of the mouth of a man who’d been known for his acceptance and tolerance were shocking.

Murph had come the closest Hannah had ever seen to crying when he’d told her about that. Yet in true Murphy style, he’d bright-sided it. It had given him new insight, he’d said, into this man who, despite his battlefield prejudices, had fallen desperately in love with a Vietnamese girl and, after her untimely death, had lovingly raised their only child.

So, there had been no kissing that night, although several days later, via phone, when Hannah had dissected the nonprivate parts of their conversation, Angelina was convinced that Murphy’d been looking for some “comfort with a capital s-e-x.” Why else get all touchy-feely?

One of these days, Angelina had counseled, Hannah was simply going to have to risk everything, throw caution to the wind, and jump that yummy Vinh Murphy. Go big or stay home.

Of course, Angelina had said that before she’d met Murph. Before he came to Hannah’s apartment the night of his father’s funeral, took one look at Angelina and jumped
her.

Or so she’d said, when she’d told Hannah about it. Hannah had found out later, after she’d wrapped Murphy up, put a bow on him and virtually given him to her best friend—because she’d thought that that was what Murphy’d wanted—that Angelina had been the one to jump
him.
And the jump, so to speak, had been incomplete, thanks to Murphy’s code of honor.

Angelina’s code of honor had been slightly different.

It’s not stealing if they give it to you.

Hannah had forgiven her friend, assuming—incorrectly—that Angelina would eventually tire of Murphy. And then, when it became clear that the pair truly were a match made in heaven, Hannah had danced at their wedding, glad for their happiness, unaware of the tragedy that was yet to come.

Hannah unplugged the laptop and—God, it was heavy—lugged it down the ladder. She put it on the desk, dug through the drawer that held a collection of computer cables, found the one that would allow her to download the pictures from her camera, connected everything together, and…

Got the hourglass of doom.

“Shit.”

Eden Gillman, who looked like an escapee from a Lifetime movie about teen pregnancy—Hollywood-attractive even while exhausted and bedraggled—brought over the notepad, upon which she’d written
What’s the problem?

“I have no idea,” Hannah answered. “I need to download these pictures…” She pointed to the camera.

Want me to try? I’m pretty good with computers.

“Please.” Hannah relinquished the chair. “Did you reach Dave?”

Eden reached for the pen, but Hannah stopped her. “I can lip-read. If I have a question, I’ll ask.”

The girl nodded. She
was
extremely pretty—obviously too pretty for her own good, which, okay, wasn’t fair but was probably true. She had long, straight dark hair that, even worn back in a ponytail, was sleek and beautiful. She was wearing makeup that made her look at least old enough to vote, but in truth, she could have been anywhere from fourteen to twenty.

“I left a message,” she told Hannah, as she worked the mouse, “because Dave didn’t pick up. Here’s one of the problems. It’s going so slowly because there’re too many files and programs open. We need to close—Whoa, is that you?”

Hannah looked at the computer screen, where there were, indeed, what looked like a dozen photos of her, thumbnailed in a picture file that Murphy had named
Juneau.
Some of them were landscapes, sure, but most were of Hannah, laughing on Pat’s boat.

Eden leaned forward to look closer. “These are amazing. Whoever took these is an excellent photographer.” She moved the mouse, scrolling down and Hannah realized there weren’t just a dozen, there were closer to a hundred.

“They’re Murphy’s,” Hannah told her.

She’d had no idea he’d taken so many photos over the years. She knew he had a camera, but he wasn’t one of those people who always interrupted the flow of the moment to make everyone pose. Instead, he snapped candid pictures.

Eden spoke, but Hannah missed it—intent on looking at one of the rare shots where Murphy was also in the frame. In this one, he was tickling her, and she was trying to escape. “Excuse me?” She looked at Eden.

“He’s completely in love with you,” the girl said. “I mean, he’s gotta either be your boyfriend or your stalker.”

“He was married to my best friend.”

“Really? That’s kind of creepy. I mean, he’s got everything but the altar and the candles.”

“These were taken a long time ago,” Hannah told her.

“Yeah, well, he was looking at them the last time he used his computer,” Eden pointed out. “So you should probably tell your friend—”

She’d clearly missed Hannah’s use of the past tense. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, my God.” Eden briefly closed her eyes, then looked at Hannah in sincere apology. “I’m so sorry. I knew that. I wasn’t thinking—”

“Just…do whatever you need to do to download the pictures from the camera,” Hannah said.

“Already doing it,” Eden said, and sure enough, there were the pictures from the compound, in a neat little file on Murphy’s laptop screen. She leaned closer. “
What
is
this
?” She enlarged the photo of the naked guy bursting out of the burning house. “Oh,
yuck.
Please tell me that’s not Murphy.”

“Murphy has hair,” Hannah reassured her. “Plus he usually wears pants.”

Eden leaned even closer to the computer screen. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Is he…?”

“A victim of a tragic Nair accident?” Hannah finished for her. “Either that, or he’s the new leader of the Freedom Network, participating in some weird initiation ceremony.”

Eden looked at her sharply. “Are you serious?”

“There’s a good chance these pictures are why Freedom Network shooters put a bullet hole in my arm yesterday,” Hannah said.

Eden flipped through them. “Black robe to white robe,” she said. “Kinda cliché, isn’t it? Although we should probably be glad there wasn’t a human sacrifice.” She looked at Hannah with trepidation. “There
wasn’t
a human sacrifice…?”