The Fixer
Page 61
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Always. Always. Always. He’d always been the one person I could count on.
Always. Always. Always. He’d been lying to me from the beginning—snapping pictures of me and sending them to Ivy.
Pictures she’d kept.
I didn’t realize until I felt a sharp pain in my hand that I was digging my nails into my palm.
“You look skinny.” Gramps pushed himself to stand—slowly, painstakingly. “Doesn’t your sister feed you?”
I wrapped my arms around my middle, when all I wanted was to wrap them around him. “She’s not my sister.”
He saved me the work of reaching out to him by pulling me forward and into his arms. His callused hand stroked the back of my head. “I know.”
CHAPTER 54
That first day in Boston was my grandfather’s best day, like the universe had seen fit to give him clarity where I had none. The next day wasn’t as good. The day after that was worse.
Sometimes, he knew who I was.
Sometimes, he didn’t.
One day, we played checkers. He won. The next day, we played chess. I won. I could almost pretend that coming to Boston had been my decision, that the fact that Bodie slept by the door and paid for our motel room with cash meant nothing.
But.
But then I would think about Henry and wonder if he had someone watching out for him. I would think about Vivvie and whether anyone had explained to her why I had to go.
I didn’t let myself think about Ivy at all.
I filled my days with chess and checkers. My nights filled themselves with nightmares and phantoms—throats slashed and bullet holes and the president and the First Lady dancing a waltz.
On our fourth day in Boston, I was futilely attempting to assemble a full deck of cards so Gramps and I could play poker, when someone turned the television in the community room from an old Clark Gable movie to the news. I tuned it out as background noise until I heard someone say the name Edmund Pierce.
My fingers closed around a card—the nine of spades—and my eyes shot to the television screen.
“Supreme Court hopeful Edmund Pierce was found dead in his Phoenix home this morning.”
Pierce’s picture stared out at me from the screen. You’ll get your money when I get my nomination. I could hear Pierce saying those words. I could see it.
“While no official word has been released in Judge Pierce’s death, early reports suggest an aneurysm.” The news anchor on the screen had a naturally serious expression, perfect for delivering this kind of news. “Pierce was rumored to be the front-runner for President Nolan’s nomination to the Supreme Court following the death of Chief Justice Theodore Marquette earlier this month. No word from the White House yet on how this might . . .”
Someone changed the channel, and just like that, we were back to Clark Gable. I set the card in my hand down and made for the lobby and the closest exterior door. Bodie saw me go by and followed me out.
“Pierce is dead,” I told him, waiting until the door had slammed shut behind me and I’d sucked in a breath of fresh air to force out the words.
Bodie narrowed his eyes. “Heart attack?” he guessed, his eyes darkening.
“Aneurysm.”
Bodie pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He took a cigarette out of the package, rolling it back and forth between the tips of his fingers.
This is too much of a coincidence, I thought. I could tell from the look on Bodie’s face that he was thinking the same thing: in all likelihood, Pierce hadn’t died of an aneurysm any more than Justice Marquette had died because of unforeseen complications during surgery.
“Vivvie thinks her father might have been murdered,” I said, studying Bodie’s reaction to those words.
“Vivvie’s a smart girl,” Bodie replied. In other words, he thought she was right.
“I need to call her,” I said. “I need to call Henry.”
“Easy there, slugger.”
“This isn’t a joke, Bodie.”
He threw the cigarette down on the ground and crushed the tip underneath his toe. “I ain’t joking.”
I knew that. “Who’s doing this?” I asked him quietly.
“Your sister would tell you to stay out of it.”
She’s not my sister.
“But as far as I can tell,” Bodie continued languidly, “you’d take being told to stay out of it as an invitation to frolic gaily in a field full of it. All it, all the time. You and Ivy are too much alike.”
I turned into the wind, determined not to flinch.
“Who’s doing this?” Bodie repeated my question. “If you assume the good doctor’s death wasn’t a suicide—and I think, at this point, that’s a safe bet—I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training. Special Forces, most likely, possibly military intelligence.”
Bodie’s phone rang. Ivy. I knew it was her, the way you know the protagonist of a horror movie really shouldn’t go down into that basement. Bodie took the call, then nodded at me to go back inside.
I made my way back down the hall toward my grandfather’s room.
I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training.
I thought about the fact that Ivy had been at Camp David that weekend. She’d pointed out just how much I didn’t know—who’d taken the picture, who’d been standing right outside the frame.
Who else was there the day Bharani and Pierce met? My breaths got slightly shallower. Was Adam? Adam’s father was the one who’d organized the retreat.
Had Adam been at the Keyes Foundation gala?
I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training. Bodie’s words dogged my every step. Special Forces, most likely, possibly military intelligence.
Adam was Air Force. Adam worked at the Pentagon.
No. I rounded the corner. There was an orderly outside my grandfather’s room, his arms stacked high with blankets. Adam isn’t involved. He’s not. One of the blankets tumbled off the orderly’s stack. Trying not to think about Adam—or Ivy or Pierce or any of it—I bent to pick up the blanket.
“Here—”
The orderly surged forward, slamming blankets into my face, cutting off the flow of air to my lungs as he pulled me tight against his body. Not an orderly.
Not Adam. That should have been a relief—but it wasn’t. Too big to be Adam. Too tall. I struggled. Too strong. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. The man who wasn’t an orderly was going to kill me. I was going to die, smothered to death feet away from my grandfather’s door.
Always. Always. Always. He’d been lying to me from the beginning—snapping pictures of me and sending them to Ivy.
Pictures she’d kept.
I didn’t realize until I felt a sharp pain in my hand that I was digging my nails into my palm.
“You look skinny.” Gramps pushed himself to stand—slowly, painstakingly. “Doesn’t your sister feed you?”
I wrapped my arms around my middle, when all I wanted was to wrap them around him. “She’s not my sister.”
He saved me the work of reaching out to him by pulling me forward and into his arms. His callused hand stroked the back of my head. “I know.”
CHAPTER 54
That first day in Boston was my grandfather’s best day, like the universe had seen fit to give him clarity where I had none. The next day wasn’t as good. The day after that was worse.
Sometimes, he knew who I was.
Sometimes, he didn’t.
One day, we played checkers. He won. The next day, we played chess. I won. I could almost pretend that coming to Boston had been my decision, that the fact that Bodie slept by the door and paid for our motel room with cash meant nothing.
But.
But then I would think about Henry and wonder if he had someone watching out for him. I would think about Vivvie and whether anyone had explained to her why I had to go.
I didn’t let myself think about Ivy at all.
I filled my days with chess and checkers. My nights filled themselves with nightmares and phantoms—throats slashed and bullet holes and the president and the First Lady dancing a waltz.
On our fourth day in Boston, I was futilely attempting to assemble a full deck of cards so Gramps and I could play poker, when someone turned the television in the community room from an old Clark Gable movie to the news. I tuned it out as background noise until I heard someone say the name Edmund Pierce.
My fingers closed around a card—the nine of spades—and my eyes shot to the television screen.
“Supreme Court hopeful Edmund Pierce was found dead in his Phoenix home this morning.”
Pierce’s picture stared out at me from the screen. You’ll get your money when I get my nomination. I could hear Pierce saying those words. I could see it.
“While no official word has been released in Judge Pierce’s death, early reports suggest an aneurysm.” The news anchor on the screen had a naturally serious expression, perfect for delivering this kind of news. “Pierce was rumored to be the front-runner for President Nolan’s nomination to the Supreme Court following the death of Chief Justice Theodore Marquette earlier this month. No word from the White House yet on how this might . . .”
Someone changed the channel, and just like that, we were back to Clark Gable. I set the card in my hand down and made for the lobby and the closest exterior door. Bodie saw me go by and followed me out.
“Pierce is dead,” I told him, waiting until the door had slammed shut behind me and I’d sucked in a breath of fresh air to force out the words.
Bodie narrowed his eyes. “Heart attack?” he guessed, his eyes darkening.
“Aneurysm.”
Bodie pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He took a cigarette out of the package, rolling it back and forth between the tips of his fingers.
This is too much of a coincidence, I thought. I could tell from the look on Bodie’s face that he was thinking the same thing: in all likelihood, Pierce hadn’t died of an aneurysm any more than Justice Marquette had died because of unforeseen complications during surgery.
“Vivvie thinks her father might have been murdered,” I said, studying Bodie’s reaction to those words.
“Vivvie’s a smart girl,” Bodie replied. In other words, he thought she was right.
“I need to call her,” I said. “I need to call Henry.”
“Easy there, slugger.”
“This isn’t a joke, Bodie.”
He threw the cigarette down on the ground and crushed the tip underneath his toe. “I ain’t joking.”
I knew that. “Who’s doing this?” I asked him quietly.
“Your sister would tell you to stay out of it.”
She’s not my sister.
“But as far as I can tell,” Bodie continued languidly, “you’d take being told to stay out of it as an invitation to frolic gaily in a field full of it. All it, all the time. You and Ivy are too much alike.”
I turned into the wind, determined not to flinch.
“Who’s doing this?” Bodie repeated my question. “If you assume the good doctor’s death wasn’t a suicide—and I think, at this point, that’s a safe bet—I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training. Special Forces, most likely, possibly military intelligence.”
Bodie’s phone rang. Ivy. I knew it was her, the way you know the protagonist of a horror movie really shouldn’t go down into that basement. Bodie took the call, then nodded at me to go back inside.
I made my way back down the hall toward my grandfather’s room.
I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training.
I thought about the fact that Ivy had been at Camp David that weekend. She’d pointed out just how much I didn’t know—who’d taken the picture, who’d been standing right outside the frame.
Who else was there the day Bharani and Pierce met? My breaths got slightly shallower. Was Adam? Adam’s father was the one who’d organized the retreat.
Had Adam been at the Keyes Foundation gala?
I’d say we’re looking for someone with military training. Bodie’s words dogged my every step. Special Forces, most likely, possibly military intelligence.
Adam was Air Force. Adam worked at the Pentagon.
No. I rounded the corner. There was an orderly outside my grandfather’s room, his arms stacked high with blankets. Adam isn’t involved. He’s not. One of the blankets tumbled off the orderly’s stack. Trying not to think about Adam—or Ivy or Pierce or any of it—I bent to pick up the blanket.
“Here—”
The orderly surged forward, slamming blankets into my face, cutting off the flow of air to my lungs as he pulled me tight against his body. Not an orderly.
Not Adam. That should have been a relief—but it wasn’t. Too big to be Adam. Too tall. I struggled. Too strong. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. The man who wasn’t an orderly was going to kill me. I was going to die, smothered to death feet away from my grandfather’s door.
