“No he’s not.”
“He was murdered in St. Malo two days ago.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I was with him.”
She chewed her lip for a moment then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Tell me.”
Not now, Briggs thought. She’s not ready. “We don’t know yet. They asked me to find you. A lot of people are worried about you.”
“They told you what I’m doing?”
“Yes. He’s dangerous, Susanna.”
She barked out a laugh; there was no humor in it. “Really? Gosh, that’s news.”
“What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“With him … doing my job.”
“You’ve done enough. Come back with me. I’ll take care of Litzman.”
“I’ll come back when I’m finished.”
“Susanna, you’re in trouble. I know you don’t think so, but you’ve got to trust me—”
“I said no. Stay out of my way. I’ve almost got him. I’m close.”
“To what? What’s he up to?”
Susanna glanced at him, her expression puzzled. “Up to?”
Tanner got the impression his question had never crossed her mind before that moment. “Who’s he working for? What’s he doing for them?”
“I don’t know … I’m working on it.”
What the hell is going on? “You’ve been under for nine months, Susanna. What have you been doing?”
“Getting close to him.”
“How?”
She glanced down at her body, gestured to her face. “How do you think?”
Tanner felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He reached out a hand to her, but she backed up. “Don’t.”
“Susanna—”
“Just leave me alone. Go home, tell everyone I’m fine, and let me finish this.”
“What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing I didn’t let him do. What’s it matter? Once I get him, none of it will matter.”
“Yes, it will. I’ve been where you are. You’re in trouble. Let me help you.”
“Don’t need it. See you.” She turned and started walking away.
“Susanna.”
She turned. “What?”
“I’m not going to let you go.”
“Yeah? What’re you gonna do? Put me over your shoulder, take me home to Daddy?”
Tanner took a step forward, crowding her space. He put an edge to his voice. “If that’s what it takes. Either way, you’re done.”
She stared back at him for a few seconds. Her eyes began filling with tears. “Don’t, Briggs. Please. I can do this — I have to do it. Please … just a few more days.”
“Why, Susanna? What’s so important?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, raked her hands through her hair. “What’s so important?” she repeated. “You ever think about Bucharest? About my father?”
“Almost every day. What—”
“No, I mean do you ever wonder what really happened?”
“He was shot, you know that. No one ever found—”
“I did,” Susanna replied. “I found him. It was Litzman, Briggs. He’s the one.”
“What?”
“Litzman was the one who shot my father. And when this is all over, I’m going to kill the son of a bitch.”
21
Selmani Hekuran and Amelia Root were dead.
The explosion had strewn pieces of the shack a quarter mile in every direction and left a truck-sized crater in the ground. Vegetation and trees around the crater were charred and stripped bare.
So far all that had been found of Selmani was a blackened chunk of hip bone. Mrs. Root’s body, however, had been found floating in the inlet, mostly intact but burned beyond recognition. According to the medical examiner, the hood she’d been wearing was a rayon/polyester blend and the heat of the explosion had virtually melted it to her skull.
Oliver’s team was shell-shocked. Having come to rescue a woman they’d never met, they’d nonetheless invested everything they had in securing her safe release. She was dead. They’d failed. A husband had lost his wife.
McBride in particular was heartbroken. He’d been within arm’s reach of her. She’d been right there—scared, alone, listening to the voice of a stranger pleading for her life … Her husband is worried. If I could tell him I’d heard her voice …
Again and again, McBride replayed his encounter with Selmani, second-guessing his every word and gesture until the incident became a blur. He wanted to go home, hug Libby, call his sons. He wanted to be sure his world was still intact.
Not yet, he told himself. There was one more thing to do.
After showering, shaving, and changing clothes at Nester’s house, McBride drove to Lancaster, thirteen miles to the north. He found the county morgue on the corner of East King and South Broad, tucked between an Irish pub and a pizza parlor. McBride hated morgues. For him, they were places of failure. For him, coming here had always meant a mother, father, husband, or wife wasn’t coming home safely.
He found a parking space and got out just as Oliver pulled in. “Get any sleep?” Oliver asked.
“Couple hours,” McBride replied. “You?”
“Nah. Things like this … I don’t even try anymore. I spent most of the night at the scene.”
“Did they come up with anything?”
“The device. Ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel residue.”
“Fertilzer bomb.”
“A big one — it was overkill. Either Selmani underestimated, mismeasured, or just plain wanted to make damned sure. They also found a chunk of what looks like a cell phone.”
“What about the others, his partners?”
“That’s going to be tough. My guess is, there’ll be a task force. This is Jonathan Root we’re talking about. They’re going to chase these guys to the ends of the earth.”
“I’d like to be in on that.”
“Me, too, but I doubt it’ll happen. Nobody’s blaming us, but the truth is, we’re bad karma now. We’ll consult, get debriefed, but the group’s gonna be at assistant director level.”
McBride sighed. “I’m sorry, Collin. I keep playing it in my head. Maybe if—”
“You did everything right—we did everything right. Selmani panicked and pushed the button.”
“I guess.” McBride glanced at his watch. “How soon?”
“Anytime now. The governor’s picking him up personally and driving him over.” Upon hearing of his wife’s death, Jonathan Root had demanded to see the body. McBride and Oliver had done their best to dissuade the former DO, but the man had been adamant. “The ME’s done his best to make her presentable,” Oliver said, “but I don’t think Root realizes how bad it is. It just hasn’t registered yet.”
They sat in the waiting room sipping tepid coffee until Root arrived. Preceded by the governor and a ring of bodyguards, the former DCI stepped through the door and looked around. McBride and Oliver stood up. Root walked over.
He looks bewildered, McBride thought. His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant. It had taken every bit of strength he had to make it here, Joe realized.
“Good morning, Mr. Root,” Oliver said.
“Agent Oliver … Joe.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” McBride said.
“Thank you.”
“I wish it would have turned out better.”
“As do I. You did your best, both of you. I know that. I’m sure Amelia knew it, too.”
Oh God, McBride thought. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“May I see her now?”
The Lancaster ME stepped forward. “Yes, sir, of course, but as I said, it’s not necessary.”