Jonathan gasped.
Venice said, “I don’t understand. I thought the codes were fakes. You said they were nuclear paperweights.”
“They are. Except we left a back door in the coding software that would allow us to make them active again, just in case.”
“In case of what?” Venice said.
“In case we don’t have enough friggin’ world crises,” Boxers said. “You feds amaze me. If the world takes a step away from the abyss for just a few seconds, one of you steps in to push it closer again.”
“Easy, Box,” Jonathan said.
“Don’t tell me to take it easy,” Big Guy snapped. “Somewhere toward the end of this discussion, she’s going to ask us to undo this mess, and you’re going to say yes, because it’s what you always do. I’ve earned the right to bitch about it, because that’s what I always do.” He turned back to Maryanne. “And how the hell did he get ahold of these codes?”
“We think the CIA gave them to him.”
“Holy shit!” Boxers exclaimed.
“Why the hell would they do that?” Jonathan asked.
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure that’s the case, but that’s where the evidence points.”
“Pretty incendiary guess.”
Maryanne shifted her legs again. She wasn’t going to expound, and Jonathan wasn’t inclined to press too hard. Yet. “So, that’s a lot of moving parts,” he said. “If the Mitchells were going to hand over the codes, why would the Chechens hit them?”
“Who said it was the Chechens?” Maryanne asked. The speed of the delivery led Jonathan to believe that she’d been waiting for the opportunity. “For all we know, it could be the Russians in an effort to keep the codes out of the bad guys’ hands. For that to be the case, though—”
“Somebody on our side of the pond would have had to tip them off,” Jonathan said, completing her statement.
“Exactly. That could mean CIA, State, or even, I’m sorry to say, the Bureau.”
“Which is why you’re soliciting help from us instead of from the normal channels,” Jonathan said. “You don’t know who to trust.”
Maryanne confirmed by arching her eyebrows.
“Ah, crap,” Boxers said.
CHAPTER SIX
Jolaine didn’t like the way the night clerk at the Hummingbird Inn looked at her as he entered her name into the computer. His name tag read Hi, I’m Carl, and she saw in his expression equal parts suspicion and anger, covered by a thin glaze of false pleasantness. “Just the one night?” he asked.
“I think so,” Jolaine said. She’d presented herself as Marcia Bernard — the only name she could think of off the top of her head. “There’s a chance we might extend, but I think it will be just the one night.” She knew she was talking too much — always her habit when nervous.
Carl took forever to open the screen and type in her information. He’d asked for her identification, but she’d told him that she’d left it in the car and didn’t want to go back out to get it. In a place like the Hummingbird Inn, she figured there were many guests who happened not to have identification, and she’d wager that most of them were named Smith or Doe.
“Is that a young boy I see out there in the car?” the clerk asked, straining to see past her shoulder.
“My brother,” she said.
“And what’s his name?”
Jolaine hesitated.
“I need it for the record,” he clarified.
“Tommy,” she said. When in doubt, keep the lies simple.
Carl’s eyes narrowed. And he didn’t type the name.
“Is there something wrong?” Jolaine asked. “You seem… bothered.”
“No,” he said, and he started typing. Then he stopped. “Actually, yes, and I don’t know how to say this without insulting you. Still, it’s got to be said.”
Jolaine waited for it.
“I know it might not look like it, but I run a reputable place here. Always have. Time was, when my daddy started it, this motel was one of the premier inns on this whole strip of highway. Then the Interstates came through, and, well, you know that story. Every secondary road in the whole damn country knows that story.”
“I don’t think I understand—”
“The Hummingbird is not that kind of motel.”
She still didn’t get it. He nodded toward the car, and then she did. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “He’s fourteen years old! And you’re damn right it’s insulting. He’s my little brother!” There’s a certain skill in pulling off righteous indignation and a bald-faced lie at the same time. She thought she’d done well.
Carl held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Like I said, I didn’t mean to be insulting, but sometimes, you’ve just got to be sure.”
Jolaine felt heat in her cheeks. All she needed was to get some sleep, and for that, all she needed was a key.
Carl reached to the board behind him and plucked a key off a hook. It was the old-fashioned kind — a real key with a plastic fob dangling from it that displayed the logo of the Hummingbird Inn.
“Here you go,” he said. “Room twenty-four. Last one down on the left.”
As her hand touched the door to leave, Carl said, “Excuse me, miss, but what did you say your brother’s name was again?”
Oh, shit. It was a trap, and it was well played. “Thank you, Carl.”
Back in the car, Graham was awake now, though still unfocused.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Napoleon, Ohio. We’re going to stay here tonight.”
“I need clothes.”
“I know. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.” You’d have clothes if you’d listened to me back at the house.
Jolaine slipped the transmission into drive and eased the Mercedes down the line of rooms to the parking space in front of number 24. When she parked, Graham sat quietly, staring straight ahead, through the windshield, but at a point in space that was far beyond anything she could see.
“Time to go in and go to bed,” she said.
He didn’t move.
“Graham?”
He pulled the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. They met in front of the bumper and walked together to the assigned door.
The motel room bore the motif of classic roadside dump. The steel door hadn’t been painted in many years, and the jamb had swollen to the point that she needed to give the door a shot with her hip to get it to open. The two double beds were separated by a nightstand whose lamp came to life when Jolaine hit the light switch just inside the door, on the wall with the big window to the parking lot.
“Not so bad,” Jolaine said. “Not for one night, anyway.” She stepped aside and let Graham pass.
He took two steps inside and stopped. She followed and closed the door. Now that it was just the two of them, and she could see him without the distraction of gunfire or a medical crisis, her heart sagged. He looked so young, so skinny and vulnerable. He needed a hug, but from someone else. He needed his parents.
From where he stood in front of the open bathroom door, he could see his reflection in the mirror, and then he looked down at himself as if to confirm what the image showed. Despite a fast and halfhearted effort to wash at the doctor’s house, his arms and his chest were still smeared with his mother’s blood.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked without eye contact. “They’re both dead.” He turned to look at Jolaine. “Aren’t they?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. It was the truth and this was no time for conjecture. She took a step closer and put her hand on his shoulder. “You should take a shower. Clean up.”