There were paradoxical assumptions among cops concerning undercover work. It was death on marriages and relationships; half your support team wasted no time believing you were dirty; it was dangerous and frightening and lonely and made you paranoid. It was also a constant question in every cop's mind-what would it be like? As one of the high-mark achievements in the profession, akin to the gold shield or the special weapons teams, it also stood apart from them, teasing like a dangerous double dare-a knife edge between destruction and the ultimate high.
Except for moments like this.
Longing for sleep, unable to nod off, Sam began wondering if the real peril of undercover work lay less in the danger and deceit, and more in the subtle corrosiveness of believing you could take on two separate personalities.
Having almost gone to bed with Manuel Ruiz was bad enough. Wondering when she might face such a choice again-perhaps a more lethal one-and knowing now that she could make the wrong decision, that was truly destabilizing.
She was going to have to watch Greta as never before.
Chapter 16
George Backer sat comfortably at the metal table in the interrogation room, an amused expression on his face, as if he were listening to a friend's long-winded tall tale after a satisfying meal. Instead, sitting opposite him, were Peter Bullis and Lester Spinney.
Bullis was doing the talking. "George, you do understand these rights as I've explained them to you, right? If you talk to us, it's by your own free will."
"Sure," George said. "Like I said, I'd sooner deal with you direct. But I am gonna get a deal. I mean, that's the understanding. I want that part straight."
"You'll get a deal," Bullis said vaguely.
"A 'get out of jail free card'?" George asked, smiling.
"What do you think?"
He laughed. "Well, doesn't hurt to ask. You could've lied just then."
"We're professionals, George, you and me. That deserves some respect."
George looked satisfied. "Cool." He pointed casually at the mirrored window overlooking the room. "Then maybe the lawyer standing behind that thing can come in here and tell me exactly what we're talking about, 'cause, professional or not, I know you guys don't call the shots, and you'll lie your asses off to make me think different."
"You been watching too much TV, Schemer," Peter told him, flattering him with the use of his nickname. "We don't have the time or the money to have a prosecutor stare at you being a wiseass."
"I thought we were getting along so good, too," the young man responded. "Guess I'll have to clam up, then."
"I wonder, George," Lester Spinney said. "What cards do you think you're holding right now? Just out of curiosity."
Backer made an equivocal face. "I've got a lot to offer. I told you that. Now, we're sitting here, one of me and two of you. You're not a local, like Detective Bullis here, or I'd know you. Maybe you're federal, maybe not, but you're fancy somehow. That means you want to deal. Also means you carry weight."
Spinney glanced at Bullis, who shrugged. "Yeah, I do," he admitted. "What charges do you think you're looking at?"
Backer paused a moment. "B and E?"
Spinney nodded. "Yup. That and possession of stolen property, possession of a controlled substance, possession with intent to distribute, and probably conspiracy to commit, based on how you usually work with others on these deals. We can turn this into a federal rap on the quantity of drugs alone. Not to mention we got you locked into a few dozen other break-ins."
George Backer's eyes narrowed, his poise disturbed. "You can't make all that stick. Half of it's bullshit."
Lester looked unconvinced. "I don't know. You're the one who said I carry weight. You realize I have my very own prosecutor? And we have an amazing relationship with a whole bunch of judges. We could send you up for years. I would personally make a project out of it-maybe to make a point that not everybody gets off light in Vermont."
Backer pressed his lips together, feeling less sure of himself. "Why all the heat? I told you I'd deal."
"Because," Bullis spoke up again, pointing at Lester, "while you may not know him, I do know you, George, and I know how you.play the odds. That's been okay in the past-we all know the game. But this is outside the game. You need to realize that. I want you to fully understand that if you hold anything back, if you create any little fiction, the consequences will be very hard. Remember you commenting that this gentleman might be federal? The feds ain't Vermont, and when they send you up, it won't be to one of the sandlots around here."
Backer crossed his arms and slumped in his chair. "This is nuts. I told you I'd deal."
Lester Spinney gave him a wide smile. "Then let's get started."
* * *
Gail Zigman woke with a start, her body tense, her eyes wide, trying against common sense to see through the darkness surrounding her. Out of habit, after years of similar paranoid awakenings, she simultaneously reached under the bed for the handgun Joe had taught her to use and glanced at the security control panel mounted next to her bed. One red light was silently blinking on and off, indicating a breach. Somewhere a door or window was open.
There'd been a time when both the hardware and her reliance on it would have seemed an absurdity. One of the appeals of the area was its sense of serenity. She knew people in Vermont who had no idea where their front door keys were-hadn't used them in years.
But the rape had taught her otherwise. Late at night, in the presumed safety of her own home, she'd been reeducated. Now she had a gun, multiple locks, powerful motion detection lights outside, and a high-end security system connecting her directly to the police.
Except that ever since Debbie moved in, Gail hadn't turned all of it on. The girl had complained that the system made her feel like she was in prison, that Gail obviously didn't trust her enough to let her come and go at will.
Against her better judgment, Gail had acceded to the young woman's demands.
She now lay very still in bed, listening, wondering what it was that had bolted her from sleep.
She heard nothing. Only she and Debbie were in the house. Rachel had announced earlier she'd be sleeping at the hospital. And Gail couldn't swear to Debbie's whereabouts.
She slipped out from under the covers, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and, gun in hand, stepped out into the carpeted hallway.
Her bedroom was on the second story, the main staircase to the left at the end of the hall. She moved slowly, keeping next to the wall, hoping the floor wouldn't squeak there.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped to catch her breath, shifted the gun from one hand to the other, and wiped her sweaty palm against her leg. Before her, the staircase fell away like a plunge into a well. She started down.
At the bottom, she finally heard something, not much more than the soft hissing of an object being pulled along a polished hardwood floor.
Only then did she think about calling 911. Why she hadn't earlier confused her at first, until she acknowledged what her subconscious had apparently already suspected-that this might have something to do with her recently adopted ward.
Taking slim comfort in that possibility, she put the gun into her back pocket, happy to be rid of it, and continued very quietly toward the source of the muted noise, still fighting the panic inside her.
From the living room door, she saw two shadows outlined against the open doors to the deck, each at one end of a large, square black void they were struggling to push across the floor. She could hear them breathing with the effort.
She also recognized one of the shadows.