“Look,” he said. “You take every precaution to try to prevent disaster—”
“Knowing you may fail,” she cut in, recalling his exact words.
“You got it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?” she said.
“You don’t agree?”
“It doesn’t exactly help. It’s just a very dark vision. Pretty extreme.”
“Is it? You’ve got kids; I don’t. Aren’t parents always reassuring their kids there’s no monster under the bed?”
She just gave him her skeptical look. When she did it on the bench, she unnerved whichever lawyer she aimed it at. But Hersh seemed unmoved. “Well, guess what. You’ve been lying to them and to yourself. Hell, yeah, you bet your ass there’s monsters under the bed.”
Juliana shook her head.
“One day you step into the elevator and it’s just a shaft,” he said. “One day you take a slip and fall and you hit your head, right? And you’re never the same. Or one day that little tiny filament in your head just pops, right? And for the rest of your life you’re dragging the left side of your body around like it’s a corpse.”
“It’s always possible.”
“Friend of mine, a lovely man, woke up one day with the worst headache he’d ever had. And when he went to the hospital he learned he had inoperable brain cancer.” He shrugged. “How do you explain that?”
“Shit happens.”
“That’s the reality of it.”
“Is it?”
“Yep. That’s the reality. Which is that we’re all standing on a thin, fraying crust above a deep pool of magma. We’re one random fissure away from being incinerated. One day the car behind you doesn’t stop and you’re smashing your windshield with your skull. A sniper in a hotel room with an assault rifle and a grudge, half a block away, starts shooting out the window. Whatever. Shit happens, and complete control is always an illusion, the way I figure. There’s always magma underfoot.”
“O-kaay,” she said.
“But what do I know?”
“And how is this supposed to help?”
“Thing is, you can’t live this way,” Hersh said, a little more softly. “The only way we get through life is by looking away. Wresting our attention away from the fact that there’s always sharks in the water. Or the hellmouth might open right in front of you. You can’t think about it. You have to will yourself not to know.”
“Thanks for the inspirational lecture,” she said.
“Now, in answer to your question. Should you be afraid? Damned if I know. I mean, I assume Sanchez was a risk that had to be eliminated.”
“Because?”
“Maybe they were afraid he wasn’t reliable. That he might tell you too much.”
She didn’t like thinking this way, but it couldn’t be avoided. “So... what does that mean for me or for my family?”
“I think you know how I feel.”
“Great,” she said with a bitter twist of a smile. “What about that guy who threatened me — the janitor?”
“He’s an ex-Marine sergeant, dishonorably discharged.”
“Okay.”
“Name is Donald Greaves. Certified level two in Russian kettlebells.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a beast. Employed as a contractor for Fidelis.”
“Fidelis?”
“One of the big security companies. Fidelis Integrated Security.”
“So he’s hired muscle.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Hired by Wheelz.”
He shrugged. “Not necessarily.”
“Then can you find out who he’s working for?”
“All I can do is try.”
“You said dishonorably discharged. Any idea why?”
“Not yet. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“I want everything you can get on this guy.”
“Everything? Like where he went to high school? Instagram pictures of his dog?”
“Everything.”
“Do my best.”
She gave him a long, steady look. “You say there’s no guarantees, you can’t promise, you may fail — I don’t like hearing that.”
Another shrug. “I’m not going to lie. I never lie to a client. This isn’t someone you want to mess with.”
32
Martie Connolly had sent down for dinner from the Ritz kitchen: beef tenderloin with braised leeks and mashed potatoes served in silver domes. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to have company for dinner,” she said.
“If I have to be kicked out of my own house, I can’t think of a better crash pad,” Juliana said.
But it was more than a crash pad. It felt like a sanctuary. Up here on the twenty-third floor, with security guards at the entrance, she decided she was safe, for the moment. But she didn’t feel safe. In some part of her mind, a shadow-puppet theater was playing out scenes in which faceless figures menaced her kids, her husband, anybody she cared about. Really, it was more like one of those endlessly repeating GIFs: she imagined black-clad figures emerging with outstretched, taloned claws.
When she became a mother, she realized that her children would always be phantom limbs. That wherever they were, however far away, they’d feel attached to her, a source of vulnerability. Being a mom meant she could never turn off the phone. And now she herself had raised the family’s threat level. To come after her, her enemies could well come after them. She felt her mind eddying in anxiety.
“As long as you want, honey, as long as you want.” She poured them each a glass of pinot noir. “So has Philip found you a way out of this?”
“No. Not yet. But it’s become clear to me that the documents Wheelz is trying to suppress have to do with the ownership of the company.”
“They’re trying to conceal it for some reason?”
“It looks that way.”
“Why is it a big secret?”
“I don’t know. Philip doesn’t know. He’s looking into it.”
Martie looked off into some middle distance and spoke almost to herself. “So if you allow them to exclude the chats, or some of the chats, whatever they want, you’re off the hook. But if you don’t, they’re going to release that little movie.”
Juliana nodded, cut a piece of tenderloin, chewed thoughtfully.
“So the death of this lawyer gives you an opportunity to delay your decision,” Martie said. “Buy yourself more time. String this out.”
“Yes. Good idea.” She took a sip of wine. “I got a call from that Globe columnist Austin Bream.”
“Avoid at all costs. What does he want?”
Juliana’s phone suddenly launched into the distinctive, bubbly, syncopated Skype ringtone. “It’s Ashley, calling me back. Hold on.” What time was it in Namibia? Six hours later, so it was after midnight. She’d been trying to reach Ashley but couldn’t get through.
She answered the call. “Ash, is everything good with you?”
“What do you mean? Of course.”
“I... I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Mom, what happened?”
“What happened what?”
“Jake told me you moved out!”
“Sweetie, it’s nothing permanent.”
“That’s not what it sounds like. Are you and Dad getting divorced?”
“Oh, sweetie, no, no... We just needed to take some time apart.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing serious. We’ll talk when the time is right, you and me, okay? Who’s that in the background?” She’d heard a male voice, sounding close by.
“That’s Jens.”
“And who’s Jens?”
“He’s the director of the mission. He’s Danish. He’s amazing.”
“Are you — seeing him?”
“‘Seeing him’? What’s that supposed to mean?”