Kealey kept moving forward. Intellectually, he knew that the man was dead, but some part of him didn’t register that fact. He fired round after round until his gun was empty, and even then he kept squeezing the trigger, aware that he was shouting at the top of his lungs, but unaware of what he was saying. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. Will Vanderveen was gone, but there was nothing to celebrate. Kealey would have given anything to turn back the clock just a few minutes; he would have let the man live forever if it meant keeping Naomi out of harm’s way.
Unfortunately, it was too late for that now.
It was too late for a lot of things.
A sudden movement to his right caught his attention. Kealey turned to see that the man had moved away from the RAV4 and was now pointing a gun at his chest, saying something and waving his free arm in a downward motion. Kealey couldn’t seem to hear the words for some reason, but he understood that he was being told to lose the weapon and get on the ground. He considered this request from a distance, thought about complying, then decided against it. He was starting to feel dizzy, his limbs turning to water. Looking down, he saw that the blood was rapidly spreading around the wound in his left arm; in fact, it was spreading at an alarming rate.
He realized that Vanderveen’s final round had severed his brachial artery. The wound was starting to throb, but just as the pain settled in, everything else went away.
He felt himself start to fall, tumbling into a black void.
And then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 57
LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA
From all outward appearances, the eighteenth-century, three-story manor house at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains was just another site of modest historical merit, no different from the many similar properties scattered throughout the Virginia countryside. No Monticello, this, but a pleasant environment nonetheless, the kind of place that, in other circumstances, might play host to fourth graders on field trips or families in search of a cheap, educational day in the country.
Such visits, however, had never transpired, nor would they, for despite its unspectacular history, Windrush Manor was much more than it seemed.
First constructed in 1770 by William Fitzhugh, an American planter and delegate to the Continental Congress in 1779, the house was willed to Fitzhugh’s cousin by letter in 1825, along with 100 acres comprising the grounds. The property was then handed down through a succession of sons and daughters until 1976, when it was quietly purchased by an outside party: Richard Helms, the former director of Central Intelligence. Over the next few years, extensive modifications were made to the building’s interior. Then, in 1979, the government signed a fifty-year lease on the property. Although tax records indicated otherwise, Helms never received —nor requested — financial compensation of any kind. When Helms passed away in 2002, the property was willed to a like-minded, closemouthed supporter of the intelligence community, and everything continued as normal.
Since 1979, Windrush Manor had been a place for U.S. intelligence officers injured in the line of duty to convalesce, a place so secret that listing it with the Virginia Historical Society or a similar institution was no longer possible, for the property was no longer known to anyone who might conceive of doing so. Nestled deep within the Virginia Piedmont, Windrush was accessible only by a single service road. Wayward motorists occasionally found their way to the main gate, but when they did, they saw nothing that might give them cause for alarm, just a pair of watchful security guards, the kind of minimal protection often employed by wealthy, reclusive private citizens. The security was designed to be effective, but not obtrusive. The various electronic countermeasures scattered throughout the surrounding forest were just as efficient, and just as invisible. In short, Windrush was the kind of place that the U.S. government would never admit to knowing about, simply because it would never be forced to.
It was just after 1:00 PM when a black GMC Yukon rolled up to the service entrance just off US
421. The window came down with a whisper, and the driver produced his Agency credentials.
The guards were not alarmed in the least, as this particular visitor was himself a recently discharged patient. He had left the manor two weeks earlier, but had visited every day since.
Used to seeing his face, the guards would have preferred to let him pass without delay, but rules were rules. They called up to the small command post in the house, where another officer turned away from his microwaved lasagna and checked the list. Approval was given, and the driver was waved through.
The Yukon rose and fell over a series of gentle hills, the engine’s low rumble breaking the afternoon quiet, tires hissing on the damp, black ribbon road. The oak and hickory trees passing by were skeletal and absent of color, their bark stripped bare by foraging deer. After several miles the trees broke and the house appeared. The Yukon turned off the main road, the tires crunching on gravel as it rolled to a stop, the engine shutting off. Then the door swung open and Ryan Kealey stepped out, dressed in jeans, a black roll-neck sweater, and a corduroy barn jacket.
He took a moment to look around, breathing in the cold air, appraising the low gray clouds that scudded along the wintry sky. It was the first week of November, and a heavy snow had fallen two days earlier, freezing the millpond and blanketing the ground with a layer of clean white powder. The manor house, with its whitewashed fieldstone walls, almost looked like an extension of the ground, save for the wood shingle roof. Smoke curled out of the twin stone chimneys, the gray haze drifting east on a cold, steady breeze.
Kealey walked up the path to the banded oak door, aware of a black Suburban sitting off to his right. The engine was running, along with the heater, he guessed. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but as he moved forward, he shot a quick glance through the windshield. He was surprised to see a man he recognized. It was Harper’s longtime driver, apparently recovered from his bout with the flu. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the vehicle, and looking around, he saw no sign of the other man. Kealey decided he was probably inside.
He knocked on the door and was admitted by Jean Everett, the head nurse. Everett was in her early forties, with blond hair going to gray and a kind, careworn face. She smiled at him and held out her arms for the flowers he was carrying. It had become a kind of daily ritual; she would accept the flowers he brought, find a vase and some water, then send him away with a gentle apology and a plea for a little more time. Kealey knew she did not bring the flowers upstairs until he was gone, as she didn’t want to give him the chance to explore the house. It was not a subtle gesture, but he couldn’t despise her for it; he knew she was just looking out for her patient.
“How is she?” he asked. It was another part of their ritual, and he received the expected response.
“Getting better. Healing.” She smiled again, but there was a trace of sadness there. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought this woman had lobbied on his behalf. “She’s eating a little bit more, which is a good thing. She went outside yesterday after you left, and I think that helped.”
“I’m glad,” Kealey said. There was the habitual awkward pause. “Will she see me?”