of the Trace for a couple of years. After she moved on, he’d seen her face on the back of a bestselling mystery novel set on the Trace. The place seemed to touch everyone who spent time here.
“What are you thinking, Doctor?”
He was thinking about Darryl Foster, and what Foster had told him about Alexandra Morse. Chris didn’t want to bluntly challenge her, but he did want to know how honest she was being with him.
“From the moment we met,” he said, looking into her green eyes, “you’ve been digging into my personal life. I want to dig into yours for a minute.”
He could almost see the walls going up. But at length she nodded assent. What choice did she have?
“Your scars,” he said. “I can tell they’re recent. I want to know how you got them.”
She turned away and stared down at the rippling sand beneath the surface of the water. When she finally spoke, it was in a voice that had surrendered something. Gone was the professional authority, yet in its place was a raw sincerity that told him he was hearing something very like the truth.
“There was a man,” she said. “A man I worked with at the Bureau. His name was James Broadbent. People called him Jim, but he preferred James. They often assigned him to protect me at hostage scenes. He … he was in love with me. I really cared for him, too, but he was married. Two kids. We were never intimate, but even if we had been, he would never have left his family. Never. You understand?”
Chris nodded.
She looked back down at the water. “I was a good hostage negotiator, Doctor. Some said the best ever. In five years I never lost a hostage. That’s rare. But last December …” Morse faltered, then found the thread again. “My father was killed trying to stop a robbery. Two months later, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Very advanced, and you know what that means.”
“I’m sorry.”
Morse shrugged. “I sort of lost it after that. Only I didn’t know it, see? My dad had raised me to be tough, so that’s what I tried to be. ‘Never quit,’ that’s the Morse motto. From Winston Churchill to my father and right down to me.”
Chris nodded with as much empathy as he could.
“I’m getting to the scars, I promise,” she said. “Nine weeks ago, I was called to a hostage scene at a bank. Not a normal bank. A Federal Reserve bank in D.C. Sixteen hostages inside, most of them employees. A lot of suits at the Bureau had the idea this was a terrorist attack. Others thought it was about money. It could have been both—a sophisticated robbery raising capital for terrorist operations. But my gut told me it was something else. The leader spoke with an Arabic accent, but it didn’t sound real to me. He was angry, maybe schizophrenic. He had a lot of rage toward the government. I could tell he’d experienced loss in the recent past, like a lot of people who try something extreme.” Morse gave Chris a tight smile. “Like me, you’re thinking? Anyway, an associate deputy director named Dodson had overall command, and he didn’t give me enough time to do my job. I had a real chance to talk the leader down without anyone firing a shot. All my experience and instinct told me that. And there were sixteen lives at stake, you know? But there was a lot of pressure from above, this being Washington in its post-9/11 mind-set. So Dodson jerked me out of there and ordered in the HRT.”
Chris saw that she was reliving the memory as she recounted the events. She’d probably been over it a million times in the privacy of her head, but how many times had she spoken of it to someone else?
“There was no way to resolve the situation with snipers. It had to be an explosive entry, which meant extreme risk to the hostages. I couldn’t accept that. So I marched right back through the cordon and into the bank. My people were screaming at me, but I barely heard them. Some HRT guys didn’t get the word in time, and they blew the doors and windows just as I reached the lobby. Flash-bang-crash grenades, the works.” Morse touched her scarred cheek as though feeling the injury for the first time. “One of the robbers shot me from behind a plate-glass partition. I caught shards mostly, but what I didn’t know was that James had followed me into the bank. When I was hit, he looked down at me instead of up for the shooter, which was what he should have done. His feelings for me were stronger than his training. And they train us hard, you know?” Morse wiped her face as though to brush away cobwebs, but Chris saw the glint of tears.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out and squeezing her arm. “It’s okay.”
She shook her head with surprising violence. “No, it’s not. Maybe someday it will be, but right now it’s not.”
“I know one thing,” Chris said. “In the shape you’re in, you don’t need to be working a murder case. You need a medical leave.”
Morse laughed strangely. “I’m on medical leave now.”
As he looked down at her, everything suddenly came clear. Her deep fatigue, her obsessiveness, the thousand-yard stare of a shell-shocked soldier … “You’re on your own, aren’t you?”
She shook her head again, but her chin was quivering.
“You say I a lot more than you say we.”
Morse bit her bottom lip, then squinted as though against bright sunlight.
“Is that how it is?” he asked gently. “Are you alone?”
When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet with more than rain. “Pretty much. The truth is, almost everything I’ve done beginning five weeks ago was unauthorized. They’d fire me if they knew.”
Chris whistled long and low. “Jesus Christ.”
She took him by the wrists and spoke with fierce conviction. “You’re my last shot, Dr. Shepard. My no-shit last shot.”
“Last shot at what?”
“Stopping these people. Proving what they’ve done.”
“Look,” he said awkwardly, “if everything you’ve told me is true, why isn’t the FBI involved?”
Frustration hardened her face. “A dozen reasons, none of them good. Murder’s a state crime, not a federal one, unless it’s a RICO case. A lot of what I have is inference and supposition, not objective evidence. But how the hell am I supposed to get evidence without any resources? The FBI is the most hidebound bureaucracy you can imagine. Everything is done by the book—unless it involves counterterrorism, of course, in which case they throw the book right out the window. But nobody’s going to nail the guys I’m after by using the Marquess of Queensberry rules.”
Chris didn’t know what to say. Yesterday morning his life had been ticking along as usual; now he was standing on a bridge in the rain, watching a woman he barely knew fall apart.
“If you’re acting alone, who saw Thora go into the lawyer’s office?”
“A private detective. He used to work for my father.”
“Jesus. What does the FBI think you’re doing right now?”
“They think I’m in Charlotte, working a prostitution case involving illegal aliens. When they transferred me there after I was shot, I got lucky. I found an old classmate from the Academy there. He’s done a lot to
