“Who, you mean Vasily?” Charly lowered her voice even further, as if she thought somebody was going to overhear. “You think that’s who did this? My God, C.J.—”
“Who the hell else?” He spat the words into the phone.
There was a pause before she said, cautiously at first, “I know the husband is always the first suspect, but that’s assuming Mrs. Vasily was the target, and even if she was—” she was arguing, now, with herself as much as him “—my God, C.J., the man’s a billionaire. A friend of the governor. He’s had dinner at the White House. He’s—”
He is also a charming and intelligent, violent and dangerous—very dangerous—man.
“I don’t care who he is, Vasily set it up.” C.J.’s voice was stony. “You can bet on it.”
“Even if he did, there’s no way on God’s green earth they’re ever gonna prove—”
“I know.” He cut her off, calmer now, his brain beginning to function again. “Hey, look, Charly—I gotta go. Do me one favor, would you? I’m going to try and find me a news station on the radio, but if you find out anything, could you let me know? Call me on my cell.”
“What are you going to do? You’re not fixin’ to go down there now, are you?”
There was a long pause, and then: “I have to, Charly. I need to find out what’s going on.”
He heard a sigh. “C.J., you’re just gonna insist on blamin’ yourself for this, aren’t you?”
The only reply he could manage was a sharp and painful laugh as he disconnected.
He called his dispatcher and told her she’d need to find another driver to pick up his load, then fiddled with the radio for a few minutes trying to find an all-news station. Antsy and impatient to be on the road, he gave it up and settled for a golden oldies station he knew would have updates on the hour, then rolled his Kenworth out of the truck stop and back onto the interstate, heading south.
A long hour later his cell phone tweedled, interrupting tumultuous and totally useless thoughts. He mashed the connect button and barked, “Yeah!”
“C.J., I thought you’d want to know—they’re having that press conference at the hospital. It’s still going on, with all the questions and such, but they’ve made their statements. The official toll is, three injured, two critically, one dead….”
“Yeah?” He stared at the road ahead, flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Preparing himself. As if he could.
“C.J., honey, it was Mrs. Vasily who was killed. The mother. Mary Kelly Vasily…”
A cool rush of feeling blew through him, like a breeze through a stuffy house. He nodded, though there wasn’t anybody to see, and his mind filled with images: Mary Kelly’s face, Southern magnolia-type pretty, almost lost in billows of fluffy red-brown hair…a tentative smile as she shook his hand and murmured polite phrases like a well-brought-up child…lips forming No! as she shook her head in fear and rejection…then quiet eyes, accepting smile. I’m not blamin’ you, Mr. Starr.
But the feeling, that cool, lightening wind in his soul—he knew what it was, and it shamed him so that he slammed the doors of his mind to it, tried every way he could to deny it. Shaken, he tried to explain to himself why he should feel relieved when a good woman had just been killed. But he was. Relieved it wasn’t Caitlyn Brown who’d died.
“C.J., are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“Honey, I’m sorry—I know how you must be feelin’. I just feel so bad for that little girl….”
“What about the others?” He made his voice hard and clipped off the words, leaving no room for emotions. “You said two were critical?”
“One of the guards was shot in the arm—he’s not serious. The other took a bullet in the chest and is still in surgery.
His chest tightened; he forced a deep breath. “Caitlyn?”
“They just said her condition is critical. No details. C.J., there’s no point in you going down there. There’s not a thing you can do except get yourself into trouble.”
His vision shimmered. He blinked the highway back into focus and mumbled, “I just want to talk to her.”
“How? They’re never gonna let you in there, you know that, don’t you? I mean, seriously—a stranger? After somebody just tried to kill her? The president’s niece? I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got the Secret Service, the FBI—”
She broke off, then was silent for so long C.J. prompted, “Charly?” and was ready to start mashing buttons on his cell phone, thinking maybe they’d got disconnected the way cell phone calls do sometimes.
“C.J., I’m gonna have to call you back, okay?” She sounded rushed and distracted. “Just…don’t do anything until you hear from me. Promise? This is your lawyer speakin’ now.”
“Yeah,” he grunted, “I promise.” He disconnected and settled back, trying hard to concentrate on driving and on not letting himself think about what critical condition might mean. Trying not to think about a fairy-tale face, silvery eyes, a light-as-a-feather touch. One thing he didn’t have to try very hard to avoid was thoughts of that exquisite face and graceful body bloody and torn…ruined by violence. His mind cowered and protected itself from those images, like eyes avoiding the sun.
Though it seemed longer, it was barely half an hour later when his phone chirped at him again.
“C.J., it’s me.” Charly sounded out of breath and in a hurry. “Hey, I’m gonna meet you there, okay? If you get there—”
“Meet me there…”
“The hospital. If you get there before I do, sit tight. Okay? Don’t do anything until you hear from me, you hear?”
“Charly, what’re you up to? I don’t think I’m gonna be needing a lawyer for this.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I’ve got somebody who can get you in to see Caitlyn Brown.”
The woman in the hospital bed stirred. Her fingers plucked at the sheets, rearranging them needlessly across her chest.
“The thunderstorm…” Caitlyn murmured, and closed her eyes. After a moment she asked in a slow, drug-thickened voice, “What is it you want? Absolution? You have it, okay? I told you, I don’t blame you for anything. In fact, I suppose it was bound to happen…someday. When you go against violent people… I just…” Her voice cracked and dropped to a whisper; her lips quivered. She turned her face away. “I didn’t expect it to come quite this way.”
C.J. cleared his throat and leaned forward. There were so many things he wanted to ask her…so many things he wanted to say. He didn’t know where to start, so he murmured, “What way did you think it was gonna come?”
Her eyes crisscrossed him like searchlights, not silvery, now, but liquid and lost. Then, incongruously, she laughed, a soft ironic chuckle. “Well,
