Blackout (21 page)

Wednesday, September 9, 3:30 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

Riley sat at a picnic table in the large, square courtyard. Surrounding him on all four sides was the Homeland Security building that contained in one small corner the Room of Understanding and in another the tactical team of Scott's special operations group. Riley's sweaty head was in his hands, and his cell phone lay on the table in front of him.

He took a deep drink from a bottle of Gatorade that sat next to his phone. The humidity of the September day was sucking the fluids out of his body, and Riley needed the electrolytes from the green liquid to keep his mind sharp and his body ready.

That was a rough one,
he thought as he took another pull from the plastic bottle.
I can't imagine what she's going through.

Riley had just got off the phone with Kellee Rasenjunge, the widow of the SEAL who had died under his command yesterday. It had been a frustrating conversation, but not because of Kellee. She had been wonderful—keeping her Southern dignity through the whole conversation, even telling Riley a few stories about Wes from when their little daughter had been born. She seemed genuinely appreciative of the fact that this football player and American hero would call to give his condolences.

But that's what had been so frustrating. Riley could only talk to her as if he were on the outside looking in. He couldn't tell her that he had been there when her husband died. He couldn't explain the man's heroism right up to the time that his life was snatched from him. He couldn't reassure her with the knowledge that he himself had stayed with Wes's body on the USS
Kauffman
, keeping his hand on the man's forehead until the time he had to pull it away so they could finish zipping the bag. He couldn't confess to her that he was the one responsible for his death.

Instead, he could only offer platitudes about her husband's bravery and generalizations about things he had “heard.”
Lord, grant peace to that family. Watch over Kellee as she starts a new life as a single mother. Be with those two little kids, who are now facing the future without a father. God, it's such a tragedy; I've got no other words. Just be there.

Riley looked up and caught the eyes of two young ladies who were watching him from behind some windows that were just beyond a narrow sidewalk. They quickly turned away, but Riley could see them whispering back and forth as they pretended to be doing their work.

He felt a bit like a zoo exhibit.
What am I, a trained monkey, here for your amusement? Want me to juggle some bananas?
He picked up his phone and his bottle and moved to a table on the other side of the courtyard—one that had a beautiful view of a redbrick wall.
Just a little privacy—that's all I'm asking for!

When he cooled down a bit, he began spinning his phone on the recycled-plastic table as he prepared himself for his next call. Whitney Walker had been leaving him messages since last Tuesday, when he had been attacked on the D.C. street corner. At first the messages had been full of concern. Lately, though, she had begun sounding more annoyed than anything else.

Gotta be careful with what you say. Remember, no matter who she is or what remarkably unique shade of green her eyes are, she's still a reporter. Give her just enough to let her know that you're okay, then plead the Fifth on everything else.

Whitney answered on the first ring. “So you do still have my number.”

Something about the way she said it made him want to say, “Yeah, because you've left it on my phone twenty times in the last eight days.”

Instead, he said, “Sorry, Whitney. As you can imagine, things are pretty weird around here right now.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked, still with the same edge in her voice.

Someone is definitely not herself today,
Riley thought as he stood and walked to the path that ran the perimeter of the courtyard. “Doing okay. Getting better. I plan on being at the New York game on Sunday—not playing, obviously.”

“Obviously. Listen, Riley, I'm going to get right to the point.”

Riley decided to take the let's-get-it-all-out-on-the-table approach. “Please do, because right now, honestly, I'm not getting the best vibe from you.”

“You're not getting the best vibe? Really? I wonder why that could be. Can you think of any reason?”

Riley stopped on the path. Having been on the receiving end of female attack mode enough times to gain a touch of practical male wisdom, he kept his mouth shut. He did a couple of deep knee bends to release some of his tension, then continued his slow walk.

After ten seconds of silence, Whitney apparently decided to answer her own question. “I'll tell you the reason! You get attacked, and I have no idea what happened to you! I try to get information, but there is none to be found. You just disappeared! I call the police, I call the FBI, I call Homeland Security; I explain to them that we're . . . close. But nobody knows anything about you.

“So I call the hospitals, and I learn that you were not admitted anywhere within a hundred-mile radius. That's when my reporter ‘something-smells-fishy-around-here' sensors started going off.”

Riley was still trying to process what she meant by
close
, but when she took a brief pause, he saw his opportunity to jump in. “I appreciate how worried you were, and I'm sorry you couldn't get any information. The folks here decided to clamp down on security until they're sure the threat is neutralized.”

“I assume your friends Scott and Khadi just stitched you up good as new? I am correct that they've been transferred there, am I not?”

“There's nothing secret about that,” Riley confirmed, his mind sorting out what information was classified and what was public knowledge.

“So you receive two deep, life-threatening wounds to your side, and Scott and Khadi just take you back to the office and fix you right up?”

“It wasn't like that at all—”

“Of course it wasn't like that, because it never happened! Come on, Riley, wasn't that attack a little too convenient? Unknown Muslim wacko stabs football star and vanishes into thin air. Then Riley vanishes too.”

“I didn't vanish. I was—”

“But then rumors start popping up,” Whitney said. “Rumors about Riley Covington being seen around the Homeland Security building; Riley Covington at the shooting range in the J. Edgar Hoover Building; Riley Covington seen through a crack in the curtains of his room at the Quincy, shirtless and seemingly without any bandages or visible signs of trauma.”

“What? People are spying through my curtains?” Riley had stopped again but noticed he was in front of the windows of the voyeur girls and quickly hurried on.

“Oh, grow up, Riley. This is the real world. You are the hottest media thing going right now. If someone were to prove that attack was faked, their career would be made for life.”

Why? Are other people's lives so miserable that they've got to ruin mine, too? Will knocking the legs out from under someone they perceive as a hero really make them feel better about themselves?

Whitney's voice interrupted Riley's thoughts. Her tone was softer now, like she was finally getting past the anger and moving toward the hurt.

“Did you hear the latest story, Riley? Don't worry, this is just going around between a few of my press friends. They haven't put two and two together like I have, but I know you a lot better than they do.

“It seems there was a container ship that had a big hole blown in it and ended up going down in the Atlantic. Some people are saying it was the result of a U.S. military special operation. According to their reports there were two strange things about the team. One was that Khadi Faroughi was on it—by the way, you should let her know that with all the news and special-interest stories that have been done about her in the last eight months, her face is becoming almost as recognizable as yours.

“But the second thing—that was the stranger of the two. It had to do with the leader of the team. Apparently he was a big guy, built like a—I don't know—like a linebacker, maybe. Oddly enough, it seems that this big leader guy was the only member of the team who never took his mask off. Don't you find that strange?”

Riley was getting angry now. Whitney was butting into things that were way over her head, and that could cause both of them a lot of problems. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth!”

“Come on, Whitney! I told you from the beginning that there are things about my life that I can't and won't ever talk about. It's not like this is a big surprise.”

“I know you said that, but that was before . . .”

“Before what?”

“Do I need to spell it out?
Argh
, you're such a guy! Okay, that was before there was something special between us.”

Riley was back at his table and stood facing the wall. “Special? Special how? Like you're my main media person?”

“Seriously? Do you really think that's what I'm talking about? Riley, you can be so exasperating! Special as in we love being around each other. I never laugh with anyone like I do with you. I never feel as safe as when we're together. There's a chemistry between us. I feel it, and I know you feel it too. I've seen the way you look at me. It's right there in your eyes. I
know
you feel it. Just try telling me you don't.”

“I'm sorry, Whitney, but I don't,” Riley said firmly, convincing himself in the same moment that he tried to convince her. Softening his voice, he continued, “You're an incredible friend, and I truly enjoy the times that we spend together talking and drinking coffee. But that's all it's ever been and all it will ever be. I'm sorry if I ever made you believe we could be more than that.”

“It's because of her, isn't it? It's because of Khadi.”

Is that really it? Am I really turning away an incredibly bright and attractive woman for a woman I know I can't have? Yeah, I guess I am.
“Yes, it's because of her.”

They were both silent on the phone for a minute. Riley took the time to sit at the table and take another swallow of the now-lukewarm Gatorade.
There are a lot of things I need in my life right now, but this conversation is not one of them!

As he was trying to come up with a way to close the phone call, Whitney said, “Guess you think I'm quite the idiot.”

“Not at all,” Riley responded, forcing himself to sound sympathetic.
Please, just make the phone call end!
“I'm the one who's been the idiot.”

“Yeah, I suppose you have,” she agreed with a sad chuckle. “Can you at least tell me the truth about what's going on? Totally off the record. I'm just worried about you.”

“The truth,
if
it's any different from what you're already hearing, isn't going to come from me. I can only say what I'm allowed to say. I'm sorry, Whitney.”

“I know. I understand. Again, Riley, I'm sorry that I . . . I don't know.”

Enough already! Take the blame and end the call!
“Whitney, you're fine. It's just—things aren't always the way they seem. I should have been more careful.”

“Are you still going to let me be your favorite obnoxious, hard-hitting, in-your-face reporter girl?”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Riley said, feeling right now like he would rather have it
any
other way.

“Good. Well, I guess I'll probably see you in New York.”

“Definitely. It's a . . . Let's plan on it.”

Riley hung up the phone and put it on the table.

Well, off the top of my head, I can't think of any way that could have gone worse.

He started spinning his phone again.

At least the Whitney issue is finally resolved in my own mind. I was stupid to have ever entertained any thoughts about her. She's press, and that means arm's distance. Besides, she's not the one that's got my full attention anyway, is she?

So if it's over and done with her, why am I so uptight? The spying; that's it. Are people really watching me—like those two earlier in the window? Seriously, can't people mind their own business? Trying to dig up dirt about me and spying through my curtains? I've gotta find a way to put a stop to it, and I mean now!

Riley's frustrated final spin on his phone was a bit too hard, and he watched helplessly as it skittered across the table, flew off the edge, and shattered on the cement below.

Wednesday, September 9, 3:50 p.m. EDT

Washington, D.C.

While he was still brooding about the phone call with Whitney, Riley felt a sensation on his neck that made him spin around angrily. Khadi stood behind him with an ice-cold Gatorade bottle in her hand.

“Are we a bit uptight?” she asked with a laugh.

“Sorry; I guess I am,” Riley answered, taking the bottle from her hand. “Thanks.” He gave her a little toast before he twisted the cap off and drank deeply.

Khadi stooped down and began picking the pieces of the phone off the ground.

“No, wait,” Riley said, jumping up and joining her. Together they lifted bits of the shattered phone from the cement and pulled them from the grass and the flower bed.

Khadi handed Riley her pieces, and he felt the brush of her fingertips across his palms. He emptied his hands on the table and then bent back down and snapped two white gardenias from their stalks.

Slightly embarrassed, he silently handed the flowers to Khadi, all the while thinking that this would be an ideal time to say something witty or romantic but coming up with nothing.

With a stern look on her face but a twinkle in her eyes, Khadi said, “Why, Mr. Covington, I do believe these flowers are technically federal government property.”

“That's all right. I've got the direct line to the president programmed into my . . .” Riley stopped and looked at the shattered phone. “Oops. I'm busted.”

Khadi laughed, then brought the flowers to her face and inhaled deeply. “Gardenias always remind me of home. My mother used to keep fresh gardenias in a small lead crystal dish on our coffee table. The smell would fill the room.”

Rounding the table and sitting in his old seat, Riley said, “Sounds nice. My mom was never quite that froofy. Although I do remember having a gardenia-scented Glade PlugIn in our guest bathroom once.”

“Oh, please. Your mom is great! I'm sure she had your house looking and smelling wonderful all the time.”

“True, but the smells usually emanated from the kitchen.”

“I can believe that,” Khadi said. She had been the partial beneficiary of numerous care packages that Riley's mom regularly sent to him filled with brownies, cookies, and a chocolate-covered peanut brittle that was downright sinful.

Riley watched Khadi's face light up at the thought of his mom's cooking and again thought,
She truly is the most beautiful woman I've ever met. She's like a great work of art that you never get tired of looking at. She's like a book that you read over and over again, and every time you do you find something new to marvel at. She is more than beautiful; she is spectacular. A visual marvel.

“What's going through that mind of yours?” Khadi asked with a shy smile, as if she already knew the answer to her question.

“I'm just thinking about books.”

“Oh,” Khadi said, obviously not hearing the answer she expected or hoped for.

“I mean—really good books. Beautiful books with incredible plots and amazing story lines.” Riley's face colored as he heard Scott's voice in his head saying,
“Well played, Casanova!”
Shaking his head, he said, “Wow, I can't tell you how many ways that came out wrong.”

Khadi laughed and reached across the table to touch his arm. Riley loved it when she did that. “For a guy who's so strong and confident on the football field and on the field of battle . . .”

Riley joined Khadi's laughter. They'd had this conversation more than once. “What can I say? I've never really been what you might call ‘good with the chicks.'”

“Nice. Sounds like something Scott would say.”

“As a matter of fact . . .” Riley laughed, thinking back to the conversation when Scott had said those very words. “But no matter how you say it, it's still true. I think the only girl I talked to up until age thirteen was my mom.”

“Oh, really. And whom did you meet at age thirteen?” Khadi said, pulling her hand back and pretending to be jealous.

“Mrs. Beasely from next door. I had accidentally thrown a football through her kitchen window.”

“Mrs. Beasely, huh? She doesn't sound very exciting.”

“
Au contraire!
She was actually quite a looker. And even better than that, she had been divorced for several years, so she was available. From what my friends said, she was hot to trot.”

“‘Hot to trot'? What does that mean?”

Riley shrugged. “I have no idea. I think my friends picked it up from an episode of
Happy Days
.”

“So what happened with Mrs. Beasely?”

“It took me a summer of mowing and an autumn of raking her leaves to pay off the window. At least she made good lemonade. What about you? Who was the first boy you took to?”

Without even pausing to think, Khadi blurted out, “Ronnie Kahiona.”

“Kahiona? Doesn't sound very Persian to me.” Riley took another drink of his Gatorade. He wanted to suggest they go inside out of the humidity but was afraid one of them would get caught up in something and they would lose this rare alone time.

“Oh no. Ronnie wasn't Persian. He was much more exotic than that. I met Ronnie when we took a family vacation to Hawaii. We were at this traditional luau. I'm busy stuffing my face with huli-huli chicken and char siu when the drums start beating. I turn toward the stage, and out walks this tropical vision. He's wearing a sarong, no shirt, and a kukui nut lei. He's dancing and swinging these poi balls around.”

“They always say that poi balls are the quickest way to a woman's heart,” Riley said sarcastically, trying to sound like a jealous boyfriend yet feeling like a total idiot for the twinge of real jealousy he was experiencing.

“Well, that certainly was true for this girl,” Khadi agreed as she motioned for Riley to pass the Gatorade. When she took a sip, Riley noticed that she didn't bother to wipe the bottle first.
Does that mean something?

Khadi slid the bottle back to him and continued. “What sealed my undying love for him was his second number, when he asked for a volunteer from the audience. Guess who he picked?”

“Mrs. Beasely?”

Khadi made a buzzer sound. “Wrong! He picked me! So I'm up on stage with him standing behind me. He's got his arms around me, showing me how to spin the poi balls. I'm not hearing a thing he's saying. My whole body must have turned seven shades of red. I just knew that everyone in the whole audience could see that I had this massive crush on Ronnie.

“Finally, I sit back down. My family congratulates me, but I'm mortified. I don't touch another bite of food the rest of the night.”

Riley shook his head. “
Tsk-tsk-tsk.
Sounds like an absolute nightmare.”

“That's not the worst of it. After the show was over, the performers come out to schmooze the audience. I'm watching Ronnie shaking hands with people—one half of my brain praying that he won't come over and the other half wondering if the name Khadijah Kahiona had a musical ring to it. Sure enough, Ronnie makes his way to the table. Then, in front of my parents and God Himself, he squats down and gives me a hug and tells me what a great job I did.”

“So did anything come of you and Ronnie? A little Hawaiian fling, perhaps?”

Khadi looked shocked. “I should think not! Ronnie was probably in his early twenties and I was seven!”

“You were only seven?” Riley said, feeling like the level of his idiocy had just reached epic proportions.

Khadi laughed as her hand went back across the table to find Riley's arm. “Oh, Riley. You weren't really jealous, were you? This was over twenty years ago.”

Trying to cover his embarassment with bravado, he answered, “Hey, I don't care how long ago it was. Nobody messes with my girl!”

As soon as he had said the words, he wished he could take them back. The lightheartedness of the moment flitted away. The
my girl
hung in the air, mocking them, touting itself as the only gateway to true love and joy in their lives yet floating just out of their reach.

Riley put his hand over Khadi's. Their eyes met—longing and sorrow in both their stares. Finally, with visible regret, Khadi slipped her hand from his.

“I better get back in,” she said. “Are you coming?”

“No. I think I'm going to stay out here and practice spinning my poi balls. Maybe if I get good enough, I can win your heart.”

“Don't waste your time. It's already won.”

Again their eyes locked until, without saying another word, Khadi walked back across the courtyard and into the building.

With a sad smile on his face, Riley watched her go, all the while wondering what he'd look like in a sarong and what the heck a kuikui nut lei was.