Inside Threat (10 page)

Six months ago, everyone except Audrey had been part of an obnoxious How-to-Be-olitically-Correct-When-You're-Taking-Down-Perps kind of seminar. At one point, they had been separated by gender and alphabetized by name. Then the boy Js had been put together with the girl Ks to role-play some extreme, totally illogical scenario that the seminar leader—who obviously had no law enforcement background—had come up with.

No one took the assignment seriously, and they ended up laughing their way through it, much to the chagrin and anger of the facilitator. When the goofing didn't end after the exercise, they were eventually, very politely, asked to leave.

They all hit a coffee place afterward and had been getting together every week since then. Audrey had joined the gang soon after at an invite from her roommate, Korinne.

“The Gatorade thing—that I can understand! I mean, I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to do that to my boss,” Jordan said. “And with all the stories you hear about Bellefeuille? You gotta respect Covington for that.”

“Sure,” Kierra agreed. “But the coin? What was that?”

“That was sheer craziness,” Josiah said. Then, mimicking Riley's trick, he said, “Nothing up my sleeves. Presto!” And he pulled a packet of Sweet'N Low from behind Korinne's ear.

They all burst into applause. Even Khadi clapped, although her insides were twisting in knots. She felt like she should be defending Riley, and she probably would have if Jonathan hadn't been sitting next to her.

The two of them had been dating for a few months now—nothing serious . . . yet. He had asked her in the past about her history with Riley, but she had always tried to brush the questions off or change the subject. For some reason, she felt that her relationship with Riley was just too personal or private or, maybe, painful to talk about with anyone else. That time of her life was like a treasure to box up for herself and bury deep down in her heart. Although it was seeming more and more lately that she hadn't buried it deep enough.

“I was listening to the Sports Junkies on the Fan this morning. They said that there was a rumor going around the Warriors' facility that Covington might be going for a psych evaluation,” Jackson said.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and put his arm around Khadi. “Come on, he may be a lot of things—arrogant, a little too perfect—but he's not crazy.”

“He's not arrogant,” Khadi blurted out.

“What?” Jonathan asked.

“You said he's arrogant. He's not arrogant in any way, shape, or form. Your saying that shows that you know absolutely nothing about him,” Khadi said, a little more defensively than she had intended.

A joking
ooooooh
went around the table.

“Listen, Khadi, I know he's your friend,” Jonathan said, trying to get himself out of a bad situation. “There's no doubt he's got to be a good guy if you were that close to him. I was just saying—”

Khadi leaned forward, away from Jonathan's arm. “I know what you were ‘just saying.' I know what all of you were ‘just saying.' And what I'm ‘just saying' is that you don't know him, so you really have no right saying any of it!”

“Khadi, sweetie, we're sorry if we said something wrong.” Always the peacemaker, Kierra took Khadi's hand in both of hers. “We were just joking around. We didn't mean anything by it. Promise.”

Khadi sat quietly for a moment. She knew she wasn't angry with them. She was angry with herself for caring. She was angry that she felt the need to defend Riley. She was angry at the tears that were in her eyes.

Sliding her chair back, she said, “Look, I'm sorry, guys. Jonathan, I shouldn't have snapped at you—I shouldn't have snapped at any of you. It's just . . . I don't know. I think I better go. I need to drive all the way out to Mr. Opportunity's house.”

“Please stay, Khadi. Let the old fart wait,” Korinne said.

“No, I better go.” Khadi stood up.

Jonathan rose too. “Let me walk you out.”

“No, please . . . please, Jonathan,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. Then she turned and left.

Remarkably, when she had parked this morning, she had found one of the very rare Washington, DC, meters that was within a few blocks of where a person actually wanted to be, so the walk to her BMW was short.

After sitting for a couple of minutes with her blinker on, someone finally waved her out into the lane. With DC traffic, she was looking at a minimum of forty-five minutes to get out of the city proper and to Senator Andrews's house. She turned on the radio, which just sounded like a bunch of noise. She turned it off again.

Tears were still in her eyes, and she desperately wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let herself.
You promised yourself you wouldn't. You've cried enough tears over him. It's done! It's over!

She took a few deep breaths, then occupied her time by trying to change lanes—always an exercise in patience.
Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut? They weren't trying to be mean. It just . . . kind of came out that way.

Poor Riley, though. I can't imagine what he's going through today. He was always so great when other people were having a bad day. How many times did he cheer me up? I hope Scott or Skeeter can give him a boost—although Scott will probably end up saying exactly the wrong thing, and I'm sure Skeeter won't say anything at all.

Khadi laughed to herself as a wave of nostalgia hit her. There had been a lot of great times amid the bullets and bombs. They really had been like a family.

I wonder . . .
She looked at her phone.
After all the times he was there for me, it would be nice to . . . No, that would just muddle it all up again. There's a reason things are like they are. To step back would just lead to more confusion and more pain.

But as she drove, she found that she kept glancing down at the phone. Finally relenting, she picked it up and tapped number five—Riley's designated speed dial, right in the middle—bringing up a picture of him and a little green Call button. She knew it was silly to still have him there, especially because it had been almost two years since she had spoken with him. But there was a comfort in knowing he was still just a phone call away if she needed him.

Like he needs you now,
she thought as she looked at his face, his eyes, his smile, his hair that always looked like it could have used just a touch more intentionality.
Just press the button. He'd love to hear from you—you know he would! Just press it!

But instead of calling, she set the phone on her leg.
You can't go back! It's too hard! You just can't go back!

Resolved, she turned her attention back to the road. But a sound caught her attention. It was like a tinny voice saying something indiscernible. She checked the radio, but it was off. Still the voice went on, almost sounding like it was saying her name.

It was driving her crazy trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Then her stomach clenched. Looking down at the phone on her leg, she saw a timer counting: 00:00:45, 00:00:46, 00:00:47.

I must have hit Call when I put the phone down,
she thought, panicking.
What do I do? Should I hang up? Should I answer? I'm such . . . an . . . idiot!

She picked up the phone and put it to her ear.

“Hello? Hello? Khadi, is that you?” Just hearing Riley's voice sent her heart racing and her stomach flipping.

“Hi, Riley,” she managed to get out.

“Oh, man, Khadi! It's so good to hear your voice! How're you doing?”

Riley seemed genuinely happy to hear from her, which answered one of Khadi's concerns.

“I'm good, I'm good. Work's good. Family's good. Everything's good.”

“Good,” Riley said. “I mean, that's really great to hear. Scott tells me that you've been working for Senator Andrews. I've even seen you on television a few times.”

“Yeah, he's always ready for a photo op. We call him Mr. Opportunity,” Khadi said, wondering why it was seeming so hard to have a normal, nonstilted conversation with this man she had spent so many hours with.

“Mr. Opportunity. That's funny. Sure seems to fit him.”

“It does.”

An awkward silence ensued.

Riley finally broke it. “I've got to tell you, I'm surprised by your phone call this morning. Thrilled, but surprised.”

“Oh, well, I was watching the news yesterday. . . .”

Riley groaned.

“Exactly, so I thought you might need a little boosting up.”

Riley laughed. “Yeah . . . well, thanks. I do. I'm not sure what happened yesterday. It wasn't one of my bright, shining moments.”

“I disagree completely. I thought it was very . . . I don't know . . . very you,” Khadi replied, trying her best at encouragement.

“Actually, it was probably more Scott.”

“Or maybe even Gooey,” Khadi said, referring to a particularly bizarre member of the CTD analyst team.

They laughed together, then fell into another awkward silence.

“So, how's your mom?” Khadi asked.

“Great, she's great. Got the goat farm back up and running. Said Dad would have wanted it that way. I didn't have the heart to tell her how much he hated those goats deep down. She asks about you all the time.”

“Oh? Well, send her my love next time you talk to her.”

“Will do. She'll be thrilled.”

Another silence.

“Well, I better run. I'm just pulling up at the senator's house,” Khadi lied.

“Mr. Opportunity!”

“Yeah, Mr. Opportunity. Well, it was really great catching up with you, Riley.”

“You too. You made my day—seriously. I've really . . . I don't know. I've missed you, Khadi.”

Khadi stayed silent for a moment, trying to keep herself under control.
And I've missed you too, Riley. So, so much.

“You take care, Riley. And keep away from those Gatorade buckets,” she said with a weak attempt at humor.

“You got it, Khadi. Take care.”

Khadi pulled the phone away from her ear and watched through tear-blurred eyes as the timer flashed 00:02:59, 00:02:59, 00:02:59, and then Riley's face disappeared from her phone.

Monday, September 12, 7:35 a.m. EDT

Leesburg, Virginia

Riley stared at the phone, wondering what had just happened.
After two years? Just out of the blue?
He dropped back into his chair and tossed the phone onto the kitchen nook table.
I can't believe she . . . I mean, just out of nowhere . . .

Skeeter, who had stepped into the great room when the call first came, sat at the table. Taking a large bite of his Cholula-smothered Denver omelet, he asked with his mouth full, “You okay?”

Riley nodded absently, then seemed to connect with Skeeter's question. “Yeah, I think so. That was so weird. She sounded so . . . I don't know . . . distant, different.”

“Time'll do that.”

“I guess so,” Riley responded, lifting a piece of omelet but never quite getting it to his mouth. He dropped his fork and pushed his plate back. “She just sounded so sad. It's almost like this was a cry for help. You know, I wonder if I should call her back to see if everything's okay.”

“Wouldn't,” Skeeter said, tackling another chunk from his plate.

“Why? What if she needs me? Maybe she just couldn't bring herself to say anything? We had these awkward pauses, almost like she was trying to get the courage to ask me something.” Riley stared at the phone that seemed to be crying out,
Pick me up! Pick me up!

Skeeter put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Used to have a dog, Comanche. Okay dog as dogs go. But hooked on the white bread—couldn't get enough. I give Comanche a little white bread, he'd do anything for me. He'd walk with me from home to hell and back, as long as I kept feeding him the white bread.”

Although there were usually points to Skeeter's stories, they weren't always easily accessible. This one seemed to bring a new depth to the word
obscure
.

“So, you're saying . . .”

Skeeter picked up his fork and used it to point at the phone. “White bread.”

Riley watched his friend shovel another bite into his mouth.
Am I that easy? Is that what he's saying? Give me a phone call, and I'm panting like Pavlov's dogs?

“You love that dog, Skeet?”

Pushing his empty plate away, Skeeter downed the last of his coffee and shrugged. “Don't know. Probably.”

At least that's something. At least there's some possibility that she—

“Didn't respect him, though. He was way too easy.”

That was like a blow to Riley's gut. Love and respect always went hand in hand for him. No respect, no love.