The Grid (24 page)

- CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE -

Eric Faulkner met us at the foot of the stairs. Several guests milled about, craning their necks to see what was going on.

“Where’s the rest of your security team?” I asked.

“Outside,” he said. “What’s happening? Where’s Walden?”

I tossed the car keys to Piper. “Get the guns and find the other guards.”

“Are you out of your mind?” She didn’t move. “My baby’s upstairs, Jon.”

“She’s my child, too.” I shoved her toward the door, hoping she wouldn’t see the fear that had to be in my eyes. “GO!”

Piper hesitated a moment, then dashed outside.

“Walden,” Faulkner said. “Where is he?”

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

“Stay here.” I took the stairs two at a time.

At the top was a large landing, hallways to the left and right. In the center, at the head of the stairs, was another set of double doors.

An enormous stuffed horse sat beside the doors, not far from the edge of the first step.

A playroom. That’s what Walden had called it.

I flung open the doors and hopped inside, hugging the wall.

The room was huge, big enough to cover maybe a quarter of the downstairs area. Big enough that you’d have to shout to be heard on the other side.

Toys were everywhere, stacks and stacks, so many it was overpowering.

Pinball machines and pink wagons, stuffed animals and dollhouses, ginormous Lego sets, child-sized cars, scooters and bicycles, every form of Barbie ever invented.

A pathway threaded its way through the mounds of stuff, heading toward what appeared to be a balcony on the far side.

There was movement on the balcony. Too far away to tell what.

I headed that way.

About thirty feet down the path lay a life-sized doll, a woman in her fifties, splayed on her back. She was wearing a blue dress, the front of which was stained red from the knife sticking in her chest.

I knelt beside her, felt for a pulse.

She was alive but not for long. Her eyes flickered open and stared at me for an instant before they closed again.

“The infant. Where is she?” I spoke softly, tried to keep the panic from taking over.

She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a bloody bubble. Then she died.

A low whistle from the door.

I turned.

Piper stood there, two men behind her, the security guards. She cut her eyes from side to side, glancing at the men, a wary expression on her face.

Guard One said, “Sir. You need to come downstairs. We’ve called the police.”

Without warning, Piper tossed my Glock toward me. Guard Two tried to stop her. Guard One aimed his gun at me.

The pistol landed on top of a stuffed bear a few feet away.

“Don’t touch the weapon,” Guard One said.

“I’m a federal agent.” I picked up the gun. “You shoot me, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

He lowered the weapon slightly, indecision evident on his face.

“The police will be here soon,” he said. “We need to wait.”

From the balcony came the faint sound of a baby crying. Our baby. Elizabeth.

“That’s my child,” I said.

“We have procedures in place for an event like—”

Piper went full
krav maga
on Guard One, ripping the weapon from his grasp and throwing him to the floor. His shoulder popped from its socket.

More crying.

Guard Two reached for Piper’s arm.

She punched his nose with the trigger guard of her pistol.

He fell to the floor, too.

I ran toward the balcony, Piper thumping behind me. Fear clutched at my chest, a terror unlike any I’d ever known. My child was in jeopardy.

The balcony was large, maybe thirty feet wide by twenty feet deep.

Sarah-Jane Faulkner stood with her back against the railing in the middle. She held Elizabeth in one arm, clutching the infant against her chest.

The other hand held a revolver, the muzzle of which was pressed against my baby’s head.

A patio table and chairs stood between us.

Beside me, a sharp intake of air from Piper.

“Put the gun down,” I said. “Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

“You didn’t even remember me,” she said. “From the motel.”

I didn’t reply. Piper eased away from me, flanking out, trying to split the woman’s attention, her gun raised.

“Nobody forgets SarahSmiles.” Sarah-Jane Faulkner shook her head, obviously upset. “Except for you.”

Elizabeth was crying, kicking her feet.

“Your deputy. He was a fucking animal. I did the world a favor.”

“Put the baby down,” I said, “and we can talk.”

Sarah-Jane looked at Piper. “STOP MOVING!”

Piper was about five feet to my right. She froze.

“Whose child is this anyway?”

“Mine.” I nodded toward Piper. “Ours, I mean.”

“You brought your own baby along on an undercover operation?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Piper said.

Elizabeth had quieted down a little, though tears were still dribbling down her face.

“You’re here to arrest me,” Sarah-Jane said. “You were plotting with Walden.”

Drug-induced paranoia. She was a powder keg, and every puff of air was a shower of sparks. She would use the gun, either on us or the child. It was just a matter of when.

Sirens in the distance.

I brought the Glock up, closed my left eye. We were about fifteen feet away from each other.

“Did you meet my daughter?” Sarah-Jane asked, her voice choked with emotion.

The top of Elizabeth’s head was level with Sarah-Jane Faulkner’s throat. I could put one in Faulkner’s temple and miss the child, an easy shot from this distance . . . if the targets were paper. I tried to figure out another play but drew a blank.

“My baby’s father is dead,” Sarah said. “And she’ll never know.”

I took up the slack in the trigger, an eighth of a millimeter play in the firing mechanism.

“My own brother,” she said. “He killed the father of my only child.”

“Price Anderson?” Piper asked.

Sarah-Jane Faulkner nodded.

“I’m glad we’ve got that settled,” Piper said. “Now put my baby down, and I’ll make it a clean kill. You won’t feel anything.”

Sarah-Jane Faulkner seemed to notice my Glock aiming at her.

“What the—
drop your fucking gun!
”

I increased the pressure on the trigger and said a quick prayer, promising God all my tomorrows if he would only make my aim true and save my baby today.

Sarah-Jane Faulkner cocked the hammer of her revolver.

BOOM.

A gun fired.

- CHAPTER SIXTY -

Two weeks later

Turns out I have a knack for tea parties.

Oh, the things we learn about ourselves as we grow older.

I was enjoying my second one of the day, sitting at a tiny table in Dylan Faulkner’s playroom.

My companions—Winnie-the-Pooh, SpongeBob Square-Pants, and an elephant named Eloise—were not very good conversationalists. I chalked that up to the fact that they were stuffed toys, not that they had any inherent bias against middle-aged meat puppets like me.

Our hostess, Miss Dylan, sat at the head of the table, pouring tea. Her leg was still in a cast, jutting awkwardly out from her chair. A new nanny hovered in the background while a real estate agent took pictures in the hallway. The Faulkner family, what’s left of them, was downsizing.

The tranquil image of a child’s party was at odds with what I saw when I closed my eyes—two weeks before, the bullet from my gun impacting Sarah-Jane Faulkner’s forehead just a few yards away on the balcony.

In my mind I could hear Sarah-Jane hitting the patio below as she tumbled from the second story. I could see Elizabeth falling from her grasp, dropping to the floor unharmed.

My aim had been true. My daughter was safe, and because of this I was unable to come up with words to express my gratitude to a God who up to that point in my life I wasn’t sure I believed in.

Dylan asked me to pour for Eloise the Elephant, closest to my seat. I happily complied.

The parsing of Sarah-Jane Faulkner’s life turned out to be a monumental undertaking, even with the muscle of the Department of Homeland Security behind the task.

Due to Sarah-Jane’s connection to the targets of the attacks and the attacker, the feds were determined to find out everything they could about her. Even though every snippet of information indicated that Elias King had acted alone or with a single accomplice, the powers that be at Homeland Security wanted to make sure there was no organized terrorist threat.

Unfortunately for the investigation, Sarah-Jane had been very good about keeping her tracks hidden. She’d used burner phones, disposable e-mail addresses, and IP proxy services, changing everything on a regular basis like she’d been trained by al-Qaeda or Edward Snowden. All of those factors indicated a sophisticated operation.

On the other side of the equation were her criminal activities, armed robberies of a bunch of men looking to step out on their wives. Hardly the work of an ISIS sleeper agent or some neo-Nazi group pissed off about Ruby Ridge.

Eric Faulkner entered the playroom, a packing box under one arm. He smiled at us and waved. Dylan ignored him, continuing to fuss with the teapot and a plate of cookies. I’d managed to fill my own cup earlier, a generous slug of single-malt scotch from the bar downstairs.

Faulkner was no longer the CEO of Sudamento. He’d been forced out as he’d predicted, but according to the newspapers this had made him a wealthy man. Stock options had vested, severance bonuses triggered, golden parachutes puffed open.

Despite the loss of his job and the death of his wife at my hand, he appeared happier than when I’d first met him. The lines on his face had softened, and the color of his skin was healthier. He smiled more readily, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, though there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes.

He put the box down and surveyed the room, now only about half full of toys. The expression on his face was that of a man wondering where to begin.

The investigation into Sarah-Jane Faulkner’s actions was further muddied by the soap opera love triangle between Sarah-Jane, Price Anderson, and Price’s employer, Eric Faulkner.

The affair had been on-again, off-again for years. The authorities had pieced together the course of their relationship through Price’s phone records and travel logs. The investigators had even uncovered an appointment at an abortion clinic five years before, made in the name of Debbie Wilson, Sarah-Jane’s deceased college roommate. Video footage from the clinic, archived by an overly obsessive security-minded facilities manager, showed Sarah-Jane arriving with Price and then hurriedly leaving a few moments later.

I drained my teacup and extricated myself from the tiny table.

Dylan said, “Where are you going, Jon?”

In the immediate aftermath of her mother’s death, she’d been alone, lost in a swirl of first responders and hysterical colleagues of her father’s. Piper and I had sat with her, with our daughter, Elizabeth, on Piper’s lap, wrapped in her mother’s protective embrace. Every few minutes, Dylan would reach out and hold my hand for a moment, as if to reassure herself that someone real was there, not just a fleeting image of an adult.

Dylan had seemed remarkably calm and accepting of the fact that neither her mother nor her nanny was around anymore.

Since then, I’d spent as much time as possible with her. I told myself that I was trying to help the Homeland Security investigators close out the investigation, and keeping the child occupied while they snooped around the house was beneficial to all parties involved. I also convinced myself that any use of my time that helped the child find a center for her young life was the least I could do, since I had been the instrument of her mother’s death.

I didn’t know if those reasons were accurate, however.

Maybe the truth was that subconsciously I was seeking a replacement for my own daughter.

“I’m going to talk to your dad,” I said. “Be right back.”

She watched me go, eyes unblinking. The thought of the road that lay ahead of her caused my heart to break just a little.

Eric Faulkner and I retreated to a corner of the room out of earshot.

“You’re a very kind man,” Faulkner said. “She really likes you.”

A kind man.
Except for that time I put a bullet into your wife’s head.

I didn’t reply, thinking of my own daughter, grateful she was alive.

“Price Anderson’s family,” he said. “They’ve gotten a court order for a DNA test.”

I wished for another glass of tea.

“Apparently Price was convinced that Dylan was his child.” Faulkner rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He told his brother that anyway, a couple of years ago.”

With their son dead, the Anderson family no doubt wanted a piece of tangible evidence that he had existed. Or money. Too early to tell. Either way, I felt for Eric Faulkner. When it rains, it pours, as the old saying goes.

“What the hell is that going to prove?” Faulkner shook his head. “Dylan is mine. I don’t care what any damn test says.”

Two weeks before, as he came to the realization that his wife was really dead, the dominant feeling I got off him was relief mixed with concern for his daughter. Now he was about to find out the child he’d always thought of as his own was not.

“You’re still her legal guardian,” I said. “There’s bound to be a way to stop a custody battle, especially considering . . . everything.”

“So you believe it’s true?” He looked at me.

I didn’t say anything.

“I should have paid Elias to stay away from her,” he said. “This is all his fault.”

I couldn’t even fathom how Elias King had been responsible for his sister’s infidelity. On some level we all live in a special world filled with mirrors that flatter the image of how we’d like things to be. Why should Eric Faulkner be any different?

From what I had gleaned, Sarah-Jane and her brother were an eleven on a ten scale of damaged people. Both parents had been alcoholic, neglectful if not abusive. As a result, they’d been raised by their grandfather, an elderly thug with the moral code of Al Capone.

Faulkner shook his head. “You know that I told Elias about the lake houses, don’t you? Gave him the access codes?”

I wasn’t aware of that fact, but I had suspected it.

“He told me he wanted someplace to get away, to clear his head.” Faulkner sighed. “Turns out he wanted to destroy me.”

“Because his grandfather gave you money?”

Faulkner nodded. “He never got over that. He was blood; I wasn’t.”

Revenge. The oldest, most destructive motive of them all.

“Have you told all this to a lawyer?” I asked. “The feds may get it into their mind to come after you for aiding and abetting.”

“I’m not stupid, Cantrell. Of course I’ve told my lawyer.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Dylan looked over at us. She smiled and waved. We waved back.

“I’ve made a deal to sell my Gulfstream,” he said. “Won’t close for a week.”

Dylan poured another round of tea for her stuffed animals.

“The pilot needs to file a flight plan,” he said. “Where should I tell him the destination is?”

There were some loose ends that required tidying up. Eric and I had talked about a particular situation that needed addressing. It was his idea to use the plane one last time for this matter.

“Logan International Airport. That’s the first stop.” I headed back to the party of stuffed animals.

Piper was gone again from my life, departing for Mexico a few days after the death of Sarah-Jane Faulkner. Elizabeth naturally went with her mother, leaving me alone.

I told Piper I would visit as soon as I could, and she didn’t seem completely opposed to the idea. This I took as a positive sign.

I remained in Dallas, staying close to Dylan and Eric Faulkner.

For reasons only he could articulate, Eric looked upon me as his new BFF.

Maybe it was because his daughter had taken a shine to me. Or perhaps because he was secretly relieved that I had enabled him to be free of his cheating wife. It could have been because as a hard-charging type A businessman he’d never developed friendships with people outside the corporate jungle.

In any event, he and I had spent a lot of time together. He talked about the way things played out, trying to come to terms with the death and destruction caused by his brother-in-law. I listened a lot, played with his daughter, and thought about my own child.

So it seemed more or less natural that he would offer me use of the tools of a successful industrialist, specifically the private jet that was about to be sold.

This was how I came to be sitting on the front stoop of a house in South Boston.

The home was slender and tall, an oversized Cracker Jack box paneled in gray wood siding. It was located on a narrow street filled with similar structures, some freshly painted, most not. A flower box filled with dead flowers hung underneath the front window.

It was late in the afternoon, in the latter half of September, and the air had a chill to it.

A few houses down, a group of kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

Next to me sat Connie Holbrook, Whitney’s mother.

Connie was in her sixties with a red bulbous nose and cheeks that were spider-webbed with burst capillaries. She wore a Boston Bruins sweatshirt and Nike sneakers.

“You shure you don’t want another beer?” She took a drink of her tallboy.

Her accent was thicker than her daughter’s, reflecting a lifetime in this one particular neighborhood.

“I’m good, thanks.”

She drank in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “What’s the weather like in Texas now?”

“Still pretty hot.”

Connie Holbrook nodded like this was important information. “Whitney, she didn’t much like the cold.”

I didn’t say anything. We’d already spent half an hour inside, sitting by the bay window in the tiny living room and making small talk.

The living area was decorated with a cracked leather sofa and two recliners in front of a TV. On the opposite wall was a picture of the pope amid a cluster of family photos.

The largest photo was of a much younger Connie Holbrook and Whitney when she was about twelve, along with a boy maybe a year or so older. The snapshot had been taken at Disney World. The others showed the three at different ages and different places. Times Square, an empty beach, the Lincoln Memorial.

No father figure was present in any of the shots.

Back outside, I watched the kids chase the soccer ball past the stoop where we were sitting.

Several called out a greeting to Connie. She waved and told them to be careful for cars.

“Nice neighborhood,” I said. “Whitney grew up here?”

“Yeah. This house.” She patted the steps. “Couldn’t get out of here fast enough, though.”

The words had a hint of bitterness to them.

I let the silence drag on for a while. Then: “I got the sense that she liked to travel, to see new places.”

Connie stared at the children, lost in thought.

I wondered again why I had come. The matter at hand could have been handled indirectly. I didn’t really know Whitney Holbrook that well, but I’d felt the need to connect with who she was and where she’d come from. We all seek closure in different ways, I suppose.

She’d died alone in a hospital room, and the solitary nature of her passing made me sadder than her actual death for some reason.

“There’s a man in Texas,” I said. “His name is Eric Faulkner.”

Connie looked at me. “The head of that company? Sudamento?”