The Strategist (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

Prior to this morning, Camille hadn’t had much experience with post 9/11 airport security, as her FBI credentials allowed her to bypass most inspections that the average traveler had to endure. Now that she no longer had those credentials, she would be subject to the same scrutiny as everyone else. But just as the skycap predicted, the security lines were short, and aside from removing her shoes and dumping her pocket change, the process was relatively uneventful.
Score one for the average Jane
, she quipped to herself as she continued on to the concourse.

The plane was light on passengers. Camille was assigned an aisle seat, but when she realized the other two seats in her row would be unoccupied, she promptly moved to the window. Less chance of being bothered by a flight attendant. The one assigned to her section was an energetic red-head named Wendy. The in-flight breakfast, Wendy informed the cabin more than once, would consist of ham, egg, and cheese croissants, fresh fruit, and a special coffee blend she was positive was imported from someplace very exotic. She also made a point to remind everyone, more than once, that emergency exits were located in four corners on either side of them, and that cell-phone and laptop use was forbidden until the plane reached cruising altitude.

Whatever
, Camille thought as she reclined in her over-sized first-class seat, pulled her mane of curly black hair into a tight pony tail, and powered up her iPod to near max volume. The pulsating bass line of Stevie Wonder’s
Superstition
filled her ears and eventually everything around her, including Wendy and her exotic coffee, disappeared. Soon, even the music was gone, and her mind and body were completely still.

In the two months prior to Camille leaving the Bureau, her REM state of sleep had been filled with continuous images of red and blue lights, the hollow sound of distant screaming, and the warm, wet feeling of
blood on her fingers. When neither the Bureau head-shrinker nor the bottle of Ambien her doctor prescribed could make the images go away, Camille decided on a cure of her own: she didn’t sleep. Any legal stimulant she could get her hands on went into her body. The result was an acute case of insomnia. For three weeks she averaged no more than an hour and a half of sleep per day. The visions went away, and for a time she felt better. But what she wouldn’t appreciate until much later was the ability of the sleep-deprived mind to conjure up horrors that made her nightmares feel like child’s play. A second trip to her doctor resulted in an increased dose of Ambien. The sleep eventually came back. Unfortunately, the horrific visions that accompanied her nights as an insomniac never went away.

But as she slept plane, her mind was quiet. There were no twisted images of the past or obscure visions of the future. There were simply deep pools of calm, comforting darkness that stretched into an empty void of nothingness. She could have stayed there forever, and for a
time, she thought she would.

Then a pull
on her shoulder made the darkness go away.

She awoke to the sound of Kurt Cobain’s primordial growl in her ear and Wendy’s exasperated green eyes in her face. Camille quickly removed her headphones.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to put on your seatbelt and raise your seat. We’re beginning our descent.” 

Camille nodded as she fumbled for the seatbelt clip. The time had passed too quickly. She had intended to use the flight to mentally prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught that would accompany her arrival. Obviously her body had different ideas.

She stared out her window with focused, refreshed eyes. The bright blue sky she awoke to steadily disappeared as the plane dove into a thick layer of gray clouds. Streaks of heavy rain blurred her window view.

Just as the front end of the plane began to dip, a deep voice filled the cabin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re beginning our final approach to Denver International Airport. As you can probably see, the weather conditions are a little murky, with moderate to severe storms expected in the city for most of the day. Please continue to observe the fasten seatbelt sign as we could experience a few minor bumps before landing.”

Almost on cue the cabin began to shake. Camille placed a nervous hand on her armrest. But it wasn’t the turbulence that made her anxious. She knew that airline pilots were the most skilled navigators in the world, and in their hands she would be nothing but safe. Her nervousness came from the fact that in moments the plane would land and she would have no choice but to get off.
There would be no one to guide her safely the rest of the way. From the moment the plane came to a stop on the tarmac, and she unbuckled her seatbelt, collected her duffle bag, and entered the concourse, she would be completely on her own.

It was then that Camille understood why she was able to sleep so soundly for the first time in months. For the three and a half hours she was on the plane, she could relinquish the iron-clad grip that was required to hold her world together. She c
ould put her fate squarely in someone else’s hands; hands she trusted to keep her safe. Camille couldn’t remember the last time she felt that level of security with anyone she actually knew. She wondered when she would ever feel it again.

There was a rumble beneath the plane, followed by the pull of air brakes. The landing gear had been deployed. After a sharp turn to the right, the gray cityscape came into view. She could see the grids that outlined the city; the roads filled with tiny moving dots that were getting larger by the second. People were busy going about their everyday lives, none of them aware of her arrival. Camille may have hit the pause button on her life, but the rest of the world kept right on going, and would continue to do so whether she wanted to join in or not.

The plane touched down with a gentle thump and slowed to a crawl as it approached the gate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me be the first to welcome you to beautiful Denver, Colorado,” the captain’s voice offered. “The time is 9:06, mountain standard time. I’m happy to say that we’ve arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule, so there’s no need to make a mad dash for the exits. In other words, please keep your seatbelts fastened until the aircraft comes to a complete stop. And as always, on behalf of myself and the crew, thank you for allowing American Airlines to get you here safely.”

But it was Camille who wanted to thank him, not only for getting her here safely, but for helping her achieve something that the FBI shrinks, the prescription sleeping meds, and the empty reassurances from her former colleagues couldn’t: a moment to rest.

What she didn’t realize as she unbuckled her seat belt and collected her duffle bag, was that it would be the last restful moment she would
have for a long, long time.

CHAPTER 4

E
ven though the walk through the jet bridge was a relatively short one, Camille was nearly out of breath by the time she reached the concourse. She may have spent the first twenty-two years of her life here, but she had spent the last twelve at sea level, which meant that the thin Colorado air had the same debilitating effect on her that it had on anyone else who wasn’t used to it. She was light-headed, her legs felt unsteady, her stomach was queasy. Classic signs of altitude sickness. She sat down in a chair near the gate in hopes that the feeling would subside. It didn’t. The more she tried to focus her eyes, the cloudier her vision became. Each swallow of air brought on a wave of nausea that nearly overwhelmed her. Camille hadn’t been here ten minutes and she was already going to be sick.

It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to since that otherwise beautiful July morning in Lancaster, Pennsylvania when her life took the sharpest left turn imaginable. Once mundane tasks that required minimal physical exertion now left her drained. During her last counseling session, the FBI head-shrinker suggested this to be a symptom of acute emotional trauma. He even threw around the words ‘post-traumatic stress’ and ‘mild depression’. Camille laughed at the suggestion and promptly walked out of his office. In retrospect, she realized there was nothing funny about the diagnosis. Ending the session so abruptly had been nothing more than a defense mechanism against yet another truth she was not equipped to face.

What Camille felt right now may have truly been nothing more than altitude sickness; an ailment easily cured with a couple of Dramamine and a ginger ale. But part of her wondered if this wasn’t something more elemental to who she now was; the new normal. Perhaps if she hadn’t stormed out of the shrink’s office, she would have had a chance of finding out. Perhaps the answer would still reveal itself in time. Or more likely, she was simply over-thinking the whole damn thing.

Whatever the case, she did
n’t have time to worry about it. Her ride was due to meet her at 9:30 sharp, which meant that she only had a few minutes to get her luggage. After taking in the deepest breath she could muster, Camille stood up. She immediately felt the urge to sit down again, but instead pushed her way through the concourse. Since she didn’t bother to take Wendy up on her exotic coffee blend and was in desperate need of caffeine, she made a quick trip to Starbucks for a green tea.

She skimmed through a Denver Post while she waited in line. The front page read like the front page of every other major news daily. Crime stories that once occupied prime space were now relegated to the second and third sections in favor of the more pressing issues of high unemployment and depressed housing markets. But the grim economic forecasts didn’t bother Camille in the least. She certainly preferred that to the story about the latest missing toddler or shooting rampage that she was bound to see had she kept reading.

The last such story to capture the nation’s attention involved her and it had been only a couple of weeks since her name last appeared in the Washington Times-Herald. Camille’s fifteen minutes were particularly infamous, and at its height, the D.C. field office was handling some fifty interview requests for her per day. Very few were granted. But that didn’t stop her picture from ending up in virtually every printed news outlet in the country. By the time she finally decided to leave Washington, she would have been hard-pressed to walk the streets of the city without being recognized by someone.

So far no one here had given her a second glance, and she had every intention of keeping it that way. Her pace quickened as she walked out of the Starbucks, up the escalator and into baggage claim. Even though she took great pains to keep herself from being noticed, she still felt anxious. In one of the many worst-case scenarios that played out in her mind before she got here, she imagined that some enterprising investigative reporter who had gotten wind of her arrival would be waiting with her luggage - notepad, microphone, and a thousand difficult questions in tow. 

What Camille saw instead as she rounded the corner to baggage carousel number six brought a smile to her face so broad that it physically hurt.

The sign was written on red poster board, with a meticulous script that she instantly recognized.

BREAD LINE FOR DOWN
AND OUT FBI AGENTS BEGINS HERE

There was only one person Camille knew who had the audacity to write such a thing. And because it was her best friend, she was also the only person in the world who could actually get away with it.

“For once in your life you’re actually on time,” Julia bellowed as she lowered her sign. “Unfortunately the bread won’t be out of the oven for another twenty minutes, so I’ll need you to wait behind the white line.”

Camille’s eyes welled up as she choked back laughter. “Giving up law for comedy?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Some people think they’re one in the same anyway.”

“I have yet to meet a lawyer who knew squat about being funny. I give you credit for trying though.”

“It’s better than being the ruthless witch that everyone always expects me to be.”

“Who on earth would call you ruthless? That’s just flat-out rude.”

Julia laughed. “Look who else thinks she’s a comedienne?”

“Better than being the loser former FBI agent that everyone expects me to be.”

Julia’s smile faded as she pointed to her sign. “Down and out FBI agent. Get it right. Loser doesn’t apply t
o you. Never has, never will.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Now shush up and give Auntie Jules a big ol’ hug!”

Camille chuckled at the ridiculously bad West Virginia accent that Julia was fond of speaking in when she felt the random need to channel her Appalachian ancestry. “You are such a geek.”

“I love you too, Cam.”

As Julia approached, Camille could see that her eyes were beginning to water. “Oh Jesus, I don’t need you getting all hysterical on me.”

Julia dabbed at her damp eyes with one hand and reached out to Camille with the other, discarding the sign as she did. “Shut up. You’re crying too.”

Camille’s tea fell to the floor as she pulled Julia close. For a long moment they were silent, the only sound between them being Julia’s muted sniffles. This was a moment Camille had wondered about for a long time. What would her first encounter back home feel like? Would the embarrassment that she felt about being here outweigh the absolute joy that would come with seeing her closest friend for the first time since she’d last visited D.C. over two years ago?

The answer was a resounding no.

“I guess neither of us is as hilarious as we pretend to be,” Camille declared.

“Guess not,” Julia concurred as she bent down to pick up her sign. It was then that she noticed Camille’s Starbucks cup. “You might want to pick that up honey. You never know when a cop will be around.”

“Aren’t you
clever? But as far as I know, you’re the only person in the history of the world who has gotten a ticket for littering.”

“Admittedly, my rap sheet in college was lengthy. But getting a ticket for throwing a Burger King wrapper out of a car window is total nonsense. Even you have to acknowledge that.”

“The only thing I’m acknowledging is my desire to get the hell out of this airport. You can regale me with tales from your wayward past later.”

“Who says my waywardness is in the past?” Julia asked in a tone that briefly made Camille wonder if she was really joking.

When they simultaneously burst into laughter, Camille no longer had to wonder.

“My bags just came up,” she said, pointing to two red suitcases lying side by side on the baggage carousel. “You can take the heavy one.”

“Thanks Cam. You always were the generous one in our relationship.”