White Lies (2 page)
Payne quickly reached out and took the cup
from her, placing it on the tray.
"We don't know," he said, his face
even more troubled. "There was an explosion; one man survived. We think
it's Crossfield, but we aren't certain, and it's critical that we know. I can't
explain more than that."
It had been a long, terrible day, and it
wasn't getting any better. She put her shaking hands to her temples and pressed
hard, trying to make sense of what he'd told her. "Wasn't there any identification
on him?"
"No," Payne said.
"Then why do you think it's Steve?"
"We know he was there. Part of his
driver's license was found."
"Why can't you just look at nun and tell
who he is?" she cried. "Why can't you identify the others and find
out who he is by process of elimination?" McCoy looked away. Payne's
gentle eyes darkened. "There wasn't enough left to identify.
Nothing."
She didn't want to hear any more, didn't want
to know any of the details, though she could guess at the horrible carnage. She
was suddenly cold, as if her blood had stopped pumping. "Steve?" she
asked faintly.
"The man who survived is in critical
condition, but the doctors are what they call 'cautiously optimistic.' He has a
chance. Two days ago, they were certain he wouldn't last through the
night."
"Why is it so important that you know
right now who he is? If he lives, you can ask him. If he dies—" She halted
abruptly. She couldn't say the words, but she thought them. If he died, it
wouldn't matter. There would be no survivors, and they would close their files.
"I can't tell you anything except that we
need to know who this man is. We need to know who died, so certain steps can be
taken. Ms. Granger, I can tell you that my agency isn't directly involved in
the situation. We're merely cooperating with others, because this concerns
national security."
Suddenly Jay knew what they wanted from her.
They would have been glad if she could have helped them locate any dental or
medical records on Steve, but that wasn't their prune objective. They wanted
her to go with them, to personally identify the injured man as Steve.
In a dull voice she asked, "Can't they
tell if this man matches the general description of any of their own people?
Surely they have measurements, fingerprints, that sort of thing?"
She was looking down, so she didn't see the
quick wariness in Payne's eyes. He cleared his throat again. "Your husband—ex-husband—and
our man are... were.. .the same general size. Fingerprints aren't possible; his
hands are burned. But you know more about nun than anyone else we can find.
There might be something about him that you recognize, some little birthmark or
scar that you remember."
It still confused her; she couldn't understand
why they wouldn't be able to recognize their own man, unless he was so horribly
mutilated... Shivering, she didn't let herself complete the thought, didn't let
the picture form in her mind. What if it was Steve? She didn't hate him, had
never hated him. He was a rascal, but he'd never been cruel or meanhearted;
even after she had stopped loving him, she had still been fond of him, in an
exasperated way.
"You want me to go with you," she
said, making it a statement instead of a question.
"Please," Payne replied quietly.
She didn't want to, but he had made it seem
like her patriotic duty. "All right. I'll get my coat. Where is he?"
Payne cleared his throat again and Jay tensed.
She'd already learned that he did that whenever he had to tell her something
awkward or unpleasant. "He's at Bethesda Naval Hospital in D.C. You'll
need to pack a small suitcase. We have a private jet waiting for us at
Kennedy."
Things were moving too fast for her to
understand; she felt as if all she could do was follow the path of least resistance.
Too much had happened today. First she had been fired, a brutal blow in itself,
and now this. The security she had worked so hard to attain for herself had
vanished in a few short minutes in Farrell Wordlaw's office, leaving her
spuming helplessly, unable to get her feet back on the ground. Her life had
been so quiet for the past five years; how could all this have happened so
quickly?
Numbly she packed two dresses that traveled
well, then collected her cosmetics from the bathroom. As she shoved what she
needed into a small zippered plastic bag, she was stunned by her own reflection
in the mirror. She looked so white and strained, and thin. Unhealthily thin.
Her eyes were hollow and her cheekbones too prominent, the result of working
long hours and living on antacid tablets. As soon as she returned to the city
she would have to begin looking for another job, as well as working out her
notice, which would mean more skipped meals.
Then she felt ashamed of herself. Why was she
worrying about a job when Steve—or someone—was lying in a hospital bed fighting
for his life? Steve had always told her that she worried too much about work,
that she couldn't enjoy today because she was always worried about tomorrow.
Maybe he was right. Steve! Sudden tears blurred her eyes as she stuffed the
cosmetic bag into her small overnighter. She hoped he would be all right.
At the last moment she remembered to pack
fresh underwear. She was rattled, oddly disorganized, but finally she zipped
the case and got her purse. "I'm ready," she said as she stepped out
of the bedroom. •
Gratefully she saw that one of the men had
carried the coffee things into the kitchen. McCoy took the case from her hand,
and she got her coat from the closet; Payne silently helped her into it. She
looked around to make certain all the lights were off; then the three of them
stepped into the hallway, and she locked the door behind her, wondering why she
felt as if she would never be back.
* * *
She slept on the plane. She hadn't meant to,
but almost as soon as they were airborne and she relaxed in the comfortable
leather seat, her eyelids became too heavy to keep open. She didn't feel Payne
spread a light blanket over her. Payne sat across from her, watching her
broodingly. He wasn't quite comfortable with what he was doing, dragging an
innocent woman into this mess. Not even McCoy knew how much of a mess it was,
how complicated it had become; as far as the other man knew, the situation was
exactly the way he'd outlined it to Jay Granger: a simple matter of
identification. Only a handful of people knew that it was more; maybe only two
others besides himself. Maybe only one other, but that one carried a lot of
power. When he wanted something done, it was done. Payne had known him for
years, but had never managed to be comfortable in his presence.
She looked tired and oddly frail. She was too
thin. She was about five-six, but he doubted she weighed much over a hundred
pounds, and something about her made him think such thinness wasn't normal for
her. He wondered if she was strong enough to be used as a shield.
She was probably very pretty when she was
rested, and when she had some meat on her bones. Her hair was nice, a kind of
honey brown, as thick and sleek as an otter's coat, and her eyes were dark
blue. But now she just looked tired. It hadn't been an easy day for her.
Still, she had asked some questions that had
made him uncomfortable. If she hadn't been so tired and upset she might have
pinned him down on some things he didn't want to discuss, asked questions in
front of McCoy that he didn't want raised. It was essential to the plan that
everything be taken at face value. There could be no doubt at all.
* * *
The flight from New York to Bethesda was a
short one, but the nap refreshed her, gave her back a sense of balance. The
only thing was, the more alert she felt, the more unreal this entire situation
seemed. She checked her watch as Payne and McCoy escorted her off the private
jet when they landed at Washington National and into a government car waiting
on the tarmac for them, and was startled to see that it was only nine o'clock.
Only a few hours had passed, yet her life had been turned upside down.
"Why Bethesda?" she murmured to
Payne as the car purred down the street, a few flakes of snow drifting down
like flower petals on a light breeze. She stared at the snowflakes, wondering
absently if an early-winter snowstorm would keep her from getting home.
"Why not a civilian hospital?"
"Security." Payne's quiet voice
barely reached her ears. "Don't worry. The best trauma experts were called
in to work on him, civilian and military. We're doing the best we can for your
husband."
"Ex-husband," Jay said faintly.
"Yes. Sorry."
As they turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, which
would eventually take them to the Naval Medical Center, the snow became a
little heavier. Payne was glad she hadn't asked any more questions about why
the man was in a military hospital instead of, say, Georgetown University
Hospital. Of course, he'd told her the truth, as far as it went. Security
was
the reason he was at Bethesda. It just wasn't
the only reason. He watched the snow swirling down and wondered if all the
loose threads could possibly be woven into a believable whole.
When they reached the medical center, only
Payne got out of the car with her; McCoy nodded briefly in farewell and drove
away. Snowflakes quickly silvered their hair as Payne took her elbow and
hurried her inside, where the welcome warmth just as quickly melted the lacy
flakes. No one paid them any attention as they took an elevator upward.
When the elevator doors opened, they stepped
out into a quiet corridor.
"This is the ICU floor," Payne said.
"His room is this way." They turned to the left, where double doors
were guarded by two stern young men in uniform, both of whom wore pistols.
Payne must have been known on sight, for one of the guards quickly opened a
door for them. "Thank you," Payne said courteously as they passed.
The unit was deserted, except for the nurses
who monitored all the lifesupport systems and continually checked on the
patients, but still Jay sensed a quiet hum that pervaded every corner of the
unit—the sound of the machines that kept the patients alive or aided in their
recovery. For the first time it struck her that Steve must be hooked up to one
or more of those machines, unable to move, and her steps faltered. It was just
so hard to take in.
Payne's hand remained under her elbow,
unobtrusively providing her with support. He stopped before a door and turned
to her, his clear gray eyes full of concern. "I want to prepare you a
little. He's badly injured. His skull was fractured, and the bones in his face
were crushed. He's breathing through a trach tube. Don't expect him to look like
the man you remember." He waited a moment, watching her, but she didn't
say anything, and finally he opened the door. Jay stepped into the room, and
for a split second both her heart and lungs seemed to stop functioning. Then
her heart lurched into rhythm again, and she drew a deep, painful breath. Tears
sprang to her eyes as she stared at the inert form on the white hospital bed,
and his name trembled soundlessly on her lips. It didn't seem possible that
this...
this
could be Steve.
The man on the bed was almost literally a
mummy. Both legs were broken and encased in pristine plaster casts, supported
by a network of pulleys and slings. His hands were wrapped in bandages that
extended almost to his elbows. His head and face were swathed in gauze, with
extra thick pads over his eyes; only his lips, chin and jaw were visible, and
they were swollen and discolored. His breath whistled faintly but regularly
from the tube in his throat, and various other tubes ran into his body.
Monitors overhead recorded every detail of his bodily functions. And he was
still. He was so still.
