Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Page 3

  “Maybe,” said Grace. “I want to be home.”

  “Got it!” Jessie shouted. “I unlocked it.”

  Mary jumped in her seat and Grace squealed.

  “Unlocked what?” Mary asked.

  “Your phone. Now you can use whatever carrier you want to.”

  Mary caught Jessie’s wide-open grin. From grim to giddy in two seconds flat. “Is that legal?”

  “It’s your phone,” Jessie explained. “Who says you have to use one of the big phone companies? Now you can hook up with one that’s like a hundred times cheaper. Isn’t that great?”

  “Is it? If you say so, hon. Does it still work?”

  “Of course. I’m saving all the settings. Oh, and that call was from Dad. He left a message.”

  “He did?” Mary felt a pang of worry. Joe wouldn’t cancel. He knew what it meant to her. If it was important, he’d have called back by now or texted. He was probably just letting her know that everything was fine and that he’d see her at seven. “Give me the phone,” she said pleasantly.

  Jessie crossed her arms. “You can’t listen and drive. Do you want me to listen to it?”

  Mary knew what kind of messages Joe liked to leave. Definitely NSFW, which meant “not suitable for work.” Or, in this case, children. “I’ll wait till we get home. Just put the phone on the seat.”

  Jessie laid it on the front seat, a proud smile firmly in place.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” said Mary. “You can tell me exactly what you did later.”

  “Mom, the exit!”

  Mary saw the sign ahead, checked the rearview mirror, and yanked the car into the right lane, barely managing to make the exit ramp. “That was close,” she said, laughing it off.

  “Why don’t you pay attention?” said Jessie. “We’ve lived here for two months and you still always miss it.”

  Mary bit back a stinging rebuke. If she’d said something like that to her mother, she’d have received a slap across the face. She had sworn when she had Jessie to be as kind to her children as her mother was mean to her. Getting angry only brought her down to Jessie’s level.

  She made the turn onto Spicewood Springs. In a minute they were driving through their new neighborhood. The houses were big and bold, each on an eighth of an acre. She turned onto Pickfair Drive and zipped into their driveway. She loved their home, a two-story Spanish-style with a stately live oak shading the lawn and a terracotta fountain next to the front door. “Home again, Finnegan,” she said, as she put the car into park.

  Jessie jumped out as if the car were on fire. Grace remained in her seat, her cheek pressed to the window. Mary got out and opened her daughter’s door. “You okay, mouse?”

  Grace mumbled something and vomited.

  Mary jumped back, then immediately felt guilty for having done so. She put an arm behind her daughter’s back and helped her from the car. “There, there. Let’s get you inside and all cleaned up.” At the front door, Mary craned her head and yelled up the stairs. “Jessie, get some towels.”

  “Did she puke?”

  “Please, Jessie.” Mary led Grace into the laundry room and helped her take off her shirt and jeans, then stuffed them straight into the washer.

  “Here.” Jessie stood in the doorway, holding out a dishcloth.

  “It’s in the car, sweetheart. There’s not much.”

  Jessie didn’t budge. “I don’t do floors or windows.”

  “Come on, sweetheart. It won’t take long.”

  Jessie shook her head. “N. O.”

  Mary yanked the towel out of her hand and without a backward glance took Grace upstairs. Jessie followed, pounding up the stairs and slamming the door to her room.

  It took thirty minutes to get Grace settled. The doctor hadn’t mentioned that the new medication would cause nausea. Either the drugs were stronger or Grace’s system was growing weaker. Cancer sucked.

  The clock read 5:30 when Mary walked into her bedroom to change after cleaning the car.

  Joe’s message. How could she forget?

  She snatched the phone from her dresser. Just then it vibrated in her hand and began to ring. Joe, she said silently, I’m sorry.

  But it wasn’t Joe. There was no name on the screen, just a number she didn’t recognize. She didn’t have time right now to take a call from someone she didn’t know. The phone rang again, and she realized that the first three digits were the same as Joe’s.

  A premonition flashed through her. A cold streak that rattled her spine for the briefest of instants. She hit the Answer key. “Hello.”

  “Mary, this is Don Bennett. Joe’s been hurt. You need to come to the hospital right away.”

  3

  Mary rushed out of the parking garage, following the signs to the emergency entrance. She walked crisply, chin up, shoulders pinned back. Stressful occasions were to be handled calmly and without excessive emotion. She was the daughter of a rear admiral and a lifelong member of the Junior League. She’d been born with a rule book in her mouth.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Hello, Mary.” Don Bennett, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Austin office, stood outside the emergency room doors. He was stocky and humorless, twenty pounds overweight, with brown eyes and a motorcycle cop’s mustache. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Right here is fine. How is he?”

  Bennett put a hand on her arm. “Joe’s in a bad way. Let’s go inside and sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit,” said Mary, pulling her arm clear. “Is he alive?”

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s alive.”

  It was a hesitant yes, and Mary was too afraid to ask anything more. She followed Bennett through the automatic doors into the waiting room. A cluster of Joe’s fellow agents had staked out a corner for themselves. Ten capable, clean-cut men in dark suits and two women who looked even more capable. All eyes turned to Mary. The suffering spouse. The weaker vessel. A civilian. She hurried past them, determined not to let them see her worry.

  Joe’s been hurt.

  Mary had imagined the words, or something similar, a thousand times. And a thousand times she’d dismissed them. Not Joe. He was a specialist in electronic surveillance. He bugged phones and got warrants for wiretaps and spent days inside vans, watching and listening. His targets were mayors and city councilmen and treasurers who siphoned off money from public coffers. Joe didn’t do dangerous. He’d promised her after they had Grace, and he’d renewed his promise after she got sick.

  But the truth was, she didn’t know what he did every day.

  Bennett led her to a quiet corner. “Here’s how it is,” he said. “Joe’s been shot. He lost a significant amount of blood. He’s in surgery right now. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad. The bullet may have nicked his heart. He was in cardiac arrest when they got to him.”

  “He was dead?”

  “Clinically.”

  “Is there another kind?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How long had his heart stopped before they were able to get it going again?”

  “I don’t know. The paramedics or the surgeon may be able to tell you. Joe was brought in on a STAR Flight from Dripping Springs.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Twenty-five miles west on 290.”

  “He told me he was working a case in Bastrop. That’s southeast of town.”

  Bennett averted his eyes. “Come on, Mary. You know the rules. I can’t talk about an investigation.”

  “Why was he there?” Mary shouted. All faces turned toward them.

  “He was meeting a CI,” said Bennett, aware of the attention, leaning closer. “A confidential informant.”

  “I know what a CI is.”

  “Joe was working alone. I don’t have the details, but from all appearances it looks like the debriefing went sideways. The informant was armed and—”

  “Stop,” said Mary. “We’re talking about Joe
, not some greenhorn fresh out of Quantico. He’d never let a man he thought was dangerous near him without checking if he was armed.”

  “All I know is that Joe got into a car with an informant and neither of them got out.”

  “So the informant is dead, too?”

  “Jesus, Mary.” Bennett looked away angrily, as if he’d been tricked. “I’ve said too much already. I’ll tell you more when I get the all-clear. Right now let’s concentrate on getting Joe through this.”

  But Mary was in no mood to wait. She looked at Bennett, at his tired brown eyes, which wouldn’t quite meet hers, at his perfectly tied necktie and his lovingly shined shoes. She knew when she was being brushed off. “Who’s giving you the all-clear, Don?”

  “Mary, please.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s just an expression. I can’t tell you about something I don’t know. Joe is my friend, too.”

  Mary closed her eyes and drew a breath. She was thinking about the call. “He knew before.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Joe knew something was wrong.”

  Bennett shifted on his chair, alert. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

  “He called me. He let me know he was in trouble.” Mary began to cry. There was no stopping it. No amount of will or anger or shame or anything could arrest her tears. “I missed the call, but he left a voicemail. I think he wanted me to help him.”

  “He called you to say he was in trouble?”

  “It’s my fault. I didn’t take the call.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re not to blame.”

  “I could have—”

  “Joe knew what he was doing.”

  The comment offended Mary. Six words to transfer the blame onto her husband’s shoulders. Six words to wipe the FBI’s hands clean of all culpability. “Yes,” she said. “He did. And he’d never put himself into a compromising position with someone who was armed. Not when he was alone. Would you?”

  Bennett started to answer, then bit back his words. “This isn’t the time.”

  “Who was his backup?”

  “He didn’t have one.”

  “So who called the ambulance? Who found him? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Bennett ignored her question. “What did the message say?”

  “Listen for yourself.” Mary looked inside her purse but didn’t see her phone. “I left it in the car.”

  But she didn’t need the phone to recall the message. Snippets of Joe’s words still rang in her ear.

  Mary. It’s me. Pick up. Please. You there? Oh, Christ. It’s my damn fault. It never made sense coming all the way out here. Listen to me. Everything’s copacetic, baby. You hear me? If you get this, call Sid. Tell him I didn’t get it. Tell him it’s key that he keeps trying. He’s one of the good guys. He needs to know. I love you, Mary. I love you and the girls more than anything. Tell the girls. Tell them…ah hell—

  The message ended abruptly and without a goodbye.

  “Mary?” Don Bennett stood closer, his gentle voice unable to temper his demanding glare.

  “He said that it didn’t make sense coming out there, that he didn’t get it, and that he loved me and the girls.”

  “Get what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “That’s it? You said he knew something was wrong.”

  Everything’s copacetic, baby.

  Copacetic. It was their secret word for when everything was going wrong, when things were not what they were supposed to be, when everything was, as Joe liked to say, FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all recognition.

  Mary laughed, a bubble of joy punching through her sorrow as she remembered when he’d first used the term. It was on their honeymoon, a three-day high-speed adventure in Jamaica. They’d arrived at their hotel only to discover that Joe’s reservation had vanished, and so had his wallet, somewhere between the airport and the hotel. Mary had her debit card, but it was good for only $200. They’d ended up at a rundown B&B in Montego Bay, sharing a single bed and a bathroom without towels and dining on mangos and papayas from the roadside vendors, with a few Red Stripes thrown in to help them forget their hunger. Instead of sun there was rain. Halfway through their second day, the manager kicked them out for making too much noise…laughing, not the other kind. She had a picture permanently framed in her mind of Joe standing by the highway next to their pile of bags, thumb out, hitchhiking to the airport in a driving Caribbean downpour. And his words accompanied by a big ol’ shit-eating grin. “Everything’s copacetic.”

  Mary’s smile faded. There were other times he had used the expression. Times when things hadn’t been copacetic for either of them.

  She came back to the present. There was no mistaking his meaning this time. Fear. Desperation. Anxiety.

  “Do you know anyone named Sid?” she asked. “Or Sidney?”

  “Did Joe mention that name?”

  Mary didn’t like the eagerness in Bennett’s eyes. “I’m confused. It’s something else. I’m sorry.”

  “You were saying,” prodded Bennett. “He knew he was in trouble. How’d he know?”

  Mary decided that she’d said enough. “I could just tell,” she fibbed. “He sounded scared. That’s all.”

  “He didn’t say anything specific?”

  “No,” said Mary. “You can listen for yourself later.”

  “If it’s not too much of a problem, I’d like to listen now.” Bennett shifted his eyes over her shoulder. “Well, maybe after. The doc’s here.”

  Mary turned to see a tall man wearing surgical greens approaching from the hall. There was a splash of blood on his lower leg.

  “Mrs. Grant?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor looked at Bennett for a second too long, then returned his attention to Mary. “I’m Dr. Alexander. Come with me.”

  4

  Mary followed Dr. Alexander down the hallway and into the elevator. She listened carefully as he spoke to her of Joe’s injuries and the surgery and his chances for survival. She asked questions. She was the calm, rational wife even as the horizons of her life shrank and her prospects grew bleak, for while she was listening, she was thinking of herself, her past, and how she’d prepared for this moment.

  —

  “Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them,” the admiral had said.

  Shying away was not an option. But Mary had never shied away from a challenge in her life, or from anything else, for that matter. Her mother liked to brag that Mary lived “with her elbows out.”

  Her youth was a record of plucky survival or divine miracles. She fell off her first pony at age seven. The pony’s hoof caught her in the head, slicing her forehead from port to starboard and leaving her unconscious for God knows how long. When she stumbled into the kitchen, her mother screamed so loudly that the neighbors called 911, certain that someone was being raped, robbed, or tortured with a sharp instrument.

  In the hospital afterward, the admiral pinned one of his Purple Hearts on her hospital gown and admitted he’d never seen so much blood in his life, and that included his time running PT boats up the Mekong Delta in Vietnam.

  Mary’s next brush with mortality came at twelve. While sailing the family Razor on Chesapeake Bay, she misjudged a change in the wind and was knocked clean off the boat by a wild boom. It was December. The ocean was 42° and the current was running strong. By the time she hauled herself back into the boat and returned to the dock, her body temperature had plummeted to 94° and she was shaking like…well, like she was shaking right now. A bout of double pneumonia followed, accompanied by a 106° fever. At some point a priest was brought to her, though Mary had no recollection of any of it. She only remembered the Bible she found at her bedside when she woke up, the ribbon placed at the Twenty-third Psalm.

  Later there was a bike accident, a broken leg playing soccer, and concussions playing lacrosse. Mary never considered any of them a big deal. The gash on her forehead was a scratch.
The two weeks spent in the hospital, a cold. The priest who came to administer last rites, parental hysteria. She lumped them all together as proof of her invincibility. She’d suffered so much and overcome so many obstacles that she could no longer summon up any situation that might frighten her.

  Queen Mary the Lionheart.

  All that changed with Grace. The past two years had used up all that confidence and then some. There were only so many nights a mother could spend by a bedside, only so many prayers she could utter. Sooner or later even the most stalwart faltered.

  And now Joe.

  This was one challenge too many. One mountain she was not equipped to climb.

  She was not ready to be a widow. Not now. Not with Grace and her illness and Jessie and her attitude, not with so much of life still in front of her requiring her efforts, so many days to be gotten through.

  Stand fast, girl. One hand for the boat and an eye on the horizon.

  The elevator reached the fifth floor. The door opened, but Mary didn’t move. She remained where she was, her father’s baritone loud in her ears.

  Order refused, Admiral.

  Mary was no longer invincible.

  Queen Mary the Lionheart was ready to give up her throne.

  —

  She saw Joe through the window—the sole patient in the ICU, eyes closed, respirator protruding from his mouth, more tubes than she could count running in and out of his body. An army of machines monitored his vital signs. There was a heart monitor. An automatic sphyg-momometer to measure blood pressure. An electroencephalograph for brain function. And many more, all of which Mary knew by name.

  “Do I need a gown or mask?” she asked, eyes never leaving her husband’s inert form.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Alexander.

  Mary stepped inside the room and approached the bed. “Joe,” she said softly, as if there were others there she might disturb. “It’s me. I came as soon as I heard. You doing okay?”

  Dr. Alexander had been forthright in his explanation of Joe’s injury and his prognosis for recovery. He’d been shot in the chest by a high-caliber weapon. The bullet missed his heart by an eighth of an inch, nicked an artery, then struck the spinal cord before exiting his back. Paralysis below the neck was a foregone conclusion. The bigger issue was loss of brain function because of oxygen deprivation from the prolonged cardiac arrest.