Midnight Secrets Page 7

  Joe met his gaze steadily. Fuck no, he wasn’t going to hurt Isabel. He was going to protect her, just as the anonymous emailer asked.

  It was dark when Metal and Felicity left and he closed up the house for the night. He wasn’t going out, he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d read every single word of the Massacre reports and the darknet conspiracy theories.

  He carefully put the ziti—though it still looked like overgrown spaghetti to him—in the freezer and heated up the beef stew that was left. He mopped up the sauce with some bread Isabel had made that had olives and sunflower seeds in it and drank a beer.

  Then he opened his laptop and started reading.

  It was fascinating stuff. He looked at the attack from a specops point of view. If he was going to attack the country’s best and finest in a fancy hotel across the street from the White House, how would he go about it?

  Well, more or less exactly as the terrorists had done, except they used some tech tricks that weren’t in his arsenal. 9/11 had been low-tech, the flyers counting on the fact that no one could even remotely imagine people would fly fuel-laden jets into office towers. But it hadn’t been a precision attack, based on special intel or weaponry. Basically it had taken box cutters and men willing to die and take thousands of other people with them.

  This had the stink of a specops operation all over it. Starting from knowing where all the security cameras were and blanking them out before the massacre.

  Whoever had planned it had the right event. After Alex Delvaux had declared his candidacy, he would have been surrounded by secret service agents. They weren’t the best of the best, in Joe’s book. They weren’t as hardened as SEALs but that was because they operated mainly in the USA and not in hellholes the way SEALs did. But they would have certainly supplied better security than had been on hand at the Burrard Hotel.

  Which had been, essentially, zilch. It wasn’t stated specifically but Joe knew how to read after-action reports. There had been the hotel security, which was pitiful, and ten agents from a private company. Joe checked the company out and he’d never heard of it. He’d heard of more or less every single important security company in the US and most operating throughout the world. The fact that he hadn’t heard of the outfit meant that it was either a super elite one or rank amateurs. Joe opted for door number two.

  There was no way to interview any of the security force—whether the hotel’s or the private company’s—because they’d all died in the attack. Not one man from the security detail survived.

  Very few survived, in fact, so there weren’t many eyewitness accounts. Maybe forty people including a congressional aide so traumatized he’d had to be sedated and was still in a psychiatric hospital.

  Reading carefully, Joe was able to piece together a bare-bones timeline. He started with the recordings. Several major news networks and an even bigger number of bloggers with cell phones were recording the proceedings.

  7:20 pm. Big hullabaloo in the hotel ballroom, thousands of excited people. Canned music in the background. A buffet against the wall with waiters standing behind it, white-gloved hands clasped in front of them, staring off in the distance, as if the goings-on at the podium had nothing to do with them.

  About thirty people on the podium, including Alex Delvaux. His wife was there and two young boys. Isabel was on the sidelines, smiling, talking to someone in the audience. The older brother was missing. Jack, his name was, Joe remembered reading. He didn’t recognize many of the others on the crowded podium. Then a woman stepped away and Joe recognized a face in the second row. Hector Something. Hector...Blake. He’d been around for as long as Joe remembered. Had even been a Secretary of Something. A Senator, too. Maybe twice.

  He saw Isabel frown, look around, step off the podium with a cell phone to her ear.

  The crowd was chanting, “Del-vaux, Del-vaux, Del-vaux!” Alex Delvaux stepped to the microphone, smiling, hands up, patting the air. Calming people down. It took him a quarter of an hour as they kept getting revved up, over and over again.

  Finally, there was a little quiet. Delvaux bent his head down to the podium mike. There was a feedback whine and Delvaux stepped back quickly. The whine stopped and he stepped forward again. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Thank you for joining us on this historic evening. We’re going to shake things up!”

  The crowd went wild, jumping up and down, most of them holding up cell phones to capture the moment.

  Delvaux held back a moment, grinning, letting the crowd have its moment.

  Joe rarely paid attention to politics and politicians. He considered it all a rigged game, like pro wrestling, only less fun. He had to admit, though, there was real excitement in the air. He leaned forward to study Delvaux. Handsome but not too handsome. The lines in his face showed that he smiled more than he frowned. Charisma came off the man in waves.

  So this was Isabel’s father.

  “I know some of you are thinking of the excellent buffet tables behind you—” Raucous laughter. “But first there are some things we have to say, about us as a people and about our country. We feel—”

  The lights went out. Gasps, a few snickers, as if this was planned. There was light coming from the cells, a little forest of them held high in invisible hands. Some people started shouting.

  And then the cells blinked to black and the camera feed cut out.

  The screen showed nothing—a blank black.

  There were no recordings of the Massacre, at least none that had come to light. When police and CSI units came after the shooting and killing was done, after the explosives had been set off, after the attackers fled and disappeared completely from the earth, they found candles that had been lit by staff still burning and a few flashlights, so there had been some light.

  The killers had had night vision. They had to have had night vision. You didn’t set out to do mass murder by first killing the lights, without being able to see.

  A few eyewitness reports had leaked out from what was still an ongoing police investigation. They all reported that the attackers had been dressed in shiny black head to foot and had worn balaclavas. They had shouted ‘Allahu Akbar!’ Over and over.

  Jihadists changing the course of American history, killing another Kennedy. Another vigorous young leader who embodied hope and energy.

  Joe was going to ask for the CSI photos and if he didn’t get them through his friend Nick Mancino, a former teammate and now in the FBI’s elite HRT, the Hostage Rescue Team, he’d get Felicity to hack into the FBI files. He wanted to see the results of the Massacre firsthand.

  He wanted to see what Isabel had survived.

  She was mentioned in the reports. She’d been interviewed several times, the first time after she woke up from surgery having suffered a broken clavicle and cracked hipbone and a very bad concussion in the explosion. And many times after that. She remembered nothing. Retrograde amnesia.

  Ah, honey, Joe thought in sorrow. He hadn’t been bugged by anyone after he’d woken up from surgery. Metal and Jacko had taken turns sitting by his bedside and then had arranged to have him flown out to Portland on an ASI private jet.

  He hadn’t had any worries other than getting better. He hadn’t been given the news upon waking that his entire family was dead.

  How horrible it must have been for her. Even worse than horrible because of the concussion and amnesia. The phone call had saved her life. Apparently the explosion had tossed her into a section of the ballroom just past the area that had totally collapsed.

  Amnesia. So she couldn’t even remember what had happened. All she knew was that she woke up severely injured and her entire family was gone.

  Joe put to one side the news reports on Isabel and continued studying the attack itself. He got up to make himself a pot of coffee and ate the last of the beef stew, then attacked the rest of the files with a notepad at his side. He took copious notes. There was a lot of stuff that made no sense to him.

  Part of that might have been the journali
sts who got things wrong. Part of it was also likely classified as top secret, since this was the biggest terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11. So he made notes regarding what he thought would require further study and moved on.

  He read every news report he could find, and read newspapers from around the world on the day of the Massacre and for a few days after that, putting everything through Google Translate. It was enough to get a feeling for which countries were truly sorrowful and which thought that the US had somehow brought this attack down on itself. After exhausting journalists’ articles, he went on to those forensic reports that were publicly available.

  Then he moved on to the blogs, all across the political spectrum. About 90 percent of what was written was speculative bullshit, but he waded through everything. What wasn’t bullshit was the opinions of several specops blog sites he had read regularly before being blown apart himself. They had a lot of questions about what actually went down during the Massacre.

  It was midnight and he’d been reading steadily for six hours. He stood, stretched, thought about another beer when his heart nearly stopped.

  Isabel, screaming.

  * * *

  Joe’s friend Felicity had been interesting. First of all, she’d made it clear that she was Joe’s friend but not his friend friend. That would be her fiancé Sean O’Brien, known as Metal. One of the endless number of former soldiers and current security guys who trooped in and out of Joe’s house on a regular basis. He’d treated her knee when she’d hurt it and he’d been kind and very efficient. He visited Joe often.

  God, her own home was so barren in comparison.

  There had always been guests at the Delvauxes’, open house. People coming and going, always guests at mealtimes. Her parents had had the gift of hospitality and friendship. Isabel remembered thinking her first week in the college dorm that her house had been more fun.

  Now look at her.

  Felicity, however, hadn’t seemed to notice anything. She’d brought over the clean pot, sat down without asking and started chatting. It wasn’t until well into the conversation that Isabel paused and realized she’d entertained her first guest, except for Joe. And Joe came over to help her with stuff.

  When she’d paused, Felicity had looked at her kindly and said, “You’re Isabel Delvaux, aren’t you?”

  Yes.

  Such a relief! She changed her name because she’d felt attacked by the attention of others. Some wanted to smother her in commiseration, watching her face with sick fascination, when the last thing she needed was to be reminded of her loss. And others wanted her to get “past it” and come out and play.

  For some reason, all her friends simply disappeared. Gone, into thin air. Maybe because they didn’t know how to deal with her losing her entire family, being wounded, whatever. The fact was, no friends came around. So her only human communication was with people who wanted to feed off her grief or get bragging rights because they’d talked to the notorious Isabel Delvaux.

  Going away and changing her name had been her only recourse.

  But Felicity had been so friendly, face so open and candid, that she couldn’t take offense.

  And they’d talked. And talked. And talked.

  “You know,” Felicity had said thoughtfully, “you’re lucky to have a neighbor like Joe. Joe is a real good guy.”

  “I know,” she’d answered. That he was a good guy was apparent from the moment they met. He’d done nothing but help her. But Isabel would die before she admitted that she also found him wildly attractive.

  “Of course,” Felicity added, watching her carefully, “the fact that he’s hot doesn’t hurt.”

  And Isabel had turned bright beet red, the curse of the fair-skinned.

  Felicity’d laughed and changed the subject.

  They never spoke of the Massacre. Somehow, in some unspoken way, Isabel got it that Felicity had known tragedy in her life, too.

  It wasn’t until Felicity stood up and put on her coat to go back to Joe’s that the kicker came.

  “You might know that Joe hosts poker games,” she said casually.

  “I know. I can hear them. Sounds like fun.” She’d tried to keep a wistful note from entering her voice.

  “It is fun. Though I don’t know what the guys see in it, really, because Joe always wins.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened. “He does?”

  Felicity’s grin was wicked. “Oh yeah. He’s a demon poker player. Card shark, in fact. What fun is it when he takes all your money? So anyway, I was thinking that if the guys are having so much fun losing money to Joe, maybe we could get together, too. There’s me and there’s Jacko’s girlfriend, Lauren. She’s really nice and a lot of fun. Why don’t we get together?”

  A girls’ night out! For a second, a flash of a moment, Isabel was back in her old life, where a girls’ night out was a frequent treat. Felicity was watching her out of her pretty, light blue eyes and all Isabel could see was intelligence and friendliness.

  “I’d love it,” she blurted out. And then, before she could stop herself, “Why don’t you and Lauren come over here while the men are losing money to Joe in his house?”

  “Well...” Felicity’s eyes narrowed as a crafty look crept over her face. “Will you cook?”

  And Isabel laughed. “Oh yeah. I’ll cook. As a matter of fact...” She went into the kitchen and passed Felicity a big pan covered in tinfoil. Felicity peeked under the tinfoil, widened her eyes and sniffed in delight.

  “Oh man. Smells delicious.”

  Isabel wagged her finger in a fake scolding tone. “Remember. That’s for Joe. Tell him to put it uncovered in an oven that’s been preheated to 375 degrees and to bake it for about forty minutes if it’s for tomorrow night. Otherwise tell him to put it in the freezer.”

  “Joe is very lucky I like him,” Felicity said. “Because I’m really tempted to steal this. So, see you tomorrow night?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t bother bringing anything, I’ll take care of the food.”

  “Deal. I’m a lousy cook anyway. Metal takes care of that in our household. But I’ll bring some wine.”

  “Deal,” Isabel said. Felicity had held out her hand, shook hers firmly and disappeared into the night.

  So.

  Tomorrow night Isabel was going to have guests. Felicity, who was definitely friendly and not inquisitive. And this Lauren, who was her friend. So presumably she’d be relaxed and friendly and not inquisitive.

  The invitation had come out of nowhere but it felt really right. It was her isolation these past months that felt wrong. It wasn’t her. She’d always been social, enjoyed company. Only now that the clouds had parted just a little did Isabel realize the price all this isolation had exacted. She felt like she’d lost her soul along with her family.

  The thing was, her family had died but she hadn’t.

  For the very first time since the Massacre, Isabel felt almost...normal.

  Portland had been a good pick. She’d been right to relocate. She was anonymous here. And even if someone found out her real identity, like Felicity, maybe they wouldn’t care. Washington had been full of memories, jaggedly painful ones. The Delvaux family name had become a burden, not a point of pride.

  Here was a good place to start over.

  Starting over.

  Her deep melancholy was so wrong. It dishonored her family. They’d loved life so much. Her parents would be saddened to know she was willing to throw her life away.

  And...life was good, after all.

  Maybe.

  Portland was pretty and friendly. She was enjoying cooking again, just a little. Not as much as before but maybe that passion could come back. Maybe. Felicity was nice. It was entirely possible that Lauren was nice, too.

  And Joe was...well. Whew.

  Up until now she’d ruled out an affair with him. She had a steady stock of excuses. She wasn’t ready. He was a neighbor. What happened if the affair went sour and she had to see him every day? Better to keep th
ings on a friendly neighbor basis.

  The truth? She was scared out of her wits. She was frightened to death that she no longer had anything in her to give. That he would find her cold and dried out because that was exactly the way she felt.

  But suppose...suppose that wasn’t true? Suppose she had some spark of womanhood and juice left inside her? That she wasn’t completely dried up?

  Joe as a lover...she shivered. Wow.

  He’d kept his physical distance, had always been a perfect gentleman, but every once in a while she’d seen something in his dark eyes. She hadn’t been ready for that but now, maybe. Who knew?

  Perhaps a new lover, certainly new friends. Maybe she could piece together a semblance of her old career, though she had to think about the spotlight. Her mind skittered away from that.

  Time enough for that later, if she wanted it. For the moment she was happy to cook for Joe, and now for his friends. And the future, well. That would come soon enough.

  As she cleaned up after making the baked ziti, Isabel looked deep inside herself. She liked cleaning up, she liked creating order where before there had been the mess of cooking. She liked every aspect of it.

  But now there was another element creeping its way back into her life. Hope. It felt so faint, so delicate. Like tendrils of smoke. It was hard to take it out and look at it, it was so incredibly fragile.

  Hope that maybe she was coming back to life. That life could hold pleasure again. Guests, tomorrow night. Seeing Joe again. Maybe going over to watch a hand of poker, see how he won all the time. SEALs were known for being tough and laconic, right? It must take someone really tough to bluff them.

  She smiled at the thought and a second later realized—she’d smiled!

  Isabel stood in the middle of her kitchen, holding a washcloth, frozen in place. She hadn’t spontaneously smiled since—since then.

  Since the Massacre, she thought. Say it to yourself.

  And she did. She hadn’t really smiled since the Massacre. Thinking the word massacre had been like a sharp punch to the heart, every single time.