The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [80]
“The glass!” I call out.
He doesn’t hear. Or care.
For a moment, the large glass pane crackles like ice in warm water, and with the full impact of Ellis’s back, shards of glass explode outward like fireworks, sucking Ellis into the wide black hole created by his own weight. As he crashes out the window and disappears, a nasty winter wind leaps inside and swirls through the hall. We hear a thud outside.
Still holding Naomi over my shoulder, I rush to the window, which overlooks the concrete driveway on the west side of the house. Like a bloody snow angel, Ellis is flat on his back, the right side of his face covered with cuts and scrapes. He’s gasping—the wind knocked out of him—but already struggling to his feet. On my far left, at the end of the driveway, Benoni is bucking wildly in the backseat of Ellis’s rental car, her barks muffled by the windows.
Behind me, Serena is bawling, her arms curled around herself.
“Y-You still have the comic strip?” my father asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I spin around and look him straight in the eye. My father looks exhausted, his mouth open, his breathing heavy again. For a moment, I wonder if it’s all an act, but the way he’s cupping his waist . . . I look down and see blood soaking through his shirt. His bullet wound has reopened. Outside, Ellis is almost up, reaching for his gun. We’re in no shape for a second round.
“C’mon,” I tell him, motioning us to the front door. “We need to go.”
54
Hi, Clydene—I’m looking for Special Agent Guggenheim,” Scotty said into his headset.
“And who may I say is calling?” Clydene asked.
“Agent Naomi Molina from ICE would like to talk with him.”
“And is Agent Molina on the phone right now?”
Scotty rolled his eyes and rolled back slightly in his wheelchair. The FBI was always such a pain in the ass. “I have her waiting on hold,” he said.
“Then can you put her on, so that way Agent Guggenheim won’t be waiting when he gets on?”
Rolling forward and leaning both elbows on the desk of his small cubicle, Scotty reached for a small red egg of Silly Putty and cracked it open. It didn’t have the smell he loved when he was a kid, but as he tweezed it from the egg and squeezed it in his fist, it was still the best stress relief around.
“Clydene, you show me your boss, I’ll show you mine,” Scotty said.
“That’s fine,” Clydene agreed, “as long as this is a real call from your actual boss and not just you calling for the third time today, pretending to have her when you actually don’t.” She paused for a long breath. “We’re all in this together, Scotty, but Guggenheim’s still the number three guy here. He doesn’t talk to assistants.”
Scotty kneaded the Silly Putty with his middle finger. For the past ten minutes, he’d been dialing Naomi on the other line. She still wasn’t picking up. But as he’d learned when he’d first started—when he’d first met Timothy—some things had to be done without the boss.
“Clydene, I’m gonna say this slowly so you understand it,” Scotty began. But before he could finish, he looked up and noticed the two tall shadows that were now standing over his cubicle.
With a pivot of his wheelchair, he stared up at two men in cheap navy suits and matching Rolex Submariner watches. Definitely Bureau agents.
“Did you send anyone over here?” Scotty asked into the phone.
“What’re you talking about?” Clydene replied.
The agents didn’t say a word.
“Lemme call you back,” Scotty said as he hung up the phone, never taking his eyes off his two new visitors.
“I take it you’re Scotty,” the taller one said as he flashed his credentials. “Agent Randy Aldridge. FBI Counterintelligence Division. You mind me asking your clearance levels?”
“Why would—?”
“I checked the signature on that name check request you put in earlier. You always forge your supervisor’s signature?” Aldridge asked. “Now if I don’t get your levels, I’ll be asking you for your wrists instead,” he said, patting at his handcuffs.
Scotty studied them both. This was why he hated the Bureau. “Top secret with SCI access,” he replied confidently. “So you might