The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [133]
A knock sounded on her office door, making her flinch. She scowled, rubbed the back of her neck, and pulled herself together.
“Come in.”
A secretary cracked open the door. “Roger MacAllister on line one for you.”
“Tell him I’m not available.”
“He’s called several times now, Agent.”
Marion turned to the Williamstown map. “Tough.”
She ran her finger down the streets, trying to see the small, quaint town the way he saw it. Trying to know it as he knew it.
Jim Beckett was number one. Jim Beckett was here. Jim Beckett was here.
She stared at the map harder and at Tess’s house, which she’d marked with an X.
“Oh,” she said at last, the pattern clicking in her mind. “Oh.”
EIGHT P.M. The sun was down, the streetlights on. In the generic white van Lieutenant Houlihan and Special Agent Quincy sat in silence. The snipers were in place on the roof, woolen mittens pulled over their hands for warmth. At the end of the block a young college girl in black tights, black boots, a short red skirt, and beige barn jacket arrived home with her backpack, opened her front door, and stepped inside.
At six o’clock the tiny residential block had showed signs of life. Now things were settling down. The few families who lived there were eating dinner. The college students had already departed again, heading for a Friday night of college entertainment. Houlihan didn’t imagine they’d see much more traffic until one or two A.M.
Linden Street was a quiet place.
The radio crackled briefly to life. Patrol teams Alpha, Beta, and Omega all reported in. So far, no signs of Jim.
“Get ready for a long week,” Houlihan muttered.
“Where’s Agent MacAllister?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know. She’s your agent.”
Quincy looked at his watch again and frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d blow it this early on,” he murmured. He went back to staring out the window. He hated stakeouts.
Houlihan finally picked up the cell phone and checked in at headquarters. “Any news?” he asked the sergeant in charge.
“No, sir.”
“What about Team A? Have they found any leads on Jim or Samantha?”
“No, sir.”
“All the death certificates are confirmed?” Houlihan pressed. He was damn tired of hearing “No, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought they had a lead?”
“I just spoke with Detective Epstein himself. Hospital archives revealed a copy of Mary Beckett’s death certificate. His family is dead, sir. If someone is helping him, it’s someone we’ve never heard of. They’re still working on the phone list.”
“Just wonderful.” Houlihan grumbled a bit more, then hung up the phone. Quincy remained silent.
They stared down the street. Waiting.
MARION CHANGED CLOTHES. She pulled on a pair of designer jeans, a peach silk turtleneck, and a cardigan of hand-woven Irish wool. She left the cardigan unbuttoned so she could reach easily for her gun.
The clothes were much nicer than what a college student would normally wear, but at a glance they would do.
She pulled the first pin out of her hair. Then the second, then the third. The pale gold locks uncurled slowly, as if they were afraid of the unexpected freedom. She picked up a brush and worked on her hair until it gleamed.
She had no bangs and no natural wave. Just fine flaxen strands that reached the small of her back. She added a headband and thought she looked like Alice in Wonderland. Perfect.
The clock glowed 8:30 as she pulled on her gray wool overcoat. Her shoulder holster fit comfortably. Around her ankle she had a .22.
She took out her FBI shield and studied it one last time. Fidelity, bravery, integrity, it said. I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. . . .
She placed the shield on the middle of the bed. There was one last matter to attend to. She kept the note simple:
J.T.
I do remember the pillow fort and the GI comic books and the night we cried because Snake still hadn’t come to take us away. Sometimes I still dream of the colonel and he is always standing amid the flames of hell while