No response seemed appropriate, and Pritchard simply watched Pike leave, followed by the others, none of whom had any comments to add. They knew the decision was in his hands, and, like Pike, they had a fair idea what that decision was going to be.
Alone in the room Pritchard pressed the stub of his smoldering cigar into an ashtray and leaned back in the chair to stare at the ceiling. It would have been so damn easy, if it weren’t for Jefferson. He was a good person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What Pritchard needed was someone who didn’t care. What he had on his hands was the FBI’s equivalent of Gandhi.
Gandhi with a gun.
A little before ten in the evening, a dark van cruised past the Jefferson house in Evanston, Illinois, and glided to a stop at the opposite curb, lights out and no screeching tires. A second, similar van was doing the same one house shy of the two-story Tudor. The side doors of each opened quickly, but quietly, and seven men in black exited, fourteen in all moving stealthily to positions around the house.
Four went down the side walkway, scaling a fence to cover the house from the rear and sides. The remaining ten huddled in front of the garage, weapons ready. One man held a Kevlar riot shield. Another gripped a small battering ram. Ten seconds after their comrades went over the side fence, the entry team made their move.
In a union choreographed through countless sessions, both practice and real, they moved in one line from the garage to the front steps, guns tracking to every window. The man in the lead pried the storm door open and held it as the man with the ram came up the steps, his implement already swinging, and knocked the simple wood door in with only one hit.
Anne’s head was twisting toward the front door from her spot on the living room couch, alerted by the pop of the storm door’s latch, when she saw the jam around the deadbolt explode into splinters. She screamed and stood, thinking Dial nine one one, dial nine one one, but there was no time for her body to react to the mental directions.
“U.S. MARSHALS! GET DOWN! DOWN! YOU! DOWN! ON THE FLOOR!”
Anne froze at the sight of men with guns invading her home. For the oddest instant she thought it might be some of Art’s friends from the office playing a joke, but the absurdity of that coupled with a faceless man shoving her to the carpet, foot on her back, gun at her head, made it very clear this was no joke.
“What is going—”
“SHUT UP!” a Deputy U.S. Marshal ordered, pulling her hands behind and cuffing them as the rest of the team fanned out through the house, clearing room after room, checking closets and the attic, the basement, the garage, and under the beds.
Within two minutes it was clear that there was no one else in the house. One minute after that, Angelo Breem entered behind Peter Kasvakis and Bob Lomax.
Anne, straining to look up from a forced position face down on the rug, saw her husband’s boss right away. “BOB!”
Lomax looked at Anne, embarrassed, and went to her, giving the man standing over her a sharp look that matched the scar. “Get her off the floor.”
The Deputy U.S. Marshal looked to Kasvakis, who nodded, and with Lomax on one arm they helped her into a chair.
“Bob, what is happening?”
One of the entry team trotted down from the second floor and went to Kasvakis. “He’s not here.”
Anne, disoriented, angry, scared, and more than a bit sore, looked away before Lomax could answer her question and said toward Kasvakis and Breem, “What are you doing in my house?!”
Lomax crouched in front of Anne, his hands on her shoulders. “Anne, where is Art?”
“Art? ART?” She looked at anyone with a face, shock everywhere on hers. “You’re here for ART?”
Breem stepped closer, and said to the man guarding her, “Mirandize her.”
Getting a nod from his boss, the man did.
“Anne,” Lomax began when the rights had been read, “something needs to be cleared up.”
“Where is your husband?” Breem asked.
Anne tried to focus her attention, but too many things were happening at once. Plus, with the disorientation and fear fading, her anger had room to grow, and when it reached critical mass it had its own questions. “Who are you?”
“I’m United States Attorney Angelo Breem. Now, where is your husband?”
“Why do you want to know?” Anne demanded, remembering the name, and some choice characterizations her husband had made about the man.
“Because I have a warrant for his arrest, as well as yours.”
Arrest? Art, arrested? And…me? She needed a familiar face and turned to Lomax. “Bob?”
“Anne, something has happened. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know Art can.”
Breem rolled his eyes. “Your husband? Where is he?”
“Why are you here to arrest him?”
“Stop playing stupid,” Breem said.
Lomax stood. “Watch it, Breem.”
“No, you watch it Agent Lomax. I have a warrant, I have one suspect from this residence. Now I want the other.” He stepped right up to Anne now and glared at her. “I want your husband. Where is he?”
Anne started to say something, then stopped, and swallowed. The conversation over the breakfast table flashed in her head, Art saying nothing was up, and her knowing it was a lie. Did this have something to do with that? She thought hard, in silence, the thin man who said he was the U.S. Attorney waiting for his answer.
For the second time that week, Art Jefferson took Simon Lynch back to the house where his parents were murdered, and up to the room that not long before was a large part of his physical world.
The first thing Simon did was go to the corner where the red rocker had been and fix an unsteady gaze on the empty space.
“We took that back with us the other night,” Art said, lowering himself onto the bed behind where Simon stood. “Remember?”
Simon studied the floor, the corner, the walls where they came together, even glancing at the ceiling, but it was not there. The red rocker was supposed to be in the corner. It was in the corner in the room at Art and Dr. Anne’s house. It was not here. Simon chewed his lip and fretted over the inconsistency.
“Simon, come here.” Art patted the bed next to him, picking the same spot as the previous night.
Simon did as his friend asked.
Art leaned casually forward, elbows on his knees, and did not try to force eye contact with Simon. On his lap he had The Tinkery, and the paper taken off Mike Bell. It could have been a repeat of their earlier visit. Art hoped it would not be.
“Do you remember the man with red hair?” Art asked.
“The man with red hair,” Simon parroted partially, and began to rock.
All right, was that nerves making him do that, or was it because of the simile Art had seen with the rocker? Art did not know that, but he knew he hated with every fiber of his being the condition that afflicted this kid.
“Simon, did the man with red hair hit you?”
Simon’s head swung right, then came back. “The man with red hair hit me.”
Art considered the answer, and its repetitious nature. After a moment he asked, as a test, “Simon, did the man with red hair sing to you?”
A pleasing silence followed.
Okay. So he hit you. That could have angered Art without end, but he would not let it. There were more important—
“Daddy’s gonna sing,” Simon said.
Oh, shit. You had to ask him about singing. Would this ever end? Art wondered. Did he still believe his mommy and daddy were around, just AWOL for some unexplained reason? If he did, it was torture to let it go on.