In the rear of the helicopter sat four people. One of them was Emmit D'Arcy. Another was a nervous-looking man named Howard Christoffel.
D'Arcy patted the man on the shoulder. "No need to worry, son."
Christoffel shook his head. "I'm not a field man. I belong behind a desk—"
"I know," D'Arcy said. "Your expertise was, and is, invaluable in our Mid-East operations."
"Thank you, sir." He looked out the window.
"I don't think it could have been organized without you."
Christoffel shook his head. "I'm just an analyst, sir. To be honest, when I've discovered what some of my analysis has led to— This all makes me uneasy. Kendal, especially . . ."
D'Arcy took off his glasses and nodded sagely. "I understand how that must have been difficult for you." D'Arcy squeezed his shoulder again. "But we need you here, Christoffel."
Christoffel kept watching as the helicopter pulled out over the Chesapeake and began heading toward the Atlantic. Staring into the rippling water, he said, "I can't see why."
There was a long pause before D'Arcy said, "Because I'm afraid we can't afford you anywhere else."
Christoffel turned to say something, and stared at the two men facing him and D'Arcy. One had a gun out, and the other was sliding the helicopter's door aside.
"What?" Christoffel shouted over the sudden wind that whipped through the passenger space. The two men, who had said nothing since Christoffel entered the helicopter, grabbed him and forced him to his knees in front of the open door. "D'Arcy! You can't do this!"
D'Arcy watched as the man with the gun placed it up to the back of Christoffel's head and pulled the trigger. As Christoffel fell out, into the Atlantic waters, D'Arcy took off his glasses and wiped them off.
The helicopter began to take a leisurely turn north, toward the hills of Pennsylvania.
Gideon sat on a military-issue cot and stared at the oval Victorian window, high in the wall. The sky beyond was a livid blue, marked only by an edging of frost on the glass. He had run several escape attempts through his mind, but there seemed very little chance of getting away from this desolate, snowbound place. He didn't even know where the nearest town was. Even if he got himself and Ruth away from this place, they could both easily die of exposure out there on those wooded hills.
No, he corrected himself, they would die if they escaped on foot. He was a D.C. native, unused to this much snow even when he was in perfect shape. Here, now, once he was off the roads, with his busted leg, he would be effectively immobile.
They were pretty much stuck here.
Ruth broke into his fatalistic thoughts by saying, "You know, it's not fair . . ."
Gideon shrugged. "Nothing fair about this."
"That's not it. You know me, my family—you interrogated me on the subject. But I know next to nothing about you."
"Not much to tell."
Ruth looked at him and said, "You're a liar. Come on. Are you single, married, divorced? What're your parents like? Any little Gideons running around, missing their dad right now?"
Gideon sighed. "Detective in the D.C. Police Department. Robbery, mostly car theft and such. None of the glamour people associate with Homicide, or—God help us—Vice—"
Ruth sat up on her cot and rested her head in her hands. "I know what you do. What about your life, your family?"
Gideon shook his head. He was silent a while before he spoke. "Our mother, she was a legal secretary. Died when I was ten. A bad car accident. . ."
Ruth prompted, "Drunk driver?"
"No. Forced off a highway during a high-speed police chase. Some asshole broadsided her in a stolen car, trying to evade pursuit."
"Did they get the guy?"
"The guy got himself. He jumped the median and plowed into the front of a bus. Dead on impact.
Poetic justice. If they'd prosecuted, he'd probably be out now."
"I'm sorry . . ."
Gideon leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "I just saw, later, what it must have done to my father, and Rafe. Dad was an FBI agent. Christ, I don't know if anyone could've idolized my father more than Rafe did. He wanted to be our dad—before . . ." Gideon closed his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
Gideon could picture his father's face, the broad smile, the eyes that smile never seemed to touch, that always seemed to grieve. "Dad quit the FBI. Started having twisted feelings about law enforcement. Threw Raphael out of the house when he decided to become an FBI agent."
"I'm sorry."
"I think he regretted it, but was too stubborn to back down . . ." Gideon shook his head. "Rafe idolized Dad, but I idolized Rafe. I don't think I ever forgave Dad—even if Rafe did. I tried for Quantico myself—" Gideon shook his head. "I don't know if I was trying to follow my brother's footsteps, or trying to piss off my dad. Doesn't matter though, I couldn't hack it."
"I can't believe that."
"Why? Because I'm such a wonderful cop?" Gideon closed his eyes. "I couldn't handle the pressure. Every day was a race against my dad, and against Rafe. Every test was measured against that yardstick, and more often than not I came up short. My whole time there was spent trying to prove something and failing . . ."
"I'm sorry," Ruth said.
"I quit. Had to. I suffered a breakdown. Didn't talk to anyone, Dad, Rafe—not for nearly six months.
As if I blamed them."
"I know what that's like, living in someone's shadow," Ruth said, repeating her words from the subway.
Gideon nodded. "I suppose you would—"
Gideon heard Ruth suck in a breath and he turned to look at her. He could see her eyes moisten. "I blamed her," she whispered. "I mean, she had her reasons for not talking to our folks. Dad never quite understood her, what mathematics was to her. The arguments about college—" Ruth sniffed. "Dad wanted the best for her, he just didn't know what that was. He saw an academic scholarship to an Ivy League university and that was it. They were recruiting her. I think it killed him when she decided to go to Berkeley . . ." Ruth shook her head. "That was the first time I had ever heard Julia raise her voice."
"It was bad?"
Ruth nodded. "They were doing things at Berkeley that interested her. Dad didn't understand. He just saw the name, 'Harvard.' He thought she'd be throwing her life away. There was a three-hour argument that ended with Julia slamming the door. The episode left Mom in tears. It was like none of us in that house could breathe. Waiting-for the other shoe to drop—"
"What happened?"
"The shoe never dropped. Julia never walked back through that door. Somehow, I'm still not sure how, she managed to get Berkeley to pay for a flight out to California. She left home with just the clothes on her back and a full scholarship."
"Hell of a runaway."
Ruth chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "She had lined up a job on campus before the plane landed. The next I heard from her, she was in California. She was still a minor, and I think Dad was prepared to have the cops drag her back, but Mom started losing it. . ." She shook her head and put her face in her hands. "I think I can understand why she did what she did. I can even understand how Berkeley could 'overlook' her age. But I'm the one who stopped talking to her."
Gideon sat up. "I thought she cut herself off from her family."
Ruth shook her head. "Our folks, yes. But she tried to stay in contact with me—maybe because I took her dreams seriously. But what her leaving did to our parents, I couldn't forgive." She paused. "No, that's wrong. When I'm really honest with myself, what I can't forgive is the way my parents were stolen. After she left, it was as if she became an only child. I became irrelevant."