His request held all the lightness of a search for freckles, not signs of parental cruelty.
“That’d be fine.”
“Great. Could I also snap a few photos of any injuries? The more detailed we are, the less chance we’ll need to come back again.”
She nodded her consent. Would any wise person actually say no?
He turned with a half smile and proceeded to Jack’s room.
Officer Hall went on with basic questions, perhaps a way to fill the time. Audra answered each one, all while imagining the scene beyond the wall. She saw the birthmark that could be viewed as a scar from a cigarette burn. She saw the scuffs on Jack’s knee from the boulder at the park. And in her head, she could hear the explanation she had suggested he relay at school.
My mom told me to say I got hurt from my nightmares, if any of my teachers ask.
Mandatory reporting might otherwise have led staff members to call a child abuse hotline. Audra had encouraged Jack’s answer as a proactive measure, to prevent any more suspicions. A measure that now could backfire.
Finally Officer Ramirez returned, this time with her son. “I think we’re all set, ma’am.”
Officer Hall stood, putting the notepad in his back pocket. “Thanks for allowing us to take up your time, Ms. Hughes.”
“Of course.” She and Sean simultaneously rose, although only Audra walked the officers to the door. Once they were gone, the quivers in her knees moved to her hands. She placed them on Jack’s shoulders and knelt to eye level. “I am so sorry about that, Jack.”
He scrunched his brow, not seeing a reason for her apology.
For that alone, an urge to cry mounted inside. She drew Jack into her arms, holding him tight, and resisted the notion of ever letting go.
42
On the phone with a receptionist, whose evident duty for the FBI was to screen for credible callers, Vivian had been right to anticipate resistance: “What specifically is this regarding, ma’am?”
Her “urgent” request for an appointment with Special Agent Daniel Gerard was not to be granted blindly. Foreseeing this, and unable to sleep after leaving Isaak at the cinema, she had spent much of the night mentally rehearsing her approach: I need to speak with him about a private matter of national security. Yet when the time came and her lips parted to voice the words, she envisioned the receptionist fighting a yawn, unmoved by the hundredth call of its kind that week.
And so, in that instant, Vivian conjured an alternative. It was a wide step from the truth but somehow rolled off her tongue with the smoothness of buttercream. The woman paused before replying, “One moment, please.” Shortly after, she returned to the line and offered Vivian a mid-morning slot.
On the upside, the lies were compiling too quickly to accrue guilt. Her latest, to excuse her from work today, was an imaginary toothache that required a dentist’s visit.
Then again, given the nervous clamping of her jaw, a real ache was destined to follow. Fortunately, it would all be over soon.
She clung to this assurance now while trailing a secretary through the New York Field Office of the FBI. Her grip held tight to the handles of Isaak’s satchel.
In case they want proof, he’d explained as he handed her a key. It led her to Grand Central last night, where she opened the corresponding locker, expecting maps and documents to corroborate his tale. What she discovered in their stead left her short of breath.
“Here we are.” The receptionist, a tall woman with beady eyes, gestured to the open door.
“Thank you,” Vivian said, her voice suddenly hoarse. Clearing her throat, she stepped inside and flinched at the rattling of glass from the door closing behind her.
“Miss James.” The man rose from his desk and came around to meet her. His dark features were the same from his photo in the paper. In his mid-thirties, he had a lean build, a neat but crooked tie, and the start of a receding hairline.
“Thank you for seeing me.” With great reluctance she released her hand from the bag, but only long enough for a handshake.
Agent Gerard seemed to sense this, giving the satchel a look. “Please, have a seat.”
She smiled and obliged by lowering onto one of the visitors’ ladder-backs.
As the fellow returned to his chair, Vivian examined the pillared files that littered his desk. The signal of a hard worker-or merely a messy one. The same could be said of the ashtray containing a knoll of cigarette butts, one of them wending gray smoke into the confined space. Posters of Wanted criminals hung on a corkboard with an array of illegible notes. Beside a map of America, tacked up with pushpins, was a daily calendar with no dates torn off since March 3.
“So,” he said, settling back in, “I understand you have some information for me.”