Dark Justice(14)

Mom allowed me to lead her out of the living room. “What do they want, Hannah?” Her voice sounded plaintive, wavery.

“I don’t know. Let me find out while you rest.” In her room I pointed to her bed. “You want to lie down?”

“I’ll sit in my chair.” She made her way to her stuffed armchair in the corner. “It’s where I . . . deal with things, you know.”

“I know.”

“‘Those who mourn are blessed, for they shall be comforted.’”

Leaving her room, I shut the door behind me. Anger still fueled me. I hurried to my own bedroom to get the flash drive, then stilled as I saw it sitting on my desk. For a long second I stared at it. Why had I been so quick to tell those men I had something for them? Their attitudes, most of all toward my mother, didn’t warrant me giving them anything.

But—too late.

Would Morton have wanted these men to have the video?

“Don’t tell . . .”

On impulse I yanked open my desk drawer and snatched up one of my own, empty flash drives. I inserted it and the original drive into two ports in my computer, and copied the video file over. Then I carried the copied version out to the agents. “Here.” I thrust the drive toward Samuelson, my voice still edged. “I found it in my coat pocket when I got home. Morton must have put it there when I was trying to help him.”

Samuelson took it from me. “What’s on it?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t look at it?”

“No. I’ve been too busy trying to keep my mother calm since we got home.”

God, forgive me for the lie.

Both men eyed me.

“You have what you want. Now leave.”

Samuelson put the flash drive in his jacket pocket. “What did he say to you?”

“Very little. He could barely breathe.”

“I think he said something.”

I disliked these men more by the second. “Whatever would make you think that?”

“Why would your mother say to him, ‘I remember. We won’t forget.’”

I stared down at Samuelson. So they’d known about my mother before they ever came here. They’d acted like they didn’t know she’d been with me at the scene. They’d even talked to the paramedics.

“My mother felt very sorry for Morton. He was trying so hard to speak. To breathe. When they put him in the ambulance, she wanted him to know she’d remember him.”

“She said ‘we.’”

I shrugged. “I was there too.”

Rutger unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back against the sofa, stretching one arm across its back. Allowing me a clear view of the holstered gun around his waist.

My breath hitched. Rage and fear swirled through me. The rage won. Now these men were threatening me? What if he’d showed that gun in Mom’s presence?

I knew my rights. I didn’t have to talk to any law enforcement if I didn’t want to. “Get out.” I stepped back and pointed toward the door.

Rutger tapped a finger against his knee. “We think you know something else, Mrs. Shire.”

“I don’t know anything. And I told you to leave.”

“If you—”

“I want a lawyer.” My eyes locked with Rutger’s. “I refuse to talk to you anymore.”

“Why would you think you need a lawyer?”

“Because I no longer want to talk to you.” I’d tell some other FBI agent what Morton had said. And give them the original flash drive. But I was through with these two. “Now leave.”

The agents stared at me, faces like granite. I didn’t budge.

Rutger let out a long breath. Then made a show of rebuttoning his jacket. His head tilted. “As you wish, Mrs. Shire.” His Southern drawl now sickened me. “But if you’ve withheld anything from us, I can assure you we’ll be back.”

A lot of good it would do them. I would never open my door to these men again. What I would do is inform their superior of how they’d treated me.

The two men stood. I strode to the door and opened it wide. They stepped through it without a word. The minute they were out I shut the door and drove home the lock with a loud click. A sound I knew they heard.

Through the living room window I watched them head for their vehicle. Not until then did I realize how hard my heart was beating. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

Outside two car doors slammed. An engine started. The agents drove away.

Weak-kneed, I sat down hard on the couch, waiting for my pulse to slow. A minute, maybe two ticked by. Then with a deep breath, I listed in my mind what I had to do. Comfort Mom. Call the nearest FBI office and complain—loudly—about the two men. Offer the further “Raleigh” information to another agent who’d show some respect. Make dinner. In that order.