Chapter 8
Agent Mallory jogged up the stairs that led to my room, but turned short of the door and I nearly plunged into her breasts." Wait. That was ‘put her in her room, then lock the door,' or 'lock the door, then put her in the room.’" She'd practically clicked her heels when her boss ordered her to escort the prisoner back to her cell, so I expected an earful now for encouraging her to question him during the alarm. Instead, she winked and turned the key, locking my room from the outside. "Follow me, sister."
She jogged down hallway to the other side of the building till it elbowed right and dead-ended at another door. I'd never been allowed this far and had assumed these were agents' quarters. Or maybe other prisoners.
Shoving me inside the room, she said, "Lock this door after me. And keep your mouth shut." She withdrew, and I turned the bolt.
I spun around when I heard Max’s tags jingling. He arched and shook out his coat before trotting to my side like he'd been expecting our reunion.
"Hey, handsome," I cooed, squeezing his neck till he shrank from me. He galloped to his bed and picked up his ball, his ears stiff in the air. "Not now, buddy, but I know how you feel."
We'd both been cooped up in this house far too long and I was feeling plenty feral.
Examining the room, I felt my stomach go hollow. The walls had been painted mauve at least thirty years ago and smelled mildly of must from long winters and little ventilation, yet I could still recognize Sam's aftershave he'd worn during our interviews. A mellow scent on the verge of spicy but close enough to nature not to offend the nose. On the king-sized bed only one side of a denim duvet was pulled back to show the plaid flannel sheets underneath rumpled and a single pillow indented hard. I didn't need my camera to see the truth of his nights. One soul had slept here. Restlessly.
Max’s red flannel dog blanket from my Land Cruiser served as his bed in the corner, close to a window from where even in a sitting position he could watch wildlife come and go. But from the patch of short yellow hairs at the foot of Sam's bedspread, I could tell Max had been trading up beds when Sam was gone.
"At least you show as much respect for him as you did me." I scrunched his ears and rubbed so his head bobbled. His favorite. When I release, he shook out his ears.
I crossed the room to where a closet door stood open, revealing a pair of polished black dress shoes and a black duffle with neatly folded business shirts. This orderly version of Sam I’d never met. Funny that the street-bum version of him felt more familiar, more comfortable. Then I spotted his familiar Washington State University sweatshirt thrown over a gold armchair, a match to the chair in my room. I lifted the sweatshirt to my nose, thought to pull the thick material over my cold bones. But I let go. Hope wasn’t the same as forgiveness. Sam had screwed me over, with or without Vilet's help.
Then again, who was the backstabber here? That I served as Vilet's spy on Sam, and potentially as Sam's crucifier, both confused and revolted me. Vilet had promised Sam was safe and that I was simply to uncover the truth. The lovelier he made my mission sound, the more I knew he was up to more than he was admitting. Of course, the fact that Sam's truth and mine collided in places was temporarily deemed irrelevant. Inconvenient to my future, yes, but irrelevant to Vilet's current needs: namely, to identify and detain Agent Reynolds' accomplices. Besides a handful of contacts the FBI had retrieved from Reynolds' phone—the only remaining evidence because the fire that destroyed Reynolds' cabin didn't reach his body in the bushes—they'd exhausted their leads. Thus Vilet was desperate to uncover Reynolds' connections within Goliath and his potential spies within the Bureau.
And that information—the final conversations and any possible divulgences from the traitor Reynolds—was trapped inside Sam's head.
In the back corner of Sam's room was a mid-sized bathroom painted lily white and fresh with the scent of soap. Shower for two, I noted, but no tub. Sam’s shaving kit rested on the counter: inside were a clean comb, a heavy metal razor, razor blades, a blue toothbrush, mint gel toothpaste, mint floss. Everything looked store-bought new. With such normal belongings, he could be any regular guy. But the spotless bag and the absence of personal adornment or sentimental objects seemed sterile. Lonely.
