crackling fire. And it was clearly not the work of the grand master
that fascinated him so.
Faith had not betrayed him. Nothing Thornhill could ever tell him
would change that belief But now she was in Thornhill’s way, which
meant she was in mortal danger. He stared at the painting. “Run,
Faith, run just as fast as you can,” he said under his breath, with all
the anguish of a desperate father seeing violent death racing after his
child. In the face of the protector mother in the painting, Buchanan
felt even more powerless.
CHAPTER 12
BROOKE REYNOLDs SAT IN RENTED OFFICE SPACE about ten blocks from the
Washington Field Office. The Bureau sometimes took off-site space for
agents engaged in sensitive investigations, where something overheard
even in the cafeteria or hallway could have disastrous effects.
Virtually everything the Public Corruption Unit did was of a sensitive
nature. The usual targets of the unit’s investigation were not bank
robbers wearing masks and waving guns. They were often people one read
about on the front pages of the newspapers or saw being interviewed on
the TV news.
Reynolds leaned forward and slipped out of her flats, rubbing her
aching feet against the legs of her chair. Everything about her was
tight, raw and hurting: Her sinuses were almost completely closed, her
skin feverish, her throat scratchy. But at least she was alive. Unlike
Ken Newman. She had driven straight to his home after first calling
ahead to let his wife know she had to see her. Reynolds hadn’t said
why, but Anne Newman had known that her husband was dead. Reynolds had
heard it in the tone of the few words the woman had managed to speak.
Normally, a person of a higher level than Reynolds would accompany her
to the home of a bereaved spouse, to show that the Bureau did care,
from top to bottom, when it lost one of its own. However, Reynolds had
not waited for anyone else to volunteer to come with her. Ken was her
responsibility, including telling his family that he was dead.
When she had arrived at the house, Reynolds had gotten right down to
it, figuring a drawn-out monologue would only prolong the woman’s
obvious agony. Reynolds’s compassion and empathy for the bereaved
woman had been unhurried, however, and sincere. She had held Anne,
consoled her as best she could, broken down in tears with her. Anne
had taken the absence of information well, Reynolds had thought, far
better than she probably would were the roles reversed.
Anne would be allowed to see her husband’s body. Then it would be
autopsied by the state’s chief medical examiner. Connie and Reynolds
would attend the post along with representatives from the Virginia
State Police and the commonwealth’s attorney office, all of whom were
under strict confidentiality orders.
They would also have to count on Anne Newman to help keep angry and
confused family members under control. It was a potentially weak link
in the chain, expecting a woman in personal agony to help a government
agency that couldn’t even tell her all the circumstances of her
husband’s death. But it was all they had.
As she had left the stricken woman’s home-the kids had been away with
friends-Reynolds had the distinct feeling that Anne blamed her for
Ken’s death. And as Reynolds had walked back to her car she couldn’t
really disagree with that. The guilt Reynolds was feeling right now
was like a crusty barnacle sunk into her skin, a free radical roaming
inside her body, seeking a place to nest, grow and eventually kill
her.
Outside the Newmans’ home she had run into the director of the FBI as
he had come to offer his own condolences. He conveyed heartfelt
sympathy to Reynolds for the loss of one of her men. He told her that
he had been briefed on her conversation with Massey and that he
concurred in her judgment. However, he made it clear that results had
better be both quick and substantial.
As Reynolds now eyed the considerable clutter of her office, it
occurred to her that the mess well symbolized the disorganization, some
would say dysfunction, of her personal life. Matters of importance