Page 93 of Identity Unknown
Dorothy is slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, half comatose now, and he’s rubbing her neck again.
“They’ll be killed in there before it’s over,” she says, or I think she does.
It’s hard to understand her now, like listening to a new language she’s invented. I tap Advil out of the bottle, making her take three. I stir the marinara sauce, adding olive oil to boiling water that’s ready for the pasta.
“The phone calls to our office won’t help Ryder Briley one bit,” Shannon is saying. “The recordings of the nasty things he said clearly show he was trying to threaten us and interfere with the autopsy. And I’m assuming it was him or his wife who’s been making the crank calls, not saying anything, trying to spook everyone.”
“Are we still getting them?” I ask as Benton makes me another Manhattan.
“Well, Fabian did mention he had one today that he was certain was the same as the others.” Shannon sips her whisky. “As I was heading out this afternoon he stopped by and told me. He said his direct line rang in the investigation’s office, and when he answered it, nobody was there. The caller ID wasout of areaagain. And he mentioned he could hear a radio or something in the background, maybe a talk show host, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.”
“Then it’s not Ryder or Piper Briley doing it,” Marino decides as I’m reaching the same conclusion. “They were being arrested right about then.”
“Let’s eat while we still have power,” I reply as the lights flicker again.
“I’ll round up some candles just in case,” Benton says as Merlin saunters into the kitchen, jumping into my sister’s lap.
She doesn’t react, her arms dangling at her sides, her head slumped, softly snoring now.
“I believe that’s all she wrote for tonight.” Marino excuses himself to help her upstairs.
When he returns, I serve plates of spaghetti marinara with grated Parmigiano Reggiano. Shannon helps Marino set the table in the dining room while I make spicy Caesar salads and bake loaves of my special garlic bread. I open a Chianti that gets better as it breathes, and it makes me think of Sal. If he were here he’d be helping with dinner like he always did.
Benton swirls the ruby-red wine in a glass, holding it up to his nose, tasting it. Candles flicker in the dining room as he fills our glasses, and we seat ourselves, draping big red-checked napkins in our laps.
“First we raise our glasses to Sal.” I hold up mine. “Not present but never forgotten.”
As I say this the lights go out for a second, the candle flames wavering as if there’s a draft. The storm has gotten fierce, the wind buffeting and whistling. Rain pounds the roof, lashing the trees on our property. The lights continue dimming as we eat, and everyone decides to turn in early. During a power outage, tucked in bed is a good place to be.
“I for one am beat.” I push back my chair.
“I need to make sure my better half is okay.” Marino drops his napkin on the table. “She’s going to feel like total shit tomorrow.”
“Whenever able, make sure she drinks a lot of water.” I start clearing the table.
As we carry dishes into the kitchen, I remind our guests that each room has battery-powered candles and flashlights. I assure them that the backup generator should kick on.
“And at least we’d have some of the basics for a few hours,” I explain, hugging Marino and Shannon good night.
Benton and I carry cups of tea upstairs, setting the alarm, his pistol on the bedside table. We talk quietly for a while with the lights out, pressed close to each other. I’m not aware of anything else until I feel him touching me awake at threeA.M.
“Hi.” His breath against my ear as I feel him bending close.
“What is it?” I reach for the lamp on my side of the bed.
Benton is in cargo pants and a black polo shirt with the Secret Service crest embroidered on the shoulder. His gun is in a pancake holster on his hip, and I smell his musky cologne.
“I’ve got to go.” He kisses me, his face silky from shaving.
“What’s happened?”
“She’s been spotted, and I need to get to headquarters.” He’s talking about Carrie.
“Where?” I sit straight up, arranging pillows behind me.
“She was caught on a security camera in a private terminal at the airport in Warsaw, Poland,” he says. “Facial recognition software identified her. The name on her passport is Zofia Puda.”
Benton explains that Carrie’s alias Zofia Puda was renting a house in Dooms, a tiny town out in the middle of nothing some fifteen miles from Weyers Cave. He says agents are headed there to search the place.