The Pieces We Keep (24 page)

“What I’ve always suspected would happen,” he said as if accepting defeat. “I’ll turn myself in. If I don’t, they’ll continue to train more operatives and keep sending them over.”

Seeing sheer resignation in a man who was once larger than life was almost too much for Vivian to bear. Her mind fell back to an image, a photo from the newspaper that for some inexplicable reason had captured her interest. Beside the article of the missing little girl was a picture of her parents in grainy gray tones. Despite seemingly insurmountable odds, their faces wore an enduring veneer of hope.

In Vivian’s memory, she reviewed the photo again, and halted at a thought. As if viewed through a camera lens, the idea gained focus. It would be a gamble, yes. But with no other options, the solution called to her.

“Do you trust me?” she said to Isaak, whose brow sharply dipped.

“Of course.”

“Good,” she said. “Because you’ll need to.”

A
t this point, all Audra could do was hope. She assured herself that the worst wasn’t yet to come. But she knew better, even before she opened her front door to the two uniformed men.

“Good afternoon,” said the one on the right. He was pale skinned, with a slight crook in his nose. “I’m Officer Hall and this is Officer Ramirez.” The sturdy Hispanic-looking man tipped his hat.

“Hello,” she said.

“Ma’am, are you Audra Hughes?” Officer Hall continued with the lead.

“I am.”

“Ms. Hughes, we’re stopping by today because a citizen called, saying they’ve heard a child screaming from your residence on several occasions.”

A neighbor. It had to be—though Audra could only guess which one. Their encounters had never surpassed a trade of courteous smiles.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? There would be no basis for anyone here to presume Jack’s frequent screeches of “help me” and “let me out” merely resulted from his dreams.

“That’s totally my fault,” she admitted. “My son’s been having horrible nightmares. The walls aren’t the thickest here. I really should’ve let the residents around us know.”

“Could I ask who’s in your apartment today?”

Thrown off, Audra took a moment to reply. “Just me and my son, Jack. I’m a single mom.”

“Is your son around right now?”

“Well, yes. He’s in the kitchen.”

Officer Ramirez looked past her shoulder and spoke for the first time. “Afternoon, sir.”

Audra turned to find Sean approaching. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

Oh, God.
She’d forgotten he was here.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the officers. “I should’ve remembered—this is Sean Malloy. He’s ... a friend of ours. He’s just visiting. For the day.” Although she had told Sean of the night terrors, having this unfurl in his presence magnified her embarrassment. Unfortunately, inviting him to leave could suggest to the policemen that she’d been hiding him on purpose.

Officer Hall resumed his mission in a distressingly genial tone. “Ma’am, we’d just like to check on your son real quick, make sure there’s no concern. Then we can get out of your hair and let you enjoy your weekend.”

“Sure. That’s—fine.” She tried not to stammer. “Jack? Could you come over here, please?”

“Would you mind if we came inside?” Officer Hall asked.

“No. No, please do.” She backed up to let them through and closed the door, right as Jack arrived in the entryway. His sleeves were pulled up a few inches, the cuffs dampened from washing at the sink.

The second officer angled toward Jack. “Hi there. I’m Officer Ramirez.” Beneath the warmth of his smile, he had to be scanning, assessing. “Is your name Jack?”

Jack nodded.

Officer Ramirez then looked at Audra. “Would it be all right if I talk to Jack in his room for a moment while you talk to Officer Hall?”

“Yes. Of course.” She put on a smile to help ease Jack’s puzzlement. “Baby, these policemen are just here to make sure you’re safe. Why don’t you show Officer Ramirez your room ... so he can ... see your bombers?”

She was trying to keep things casual, and immediately regretted the mention of an armed weapon. “I just mean your old warplanes, the models. Like in your dreams.” Now she sounded as if she was prompting his answers, demanding he confirm her claim of nightmares.

No doubt Officer Ramirez, too, was considering the possibility, but his animated tone masked the thought. “You’ve got model airplanes in your room?” he said to Jack. “You know, I used to paint them with my grandpa. Ships too, but the planes were my favorites.” He exuded the experience of a father, making clear that in these situations he was the one assigned to the kids. “How about we take a look, little man?”

Jack paused for only a second before nodding again. As he led the officer away, Audra recalled the state of Jack’s room. The explosion of toys and clothes and bedding didn’t suggest an ideal environment. Small quivers reverberated in Audra’s knees.

“Would you care to sit down?” she asked, and was relieved Officer Hall agreed.

Sean gave her a look and motioned to the door:
Do you want me to leave?

She tightly shook her head.

Though still confused, he nodded and followed.

In the living room, Audra and Sean sat on the couch with appropriate space between them. The officer sat on the sofa chair and pulled out a small notepad. He jotted down the names and birthdates of everyone there, formalities required for a report.

“Ma’am, I noticed your son’s got a cast on his arm. Could you tell me what that’s from?”

“I’d be glad to,” she said, eager to explain. She also sensed that volunteering too much too fast could come off as scripted. “You see, a few weeks ago, he was having a night terror—that’s what the doctor at the ER called them.” She hoped the term had been recorded in Jack’s medical file. “The dreams cause him to flail around a lot, and that’s how his arm hit the dresser. Since then, I’ve done a better job of holding on to him to keep him from hurting himself. But he does get some bruises that way.”

“Excuse me, Officer,” Sean interjected, appearing to comprehend the nature of the exchange. “If you’re trying to find out if Audra’s an abusive mother, I can tell you right now, there’s not a chance. The kid really does have physically violent dreams.”

“Have you seen these yourself, sir?”

“Well ... no. I haven’t.”

“Have you spent much time with the family?”

“No, not much. But we just met recently.”

The officer nodded, wrote on his pad.

“Sean, it’s all right,” Audra said quietly. He was trying to help, a former news producer taking the lead, but could end up making things worse.

Officer Hall again addressed Audra. “Is there anyone professional you’re seeing, to help your son with these episodes?”

She perked at this. “Yes. We’ve been seeing the counselor at his school. His name’s Dr. Shaw.” Never had she been more grateful for sessions with any therapist.

“That’s good to hear. I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

The topic led her back to evaluations for custody. She debated on bringing up the case, afraid the officers might somehow find out and make a note of her omission. But then Officer Ramirez emerged from Jack’s bedroom—without Jack.

“Ms. Hughes,” he said, “I was wondering if you could tell me where your son’s injuries came from?”

Officer Hall had heard everything yet didn’t say a word.

She swallowed, realizing what was happening. They were comparing stories, looking for discrepancies. She calmly repeated her explanation. When she finished, Officer Ramirez asked, “Would you mind if I took a peek at your son’s chest and back? Just to be thorough.”

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.

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.

O
n 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.”

“That’s correct. Yes.”

In spite of his controlled manner, a product of either his training or callousness from prior cases, his brown eyes betrayed him. For they exuded a tiny gleam of hope that now caused her shame.

“I think I should begin,” she said, “with a confession. You see ... I’m actually not here about Trudy Beckam. It was all such a tragedy, the disappearance of that little girl. I do so wish I had a new clue that could help, but ... I don’t.”

The man remained stone-faced, though his eyes notably dimmed.

“I’m very sorry to have deceived you. But I was afraid you wouldn’t agree to see me otherwise. That you’d think I was some paranoid woman who’d listened to one too many episodes of
Miss Pinkerton.
Or perhaps somebody who was just looking to stir up–”

Agent Gerard raised his hand to halt her, a worrisome sign. “Why don’t you tell me why you are here.”

Vivian straightened in her chair and nodded, recalling her practiced account. “Agent Gerard, I have knowledge of an impending threat to our national security. In just four days-no, three-as early as this Friday, that is-a group of Nazi spies is scheduled to be delivered by submarine to the East Coast. On the shores of Florida and New York. Their primary goal is to sabotage war production plants, but also to demoralize citizens by blowing up places like department stores and train stations. Ultimately, they even hope to rally German Americans against our own country.” She paused to gauge his reaction, which thankfully showed no trace of humor.

“You mind telling me how you came across this information?” She took care not to mention names quite yet. “I learned it from a scout assigned to the mission.”

“A scout, you say.”

“That’s right. He’s an American, born and raised in upstate New York. And he would very much like to turn himself in.”

“But...”

“But?” she echoed.

“I assume there’s a reason
you’re
here, rather than him.”

“Oh. Well, yes.” She was grateful the man had brought this up. “There’s a slight complication, I’m afraid. It involves his family.”

“His family.”

“There are five of them still in Munich. From what I understand” –a preemptive disclosure–“they’re doing their best to put on a front of supporting Hitler’s efforts. But I believe wholeheartedly that they’ll be in grave danger if they’re not relocated before my friend exposes the operation.”

Agent Gerard reached into his desk drawer and shuffled around, as if searching for a notepad and pen. Instead, he retrieved a fresh cigarette and a matchbook. “So this friend of yours,” he said, between puffs igniting the tip, “he asked you to come here?”

“Yes-or no, rather. It was my idea.”

“You sure about that?”

The question revived doubts from her past, over who had truly initiated the plan to gather political news from her father. Again, she brushed them aside.

“I’m sure of it,” she said.

“Mmm.” More puffs on his cigarette. “And these targets you mentioned, I take it you-or this scout-know specifics about dates and locations of these attacks.”

She figured Isaak to be well informed of such details, though she hadn’t explicitly confirmed it. “I-I think so,” she said. “He does have a list of contacts on a handkerchief. I do know that for certain.”

“Because you’ve seen the names?”

“Well, no. Not yet. The list is written in invisible ink.” In her own ears, she heard how naïve that sounded. For credibility, she needed to recall which chemical would make the writing visible. What did Isaak tell her? Ammonia, was it?

The desk chair creaked as Agent Gerard reclined several inches. Arms folded, he exhaled a ribbon of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Miss James, you seem like a nice, smart girl, so I’m going to be real honest with you. If I had to guess, I’d say this gentleman friend of yours was inspired by the Sebold case.”

She stared, unfamiliar with the reference.

“William Sebold. The German-American snitch. He helped us take down the Duquesne Spy Ring. Surely you read about the trial last year.”

Her interest in politics had only lately reached respectable heights. Admitting her ignorance, she shook her head.

“Well, it sounds to me like your buddy knows all about it. Thanks to Sebold’s cooperation as a double agent, thirty-three spies were rounded up and put on trial right here in Brooklyn.”

Vivian’s mind whirled, seeking a connection, as the man leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Look, I don’t doubt for a minute that your friend’s got family in Germany. If I were him, I’d want them the heck out of there too. But the rest of it, this East Coast spy business, it sounds like a bunch o’ bull to me-if you’ll excuse the expression.”

“But ... it’s true, though,” she said, and caught her own half-hearted tone. She girded herself, battled against her doubts. “My father works for an American embassy. I would know if he were lying.”

Agent Gerard’s brows arched in slight surprise, then lowered. “Maybe your father can lend a hand then, to help you out.”

“He can’t. He’s in London. And we don’t have enough time.”

“I see.” After a quick glance at his watch, he crushed out his cigarette and came to his feet. “I do wish you luck, Miss James. And make sure, if this friend causes you any real trouble, you take your concerns to your local police station. You hear?”

Vivian went to stand, unclear what else to do, and only then remembered the evidence in her lap. How could she have forgotten?

She jutted her chin as she rose. “I have proof.”

Agent Gerard shed a small sigh. “Is that so?”

“He was given funds for their contacts, and also to aid their tasks. The majority of the stash was to be hidden until the other spies arrived safely onshore.” With that, Vivian unlatched the satchel. In a series of small shakes, she sent the contents tumbling onto the desk.

The agent gazed wordlessly at the bound stacks of cash, an uneven mountain of green. No training had prepared him for this kind of moment.

“What is this?” he breathed.

“A reason you have to believe me.”

In a slow, tentative motion he picked up a bundle, as if hastiness might prove it a mirage. He fanned an edge of the bills, each of them a crisp and clean fifty, perfuming the air with forty thousand dollars.

“Now will you help me?”

He was engrossed in thought. Vivian’s summary suddenly required focus, measurement, dissection. “Three days isn’t much time,” he said. Not a critical remark, a reflective one.

“I know,” she told him with regret. “With the article, I wish I’d thought of you sooner. I should have.”

He looked up at her. His eyes narrowed into a question.

“That’s what brought me here,” she explained. “The article about Trudy Beckam. It said that aside from her parents, everyone gave up. Except for you.” She lightly shrugged. “So, that’s how I knew ...”

“Knew what?” he said, a tad leery.

“That you’re willing to fight impossible odds.”

His gaze lingered on her before returning to the money in his hand. He didn’t speak but gave a nod, just perceptible enough to sustain Vivian’s hopes.