Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (37 page)

Castellano's sister began to cry audibly as a man in a white lab coat wearing a blue face mask and hairnet positioned himself beside the gurney in preparation for removing the sheet. The man looked out of the window towards Chambers who gave a quick nod.

Kemiss and Evers both stepped forward to stand beside the two women as the man in the room slowly pulled back the sheet and revealed the head and shoulders of Seth Castellano, his eyes closed as though he were sleeping soundly, his hair wet and slicked back with a fine toothed comb, and his skin a chalky white that was in equal parts due to the lighting in the room and the lack of blood circulating in his body.

Both women's distress became audible and Kemiss slipped an arm around Elizabeth Castellano's shoulders, trying to be as comforting as he could be in spite of the emotions that he was feeling, but couldn't show.

Taking the anguished cries as an affirmative identification, the medical examiner made a few marks on his paperwork and motioned for the medical technician in the room to close the curtain. The man obeyed and the room quickly disappeared behind the heavy polyester.

"I just need Mrs. Castellano to sign these two forms for me and you all can go. I know you have a long night ahead of you," Chambers said, as he stepped away from the window towards the group, his clipboard held out.

"Did he suffer?" Elizabeth Castellano asked, as she took hold of the clipboard.

Chambers grimaced as all four faces looked to him for an answer. He shook his head. "I've only completed a preliminary examination. At this time, I really don't know. I'm sorry."

Kemiss gave the doctor a nod of gratitude before glancing towards the clipboard as Castellano's mother scribbled her signature on the two forms and handed it back.

"Let's go," Evers said, pulling lightly on Emily Castellano's shoulder. "I'll see to it that you both get home safely."

"SAC Evers," Kemiss said loudly; everyone stopped and turned to him.

"Senator?" Evers answered.

"I want you to find the man that did this," Kemiss said, wiping a tear from his left eye with his fingers. "My office will make sure that you and your men have every possible tool at your disposal and I want you to keep me informed of any developments every step of the way, and of anything you need,
anything
."

Kemiss' eyes bored into the Special Agent for several seconds.

"Yes, sir. It's a nationwide priority, he won't get away."

"See to it that he doesn't," he said, as he adjusted his suit and looked at the two women, doing his best to soften his expression. "I'm very sorry for the loss of your son and brother. He and I remained in contact after he left my employment and I promise you that we will capture the man responsible. The United States Government will not rest until Declan McIver is either behind bars or dead."

Minutes later he re-entered his limousine and picked up the phone as his driver closed the door behind him. He dialed a number and waited for an answer. Someone picked up on the other end and he listened as they fumbled their phone. He looked at his watch; it was one o'clock in the morning in Great Britain.

"Simard?" a sleepy voice finally said.

"You'd better have something for me."

"The committee meets first thing in the morning, Senator. I'll have answers for you by the time you're eating breakfast."

8:19 p.m. Eastern Time – Tuesday

County Route 141

Lake Sherwood, West Virginia

The headlights of the stolen Chevrolet Trailblazer flashed over the roughly hewn driveway that led to his cabin as Declan McIver turned into the property. All he could see as he drove were the crooked branches of the area's many maple trees, the cabin itself being located a safe distance away from the road and only visible in the winter months when the leaves were off the trees. As the vehicle bounced over one of the many potholes in the road he glanced up to look in the rearview mirror out of force of habit, momentarily forgetting that he had removed the mirror from the vehicle in order to disengage the OnStar system, which could be used to track the vehicle's location via GPS. The last thing he needed at the moment was a team of FBI agents descending on the rustic hideaway.

Pulling the vehicle to a stop where he had once parked his Mercedes, now in the possession of the FBI, he shifted it into park and looked around as he exited onto the concrete pad that stood between the small house and a tall stack of firewood. The smell of burning wood filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. Stepping around the side of the house towards the front door that faced the shores of Lake Sherwood, he stopped as a bright light stabbed the darkness from the front of the house and a figure slowly stepped around the side of the log structure.

"It's me," he said, as his wife stepped off the front porch. She walked over the small patch of wet grass that stood beside the house and embraced him. There were no tears and no surprise at seeing him. Along the winding country roads he'd taken to get there, being sure he wasn't followed, he'd stopped and risked a call from a pay phone to the pre-paid cell he'd left with her the day before.

"What took you so long?" she asked.

"Just being careful," he said. It had taken him nearly twelve hours to make a drive that under normal circumstances could've been made in less than three. Along the way he'd travelled in several different directions and had used multiple vehicles. Knowing that the vehicles would eventually be reported stolen and that he had likely been seen at least once, all of his movements had been designed to make his actual destination a mystery.

"The radio said you'd been arrested," she said, holding him tightly. "I thought they'd kill you."

"They tried," he said, as he drew back from her and looked down into her eyes. He gave her a quick smile. "But that's not as easy as it looks."

"What happened?"

"It was Castellano, just like I thought."

"Was?"

"He's dead."

"Then this is over?"

He took a deep breath and shook his head, mouthing the word
no
. She buried her face in the flannel shirt he wore, found in the back of the stolen SUV, and sniffed away tears.

"Let's get inside," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and guiding her towards the front door.

On the porch, he turned and scanned the area around the house as she stepped inside. The inky darkness of the mountain night made it quickly apparent that there was nothing to see and even if there was, seeing it would be nearly impossible. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, silencing the sound of the grasshoppers in the trees.

Inside the cabin a glowing red log crackled in the fireplace and emitted warmth that felt good after standing outside. He unbuttoned the flannel shirt and removed it, revealing the prison jumpsuit he'd been given at the Franklin County Jail. Spots of dirt and blood covered the torso and knee areas of the green garment and Constance made a face as she looked at him.

"It's not mine," he said, although he thought she probably knew that. "I tried to save Castellano after he'd been shot, but I couldn't."

"You didn't shoot him?" The crestfallen look on her face said everything about how she was feeling. Slowly, she took a seat in the Adirondack chair next to the stone hearth.

"Whoever these people are," he said, "they decided he was expendable if it meant getting me."

"Did you get what you needed, did you find out who those men from the other night were?"

"Aye, but I don't think it's going to do us any good now that Castellano's dead. Maybe it will help provide some proof of what's going on if there's ever a real investigation launched, but without Castellano, the identities of the people he was working for are going to be impossible to determine. I don't even have an idea about where to begin searching."

She sat forward and reached for his hand. Gripping it softly she asked, "What do we do now?"

"We can't stay here," he said, looking over the rustic interior of the cabin. "We have to get to a place where we'll be safe as long as we need to be. I'm not giving up on this. There's a conspiracy going on and sooner or later someone is going to figure that out. We'll be able to get back to our old lives." He squeezed her hand a couple of times and smiled. Inside he was beginning to feel concerned, they were running out of options, but he couldn't let her know that. He had to maintain the appearance of confidence if he was going to keep her from completely falling apart. In the last seventy-two hours she'd been through more danger than in the previous thirty-five years combined.

"Have you heard anything from Osman or Nazari yet?" she asked.

"Not yet. The problem is that I'm calling their American cell phones, which I'm not even sure will work in Israel where they're currently located."

"Why wouldn't they work?"

"Because there can be a big difference between American cell networks and those of other countries, it all depends on the carrier. I don't know a whole lot about it but I know that they're incompatible with each other in a lot of cases. Just like when we travelled to France and Spain, remember?"

She nodded. "What about the place that Dad and Mom have near Hilton Head? It's on a private island. We'd be okay there and it's a lot more comfortable than this."

He shook his head. "We can't. It's too predictable. We can't go near anyone we have an obvious connection with. It would only get them hurt, or worse."

"So we're going to just keep running from place to place?" she said, starting to sound desperate. "You can't have hidden that many cabins in the woods from me."

"No," he said, trying hard to maintain a calm appearance despite the emotions he was feeling. At this point it looked like the only realistic choice they had was to run, at least for a while. "There are two more people I can reach out to, but it means leaving the country."

"Where would we go?"

"Home," he said looking at her, "to Ireland."

9:06 a.m. Local Time – Wednesday

Her Majesty's Government, Whitehall

London, England

Lane Simard sipped a steaming cup of dark blended Creole coffee from his weekly stop at Carluccio's as the late model Range Rover glided smoothly onto Horse Guards Road from Great George Street. His driver sounded the horn several times as a group of gawking tourists scattered away from the front end of the vehicle as the two car caravan pressed towards the gated rear entrance of Downing Street. Like many other people that were milling around Whitehall Road with cameras and sightseeing maps, the tourists were probably wondering if it was a member of the royal family sitting behind the deeply tinted windows of the SUV.

The driver lowered the passenger side window and handed the necessary credentials to one of the Custodian helmeted officers standing at the wrought iron gate holding MP-5 machine pistols across their chests, a staple at the two entrances since the mortar attack in 1991 by the Provisional IRA. The police officer leaned down and glanced into the back seat. Simard lifted his coffee cup in acknowledgment and the officer gave a curt nod before standing up and waving the vehicles on.

As the wrought iron gate opened and the officers stood aside, the Range Rover began to vibrate as the driver pulled onto the cobblestones of Downing Street and passed the black wooden door bearing the famed number ten at the front of the Prime Minister's official residence. Turning into the narrow entrance of a parking lot next to the three story black brick townhouse, Simard readied himself for another meeting of minds as the two Range Rovers pulled to a stop.

A blue uniformed police officer stepped off the stone staircase that led to the first floor of the Whitehall Government Complex and said, "Good morning to you, Mr. Simard," as he opened the rear door of the government-owned SUV.

"Good morning to you, constable," Simard said with a nod and a smile, as he stepped from the vehicle and buttoned his suit. The meeting he was about to attend was the highlight of the London CIA Station Chief's job and the gray cobblestoned area between the Prime Minister's residence and the four story concrete complex known as the Cabinet Office always amazed him.