“Mom, come on.” Jordan took her hand and tugged her into the living room, where they sat down in front of the TV, side by side, something they hadn’t done for some time.
Wolf Blitzer continued, “We take you directly to Philadelphia, where the press conference is beginning.” The screen morphed to a man in a suit standing behind a lectern with a cluster of men in suits. To the man’s right was a tall ugly guy, a shorter older man, and on the end, Chris.
“There’s Coach!” Jordan leaned forward, resting on his knees.
“Not a coach,” Heather said reflexively, though her gaze went immediately to Chris and stayed there. It was so strange to see him in such a different role, on TV to boot. She couldn’t deal with the fact that it was the same man. She couldn’t help but think, If nothing he said was true, is it the same man? Then she answered her own question, Of course not, you idiot. But he’s still hot.
“My name is Ralph Brubaker, Chief of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. I’m here to brief you on the thwarting today of an act of domestic terrorism whose goal was to destroy the James A. Byrne U.S. Courthouse and the William J. Green Federal Building in Philadelphia, murdering the persons inside and causing considerable property damage. The plot was foiled by JTTF and many other law-enforcement agencies, but first mention goes to the Philadelphia Field Division of ATF, headed by Group Supervisor Alek Ivanov, Special Agent David Levitz, and the hero of Operation Varsity Letter, Special Agent Curt Abbott.”
Jordan hooted. “Woohoo!”
Heather grumbled. “Hmph.”
“… Law enforcement scored a major victory today in our ongoing battle against domestic terrorism. We have no reason to believe that there are other conspirators or participants in this plot, so the City of Philadelphia and the region remain safe. Structural engineers are inspecting the Ben Franklin Bridge, and it will remain closed until further notice. We will retain the severe threat level, out of an abundance of caution. Most important, no confirmed lives were lost today in connection with this plot, except the perpetrators, brothers James and David Shank of Headley, Pennsylvania.”
Jordan looked over. “Mom, can you believe Madame Wheeler sent Evan that selfie? I knew I should’ve taken French.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Spanish is more useful.”
“Ha!”
“I’m just wondering why Evan was dumb enough to send you all her picture. Why didn’t he just keep it to himself?”
Jordan snorted. “Mom, are you kidding? Did you see her? If I got a girl who looked like that, I’d send it around, no doubt.”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Chief Brubaker continued, “We have taken into custody Ms. Courtney Shank Wheeler, the younger sister of the Shank brothers and a teacher at Central Valley High School in Central Valley, Pennsylvania. We also have in custody a seventeen-year-old junior at Central Valley High School. Neither Wheeler nor the minor have been charged, as yet. We are investigating their participation in the plot and it is unclear at this time.”
Jordan looked over with a worried frown. “What does that mean? Why don’t they say his name?”
“Privacy, I guess? Because he’s a minor? Anyway, it means they haven’t figured out what Evan did yet.”
Jordan grimaced. “Do they really think he’s one of the bad guys? He doesn’t know Madame Wheeler’s brothers. They beat him up. You could see his face in the videos.”
“Shh, let’s listen.”
Chief Brubaker continued, “There are many details of this Operation Varsity Letter that we do not have or cannot make public for security reasons. We are holding this conference before we have the totality of the facts because we want to inform the press and public, giving correct information rather than the rumors circulating online or in social media.”
Jordan turned to Heather. “He has to say that. Twitter is blowing up.”
Heather kept looking at Chris/Curt. She wondered if he was even single. Maybe that had been a lie, too. Her gaze went to his left hand, but she couldn’t see if he had a wedding ring. Maybe he kept it at home, with his wife. And seven children. Also a dog and a cat.
Jordan listened as the spokesman continued, but Heather kept her eye on Chris/Curt, trying to read his mind. He was probably thinking that he was a hero, that he did his job even if it meant telling a whopper. He may have served the greater good, but still, she didn’t like being lied to. The lesser good still mattered, and she and Jordan were the lesser good. She wondered if she’d ever hear from Chris/Curt again, then if she wanted to hear from him again.
Suddenly she realized that the odor of salmon was permeating the apartment, and the fish was burning.
“Dammit!” Heather said, jumping up and running into the kitchen.
Chapter Sixty-two
It wasn’t until midnight that Curt got home to his spare, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a row home in the Italian Market, a city neighborhood of open-air stalls selling fruit, produce, and fish, packed cheek-by-jowl with old-school Italian restaurants. The air always smelled like fresh basil and rotting food, but the neighborhood suited him. He could pick up prepared foods anywhere, and it was easy for him to blend in, since the Market bustled with employees, shoppers, and tourists.
He’d come home tonight completely unnoticed, the shops closed, tarps drawn over the stalls, and the few tourists inside the restaurants. He’d kept his ball cap on just in case, after having spent the day feeling like a celebrity poseur, being clapped on the back, congratulated, and even hugged by a pretty lawyer in the U.S. Attorney’s office, who reminded him of Heather.
Curt flopped on his bed, which was made by the cleaning lady who came in every other week, whether he was home or not. There was nothing on the white walls of his bedroom because he’d never had time to decorate, nor had he truly cared to, but tonight it looked lame, beyond bachelorhood into psycho hermit. Oddly, he missed his apartment in Central Valley, and by now, other ATF agents would be routinely fingerprinting, taking photographs, collecting his laptop and going through his videotapes and audiotapes for the government’s case against Evan. None of the possessions in that apartment belonged to him, except the clothes, but he would leave them behind, shedding the Chris Brennan identity like a snake does its skin. It had never been a problem before, but now, he felt vaguely like a real snake.
He picked up the remote, turned on a news channel, and watched the coverage of the operation on mute. There was one talking head after another, then the screen played the video of him flying upside down, with Evan hanging on.