Page 133 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 129

Kingston, New Hampshire

T he whole drive back to the hotel, I’m seething.

Goddamn Burton Pearce!

I’m thinking back to him calling me with his condolences after Garrett died.

Giving me his private number.

Playing Mr. Nice Guy.

Bastard!

I wonder how Eva Clarke will sleep tonight.

Is she relieved that somebody else finally knows her secret?

Or is she worried about the whole world finding out?

In the hotel parking lot, I turn off the engine and open the Subaru’s door, then reach over to grab my backpack.

As soon as I start to get out, somebody rips it off my shoulder.

I see two figures closing in.

I raise my arms and start swinging wildly.

Somebody grabs my wrists and pins them against the roof of the car.

“Brea! Stop it!”

My watchers!

The woman has my backpack.

Her arm is inside it, digging deep.

“Just making sure you don’t have a gun in here.”

The man has my wrists.

“I’m letting you go now,” he says.

“Do not run.”

“Or scream,” adds the woman.

She returns my backpack to me.

My gaze darts from one to the other.

“What do you want? Who are you?”

The man pulls out a leather wallet and holds up his ID.

“Daniel Fane, FBI.” I look over at the woman.

She’s holding out a wallet of her own.

“Kathy Schott, same.”

“What do you want? I’m an attorney. I know my rights!”

“Relax, Brea,” says Fane.

“We’re not here on official business.”

Schott puts away her ID.

“According to our office, we’re not here at all.”

“I don’t understand.” My pulse is settling a bit.

“What is this about? You two have been tailing me since before this trial started. I know it. I’ve seen you. Why?”

“Dr. Graham sent us,” says Fane.

“He asked us to keep an eye on you.”

This is getting weirder by the minute.

“Dr. Graham is dead.”

“We know,” says Schott.

“I’m the one who sent you the link to the story in the New York Times . But that doesn’t change anything. Dr. Graham gave us this assignment and we’re seeing it through.”

I’m still not sure what’s going on.

“I thought Dr. Graham was retired from the FBI.”

“Let’s just say he had deep roots at the Bureau,” says Fane, “and some chits to call in.”

“Well, now you have a debt to me,” I say with a bravado I don’t actually feel.

“Does this mean you’re my bodyguards now?”

“More like guardian angels,” says Schott.

“Just hovering on the periphery.”

“I don’t get it. Don’t you have real assignments?”

“We do,” says Fane.

“We’re moonlighting.”

“I have so many questions. For starters, did Dr. Graham have an online alias?”

Schott smiles.

“You mean Doc Cams?”

I was right!

It was him. “He was posting some pretty harsh stuff against Cole Wright.”

“Dr. Graham was a mole,” says Schott.

“A digital mole.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dr. Graham dug his way into radical groups to see what they were up to. That was his specialty in the Bureau. He could take on any identity or tone of voice he needed to earn somebody’s trust. He broke into a lot of crime rings that way over the years. Drugs. Smuggling. Extortion.”

“So he wasn’t anti-Wright?”

“No. He was pro-truth. He was getting ready to expose the whole network.”

“Do you think he was killed?”

Fane gives a wry smile.

“Yes. But by his coronary arteries.” He pulls a small flip phone out of his pocket.

“Take this. The only number it can dial is ours.”

“Same number for both of us,” says Schott.

I’m suddenly exhausted to the point of collapse.

I take the phone and toss it into my backpack.

“I need to go to my room now.”

“No problem,” says Schott.

“It’s clear.”

“Wait. You searched my hotel room?”

“Quick sweep,” says Fane.

“Jesus! How many times have you been in there?”

Schott glances at Fane.

He nods. “Twice a day,” she says, “starting the day you arrived.”

So much for my DO NOT DISTURB sign.

I walk to my room. My eyes are burning.

My head is throbbing.

I feel like crashing.

But my cell phone is ringing.

“Hello?”

“Brea? It’s Ron Reynolds!” He’s practically shouting into the phone over loud music and a noisy crowd.

“Hi, Ron. What’s up? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in a bar in Brentwood. A woman here knows one of the bailiffs. Be at the courthouse first thing tomorrow. They’ve reached a verdict!”