Hadley & Grace(28)

“By the way,” Fitz says, “she’s pissed.”

“Who?”

“The lady who loaned them her car. She’s saying we violated her constitutional rights.”

“What constitutional right? To be stupid and loan her car to criminals? To aid and abet fugitives?”

“Technically, Hadley and Grace aren’t criminals,” Fitz says. “They’re only wanted for questioning. Which means she actually couldn’t have aided and abetted them.”

“Hadley and Grace?” Mark snaps, his voice so sharp the swim instructor looks over.

“I mean Herrick and Torelli,” Fitz corrects, but Mark can tell he doesn’t mean it. Already the kid is rooting for them, confirming once again why he is not cut out for the field. An agent cannot get emotionally involved. Whether a suspect is a hoodlum or a sweet, gray-haired grandmother, the job is black and white—gather evidence and arrest the suspects, regardless of the circumstances, the crimes, or the victims. It’s up to the courts to figure out the gray.

“She says she’s going to sue,” Fitz goes on. “And I’ve gotta admit: she kind of has a point. She’s like ninety, and she made a fair deal. Taking her money feels a little like we’re mugging Betty White.”

“We aren’t mugging anyone. That money is evidence.”

“Right, boss.”

Mark exhales slowly through his nose and reminds himself this isn’t Fitz’s fault. He’s not the one who screwed up.

“Is the file updated?” he says.

“Yeah, it’s all there.”

“Okay. Thanks, Fitz. Go home and get some rest. Thanks for staying late.”

“Sure, boss.”

Mark slides his phone into his pocket, and Shelly flashes a gaping grin, now that he’s done with the call, which makes her forget to paddle, and the instructor lunges to catch her a second before she sinks.

Across the pool, on the opposite deck, as far from the action as possible, Ben sits on a bench reading. With a deep breath, Mark walks around the edge to join him.

“Hey, buddy.”

Ben ignores him, his eyes fixed on the page in front of him.

“What are you reading?”

Ben lifts the cover for Mark to see. The Lightning Thief.

“Didn’t we read that one together last year?”

A year ago, before Mark’s life was yanked out from under him, he and Ben would read books together, and The Lightning Thief was one of their favorites.

Ben gives the slightest nod, his jaw slid out.

“Might help,” Mark says, “if you told me why you’re so mad.”

Ben says nothing, his eyes still fixed on the page.

Since Mark moved out, Ben has refused to talk to him. At first, Mark thought he was just angry in general because of the divorce, but lately, Ben’s made it clear that his anger is specifically targeted at Mark. But no matter how many times Mark asks, Ben refuses to tell him what’s wrong.

Mark sits beside him a minute longer, feeling like this is an important moment, one of those critical parenting junctures where he is supposed to say or do something profound. But he has no idea what that something might be. Parenting often leaves him feeling this way: like he is floundering in the middle of the ocean with no compass or oars.

Mark’s dad was brilliant at it, and he made it look easy. He always knew just what to do and say with Mark and his brother. Of course, his dad and Mark and Mark’s brother were all cut from the same cloth, hard boiled and tough, while Ben is a different animal altogether, sensitive and thoughtful, introspective in a way that is difficult for Mark to understand.

With a sigh, Mark pushes to his feet and walks a few feet away to review the updated files, which include the surveillance videos from the McDonald’s, the interview with the lady who loaned Torelli and Herrick her car, and the note Torelli and Herrick taped to her steering wheel.

Mark clicks on the note. The first image shows a scan of the outside of the card. It says Thank you, with butterflies floating around the words. The second image is of the inside. In loopy cursive it reads:

Dear Nancy,

Your car was wonderful. Skipper nicknamed her Pujols (after Albert Pujols who plays for the Angels) because, while she’s not fast, she’s reliable and gets the job done. Thank you for loaning her to us. Trust and faith are often difficult to find and even more difficult to give. I’m glad our paths crossed however briefly.

Stay kind, stay you.

Best,

Hadley, Skipper, Mattie, Grace, and Miles

Mark practically groans. Fitz is right, the note is nice, and a horrible thought hits him, the idea of what will happen if this story gets out and the media gets hold of it: two women on the run with their kids, eluding the FBI, giving money to old ladies, and leaving thank-you notes with references to beloved baseball players. If the press gets wind of this, the FBI is going to be crucified.

“Dad?”

Mark startles at Ben saying his name.

“Yeah?” he says, trying not to look overly anxious as he sits back down beside him.

Ben’s head is still bent over his book, and the book is still open to the same page it was five minutes ago.

“You promised,” he says, the words hitching and barely above a whisper.

Mark’s mind spins, his thoughts pinging around in his brain, searching for the promise he made and hasn’t fulfilled. Mark prides himself on being a man of his word, and he hates himself for breaking a promise, especially to his son.