Seeing Red(54)

“Yes, Kerra. If you were any ol’ reporter who’d finally coaxed an interview out of The Major, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation. But you were inside the Pegasus Hotel when it was bombed.”

“I was a child.”

“Not anymore. You’re a smart, savvy woman who has a great big spotlight shining on her. As long as you’re alive, you represent a threat.”

“Who is the puppeteer?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Is he aware of your suspicion?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Then the threat to you is as real as it is to me and The Major. Even greater because you were a federal officer.”

“Who blew it. I might have spooked him three years ago when I started digging, but nothing came of it except me getting fired. I went into a downward spiral and hit rock bottom. Even my own father has wanted nothing to do with me. I’m a joke. A burnout. This guy isn’t scared of me. At least he hasn’t been.”

Suddenly, she understood why he had referred to her as bait. “But now you have me.”

“Now I have you,” he said solemnly. “You plus me equals double jeopardy for him. When he learns that you and I are together, he’ll make a move. I’ll be waiting.”

“To do what?”

He was about to answer, hedged, and said, “Understand this, Kerra. If you stick with me, you’re taking a huge risk. But we’ve already concluded that your life has been at risk ever since you came out as the little girl in the picture. Sunday night was an indication that he is not fooling around. He’ll go to great lengths to shut you up, and he has the resources to act with the speed of light.”

“You’re trying to frighten me.”

“I am, yeah. If I’m wrong, you can still be laughing at me in your old age. But I believe you’re on borrowed time.”

“If I’m in that much danger, we should go to the FBI, Homeland Security, the—”

“I tried that, remember? They’ll say that the Pegasus bombers are dead, that the case was closed twenty-five years ago, that Sunday night had nothing to do with it. They’ll venture that a pair of whack-jobs wanted to make a name for themselves by gunning down a hero. Or they were a duo of anti-Americans who hated what The Major represented. Or animal rights activists who opposed seeing the hunting trophies on his walls. Something like that.

“You start linking Sunday night’s boys to a mastermind who got away with blowing up the Pegasus, and they’ll start snickering behind their hands. I know. Been there.” He gave her a hard look. “Maybe you think I’m the whack-job.”

“No. But I wish you’d share more with me. Tell me the basis of your theory.”

“Not until I know where you stand.”

“What is Thomas Wilcox’s connection? Why does his name keep cropping up?” He just looked at her, and when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to answer, she said, “Not until you know where I stand.”

“Right. And your time to decide just ran out. Do I drive back to town and drop you at the motel?”

“As opposed to what?”

“I make some arrangements for tonight. Tomorrow I start sharing more.”

She didn’t think he was crazy. Undisciplined and unpredictable, yes. But not insane. However, she might very well be, because she heard herself saying, “All right, Trapper. I’ll be your bait. On one condition.”

“Shoot.”

“Actually two conditions.”

“The first?”

“If at any point along the way you ask me to do something illegal, I’m out.”

“Agreed. But I have a condition, too. Starting now, everything said or done is off the record. You don’t go public with anything till I give you the okay with a capital O. When I do, you can have at it. You can have at me. No matter how it turns out, the story is yours. But not until it’s over.”

That was a tough condition to concede. She thought of Gracie, the station’s news director, the network executives in New York who were eager for her to go back on camera as soon as tomorrow evening. If she withheld a story of this magnitude because of a promise given to John Trapper—possibly delusional John Trapper—she could lose all credibility and be banished from television journalism forever.

But she balanced that against the promise of rich rewards if the story panned out to be as monumental as Trapper suggested it would.

“Agreed,” she said.

“Shake on it?” He extended his hand across the console.

“You haven’t heard my second condition.”

“Oh, right. What?”

“We don’t get nekkid.”

He snatched his hand back.

“I mean it, Trapper,” she said. “This is a professional agreement between a private investigator and a journalist. I need your input for the story that, when told, will be astonishing. You need me to tell it so you’ll be validated and the mastermind of the Pegasus bombing exposed. We’re working partners. I guarantee you my confidence until I receive a capitalized okay from you, but no—”

“Getting nekkid.”

“Right.”

“Well, damn.”

“You still have the option of taking me back to town.”