Montana Refuge. Alice Sharpe
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desk. “You look upset, Julie. Please, sit down.”
He was a tall man with a scholarly look enhanced by glasses and tweed jackets. His high forehead ended in a shock of wild white hair but it was his voice, above all, that commanded attention. Like a fine wine holds nuances of sun, fruit and earth, his voice held intonations of wisdom, confidence and curiosity. No wonder he was so successful at supplementing his political science professor’s salary with speaking engagements or that television news shows sought his on-air commentary.
That’s the part of his life Julie had been hired to manage and she loved her job. Well, she had until two weeks ago....
“I don’t know where to start,” she confessed.
He folded his hands together and smiled encouragement. She would have given practically anything if she could have avoided this moment, but there was no choice. Stop stalling.
“Two weeks ago a man sat down next to me on the bus during my commute home,” she began. “He showed me some identification and then started talking, his voice so soft I had to strain to hear. It was clear he knew who I was and who I worked for.”
“A bus? How prosaic. And what did he say?”
“He said he was a federal agent heading a special department devoted to investigating racketeering.”
Killigrew’s white eyebrows shot up his forehead. “He what?”
“He showed me identification and everything. Then he told me...well, he said you were under investigation.”
Killigrew’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Yes, sir. And he said because of my part in the business side of your career, I would be vulnerable for prosecution as well. Unless—”
Killigrew flattened his hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “Unless what?”
“Unless I helped him.”
“Helped him what?” he said, his voice as cold as liquid nitrogen.
Julie cringed. “With his investigation. He wanted details about your upcoming trip next month, the one to Seattle. All I was supposed to do was pass along your itinerary and report incoming calls originating from there.”
“And you agreed?” he said, obviously aghast. “You did this?”
Miserable, Julie nodded. “I know everything you do is on the up-and-up, Professor Killigrew,” she explained. “I felt certain the agent would find that out for himself if I cooperated.” She took another deep breath and added, “Okay, honestly, I was afraid your reputation would be destroyed if even a whisper of this got out, so if it could be disproven quietly, that would be best. On the flip side, what if I was wrong, what if you’d done what he said? I’d wind up in jail. And that’s the ugly, selfish truth.”
The next part was the hardest to admit and it required another steadying breath. “This morning, I looked in your private notebook and found a photograph.”
“You looked in my notebook,” he repeated, glancing down at the slender volume sitting beside his computer. He was a little old-school that way, keeping private reminders in written form and taking them with him. But this morning he’d left the book on his desk when he went to teach a class and she’d taken the opportunity to look in it.
Lot of good it had done her. Not only was his handwriting hard to decipher, but he also seemed to use some kind of shorthand code and he doodled. How many rectangles with red and yellow chevrons did one man need to draw? She hadn’t even gotten to July, the month in question, when a photograph had fallen out from between the pages. One glance at that, and she’d stopped dead in her tracks.
Now she slid it out of her pocket and across the desk toward James Killigrew.
The photo was of four men in a sea of many people. They didn’t even look like they were together. One was full face on, one turned to the side, another seemed to be in motion and a fourth had his mouth open as though speaking to someone off camera. One was Killigrew, two were people Julie didn’t recognize and the fourth was the man who had introduced himself to her as Special Agent Roger Trill.
As her boss stared at the photo, Julie continued on. “Trill told me he’d never met you. Obviously, that’s a lie. That photo was taken earlier this year. See, you still had a beard. You shaved it off after Washington, D.C., you know where you spoke to a bunch of people about—”
“I know what I spoke about,” he said coldly.
Julie swallowed. “Yes, of course you do. I called Trill’s office to ask why he’d lied to me and to tell him I wasn’t cooperating anymore and in fact was going to warn you about him, and that’s when I found out the department he claimed to run doesn’t even exist. Sir, he used me to get to you for some unexplained reason.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful for this eleventh-hour spurt of candor?” Killigrew asked as he put the photo back in the book and then folded the book into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket.
“No,” she said softly. “Of course not. I betrayed your trust and for that I’m sincerely sorry. In my defense, it all seemed to make sense at the time, but now I see it doesn’t. I had to tell you so you could protect yourself. I’d give anything if I’d used my head to begin with.”
“Are you insinuating you believe this man’s story even after you know he used you?”
“No, sir, no, but he must have had some agenda and it couldn’t be a good one if he went about it...this way.” She had to fight the urge to lower her gaze in shame.
“Yes, you’re right,” he finally said. “I did need to know, mostly about the kind of woman I employ. At the very least, you are incredibly naive. The words used to describe you after that are considerably less flattering.” He stood and stared down at her, his dark eyes burning. “I expect you to be out of this office within the hour.”
She took a steadying breath, a protest dying on her lips. “I’ll do whatever you ask. Can you just tell me who that man really is?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” he said firmly. “Now, get out.”
She didn’t argue.
Within a half hour, she’d dumped the contents of her desk drawer into a cardboard box and carted it outside. Not stopping for even a backward glance, she walked down the busy sidewalk wrapped in a bubble of invisibility. She’d felt this way once before in her life, a year or so ago, when she’d come face-to-face with the fact that her marriage was over.
But she wasn’t in Montana anymore, she was in Portland, Oregon. Instead of high mountains and cattle trails, she now walked the city streets of the Pacific Northwest. Different climate and situation, same desolate feelings of failure and guilt.
Why had she trusted Roger Trill?
Her bus stop was up ahead and she approached it with leaden feet, pausing at the edge of a cluster of other waiting people, standing next to a woman wearing a purple scarf.
The brisk wind that blew up the gorge and over the river tangled Julie’s long hair. Almost dizzy with regret, she closed her eyes until she sensed the shift of the crowd and opened them in time to find the bus approaching.
The push came from nowhere, a shove in the middle of her back that sent her catapulting into the street. The box flew from her arms as she fell and the collective gasp of the onlookers mingled with the screech of air brakes as the noise of traffic faded away.
She hit first on her knees, then her hands, her forehead banging against the pavement, coming to rest with her right cheek smashed against the road. Huge tires filled her vision. Diesel fumes scorched her throat. It was too late.
Hands grabbed her, yanked her, pulled her. The bus doors squealed open and a driver exploded from within. “What the hell?” he shouted. “You trying to kill yourself, jumping out in front of my bus like that? You crazy, lady?”
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