Alex presses on with his case. “Mr. Brophy, like I said, my son is missing. I’ve been searching the area. That’s how I found your place.”
“No idea what happened to him?”
“Still piecing it together,” says Alex. “He left on his bike one morning a few days ago. He’s a student at Chapel Hill. I know that some men in a truck harassed him on the main road near the entrance to the reserve, then stole his bike and phone. After that, he seems to have just disappeared.” Alex pulls a wrinkled flyer from his pocket and holds it up. “This is him. This is my son Damon. Have you seen him?”
Brophy leans forward and takes the flyer in his thick hands. He studies it carefully. “Nope. I don’t see much of anybody out here.” He folds the flyer in half. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure,” says Alex. “That phone number works twenty-four seven. I’ll give you this too.” He pulls a business card from his wallet and hands it to Brophy. “If you see anything, please call me first.”
Brophy stands up, his chair creaking with relief. “Will do.”
Alex starts for the door, then stops. “You know, I saw what looked like a trip wire in front of your house. I don’t think it’s for an animal trap.”
“It’s for my personal protection.”
“Mr. Brophy, you can’t just be planting explosives on your property. Somebody could get killed while you’re away playing soldier.”
Brophy’s expression suddenly turns dark.“Reenacting,”he says, “not playing.”
“No offense meant.” As eccentric as Brophy seems, Alex needs him on his side.
Brophy holds the door open. “Walk twenty yards straight out from the gate, then turn east. You’ll be fine.”
“And you’ll keep an eye out for my son?”
“I will,” says Brophy. “I promise.”
As Alex walks across the yard, he looks up and gets a sick feeling. The flag of the Confederate States waves over his head.
A symbol of the Lost Cause.
He hopes it’s not an omen.
CHAPTER 88
Sampson
“YOUR DAUGHTER IS STAYING at the Cross house, right?” says Aiden Phillips. He’s sitting in a chair across from me, his gun still pointed at my face.
I sit stiff and silent at the table. No way I’m giving him any information about Willow.
“It’s okay,” says Phillips. “I’m glad she’s not here. She’s been traumatized enough for one day.”
Whatever buzz I had from my Scotch has been flushed away by a surge of adrenaline. I’m sitting on the edge of my chair, calculating what it would take to launch myself across the room and knock the gun out of Phillips’s hand.
Not yet.
For now, I just need to keep him talking. Best way to survive.
“You said you don’t hurt good people, Aiden. Help me understand.You killed a very good person this morning. And you’ve killed dozens of other innocent people across DC. Why?”
Phillips shakes his head. “I had nothing to do with Anna Rizzo’s death. Or with those other bombings.”
“Sorry, Aiden. You can shoot me in the head, but don’t take me for an idiot. We have evidence. We have pictures. The CIA knows all about you.”
“CIA?” Phillips curls his lip in contempt. “Don’t you understand, John? They’re storytellers. That’s what they do. They made up a story about me, and you bought it, hook, line, and sinker.”
He points out the window to the bomb crater in my driveway. He shakes his head. “She had kids, right?”
