Burke was at his desk when his cell rang. His wife’s picture bloomed to the screen, a smiling vacation shot taken on a beach in Jamaica. “Hey, Hon. What’s up?”
“Hello, Agent Burke.”
He stiffened. The voice was definitely not Vicky’s. His first thought was that his phone had glitched and displayed her incoming number by mistake. He was wrong.
“I spoofed your wife’s phone to be sure you answered. Don’t worry, she’s fine.”
“Who is this?”
“I’ll tell you that soon. But first I need to convince you of the imperative nature of what I’m about to ask.”
Not sure what else to say, Burke went with, “Okay, convince me.”
“I know you stopped at Starbucks this morning, then got gas at a convenience store outside Arlington. You watched Bosch on Amazon Prime last night—Season 4, Episode 5. I also know you spent time at Sarah Ridgeway’s house today.”
Burke went quiet. He finally said, “You know, I’ve gotten a lot of strange contacts over the years, but this is the first time anyone’s ever called to tell me they have me under surveillance.”
“I’m only trying to get your attention.”
Burke stood and began gesturing frantically to the only other agent in sight, a new woman named Preston across the room. He pointed frantically to his phone and spun a finger, implying he had an important call he wanted to trace.
The woman on the line said, “Tell her not to bother. If you’d known I was calling ten minutes ago you could have set something up, but even that wouldn’t work—not with the cutouts I have in place.”
Now Burke was creeped out. He looked up at the security camera in the corner of the room. Then at the cameras on the computer monitor in front of him and a tablet computer on his desk. The phone in his hand had two cameras.
“Yes, I’m watching you right now, Agent Burke. Please wave her off.”
Preston was crossing the room. Realizing his disadvantage, Burke waved her away and mouthed, Never mind.
“Okay,” he said. “You wanted my attention, you’ve got it. What’s this about?”
“Bryce Ridgeway. A certain condo in Georgetown.”
Burke couldn’t even feign surprise—not given how far off-rail he’d been regarding Sarah Ridgeway’s tip.
The woman said, “The good news is, you and I are on the same side. I’d like to tell you where I am right now. Come see me, and I’ll show you how all this is done. I think we’d find mutual benefit in some data-sharing on Bryce Ridgeway.”
“You want me to come meet you … now.”
“Yes. And alone.”
Burke half smiled. “And if I’m not alone … you’ll know that too.”
She ignored the question and gave an address in Maryland. “I’ll be at the front gate in thirty minutes.”
“There’s a gate?” he replied, scribbling the numbers on a notepad.
“One that you’ll need either a tank or an act of congress to breach if anyone’s with you. We have some very unforgiving guards, heavily armed. And don’t bother trying to research the place. Whatever Google Maps tells you is inside this building—it’s only what I made up.”
Sarah turned up the driveway of Autumn Living. Two rows of skeletal chestnut trees lined the road, somber and sagging with the weight of winter. The low sun was fading, and the shadow of a telephone pole fell across the road like a giant sundial.
She parked in a nearly empty lot, her bumper nosing up to shrubs that fluttered in the sharp wind. She killed the engine and sat for a time, weighing how to best approach Walter. His dementia was excruciatingly advanced. On a good day he would show a glimmer of recognition on seeing her, Alyssa, or Bryce. On most he confused them with people long dead, or worse yet, simply stared off into space. Today she had to persuade him to reach back more than thirty years. Not only that, she needed him to confide things about his son that had obviously been a secret to everyone but his late wife.
Sarah tried to temper her expectations. A few years ago, Walter had been a fountain of knowledge, a peerless Washington insider with a memory like a vice. Today, in all likelihood, he would look at her blankly, and she would leave empty-handed. All the same, the answer she and Claire needed might still be there—somewhere in the mists of a ravaged mind.
She signed the visitor log at the front desk and then paused near the locked entrance. The facility director passed by, too busy to notice her. So, too, the receptionist, a podgy woman who was sorting mail with the solemnity of an archaeologist classifying sacred scrolls. Sarah had seen mail call before, a clumsy mix of doctors’ bills, sales pitches for Medicare supplement plans, and Hallmark cards from relatives—the latter ranging from loving to distant to guilt-ridden. After clearing her throat to no effect, Sarah left the receptionist to her task and piggybacked through the door with a nurse.
She didn’t find Walter in his usual spot in the sunroom.
Lucy, however, found her. “Mrs. Ridgeway, how are you?”
Sarah managed a smile. “Hello, Lucy. Good to see you. And Happy New Year!”
“You too!”
“I didn’t see Walter in his usual place.”
“He’s in his room today.”
“Is he all right?”
“He seems a little under the weather—been waking up later than usual. But his appetite is fine.”
“Oh, good.”
Lucy led down the main hall. The door to Walter’s room was closed, and she knocked before opening it with her passkey. “I’ll be around,” she said, turning away. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will, and thanks.”
Sarah went inside and found Walter in his wheelchair. He was facing the window, which gave a middling view of the dormant gardens: empty annual beds, freezing topiary, barren trellises. A spitting-cherub fountain dribbled into an algae-green basin.
“Hello, Walter,” she called out.
No reaction.
She hooked around the wheelchair to make eye contact. His eyes were closed, his breathing rhythmic, ten gnarled fingers clasped in his lap. Normally she wouldn’t wake him. But these aren’t normal times. She put a hand on his knobby shoulder, which was padded by a plush cashmere sweater, and gave a gentle squeeze.
His eyes fluttered open. Sarah pulled up a wooden chair and put herself squarely in his field of view. “Hi, Walter. It’s so good to see you.”
A hollow stare. His voice was a tremor, raspy as he said, “Is it time for supper?”
“Not yet,” she said with a smile. “It’s Sarah—I just came to visit.”
No response. But at least she had his attention. “I have something to ask you, Walter. It’s very important. It’s about Bryce, your son.” She paused, hoping for a glimmer, but saw nothing. Sarah pressed ahead. “I wonder if you remember where Bryce was born. Was it in Virginia … or maybe somewhere else?”
His eyes diverted to the window. Outside a flock of sparrows rushed past in a blur, oblivious to the swirling winds.
“Walter … did Bryce have a brother when he was born?”
The old man only stared. Sarah saw a bottle of juice and an empty waxed-paper cup on the nightstand. She filled the cup and handed it to him. He downed it obediently, like he did with Lucy, and handed back the empty cup.
Sarah diverted to other topics: She talked about Alyssa for a time, then dropped a few important names from the old days in D.C. She talked about his wife, Marsha, pulling down a wedding picture from the dresser as backup. She kept at it for thirty minutes, and even though there was no sign of progress, Sarah dutifully circled back a number of times to the same question. “Does Bryce have a brother?”
On what she decided would be her last attempt, she sensed perhaps a change. Walter looked at her directly as something cued to his lips. Sarah nodded expectantly, willing him onward.
He said, “Are you my mother?”
Crestfallen, she put on her kindest smile. “No, Walter, I’m not.”
He looked back out the window.
Sarah heaved a sigh, placed her hands over his. She leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I’m tired,” he croaked.
“All right. You get some rest. I’ll come back to see you soon. And I’ll bring Bryce and Alyssa.”
His eyes—as blue as the sky but surrounded by amber, an image of stained glass—drifted back shut.
Sarah sat dejectedly, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. She got up to leave more bedeviled than ever by the unanswerable question: Where is the real Bryce?
She closed the door on her way out, and encountered Lucy in the hall—she was pushing a bundled resident in a wheelchair, headed for the door to the garden.
“How’d it go?” Lucy asked.
“Not so great. He says he’s tired—I think it’s nap time.”
“Yeah, that’s how it’s been. I’ll make sure he gets out for dinner.”
Sarah edged ahead and opened the door to the garden for Lucy. She wheeled her charge through, and after exchanging goodbyes, Sarah headed for the exit.
Lucy turned right into the garden. She pushed Mrs. Trimble toward the fountain, which was always a favorite among the residents, even at the height of winter. She paused when she got there, her charge captivated by the water trickling from the cherub’s mouth into the filmy green pond. Lucy glanced at Walter’s window and saw that the blinds were closed. She reasoned that Sarah must have drawn them shut for his nap.
In fact, that was not the case. Indeed, had the blinds been open, Lucy would have been stunned by the most implausible of sights: Walter Ridgeway pacing the tiny room and talking animatedly on a cell phone.