The Informant

34

AT THE END of the third week, he was back in her house. She watched him looking around as he stepped in the door. "Where's the rest of your furniture?"

"Some of it is in storage, and some of it was ruined by the blood or the crime-scene people and their fingerprint dust," she said. "I'm doing some remodeling."

"What are you changing?"

"I'm having the walls knocked out in the little office and adding that space to the kitchen, which is behind it. The real estate man said having a big open space there would add to the value when I sell it."

"They know what sells."

"I decided I didn't want that room to be in my memories, or my dreams, for the rest of my life. It will help that in a few weeks it won't exist. The bedrooms upstairs are being redone, but I can't make them go away completely. So we're going away instead."

"Have you started looking for a new place?"

"Not officially, but we've seen some. Jim will be off at college in nine months, and then in another year so will Amanda. We decided that for the next phase of life a condominium with three bedrooms and a metro station nearby would be just about right."

"There must be a few of those around."

She stood silent for a few seconds, looking at him. "I've got the stuff you're going to need."

"What is it?"

"It's what I promised you." She went to the big briefcase she had left by the door. She carried it to the dining room, then stopped. "They've already moved the table out." She stepped into the kitchen and set the briefcase on the counter.

"You're not living here anymore, are you?"

"No. That first morning we checked into a hotel. The police had the run of the house for a few days, and they had it closed off. Then there was a cleanup crew, and then painters. Next it will be contractors and carpenters, more painters, and then realtors. The department is actually paying for a rental for the next couple of months until they're sure no more killers are coming back for us. We only come here to pick up things we actually need. It's surprising how few there are."

"I'm sorry my problems ruined your house for you."

"We voted, and it was unanimous that the good memories we all had would survive better without the physical house to remind us of the bad things."

"I understand."

She opened the briefcase and pulled out a big accordion file. She pulled out a blue passport, and then another. "This one is in the name Paul Foster. The second one is also you, only your name is David Parker."

He looked at the passport. "You used the picture you took of me that night."

"Are there any others?"

"None that I know of. How did you get passports made?"

"Through WITSEC. You know, the witness protection program. Nobody in the FBI or Justice had ever seen you. The man you killed when you saved me seemed about the right size and age and coloring. The others were too young. You had never left prints or DNA at any of your scenes so..."

"So he's me."

"He's you. Rest in peace."

"I will. How did you explain the condition of my body?"

"You ruined your fingerprints before you got here. Nobody knows if it was to keep from being tied to your recent killings or in preparation for this one. The facial damage was caused by your being shot by an inexperienced, terrified shooter who didn't know when to stop. You've been examined and documented and cremated."

"Who killed me?"

"A man named Pete Stohler, who worked for me as a gardener and handyman. Very strong, not too bright. Afterward he ran off. When he calmed down a couple of days later, he turned himself in to me at the Justice Department. Everyone agreed that the best course would be to get him out of the country right away for his own protection."

"What about the police?"

"They actually helped us cook up a cover story for him, so nothing about him had to go on the record. That story is that FBI agents killed you to rescue us. All three of you, actually. It's quite a story, only nobody will ever read the details because it was intentionally miscoded as highly classified. It's somewhere in the system, and we can prove it was entered, but you can't retrieve it. The State Department has duplicates of your picture for the passports, but they're under Foster and Parker, whom they think are real people. Only WITSEC knows they're Pete Stohler, the man who killed you."

"All these people are lying to cover up that I'm alive?"

"Oh, no. To cover up that Pete Stohler is the one who killed you so he won't have to fear retaliation from your friends in organized crime. It's hard to overestimate the amount of lying law enforcement officers will do to protect an innocent person who's saved a colleague and her kids from the Mafia. All I had to do was tell an FBI friend named John Holman something close to the truth, and he helped me navigate the bureaucracies. I had a connection with WITSEC, and he had a connection with the State Department, and we both knew people in some of the other agencies. Want to see what else is in there?"

"Sure."

"Here. A couple of driver's licenses, some credit cards, and all the other stuff people carry around—frequent-flyer cards, library cards, discount cards for supermarkets. I don't imagine you'll need them but you'll need something, so here they are."

"I hope you won't regret this."

"I'm going to be ashamed of it, but I'll never regret it." She paused. "See, I had a husband. He was something special. What's left is those two kids that we had together. I'm doing the little I can to repay you for their lives, and I'll take the guilt."

"I mean I don't want you to get caught."

"That's the least of my worries. I've involved some smart, dedicated people who now have a big reason to keep this buried. Even if there were a real Pete Stohler, doing this to protect him violates a lot of rules."

"What can I do for you?"

"You've done it. Of course, when you get in the mood to tell a few more stories, I'd like you to send me a letter or an e-mail or something. I'm sure you know how to do it without getting caught."

He picked up the file. "I'll do that." He turned and walked toward the front door.

"I told you."

"What?"

"That you'd be my informant."

He smiled at her and nodded his head, then went out the front door and closed it quietly. After a few seconds she knew that if she went out to watch him go, she'd be frustrated because he would be nowhere to be seen. And she knew that soon he'd fly to some random country as Paul Foster and then dissolve into nothingness. He would fly to wherever he was actually going under some identity she didn't know. None of the credit cards or other ID would ever be used after that first flight.

She also knew that where he was going, there was a woman waiting. He had taken off his ring before he'd come to this house to see her for the first time, and let the hand get some sun so the white band didn't show. But the indentation was still on his finger today. If he had left the ring on, she would have said it was a part of his disguise, another attempt to seem like a normal man. But since he had tried to hide it, she knew the woman must be real.

She had not told him that the guilt she felt was a problem. Probably the last emotion that he could understand was guilt. She was not going to be allowed to go on as she had been. The attorney general had already told her that he had chosen her to replace the current deputy assistant, now that Hunsecker had handed in his letter of resignation. At the end of thirty days she would be moving to a large office at the corner of the building. The two murder charges she had filed on men the Butcher's Boy had told her about had already resulted in indictments. And now that she had drawn several perfectly good FBI agents into her deception, she had become the Bureau's favorite person. What was making her uncomfortable wasn't just the shame of having done wrong. She had anticipated that. What she hadn't expected was to thrive and prosper from the lies and dishonesty. The guilt for that was much worse. After twenty years of genuine effort, she had suddenly become an impostor.

She picked up her briefcase and turned on the light that was plugged into a timer in the kitchen, reset it to go on at dusk, and walked toward the front door. She stopped and looked out through the front window before she opened the door. She had known it would be a wasted motion. He was gone, and there was nothing more to see.