Page 89 of Blind Trust
“She’s not a stranger, Dad. She ate dinner with us, remember?”
On more than one occasion, which made this all the worse. Brooks had invited the devil into his home.
“Son, why don’t you get out of the car, now.”
“Okay.” He started to open it, but Christine put a hand on the door.
“Why don’t we have a conversation first.”
Brooks looked around. There was maybe a handful of teachers still inside the school, perhaps some janitorial staff, based on the number of cars in the lot. A Little League team was arriving at the field adjacent to the playground. Would Christine try something here? It frightened him that he didn’t know.
“Anthony, do you want to play on the playground for a few minutes?”
“Yessss!” He play growled, and it was like Brooks had said the magic words. Anthony wriggled around in the back seat, anxious to get out of the car and stepping all over Christine. “I want to go on the swings. No, the monkey bars. No, the swings. Dad, will you push me high, high, high in the sky?”
“Sure, buddy.”
Christine sent him a scathing look but allowed Anthony to climb out. Brooks lifted him up into his arms and hugged him fiercely.
“Dad, let me go.”
“Yes, Dad, let him go so he can play and we can talk.” Christine exited her car and brushed the dirt from her slacks. “My driver will keep an eye on him.”
“No.” Brooks knelt down. “Stay close so we can get home and eat some of Mom’s famous meatloaf.”
“Okay,” Anthony agreed, then ran through the fence and lunged onto a swing, stomach on the seat part, arms spread wide like he was flying. “Wheee!”
“Why did you do this?” Brooks growled.
“The shipment of rifles didn’t make it.”
Brooks glanced down at her. His six feet could easily take her five-four frame, but part of him was worried a gun was pointed on him from the driver’s seat. The last thing he’d want was for Anthony to be left with the memory of seeing him murdered.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He watched Anthony soar back and forth on the swing, pretending to be an airplane. Maybe his son would be a pilot. Christine stepped into his line of sight, and he narrowed his eyes on her. “What happened?”
“Homeland Security stopped the couriers at the airport, and next thing I hear, the CIA’s confiscated our shipment.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You know they’re going to start investigating.”
Relief scaled his shoulders. “Maybe we should consider this a warning for us to pull back. Too many people have their noses to the ground after the girl was murdered and your buddy over there”—Brooks eyed the driver—“decided to poke a hornet’s nest by targeting that woman from the SNAP Agency. You know Tom Walsh. He has deep connections. If he catches wind—”
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Mock concern tugged Christine’s brows together. “Tom Walsh was the victim of a random shooting last night. He’s in critical condition. Might not make it.”
Brooks’s breathing grew shallow. “You had him shot?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Christine, we need to let this go. We need to just take a pause and—”
“No, we need to get another shipment out to Colombia.” Christine didn’t raise her voice. There was no question, just a statement that it would be done.
“Ma’am.” He hated calling her that, but he knew which boundaries to push—and that wasn’t one of them. “If the CIA is looking into this, they’re going to be watching. There’s no inventory to skim from, and I can’t divert another order without raising flags.”
Christine walked to the fence and waved at Anthony as he climbed the steps to go down a yellow plastic slide. “Do you remember what you asked me a few minutes ago?”
Brooks sighed, replaying their conversation, but his concern for Anthony had his mind going blank.
She looked up at him. “You asked me why I did this.” Anthony squealed as he slid down the slide. “Remember?”
