Lemore slid his identification inside his jacket and followed. “I understand why you’d be reluctant to speak to me.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I read your file. And I followed the trial.”
“I lived it.”
“You have to understand—”
Jenkins stopped. A good five inches taller and probably thirty-five pounds heavier than Lemore, he leaned into the young officer’s personal space. He kept his voice low. “Have to? Son, after I go to the post office and mail a check to a final creditor for a bill I incurred because of your employer, I don’t have to do anything except die and pay taxes. Now turn your ass around and get off what still remains my property.”
Jenkins started again for the back porch but sensed Lemore had not heeded his warning.
“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Mr. Jenkins.”
Jenkins shook his head, chuckling at the officer’s understatement. He kept walking. “You think? Let me tell you something. There aren’t enough feet in the entire agency to cover the wrongs that have been committed.”
Lemore kept talking. “I’m authorized to pay all of your bills—”
“Little late for that.” Jenkins reached the porch steps.
“Then I can reimburse you.”
“Don’t want it.” Jenkins stepped across the porch to the back door.
Frustration entered Lemore’s voice. “Then maybe I could just buy you a cup of coffee and apologize on the agency’s behalf. It won’t take long.”
“It won’t take any time at all, because the only coffee I’m going to drink I make, and that cup comes with no strings attached. Now, I’d suggest you head back to your car, drive to the airport, and fly on back to Langley.”
Ordinarily Jenkins would have sat on the bench to remove his boots and his jacket so he wouldn’t drag dirt into the house, but he was afraid of what he might do to Lemore if he stayed outside and listened to the agent’s hubris much longer.
“Mr. Jenkins, you have a duty to at least hear me out . . .”
That was it. Jenkins lunged down the steps.
Lemore backpedaled, hands raised, alternately eyeing Max and Jenkins. “If you would just hear me out—”
“We’re done talking.” Jenkins grabbed Lemore by the lapels, intending to kick his butt back to his car.
Lemore drove his hands up through the gap between Jenkins’s arms, stepped into him, and used his right forearm to push Jenkins backward while he swept his right leg. Jenkins landed hard on his back. The wet lawn squished upon impact. Lemore kept a lock on Jenkins’s hand, bending it at the wrist, an angle intended to inflict just enough pain to keep Jenkins immobile.
Max barked and circled, but she did not charge.
“I’m sorry,” Lemore said. “I didn’t want to have to do that. If you would just—”
Jenkins wrapped his leg around Lemore’s feet and bent the hand and arm that held his wrist. He thrust his free leg into Lemore’s chest, flipping the young man off his feet and onto his back, then jumped to his feet, still holding Lemore’s wrist. “And I didn’t intend to do that either.”
Lemore lay on the ground, face a beet red. “Okay. Okay,” he managed. “I’ll leave. I’ll go.”
Jenkins let go of the wrist and stepped away, his heavy breathing marking the cool air. He could feel water dampening his long johns beneath the coveralls, and his adrenaline pulsed in his veins.
Lemore slowly stood and brushed himself off, then backed away with his hands raised. “I apologize,” he said. “I was just trying to do my job.”
Jenkins stepped onto the porch and grabbed the doorknob.
“For what it’s worth, we all know you got screwed,” Lemore called out. “And we were all rooting for you. All the officers.”
Jenkins stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. His anger spiked; he couldn’t believe the agency that had allowed him to be tried for espionage now had the audacity to seek his help. To add injury to insult, he’d been physically embarrassed by a kid who couldn’t weigh 170 pounds dripping wet.
As Jenkins paced, Lemore’s final words rang in his ears. We all know you got screwed.
We. The agency’s officers.
Jenkins shook his head, wondering what short straw Lemore had drawn to have landed the unenviable assignment of trying to talk to Jenkins.
I was just trying to do my job.
Jenkins stopped pacing. “Shit.”
He moved quickly to the front door, leaving bits of dried mud and wet bootprints on the hardwood floor. Outside, a car engine revved. Jenkins pulled open the door and stepped onto the front porch as Lemore spit gravel down the driveway, the car disappearing behind the trees.
3
Showered and shaved, Jenkins drove to nearby Stanwood, slipping on sunglasses to combat the brilliant winter sunshine. He made his way to the post office and mailed the final payment, then, since he was close to Stanwood Middle School, he called to see if Alex had finished tutoring.
“I hoped to convince a pretty lady to have a late breakfast or early lunch at the Island Café.”
“Which pretty lady did you have in mind?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d give me a few introductions?”
“Fat chance, lover boy.” Alex sounded like she was walking. “I’d love to join you, but I have to pick up Lizzie from day care and take her to see Dr. Joe.”
Lizzie, now a year old, had been fussy and waking up in the middle of the night. “How is she?”
“I assume it’s another earache.” He heard Alex’s car chirp, and the door open and shut. “How are you enjoying your day off?” she asked.
“Working.” He stared at the sunlight glistening on the muddy waters of the Stillaguamish River separating Stanwood from Camano Island. “I finally put the garden to bed.” He contemplated bringing up Matt Lemore but decided to wait before discussing that subject. Alex sounded like she was in a rush.
“Well, at least get out and enjoy some of this sunshine.”
“I hope to,” he said. “I’ll pick up CJ.”
“How long are you planning on being at the diner?” Sarcasm leaked into her voice.
“Long enough to save you the trip,” he said.
Jenkins drove the short distance to the café. Back in New Jersey, where he’d grown up, they would have called the establishment in the one-story stucco building a diner. The red tile floor was well-worn, as were the Formica tables, banquet chairs, and green vinyl booths. The café never changed—not the décor, not the menu, not the owner, who was also the cook, and not the waitress or the patrons, though a few regulars had died. Even after his very public trial, this was one place where no one gave Jenkins a second look.
The morning crowd had departed. Jenkins greeted a few stragglers sitting on bar stools at the counter sipping coffee from porcelain mugs, then he grabbed a copy of the Seattle Times from an empty table and made his way to a booth beneath red-and-white-checked bunting adorning a window. He sat, and the waitress, Maureen Harlan, filled his mug with coffee.
“What are you having?” She gazed out the window.