Chapter Eighty-Three
…the fallout.
Elizabeth
12:30 PM
What remained of the black walnut tree listed at a thirty degree angle towards the clinic building, whilst what remained of Kostov's car wrapped around the tree trunk in a fatal embrace. Both still smouldered in a mangled mess of charred wood and ripped-up metal, and plumes of black and grey smoke billowed up to clog the air and cloud the crisp blue skies. Ambulances, police cars, an array of FBI vehicles and the bomb squad truck lined the gravel track that wound towards the grey stone pillars in the distance, and they peeked out from behind the wraithlike trunks of the paper birches. The fire engine was stationed at the end of the track nearest to the car park, and the gush of foam continued to spurt and spray from the nozzle of the deck gun; it doused the shredded scraps of metal that occupied the parking bays and occasionally pivoted back to the black walnut tree and Kostov's car to smother the threat of an orange glow before it could take hold once more.
The warmth from the fires groped across the car park and brushed up against Elizabeth where she perched on the concrete ledge outside the main entrance, a woollen blanket that DS had taken from the laundry room folded beneath her, both shielding her from the rain that had soaked into the slabs and cushioning her. Her knees were bunched towards her chest, her right arm—now cleaned, sutured and dressed—rested atop them, whilst the balls of her sneakers pressed into the gravel and their heels gaped away from her gauze-bandaged soles. Shrapnel of bark from the black walnut tree littered the car park, along with fist-sized chunks of its upper branches. Some of those pieces still smouldered too, and the sweetness of woodsmoke and damp from the rain wove with the acridity of gasoline and burnt rubber.
The scene probably ought to have inspired some kind of awestruck horror, after all the explosion had been designed to kill her and the blown-in glass had left her with a meteor shower of tiny and not so tiny cuts across her hands, feet, face and arms, but with the gentle warmth of the flames fending off the winter chill and all the firefighters, paramedics, policemen, FBI agents, bomb squad technicians and members of her own detail milling around, she drank in the scene with a thirsty stare as though she were a child watching the crowd that had gathered for a bonfire.
Something niggled about that. A light frown settled on her brow. She opened her mouth, and then paused before murmuring, "We turned out all right…right?"
There came a shout from one of the firemen for everyone to get back as orange and scarlet flames flared beneath what used to be the front end of Kostov's car. The deck gun of the fire engine pivoted away from the row of blackened car shells that formed a series of stepping stones towards the blown-in window of the therapy room, and the spray of foam arced through the air towards the black walnut tree and the remnants of the Ford Focus.
"Sure," Will said, from where he sat beside her.
The trunk of the black walnut tree groaned and cracked. It strained against the last of the roots that tethered it to the grassy island, and as it hungered towards the ground, it levered Kostov's car higher and higher into the air, eliciting another cry of, 'Get back! Everybody back!' from a gesticulating fireman.
A moment later, the tree crashed to the gravel and a burst of flames rippled along its length before they divided and tore along the remaining branches.
Everyone stared on with wide eyes and open mouths, frozen in the echoing silence.
Everyone except for Elizabeth, whose chin had dipped as she tried to smother the smirk that had sprung to her lips. But it ached through her cheeks, and the pressure in her chest grew and grew, like bubbles mounting in a shaken up soda. The urge fizzled up until she couldn't bottle it anymore, she held her breath and pinned her bottom lip between her teeth, but then at the same time as Will, she burst into laughter. Her shoulders shook beneath the jacket that Will had draped around her and tears stung her eyes.
The DS agents who formed a loose arc three or four strides away twisted around and gave her and Will a wary and somewhat disapproving look, head to toe and back again, like a teacher might give the middle school miscreants who inhabited the back row of class.
She bit down on her lower lip and covered her nose and mouth with the back of her hand as she fought for some kind of composure, and after a few hiccuped chortles, somehow she managed to stifle the laughter.
The silence that followed jittered with energy. She drew in a deep breath that shook through her lungs, and she tried to maintain a somewhat solemn expression whilst the flames engulfed the black walnut tree and the firemen doused it with foam. This was serious. She could have died. Will could have died. People—other than Kostov—could have died. It was no laughing matter.
But a second later, a snort broke through, and both her and Will's laughter erupted again.
DS gave them another tutting look—one that said they might have to separate her and Will in a minute—and then they turned their backs on them and shook their heads to themselves as they stared out across the carnage of the car park.
When their laughter had subsided into warm smiles, Elizabeth wiped her tears away with the knuckle of her forefinger, and then linked her arm—the non-lacerated left arm—through Will's.
At the gesture, Will turned to her. He raked his gaze over her, the prickle as prominent as the December chill when the breeze blew the heat of the flames in the opposite direction, and the air between them held poised, as though bracing itself in preparation of him saying something.
But no words came.
The gush of the foam spray and a fireman's bellowing shouts filtered through from the background.
Still nothing.
Then Will turned away to face the car park once more.
A moment elapsed in their bubble of strained yet contented silence. Then he squeezed her arm against his side. "After Mom and Dad died…I'm glad that we had each other."
Her smile softened, and she squeezed his arm in return. "Me too." Then she tilted her head away from his and tugged at his arm. "Even if you're kinda a pain in the ass."
He gave her an incredulous look. "Hey, I'm trying to be nice here."
"I know you are, but that's not us."
"I'll bear that in mind the next time you need someone to sew up your arm for you."
She dismissed that with a shake of the head. "One of the EMTs would have done it."
"And left you with a scar as thick as your thumb. That—" He motioned to her bandaged up arm. "—is artwork. Even Plastics wouldn't give you cleaner lines. Plus, you have the added benefit of not having to worry that I might sell my story to the press of how I was called upon to treat the secretary of state at the mental health facility where she's been hiding."
She shrugged. Her shoulder bumped against his. "If anyone asked, I'd just tell them I was here visiting you. Shouldn't be too hard to sell them on that."
His gaze bristled against her cheek, but she ignored it. Instead, she stared at the charcoal grey smoke that billowed above where the black walnut tree once stood.
She drew in a breath that rolled to the bottom of her lungs, steeling herself, and the bitterness of the smoke ached through her chest. "Actually, I've decided I'm going to come out with this publicly. Clear the air, so to speak. I don't want to live feeling like I need to hide this, and God knows I shouldn't have to." Her eyebrows raised for a moment, and her lips flinched at one corner. "Plus, if I don't, it'll only come out as oppo eventually anyway."
His gaze continued to prickle at her cheek. "You still thinking about running?"
"Maybe. Depending on the fallout."
He turned away again. "Well, I'm sure you've got a guy ready to spin it in your favour."
She snorted. "You're so cynical, you know that?"
"I like to think I have a realistic grasp on the shadow theatre that you call politics."
A few seconds passed, and then he looked to her. His gaze dragged up and down. "You do have a guy, don't you?"
Her eyes narrowed on him, and her mouth fell open, ready to deny it. What Mike had planned wasn't spinning per se, it was just ensuring that the public appreciated her side of the story and understood the many positives in her seeking help and saw the bigger picture and...and...and...
She humphed, shook her head to herself, and returned to looking out over the car park.
Will's aura oozed with smug satisfaction, and he chuckled. The mourning doves that roosted on the top slat of the split-rail fence cooed along with him.
After a lull, he leant forward and brushed—or pretended to brush—some granules of glass from the ends of his khakis where the fabric had rucked at his ankles. His voice strained with his stretch. "For what it's worth, I think you should. Run."
She sent him a sideways glance. "I thought I didn't need your permission."
He straightened up. "I'm not giving you my permission, just my opinion."
She eyed him, and when she found something akin to sincerity lurking beneath his facade of nonchalance, she squeezed his arm again. "Thank you."
"No problem."
They settled back into silence. It was comfortable, at first. One of the ambulances parked on the gravel track pulled away with a grating roar, only to halt a few metres later with a screech of brakes and a flash of red taillights as it let the other one pull out too. From the foyer behind them came the sound of someone sweeping up glass, a mix of the brush against the linoleum and the tinkle of grains and shards surging into the dustpan. Voices buzzed over the DS agents' radios—situation normal, no threat anymore. But as time stretched, that comfort waned and the silence reminded her of the hush that greeted her each time that she returned to her empty room, along with the tug of loneliness that followed. She wished time would stop for a little while so that she could savour the moment of sitting next to Will and the companionship their silence held, and she wished time would speed up so that she could finally go home and silence would be a problem no more.
After a while, Will gave a stream of a sigh. His gaze had drifted to the burnt-out shell of his car; it was only mildly worse than the state of her car had been after he'd written it off back when they were kids. "Do you think, if I asked them nicely, one of the FBI guys would give me a lift back to DC, seeing as how some maniac they failed to catch fireballed my car?"
"That depends." Elizabeth jogged his shoulder. "Do you know how to ask nicely?"
"You're not the only one capable of employing a little diplomatic charm." He slipped his arm free from hers and then rose to his feet with a stretch. He turned back to face her, and half-squinted in the sunlight. "Are you sure you want to stay?"
She snorted. "No." Then she sobered. "But I still have some things I need to talk through."
He studied her for a moment, as though considering that. Then the pinch in his brow smoothed. He nodded to her bandaged right arm where it still rested atop her knees. "Keep that dressing in place for a couple of days before letting it breathe. But don't get those stitches wet, and don't catch them on anything, I don't want you messing up my handiwork."
"I know how to look after stitches, Will. It's not the first time—"
He raised his eyebrows. "That you've needed them? I know." He paused and let the words sink in like the saline solution had into her wound. "If you have a problem, call me. Otherwise I'll take them out next week." He shrugged. "You can think of it as your Christmas present."
"How thoughtful of you."
"Beats a wet/dry vac." His lips curled. When she scowled at him and opened her mouth ready to protest—What was wrong with a wet/dry vac?—he held up one hand to hush her, his fingers splayed. "Do you want me to pass anything on to Henry?"
She thought for a moment, and stared out through the watery sunlight that drenched the car park. The toppled black walnut tree and Kostov's car were now buried beneath a snow bank of firefighting foam. Then she remembered the night Henry had driven all the way there to be with her when she first checked in—I love you, Elizabeth McCord, and you are not alone. No matter what the hecklers say, I love you and you are not alone. She looked up at Will, a soft smiling playing at the corners of her lips. "Just tell him I might have fallen off a few cliffs and been hit by a few freak waves, but I'm still putting one foot in front of the other."
Will gave her a puzzled look. "Yeah, I was thinking something more along the lines of you're feeling better and you're not planning on leaving him, mentally or otherwise."
Her smile evaporated. It felt like shadows swept in all around her. "What?"
"I don't know quite what you do to that man, but pining doesn't even come close. It's like you've taken away his favourite toy." Then he smirked and lowered his gaze towards the waistband of her jeans in a suggestion. "Which I suppose you have."
She pulled a face at him. "Firstly, shut up. Secondly—" Her expression returned to the bewilderment of before. "—what do you mean, 'leaving him'? I'm not leaving him."
"Look at it from his point of view. You won't let the staff here talk to him—"
"Because he was obsessing and I didn't want him to worry."
"—you've not been using your phone privileges to call him—"
"Because it's hardly private, and do you have any idea how lonely it is being trapped here once you've hung up the phone on the outside world?"
"—you've not let him visit you, conjugally or otherwise—"
"Because who wants their husband seeing them at a mental health facility, for crying out loud? Plus, he's meant to be focusing on the kids. And once again: trapped and lonely."
"—not letting him be the one to help you—"
"Help me how?"
"—meanwhile you've been chatting to the drones at the State Department, having regular meetings with the White House Chief of Staff, and there was mention of some lunch dates too."
"Okay, that account's about as accurate and unbiased as Fox News." She held up one hand in a star, pushing back any further onslaught before Will could continue. "But you're not seriously telling me that Henry's jealous of Russell? I mean, come on."
Will gave a shrug that neither confirmed nor denied that interpretation. His eyes sparkled in amusement. Perhaps a glint of schadenfreude too.
Elizabeth stared vacantly across the car park, taking in none of the scene, whilst her mind boggled. "Well, that's both adorable and profoundly disturbing." She looked up at Will, a pinch in her brow. "Russell kept telling me everything was fine, so what the hell has been going on?"
"Well…" Will let out a long sigh as he sank down to sit beside her on the grey tartan blanket that padded the concrete ledge. He rested his forearms to his knees with his hands folded loosely in front of him, and he twisted to face her. The story of the last five weeks spilled out.
As she listened, Elizabeth closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh, Henry…
Thank you for reading!