Another Victoria-less chapter, but she's up next.
Mercy Mild—Chapter Eight
As he drove, Casey thought. That had been far too easy, and no one appeared to be coming after them. No one shot at them, either, and he would have expected that at the very least since he had essentially grabbed one of their hostages. That said they wanted Casey to take Clara, and that meant she wasn't a genuine target. He wondered what the FBI would find when they examined the vest she'd been wearing. He'd have to have her searched, too, but that was a job for a female agent. Clara was going to be examined by a medic, he knew, and the doc could look for anything else suspicious but not medical.
He called Dietrich. The man was furious when he answered. "Where the fuck are you, Casey? Because you sure as hell aren't at the park you sent me to."
Explaining quickly, he told Dietrich to look at the sculpture and see what he could find. Then he asked what the situation was at the Woodcomb house.
"Very little media," he said. "They're mostly clustered around your place hoping your mother-in-law will decide to talk."
"Clara and I will meet you there." It would probably be a good idea to get Woodcomb.
"You'll take her to the field office," Dietrich countermanded. "We'll need a statement, and we'll need to examine the vest and bomb, make sure there's no other evidence on her that we need to recover. Then you can take her home."
Because it had to be done and because Woodcomb might balk, he agreed. He also felt like he owed Dietrich. While they had been friends for years, Casey was well aware there was only so far he could stretch the boundaries before they snapped. He'd stretched it pretty thin with this. After he hung up, Clara's voice came from the back seat. "Uncle Casey?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I get off the floor now?"
It was probably safer to let her get in a seat and buckle a seatbelt, especially if someone decided to pursue them, so he said yes. She did exactly that, took the center of the bench seat, and then asked, "Where are we going?"
"You need to answer some questions for the authorities, so I'm taking you where the people who will do that work." His eyes shot to the mirror.
"My mom said you work for the government."
"Close enough," he told her, glad she was holding it together, which he attributed to her Bartowski genes.
"A lady asked me to give you something."
He had to stop for a red light, so he turned to look at her. Clara held out a piece of paper folded into a small square. Casey reached back for it and shot a look at the still-red light. There was a name written on the outside in a large, loopy hand he recognized. That confirmed one piece of the puzzle, but it raised dozens of questions. He unfolded it. A quick glance told him it was a floorplan, but he didn't have a chance to examine it in detail before the light changed.
"Who's Sugar Bear?" Clara asked.
Clara's question made his teeth grit, a reaction he'd had to that name since a smirking Bartowski had asked the same question years earlier. Casey wasn't going to admit to the nickname, though, so he asked her, "Can you describe the woman who gave this to you?"
"She was kind of tall, brown hair. Pretty."
"Anything else?"
"She had an accent," Clara added, "but I don't know what it was. She said she used to know you and that I should give that to you. She said it would help you find Jack."
So the blueprint was likely the floorplan of the place where they were being held. "Clara, did they keep all of you together, or did they separate you?"
"My mom made them let me and Jack stay with her," she told him.
If that remained true, then that greatly simplified things. "Did they say anything in front of you I need to know?"
Casey made a face as he negotiated a lane change, and then there was another red light. That was probably the vaguest question he could have asked, and it begged for Clara to tell him every trivial detail she'd heard. Fortunately, the Bartowski brains kicked in before the family tendency to babble under stress did. "They talked about Uncle Chuck working for the CIA," she said, her voice thoughtful. "I asked Mom about that later, but she said the men must be mistaken. They also said he was something called the Intersect, but that didn't make any sense."
He very nearly asked why not, but since her mother had apparently done a good deal to make her think none of that was true, Casey wasn't going to raise suspicions that might come back to burn them all. Clara and Tori of the Never-Ending Questions Bates were the real friends in their age group, so he didn't want to encourage any discussion of government secrets amongst them.
"They said Aunt Mariah was a spy, too."
Searching his memory for whether anyone had ever actually told Ellie that, Casey considered how to answer Clara, for he was certain that statement was meant to be a question. If she was anything like her mother or her uncle, he'd have no relief until she got an answer. It didn't have to be the truth, he reminded himself. "My wife isn't a spy," he said carefully. He didn't lie to his kids, but he generally avoided answering their questions that would force him to do so. What he told Clara was the truth so far as he knew, but he had increasingly begun to suspect that it might well be a lie. Normally, he didn't feel guilty about lying to other people's children, but Clara was different.
Perhaps he should have someone take a good look at the searches Riah ran on his computer, he thought, considered his wife's possible status with what was supposed to be her former agency, and realized he hadn't asked because he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
"I know that," she told him, and Casey could hear her father's assertiveness in her tone. "Daddy says Aunt Mariah is just a housewife."
One who could kill your dad in ways that would be completely untraceable and wouldn't raise a bit of suspicion in anyone if she heard him say that, Casey thought irritably. One who could destroy Pretty-Boy Woodcomb's entire life without breaking a nail or raising any suspicions in the other man. Casey's wife was not just a housewife.
Irrationally, he was pissed that people believed that, even though that was exactly what they were supposed to believe.
Caseu considered, as he pulled up to the gate that led to the FBI field office's parking, that he still hadn't gotten over what Riah had been forced to give up in order to marry him—even if evidence indicated she might not actually have completely done so.
They cleared Casey through. When he parked in the garage, he got out of the car and stepped to the back to let Clara out. He opened the door, leaned his forearm against the roof, and bent down so he could see her and keep an eye on the elevators and the security station next to them. "Listen, Clara," he said, spying a couple of agents headed their way. "I've brought you to the FBI. They have to ask you some questions, and you need to honestly tell them what you know, okay?"
She nodded, her face pale.
"Tell them everything—except for one thing. Don't mention that they called your Uncle Chuck the Intersect."
Her little face screwed up, confused. Casey knew what he'd said didn't make sense to her, especially since he'd just told her to be honest but tell one lie. He knew he couldn't really explain, and that was only going to confuse her more.
"It's really important that you don't tell them that," he rushed on, keeping the approaching agents in sight. "You can tell them anything else that was said about the Intersect, just don't mention that they said it was Uncle Chuck."
Clara didn't look comforted.
Casey hated making deals, and he especially hated making them with kids. Half the time anything they knew came pouring out at precisely the wrong time to exactly the wrong people. Then it required a lot of explaining to make it go away, to convince people the kid had just had a flight of imagination, had been watching too much television or some other bullshit, but needs must, he supposed.
"Your mother's right," he said. "I work for the government, and Uncle Chuck's connection to the Intersect is a secret, a really big one, and one that no one can be told. Can you keep that secret, Clara?"
She was pure Awesome in that moment, and Casey hoped she could hold it together better than the rest of her family sometimes did. She met his eyes, straightened in her seat, and nodded firmly.
"Good girl," he said, and reached in to lift her out.
"Colonel Casey?" one of the agents clipped out as he set Clara on the ground.
Clara's head screwed around to look up at him. Casey hoped she'd assume that his government job was no more than his military one and go no further. He slowly reached a hand in his overcoat's breast pocket and removed his NSA credentials, held them out to them. "I've shown you mine," he said tightly. "Show me yours." After all, he wasn't handing Clara over without being certain to whom he was handing her.
They held their badges and ID out only long enough for him to read them. Once they had done so, he waited, and he didn't have to wait long.
"Our SAC would like us to detain you," the woman said. Casey eyed her, and if it hadn't been for Clara's presence, he'd have suggested she could try, probably in less than polite terms.
"This is Clara Woodcomb," he said instead, putting his hand on Clara's shoulder. "Your CARD people might be interested in hearing what she has to say."
He was pretty sure Clara couldn't lead them back to where the others were held, was certain Quinnell's people had ensured she couldn't see landmarks she could share and had driven her around enough she'd be unable to clearly explain the route from memory, so they would chase their tails awhile trying to retrace that route. Besides, he'd bet Quinnell had already moved Jack and Ellie just in case. The man wasn't stupid, after all.
Pity.
The female agent smiled at Clara, asked her to go with her. Clara shrank back against Casey. "Not without Uncle Casey."
The agents looked startled. Casey, well aware of his reputation, was mildly irritated and partially amused, though he wasn't sure which of those was directed at whom. "Go with Agent . . . ."
"Fillmore," the woman supplied.
"Go with Agent Fillmore, Clara," he told her. Looking down, it was easy to see that she didn't want to leave him. "You'll be safe. She's one of the good guys."
"You won't leave me here, will you?" she asked, and for the first time, she looked like she might cry.
That expression, the trembling lower lip, the brown eyes beginning to fill with tears, got to him, which he didn't like having to admit. Once more Casey crouched down in front of her. "I won't," he promised, "but I have to talk to people, too, and the sooner we do that, the sooner we can take you to your dad and then go find your mom and Jack."
Watching her walk away with Special Agent Fillmore, Casey rose, shifted to thinking about what he'd need to do to placate Dietrich, possibly to deflect him and his agents while Casey and his team quietly took over. The Intersect's specter meant they'd have to.
"Heard you weren't the fluffy, reassuring type," the male agent said with a voice like gravel. He looked like a refrigerator, the old, short, rounded kind with the lever handle to open the doors.
Casey turned an arctic gaze on the guy. Jesus, he looked like he was still in high school, so had the female agent, for that matter. The longer he stared at the kid, who grew increasingly uncomfortable, the more Casey realized the refrigerator was the kind who was mostly bluff despite his brawn. One day he'd learn that the muscle wasn't protection if he wasn't willing to use it and that keeping his mouth shut would probably get him further. Casey wasn't really in the mood to school him, though, so when they were joined by two other agents, he simply said, "Stash me wherever Dietrich told you to."
One of the other agents snorted, gestured with a hand toward the elevator doors where Fillmore had disappeared with Clara. As Casey started to walk, he looked over his shoulder at the fridge and said, "Present for your bomb squad in the cargo area," and tossed him the keys to Dietrich's SUV.
He half expected an interview room at best or a holding cell at worst. Instead, he was shown into a small conference room, asked if he'd like coffee or anything else. He accepted the coffee. While he waited, he took his phone out, and then he wondered who to call first. His instinct was to call Riah, but while she'd be happy about Clara, she'd be crushed that they didn't have Jack. He'd rather deal with that disappointment in person. Woodcomb could use the good news, but Casey suspected it might be better to let the FBI notify him. After all, Casey had potentially further endangered the man's daughter—possibly his wife—by his actions in the park. They also didn't need any announcements made before they had the message they wanted sent ready, and there was a chance Woodcomb might say something to the press or to someone else who would.
For a moment, Casey breathed deeply. He'd taken a huge risk when he snatched Clara back. After a moment's reflection, he realized he wouldn't do anything differently. He had a win, and they would get some badly needed information. He'd probably ruined any chance Dietrich would let him continue to participate in his investigation, but Casey figured it was time to go play with his own team.
Once he'd been given coffee and left alone, he dialed Beckman. He considered the most concise way to relate what he had to say since he didn't know what his time window might be before he had the FBI pointing fingers at him. As he waited to connect, he pulled out the piece of paper Clara had given him in the car to take a better look at it.
The floorplan was hand-drawn, but there was no street address, no directions, to help him figure out where it was located. It looked like a factory or a warehouse since the bulk of it was open space. It was the oddly designed addition on the end of that open space that would help identify it, but Casey was pretty sure that if this was where they were being held, then it was an operational nightmare. The hallways in the addition made an asterisk pattern, which meant everything could be seen from the center of the star.
Other than that name on the outside, there was nothing written on the paper besides the drawing. He refolded it, stuck it in one of his suitcoat pockets.
He filled his boss in, quickly because he was certain Dietrich would arrive any moment. Of course, it was also likely the FBI was listening in, but he'd disclose most if not all of it to Dietrich when he turned up anyway. When he finished, General Beckman sighed. "I think, Colonel, it's time to put both your wife and Mr. Bartowski under guard in a secure facility for the foreseeable future."
"General—" he began, but she wasn't having it.
"I've heard your arguments many times over the years, Casey, and unless you've got a new one, this time you will not persuade me."
She paused while he sought inspiration. "My house is an armed camp," he bit out. "Between Riah's father, and the two of us—not to mention the FBI—I think we can keep Quinnell and his people out. The media spectacle alone makes any attempt far too risky." He sucked in a breath, calculated space, and said, "Woodcomb, Clara, Walker and Bartowski can move in with us for the duration."
"You and Agent Walker are going to be busy," she reminded him with an edge of sarcasm, "and while your wife has some admirable skills, her instability makes her too great a liability to entrust the Intersect to her."
By now, she should know that where Walker went, Bartowski would insist on following, but Casey left that unsaid. "V. H. will be there, and Paul Patterson is on his way. Perhaps Forrest can lend a hand as well."
There was a long silence. "Remind me how big this house your wife bought is, Colonel."
Casey gritted his teeth at her sarcasm, but he'd recoiled at the size when Riah walked him through it the first time. It was one of those greystones that had begun life as an apartment building, though as Riah led him through the four floors, counting the basement, she had told him how she planned to renovate it as a family home. All he could think at the time was that there were only four of them, and they didn't need that much space. She'd left two of the apartments, one on the top floor and one in the basement, intact, and when he asked why, she had shrugged, grinned, and said, "Live-in staff? Rental property? A space for Alex and Morgan when they visit to have plenty of privacy?"
Only the last had been a viable possibility in Casey's eyes, mainly because the idea of having strangers take care of them and their things made him twitch, and because, given the things they generally kept in their home, there was no way he'd allow unknown renters to have keys to any part of the building. Perhaps in acknowledgement of that, Riah had smiled, told him, "Between the two of us, we have a lot of extended family. This is one place with enough room for all of us at one time."
Now, that might come in handy. "Big enough," he said to Beckman.
Through the glass that separated him from the rest of the floor's offices, he saw Dietrich stalking toward him. "General," he began, but her sigh stopped him.
"Alright. For now. Forrest will stay with your wife and the Intersect."
"One other thing," he said, calculating Dietrich's speed and the distance he still had to cover. He took Beckman's silence as permission to proceed. "Ilsa Trinchina is a player, though I'm not exactly sure how at this point."
"Your wife is one step ahead of you there, Colonel," she said crisply. "Mariah stayed entirely within Canadian databases as she ran down information on your computer, but just in case, I had someone tagging along with her. Your wife has matched stolen military weapons to a frightening number of terrorist plots and attacks. In each case, the weapons were those manufactured by Bridges. In several of those cases, the weapons were stolen from Canadian bases and sold to terrorists overseas, though our own bases leaked quite a few of them. Your wife confirmed that the French believe Win Bridges facilitated those sales using Warren Quinnell's contacts to both steal and sell them. I suspect Ms. Trinchina is there to do precisely the same thing you are."
Casey had two reactions to that news: pride in his wife's skills and dread that he was going to have to admit to her Ilsa was around and involved in his case. He was a little pissed, though, that Riah hadn't called to tell him what she'd learned.
When Dietrich hit the door, Casey was hanging up after the General had done so with a warning to "play nicely." He returned his phone to his pocket, put his fingertips together where his hands rested next to his coffee cup on the table, and sat up straight. He had taken what was the seat at the head of the table, so Dietrich crossed the room and dropped into the chair to his left.
"I should arrest you," the other man clipped out, "but given you retrieved one of the hostages, I'll let that go for the moment." He gave Casey a steely look. "Do that again, and I swear to God, Casey, I will shoot you myself."
"Understood," Casey offered, and Dietrich could take that as an apology if he wished.
"So what did Clara Woodcomb tell you?"
Only then did Casey realize he hadn't questioned Clara about the message she'd been there to deliver. He was going to have to give up what she had told him because he was certain Clara was currently telling Agent Fillmore the same thing. "They want Riah and Bartowski, and they'll call tonight with the specifics. That's all we had time for Clara to tell me."
The other man studied him. "I got a look at what they strapped to her." He shook his head. "Jesus, Casey, you could have taken out half a block."
He was very well aware. Then he considered, frowned. "It was too easy."
Dietrich gave him a confused stare. "What?"
"She was wearing a bug and an easily disarmed bomb. She said they were watching her, but they didn't even take a shot when I grabbed her and ran for the car." He scratched absently at his cheek. "You don't give up a hostage without getting something in return, and damned if I can figure out what they got."
A thought hit him, then. "Was it even a real bomb?"
"As I said, Casey, you could have taken out half a block if you'd fucked up."
There was a possibility that Ilsa, who had given Clara the blueprint, had made sure it wasn't complex, and if she and Antoine du Montfort were on the inside, maybe they had been entrusted with this little mission. Maybe that explained the ease with which he had been able to extract Clara Woodcomb. There was an itch, though, something in the back of his brain he couldn't quite retrieve at the moment.
"I get why they want Bartowski," Dietrich said, "but why your wife?"
Casey weighed options. As far as he knew, the other man didn't know about the Intersect or that Bartowski was it. From the way the man eyed him, though, he knew something. He breathed in, then out, weighed his options, and gave up Riah. "My wife, as a child, was part of a top secret program ISI ran. Warren Quinnell knows about it, and he probably thinks she's valuable because of it."
Dietrich sprawled back in his chair, planted an elbow on one of the arms, and leaned his jaw into his raised hand. He studied Casey. "Your wife is V. H. Adderly's daughter, Casey. I figure that makes her more valuable than Bartowski. Her safety for the keys to the kingdom." The other man's eyes narrowed. "I would think, though, that from their perspective, your son would be far easier to manage and of enough value to not only get ISI's secrets but the NSA's as well."
Part of Casey resented that on a deeply personal level, but part of him acknowledged the fairness in Dietrich's evaluation. He would never betray his employers or his country, but V. H. might betray his own to get Jack back for his daughter.
Uncomfortably, Casey swiftly recognized that he was wrong, that in order to get his son back and alleviate his wife's grief, he most likely would betray secrets if there was no other way he could rescue his son and make sure his wife was safe as well. What he sold for his son would probably be secrets they could afford to lose, but that didn't change the fact that Casey might well commit treason for his family. That made him weak, reminded him why he had originally decided never to do this, never to become a family man, when he took the job. He'd given up Kath, lost his chance to be a part of Alex's life all along when he did, but when he looked at Bartowski, a man who wore his emotions not only on his sleeve but plastered all over every part of him, he'd thought maybe he'd been wrong, that this kind of life was possible.
It wasn't, though, and he was a fool to ever think that just because his wife came from a similar background, was trained with a similar skillset, that they might be the exceptions.
Truthfully, Casey very well might betray all for his wife's sake, for the sake of either of his children—any of his children, if he included Alex—and that realization made him more uncomfortable than he'd ever been in his life.
Thankfully, Dietrich moved on, though Casey didn't completely, worried at the idea of what he might do if he was backed into a corner and forced to choose before this was over. "Anything else?" the other man asked.
Casey considered, and then he reached into his pocket for the floorplan Ilsa had sent him. He handed it over, watched Dietrich's brows shoot up at the name scrawled on it, and then scrutinized the other man as he studied the drawing. Casey figured Dietrich might be able to identify the building on the page and save him some time. "Warehouse," the man mused. "Not sure where or which one, but if I can make a copy, I'll see if we can identify it."
Casey half expected his old friend to question the name Ilsa had scribbled on the outside, but instead Dietrich pointed out, "Your wife would make exceptional bait, would probably hold up better than Bartowski."
It was tempting to remind him of what he surely knew by now, that Riah had mental health issues that might actually make Bartowski the stronger candidate for a false trade, if it came to that. Instead, Casey said, "Let's see if we can find any other alternative."
Nodding, Dietrich stood up and went to the conference room door. He spoke softly to the man who had joined him, handed over the floorplan, and returned to his seat. "I assume you're about to take the case away from me."
Eyeing him, Casey considered dissembling. "Parts of it," he admitted, "but I still need you and your people visibly protecting two families no one must know are connected to clandestine services."
"You weren't watching the press conference," Dietrich snorted. "Your wife's affiliation—"
"Former affiliation," Casey cut in tightly.
"—came up about fifteen minutes ago." Dietrich cocked a brow. "Your mother-in-law admitted it was a former affiliation and unrelated to the kidnappings, though we both know that's a lie and one the reporters are going to chip away at."
That, Casey acknowledged, was probably true. He sighed, lifted his own brows. "Then we'd better get Jack and Ellie back quickly so they have no reason to do so."
For the next hour, they discussed how to do that. Dietrich put someone on identifying the building in the floorplan after he returned the original to Casey. He called a handful of agents in while Casey shot a look at his watch. Walker and Bartowski should be meeting Alex and Grimes's plane, so he considered his options and finally decided to represent his partner and the Intersect and share later. Getting Alex to the house safely was more important at the moment, and Bartowski still remained a wild card at times in interagency meetings.
The truth was, without a hard target, there wasn't a lot they could do. Any movements, any numbers, remained hypothetical without knowing where the building was and more about the obstacles they would face. Casey grew impatient as things dragged on, but he knew he wasn't going anywhere until the FBI was finished with Clara, and even then he'd review what she told them and ask some follow-up questions while he still had her separated from her father, who would probably interfere.
It was one of those times when he wished Riah was there, knew she'd be able to question Clara more easily since she knew the child better, and it was likely the girl would trust Riah more. He considered escorting Clara to the house and letting Riah do exactly that while Woodcomb was brought over.
When Fillmore appeared, Dietrich sent his team off with assignments, and then waved for Fillmore to join him and Casey. She gave Casey a long look before turning her attention to Dietrich. "The girl didn't know much," she said.
Casey couldn't help automatically correcting her: "Clara."
The woman frowned at him, but Casey kept his expression blank. He was well aware his default would be to refer to Clara as the girl as well, but Clara wasn't just any girl—she was his best hope of finding his son. Besides, she'd given them their second bit of usable intel.
"Clara," the woman repeated with a hard, pissed-off tone, "didn't add anything to the abduction that we didn't see on camera or learn from witnesses. She did, though, tell us they drove somewhere she thought was outside the city to get to the building where they were held." She turned her attention to Casey and said, "I doubt that. Some of the warehouse districts might seem outside the city, though, to someone unfamiliar with them." She then looked back at Dietrich, "The gi—Clara," she shot a look at Casey again, "couldn't give us any sense of where they went once they got out of her neighborhood."
"What about the people who took her?" Casey asked, gritting his teeth to keep from reminding her that Clara was six and could hardly be expected to have a map of the greater Chicago area in her head.
"Four men," Fillmore clipped out. "She identified Ford and Quinnell, described the others we saw on the surveillance recording from the market."
"No one else?" Casey asked, curious that Ilsa and du Montfort seemed absent.
"No one else."
"Did you ask if she saw anyone other than the four men where they were held?"
That question earned him a glare from Fillmore. Then it shifted. The woman hadn't asked, and Casey knew it before she admitted as much.
The rest was an interior description of the building where they were held, and Casey met Dietrich's gaze as she read Clara's statement. It wasn't the building in the drawing Ilsa had given Clara. The only other thing Fillmore added was that they had been kept together.
Dietrich lifted his brows, waited to see if Casey had any other questions, and when he didn't, dismissed the agent after holding a hand out for her report.
"They've been moved," Casey said when the door closed behind her.
"You don't know that."
He nodded at the drawing on the table. "Ilsa sent that with Clara. It's not the building Clara described. Find the building; find Jack and Ellie."
"Ilsa?"
"The woman in fur Victoria saw before they were abducted."
Dietrich grinned. "The one she called Cruella De Vil?"
Casey frowned, not having heard that before. "Probably."
"So who is this Ilsa?"
This time he sighed. "French spy—du Montfort, too." He could tell Dietrich was about to ask who du Montfort was, so he explained. Then he explained why they thought Ilsa was there.
Someone brought Clara in as he finished his explanation. She ran to Casey and threw her arms around him. He hugged her awkwardly back while the agent who had accompanied her handed a file to Dietrich. When the agent was gone, Casey sat Clara in a chair and told her, "We have some more questions for you." He asked if she had seen other people than the four who abducted them and Ilsa and du Montfort.
Clara shook her head, then added, "I heard some others, though." She explained, and what she reported sounded like the usual goons. None of what she overheard was operationally useful.
When he asked who told her to tell him they wanted her Uncle Chuck and Riah, Clara had bit her lip, turned thoughtful. "That man in charge. He made me repeat the message several times." Dietrich got her to identify "that man in charge" as Quinnell.
"Was there more to it than what you told me?" Casey asked. He should have asked her when he had the chance and no audience.
She shook her head. "Just that they want Uncle Chuck and Aunt Mariah and will call you tonight."
Dietrich asked several questions then, tried to get Clara to expand on some of what she had told Fillmore, but he finally concluded there was nothing else to learn. Dietrich then suggested he send Clara to lunch with one of the agents, but she balked, refused to leave Casey. He and Dietrich had things to talk about, and he needed to call Beckman, but he acquiesced. The truth was, he saw Victoria when her face pleaded with him, and Casey hoped that if his daughter had been in this situation, whoever she felt comfortable with would do the same.
Afterward, he parked Clara back in the conference room while he and Dietrich talked in the hallway.
"We haven't told her father yet," Dietrich admitted. Casey nodded. The Captain would have been pounding at the gates if they had done so.
"I'll take her home," Casey said. "You get your agents to bring him to our place." He sighed. "Tell him to pack for both of them."
Calling Beckman was next, so he ducked into an empty office where he could still see Clara and not be overheard to do so. She agreed that Ellie and Jack had probably been moved. "Can you contact Ms. Trinchina?"
Casey mulled over his answer. "Truthfully? Not unless you can provide me with a number." He'd been very careful not to be able to do so since he'd learned she was still alive, more so since he'd gotten married.
Beckman made a skeptical hum. "I'll see what we can do."
He collected Clara, told her they were going to his house where her father would meet them. He decided to park on the street behind theirs, unwilling to take Clara past the press that still camped as close as the FBI and local police would let them. Mrs. Standish, the widow whose property backed onto theirs, came out as he made his way through her yard. She asked how much longer this might go on in such a way he felt like a felon ducking the law, and he admitted he didn't know but hoped not long. She looked at Clara, frowned, looked at Casey, and he could see the gears turning. Clara's photograph had probably gone out through the media. Mrs. Standish said nothing, though, went back in her own home.
As he let Clara in the back door, there was a commotion around the front of the house. Casey's instincts said to leave her in the kitchen and go around the house to see what was causing the ruckus, but Clara looked afraid, so he decided to deliver her to Riah first.
In hindsight, Casey really should have known, really should have guessed what caused the uproar.
