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She wondered what her next questions would do to the woman.
“Why were you in The Plains that day? Are you RE? And did you care for Bruce Hall aka Bruce Dixon aka Daryl Oxblood? RE and BD? I read it in a comic book. Just asking. Was it shocking to find his body like that?”
Clarisse ended the call.
Gibson stared at her screen where the stress arrow had crashed right through the top bar like a bolt of lightning reversing to the heavens.
For some weird reason, it didn’t make her feel any better.
CHAPTER59
CLARISSE WAS ON A TRAIN,for the first time in a long time. She had decided against another plane ride. She wanted to be tethered to the earth right now. She could not jump out at 35,000 feet, but she could leave a train with relative ease.
She had packed everything from her rental into two bags and Ubered to the train station. Just to be safe, she had gone into the women’s room, changed her appearance in a stall, and exited the bathroom with one small duffel.
She boarded the train and headed north. She stared out the window into the deepening darkness. As the train picked up speed and the ride became gently swaying, she closed her eyes and tried to process what had happened.
There were two major events, neither one of them good for her.
She tracked me down. All my precautions, all my work, and she still managed to do it.
She touched the wound on her neck.
Would she have cut it all the way?
Look what she did to Bruce.
She pressed her fingers against the coolness of the window.
Next up were Gibson’s stunning revelations.She knows I was Julia Frazier in The Plains. And she’s figured out the connection to Bruce Dixon.
I’ve got two of them breathing down my neck, literally.
Then her spine firmed.
Come on. You’ve got this. They haven’t beaten you yet.
She took out her laptop and inserted the thumb drive in the dongle.
She brought up the files and quickly sorted through them.
The one she was looking at now was, in a nutshell, all the US Marshals Service had on the Langhorne family.
She knew most of it, but not all. She saw pictures of Harry Langhorne when he had been the mob accountant. Tall, somewhat nice-looking, but the arrogance in those eyes, the evil lurking inside what most would assume was a mild-mannered dollars-and-cents counter.
She went through the man’s history, from cradle to, now, the grave. The file had dutifully been updated to include the death (murder, technically) of Harry Langhorne, aka Daniel Pottinger. But that hadn’t ruined the marshal’s perfect record, since Langhorne had left WITSEC long before he was killed.
She glanced away when the pictures of the Langhorne family came up: the mother, the son, the daughter. She knew enough about all of them.
The images were suddenly coming to her again. As they once did on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. She had managed that anxiety for a long time. Years, in fact. She had done so through her concentration on grifting, and in her piles of notebooks compartmentalizing her very existence.
Clarisse looked around, but all the other passengers within her sight line were asleep.
You suffer in silence, you remember that. Seen but not heard. Used, but never a word uttered. Things done to you. Never a protest.But there had been crying; she couldn’t help that.
They actually liked the tears. They longed for the tears to be shed. It made them happy. And even more sadistic.
She refocused on the computer screen and the information there.
