CHAPTER 88 Sampson
Sampson
“YOUR DAUGHTER IS STAYING at the Cross house, right?” says Aiden Phillips. He’s sitting in a chair across from me, his gun still pointed at my face.
I sit stiff and silent at the table. No way I’m giving him any information about Willow.
“It’s okay,” says Phillips. “I’m glad she’s not here. She’s been traumatized enough for one day.”
Whatever buzz I had from my Scotch has been flushed away by a surge of adrenaline. I’m sitting on the edge of my chair, calculating what it would take to launch myself across the room and knock the gun out of Phillips’s hand.
Not yet.
For now, I just need to keep him talking. Best way to survive.
“You said you don’t hurt good people, Aiden. Help me understand. You killed a very good person this morning. And you’ve killed dozens of other innocent people across DC. Why?”
Phillips shakes his head. “I had nothing to do with Anna Rizzo’s death. Or with those other bombings.”
“Sorry, Aiden. You can shoot me in the head, but don’t take me for an idiot. We have evidence. We have pictures. The CIA knows all about you.”
“CIA?” Phillips curls his lip in contempt. “Don’t you understand, John? They’re storytellers. That’s what they do. They made up a story about me, and you bought it, hook, line, and sinker.”
He points out the window to the bomb crater in my driveway. He shakes his head. “She had kids, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. Two of them. Just like you do.”
“That’s right,” says Phillips. “You met my family. What did Lisa say about me?”
I’m wondering how long Phillips has been on my tail. How much he knows about the investigation. “She said you had multiple deployments and that you came back a changed man.”
“But you asked her about the bombings, right? And I bet she told you that I could never kill innocent people.”
“That’s right. She did. But maybe that’s because she still loves you.”
“Lisa’s a good woman, John. She knows me.”
I think about my conversations with Phillips’s fellow soldiers, Quint Spooner and Rick Bannon, the ones who told me about his bursts of violence and his fondness for explosives. They seemed to know him too.
“So why the gun, Aiden? Why sneak into my house like some paid assassin? If you knew we were looking for you, why not just turn yourself in, provide your alibis, and prove that you’re not the bomber?”
“I told you. I don’t trust the government. I especially don’t trust the CIA. They twist things. They fabricate things. They paint people in ways that aren’t true.”
“You worked for them, Aiden. Maybe it takes one to know one. You’re not exactly making yourself look innocent here. You’re in my home holding a gun on me.”
Phillips waves his pistol. “Do you have any more weapons in the house?”
I don’t see any point in lying. If he plans to shoot me, one gun is as good as another. “I’ve got a Ruger pistol in a safe upstairs.”
“Good. We’re gonna need it.”
“Need it for what?”
Phillips stands up. “You want to catch the real bomber, John? The one who’s actually behind all this?”
“You know I do.”
“Good. I’ll take you right to him.”