Maggie tried not to interrupt Henry Lee. She refrained from crossing her arms or any other nonverbal gestures that might stop him. Her psychology background had taught her to listen without giving any indication of prejudice. Sometimes an impassive listener gathered more valuable information than a seasoned interrogator. Human nature dictated certain behaviors, like filling in long silences or attempting to please a receptive listener.

“My daughter, Dixon’s mother, was one of the 168 people who were murdered on April 19, 1995. Four thousand eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel driven right up to the front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.”

There was still enough emotion to cause the blue eyes to go watery, again. He took an irritated swipe at them and continued, “I didn’t believe it could happen. Thought we’d never allow it again. But we Americans have short attention spans. We become complacent. Six years later, 9/11.”

He sat back, sat forward, couldn’t get comfortable. Didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Maggie waited out his silence and his fidgeting.

“We’ve become complacent again,” he told her. “This was meant to be a wake-up call. This administration keeps tearing down our policies on terror, weakening our security systems. They’re leaving us vulnerable for another attack. And mark my word, there will be another attack.” The anger was creeping back into his voice.

“It’ll be some major sporting event or in one of our shopping centers or an airport. They’ve broken down the barriers we worked so hard to build. Closing down Gitmo. It’s crazy. Treating those monsters to three square meals while all they want to do is get back out there and slaughter innocent Americans.”

“Thirty-two innocent Americans were killed today.” She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to listen to his diatribe and let him believe her silence might excuse, condone or possibly understand it.

“Dear God, thirty-two?” He covered his face with trembling hands. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said through his fingers as they rubbed at his disbelief. “I swear to you, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“What exactly was supposed to happen, Mr. Lee?”

“A disruption. That’s all.” He shook his head and sat forward, hands wringing. “Our group…and it’s an influential group of high-level, upstanding individuals…”

“Citizens for American Pride?”

He let out a breath, something that sounded between a snort and a chuckle.

“CAP? It’s a smokescreen, a distraction. That organization has nothing to do with this.”

“Then I don’t understand, what group are you talking about?”

“No one knows about us. We’ve managed to keep it secret for almost fifteen years. We’ve influenced business contracts—billions of dollars—making sure that American companies are awarded. We’ve manipulated government policy. Nothing different than what lobbyists do, only we have members who are…let’s just say, a bit closer to actually making government policy.”

“Are you saying members of Congress are a part of this secret group?”

He shrugged and she knew he was monitoring what he told her, perhaps deciding as he went along.

“We’re not thugs,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying. Sometimes our methods may have seemed a bit unconventional. We did what we felt was necessary to influence, to persuade, to keep America on track. Yes, we pushed the envelope. But no innocent lives were lost. I promise you that.”

Now he glanced around the room as if checking to see if it was, indeed, secure. “This was meant as a wake-up. The devices—electronic jamming devices—were supposed to be in those backpacks. They were designed specifically to disrupt computer and satellite feeds. I helped create them myself. It was supposed to be a virtual electronic blackout, appropriately timed to occur on what the retail world calls ‘Black Friday.’ A day of substantial profits would be turned upside down to show how easily a terrorist could walk in and do the same, maybe worse.”

“You certainly proved the worse part.”

Maggie bit down on her lower lip. Calm, steady, impassive—she could do this without injecting emotion. She kept from balling her hands into fists, willed her feet to stay planted when she wanted to pace.

“You’re right. Someone certainly proved it. Someone with his own agenda. Those boys didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“You know the boys involved?”

“They were friends of my grandson. Chad, Tyler and Dixon got hoodwinked into carrying those backpacks. And Patrick—they shouldn’t even have his picture. He didn’t have anything to do with this. Patrick and Becca just went to the mall to be with Dixon.”

“You know Patrick Murphy?”

“Patrick and Becca celebrated Thanksgiving at my home yesterday, spent the last two nights with us. They go to University of New Haven with Dixon. Came from Connecticut all together. Drove two days. Good kids. Good, decent kids.”

He was shaking his head and didn’t notice Maggie swallowing hard.

Patrick had been telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with the bombing. She shouldn’t have been so hard on him, should have trusted him instead of asking him to trust her. Now she was sitting with the man who Patrick had spent Thanksgiving with and he seemed to know more about her brother’s character than she did. Suddenly her stomach did a flip as she realized something.

“Was Patrick with Dixon when he was taken?”

“No, neither was Becca.”

The relief was hard to contain but Henry Lee didn’t seem to notice as he stared at his hands again.

“Dixon said he left the backpack with them. Are Patrick and Becca alive?”

Maggie saw the realization in his eyes. He hadn’t thought of it until now, that Dixon’s friends may have been killed in the blast.

“Patrick is alive. I don’t know about Becca.”

Henry Lee shook his head. “Dixon was here at the hospital with me,” he told her. “I was so relieved that he was safe. Then those bastards took him from here. That’s how I know they must be watching.”

He stopped, took a couple of deep breaths to steer himself away from the anger. “Dixon was worried about his friends. He borrowed my smartphone. He was talking to them.” He paused and squinted, looking for the right term. “Texting them, making sure they were okay. That’s how those bastards are making me keep in touch, controlling how I keep in touch. With my own goddamn phone.”

“Who exactly are they, Mr. Lee? Who is it that has your grandson, who switched bombs with jamming devices?”

“The one in charge calls himself the Project Manager.” He looked away. Took several more deep breaths as if steeling himself for what came next. “And he’s getting ready to make another attack on Sunday.”