Heat

Chapter 57

Jesse arrived precisely on time and was shown into Coldwater’s study by one of Jack Gene’s young women.

“The pastor will be with you shortly,” she said. “Please make yourself at home.”

As soon as she was gone, Jesse went to the false bookcase at the end of the room and tugged at it. The facade gave way to reveal a door, securely locked, and it was made of steel. Jesse rapped on it sharply with a knuckle; at least a quarter-inch thick, and there was an echo from behind it. He closed the bookcase and quickly found a chair.

Coldwater entered the room, followed by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger, and at that moment the doorbell rang. “Ah, here they are,” Coldwater said. “Good evening, Jesse.”

“Good evening, Pastor,” Jesse replied, rising. He nervously checked his necktie.

A moment later a group of men were shown into the room, led by Charley Bottoms, who winked at Jesse.

Don’t do that, Jesse said to himself. He counted eight men as he was introduced; some, like Bottoms, had been in the last visiting group, but two were new. Jesse recognized one of them as the Reverend John Packard, a Seattle minister who specialized in racial and anti-Semitic epithets; he had often been on the news.

The young woman who had admitted them entered the room, opened a concealed wet bar and began offering drinks. Jesse accepted a bourbon, but he drank little of it.

“Gentlemen,” Coldwater said to the room at large, “I hope you’ll forgive the inconvenience, but in the interests of security, it will be necessary for each of you to be, ah, looked at more closely. Not you, Reverend, of course.”

There was grumbling, but each man submitted to an expert search by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger.

“Pastor,” the reverend said, “I hope you won’t take offense, but your crowd will have to be looked at, too.”

“No offense taken,” Coldwater replied. “Go right ahead.”

“Charley, will you do the honors?” the reverend said.

“Sure thing, Preacher,” Bottoms said. “You fellows mind unbuttoning your shirts?” He quickly patted down Casey and Ruger, then turned to Jesse. “You’re next, pal.”

Jesse’s back was to the fire, but he still held his breath while Bottoms ran his hands over his body. If Charley wasn’t on the feds’ team, he would find out about it now. Charley found the wire running up his back. He turned to Packard. “They’re clean, Reverend.”

Jesse started breathing again.

“What did you fellows fly down in?” Coldwater asked the Reverend Packard.

“I got a King Air,” the reverend replied. “I fly it myself; we made it in no time flat.”

“I fly a rather old Commanche, myself,” Coldwater said. “You like our little airport?”

“Real nice,” Packard replied.

Charley Bottoms took a large swig of whiskey and announced, “I came in a Chevrolet. You guys are doing awful good for yourselves.”

The Reverend Packard laughed heartily at this.

Jesse thought about the King Air out at the airport — a twin-engined turboprop. It flew a lot faster than the Cessna he was planning on leaving in, but he knew nothing about flying twins, and he wasn’t going to start learning tonight.

The conversation grew louder as the alcohol circulated, and then they were called into dinner. Jesse aimed at a seat near the middle of the table, on Coldwater’s right. There were twelve of them at the long table, and he wanted to be able to record as many of them as possible. From the middle of the table, he thought, the recorder might manage it.

Dinner was served, and Coldwater waxed eloquent about the wines, while Jesse ate and drank little.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said suddenly, “you’re not drinking my wine; what’s the matter?”

Jesse placed a hand on his belly. “Some kind of bug, I think; my stomach’s a little unsettled.”

“Can we get you something for it?” Coldwater asked solicitously.

“Thank you, no; I think I’ll be fine, if I take it easy.”

“Sure you wouldn’t like to go and lie down for a few minutes?”

This was a tempting possibility, but Jesse had to record the conversation in this room.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” he said.

“As you wish,” Coldwater said. “Let me know if you take a turn for the worse.”

“Thank you, sir; I’ll do that.”

Dessert and coffee were served, and a large decanter of brandy was placed on the table. Kurt Ruger, who was sitting near the opposite end of the table from Coldwater, got up and left the room.

Coldwater poured himself a brandy and passed the decanter. Jesse took none. Ruger came back into the room, but, instead of sitting down again, he leaned against the wall at that end of the table, his hands behind him.

When everyone had been served brandy, Coldwater tapped on the edge of his glass with a knife; the crowd grew quiet. “Before we proceed with our presentation,” he said, “there is a little security matter we must deal with.” The room was deadly quiet now.

Jesse pretended to scratch his forearm, while switching on the recorder. Wait a minute, he thought; did he say security?

Coldwater continued. “It seems a member of our party has not been entirely candid with us. When he was a prisoner in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, he seems to have been led astray.”

Jesse’s breath grew short. He was a long way from the door, and he didn’t like the way Kurt Ruger was standing, with his hands behind him. In order to get out of the room, he’d have to go through Ruger at one end or Coldwater at the other. He stared down at the table. A trickle of fear ran through his bowels.

“Tell us, my friend,” Coldwater said, staring down the table, “Just what did you do to get put into prison?”

Jesse swallowed hard and tried to take a deep breath. He would have to keep this as close to the truth as possible. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I was in for armed robbery and second degree murder,” a voice said.

Jesse looked up. Charley Bottoms had spoken; Charley was sitting at the foot of the table.

“And what was your sentence?” Coldwater asked.

Jesse discovered that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush. Across the table, Pat Casey glanced sharply at him, but Coldwater didn’t seem to notice.

“I got twenty-five to life,” Charley said. He was beginning to look ill at ease.

“Which means you would ordinarily serve, let’s see, twelve and a half years?” Coldwater asked.

Charley said nothing.

“And how long did you serve, Mr. Bottoms?”

“Three years and two months.”

“Three years and two months,” Coldwater repeated. “Your behavior inside must have been awfully good.”

Charley shrugged. “I got lucky, I guess.”

“I guess you did, Mr. Bottoms. Out in three years and two months. What luck!”

Jesse placed his hands on the dining table, the more to get the microphone out in front of him.

“I’m going to ask you just once, Mr. Bottoms,” Coldwater said. “Who got you out, and why?”

Charley continued to play dumb, which turned out to be a big mistake. He shrugged. “The parole board.”

Coldwater looked up at Ruger. “Kurt, please escort Mr. Bottoms downstairs and put the question to him a little more firmly.”

Ruger pushed himself off the wall and put an automatic pistol to the back of Charley’s head. “Easy, now, Bottoms; let’s not put your brains on the table.”

“Jesse,” Coldwater said.

Jesse’s head jerked around toward Coldwater. “Yes, sir?”

“Give Kurt a hand.” He reached inside his jacket, produced a 9mm automatic and handed it to Jesse.

Jesse took the gun. The evening was not going at all the way he had planned. He stood up and followed Charley and Ruger out of the dining room. They entered the kitchen; two young women were washing dishes at a double sink; they looked up then quickly down again.

“Jesse, open the cellar door,” Ruger said.

Jesse looked around and spotted the door; he opened it and stood back.

“Right down the stairs,” Ruger said to Bottoms. “Come on down, Jesse.” He switched on a light.

Jesse followed the two men down the stairs. As they walked down, Jesse considered his position, and he didn’t like it at all.

“Right over there,” Ruger said, shoving Charley.

Jesse saw a heavy wooden chair, and it was bolted to the floor.

“There’s some cord attached to the back of the chair; tie his hands behind him.”

Jesse followed Ruger’s instructions, but he didn’t tie Charley’s hands too tightly.

Ruger tucked his pistol into his belt, picked up a length of pipe from the floor, then squared off before Charley Bottoms. “I know you’re not going to answer my questions right away,” he said, “so why don’t we just skip that part,” He struck Bottoms across the face with the pipe.

The sound was like a football being kicked, Jesse thought.

Ruger turned away for a moment, as if to take a deep breath. Charley Bottoms turned toward Jesse, his face bloody, and silently mouthed, “Shoot me.”

Jesse looked away. If he helped Charley he’d give himself away, and they’d both be shot. Charley had just told him, in effect, that he expected to be killed and that Jesse should save himself.