Absolute Power

Chapter Twenty-eight

Bill Burton leaned his head into the secret service command post. Tim Collin sat at one of the desks going over a report.

“Come on, Tim.”

Collin looked up, puzzled.

Burton said quietly, “They’ve got him cornered down near the courthouse. I want to be there. Just in case.”

Seth Frank’s sedan flew down the street, the blue bubble light commanding immediate respect from a traffic population unaccustomed to conveying any whatsoever to fellow motorists.

“Where’s Kate?” Jack lay in the back seat, a blanket over him.

“Right now she’s probably being read her rights. Then she’s gonna get booked on a slew of accessory charges for helping you.”

Jack sprung up. “We’ve gotta go back, Seth. I’ll turn myself in. They’ll let her go.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not kidding, Seth.” Jack was halfway over the front seat.

“I’m not either, Jack. You go back and turn yourself in, that’ll do nothing to help Kate and it’ll snuff out what little shot you’ve got to get your life back to reality.”

“But Kate—”

“I’ll take care of Kate. I’ve already called a buddy at D.C. He’ll be waiting for her. He’s a good guy.”

Jack slumped back down. “Shit.”

Frank opened his window, reached out and flicked the bubble light off and tossed it on the seat beside him.

“What the hell happened?”

Frank looked in his rearview mirror. “I’m not sure. The best I can figure is that Kate picked up a tail somewhere. I was cruising the area. We were going to meet at the Convention Center after she made the drop with you. Heard over my police radio that you had been spotted. I followed the chase over the airwaves, tried to guess where you might go. Got lucky. When I saw you blow out of the alley, I couldn’t believe it. Damn near ran you down. How’s the body by the way?”

“Never better. I ought to do this crap once or twice a year just to keep me limber. Get ready for the Fleeing Felon Olympics.”

Frank chuckled. “You’re still alive and kicking, my friend. Count your blessings. So did you get any nice presents?”

Jack swore under his breath. He had been so busy running from the police that he had never even looked. He took out the packet.

“Got a light?”

Frank flicked on the dome light.

Jack flipped through the photographs.

Frank checked the mirror. “So what do we got?”

“Photos. Of the letter opener, knife, whatever the hell you want to call it.”

“Huh. Not surprising I guess. Can you make out anything?”

Jack looked closely in the poor light. “Not really. You guys must have some gadget that’ll do some good.”

Frank sighed. “I gotta be straight with you, Jack, unless there’s something else we don’t have much of a shot. Even if we can somehow pull something that looks like a print off there who’s to say where it came from? And you can’t do DNA testing on blood from a friggin’ photograph, at least not that I’m aware of.”

“I know that. I didn’t spend four years as a defense counsel picking my ass.”

Seth slowed the car down. They were on Pennsylvania Avenue and the traffic had grown heavier. “So what’s your idea then?”

Jack rubbed back his hair, dug his fingers into his leg until the pain in his knee subsided and then lay down on the seat. “Whoever’s behind all this wanted the letter opener back really bad. Enough to kill you, me, anybody else that got in the way. We’re talking paranoia at its peak.”

“Which fits in with our theory of some big shot with a lot to lose if this comes out. So? They got it back. Where does that leave us, Jack?”

“Luther didn’t make these photos just in case something happened to the original article.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He came back into the country, Seth, remember? We could never figure that one out.”

Frank stopped at a red light. He turned around in his seat.

“Right. He came back. You think you know why?”

Jack carefully sat up in the back seat, keeping his head below the window line. “I think so. Remember I told you that Luther wasn’t the kind of guy to let something like this lie. If he could he’d do something about it.”

“But he did leave the country. At first.”

“I know. Maybe that was his initial plan. Maybe that was his plan all along if the job had gone according to plan. But the fact is he came back. Something made him change his mind and he came back. And he had these photographs.” Jack spread them fanlike.

The light turned green and Frank started up again.

“I’m not getting this, Jack. If he wanted to nail the guy why not just send the stuff in to the police?”

“I think that was his plan, eventually. But he told Edwina Broome that if he told her who he had seen she wouldn’t have believed him. If even she, a close friend, wouldn’t have believed his story, considering he’d have to admit to burglary to convince someone, he probably thought that his credibility was zip.”

“Okay, so he has a credibility problem. Where do the photos come in?”

“Let’s say you’re doing a straight exchange. Cash for a certain item. What’s the hardest part?”

Frank’s reply was immediate. “The payoff. How to get your money without getting killed or caught. You can send instructions later on for the pickup of the item. It’s getting the money that’s tough. That’s why the number of kidnappings have plummeted.”

“So how would you do it?”

Frank thought for a moment. “Since we’re talking about the payoff coming from people who ain’t gonna bring in the police I’d go for speed. Take minimal personal risk, and give yourself time to run.”

“How would you do that?”

“EFT. Electronic fund transfer. A wire. I was involved in a bank embezzlement case when I was in New York. Guy did it all through the wire transfer department at his own bank. You wouldn’t believe the dollars that fly through those places on a daily basis. And you also wouldn’t believe how much stuff gets lost in the shuffle. A smart perp could take a little chunk here and there and by the time they caught it, he’d be long gone. You send your wire instructions. The money is sent out. Only takes a few minutes. Helluva lot better than rummaging through a Dumpster in a park where somebody can take a nice little bead on your head with a cannon.”

“But the sender can presumably trace the wire.”

“Sure. You have to identify the bank it’s going to. ABA routing number, you have to have an account at the bank. All that shit.”

“So, assuming the sender is sophisticated enough, they trace the wire. Then what?”

“Then they can follow the flow of money. They might be able to dig some info on the account. Although no one would be stupid enough to use their own name or Social Security number. Besides, a real smart guy like Whitney would probably have preset instructions in place. Once the funds hit the first bank, bam they get sent out to another place, and then another and another. At some point, the trail probably disappears. It’s instant money after all. Immediately available funds.”

“Fair enough. I’m betting Luther did something just like that.”

Frank carefully scratched around the edges of his bandage. His hat was pulled down tight and the whole thing was greatly uncomfortable. “But what I can’t figure is why do it at all. He didn’t need the money after the Sullivan hit. He could’ve just stayed disappeared. Let the whole thing blow over. After a while they figure he’s permanently retired. You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you.”

“You’re right. He could’ve done that. Retired. Given it up. But he came back, and more than that, he came back and apparently blackmailed whoever he saw kill Christine Sullivan. And if he presumably didn’t do it for money, then why?”

The detective thought for a moment. “To make ’em sweat. To let them know he was out there. With the evidence to destroy them.”

“But evidence he wasn’t sure was enough.”

“Because the perp was so respectable.”

“Right, so what would you do given those facts?”

Frank pulled to the curb and put the car in park. He turned around. “I’d try to get something else on them. That’s what I’d do.”

“How? If you’re blackmailing someone?”

Frank finally threw up his hands. “I give.”

“You said the wire transfer could be traced by the sender.”

“So?”

“So, what about the other way? Receiver back up the line?”

“Goddamned stupid.” Frank momentarily forgot his concussion and slapped his forehead. “Whitney put a tracer on the wire, going the other way. The person sending out the money thinks all along that they’re playing cat and mouse with Whitney. They’re the cat, he’s the mouse. He’s hiding, getting ready to run.”

“Only Luther didn’t mention the fact that he was into role reversal. That he was the cat and they were the mouse.”

“And that tracer would eventually lead right to the bad guys, probably no matter how many shields you put up, if they thought to put up any at all. Every wire in this country has to go through the Federal Reserve. You get the wire reference number from the Fed or the sending bank’s wire room, you got something to hang your hat on. Even if Whitney didn’t trace it back, the fact that he received the money, a certain amount, is damaging enough. If he could give that info to the cops with the name of the sender and they check it out...”

Jack finished the detective’s thought. “And suddenly the unbelievable becomes very believable. Wire transfers do not lie. Money was sent. If it was a lot of money like I’m sure it was here, then that cannot be explained away. That is pretty damn close to bull’s-eye evidence. He set them up with their own payoff.”

“I just thought of something else, Jack. If Whitney was building a case against these people, then he was eventually planning to go to the police. He was going to just walk in the door and deposit himself and his evidence.”

Jack nodded. “That’s why he needed me. Only they were quick enough to use Kate as a way to ensure his silence. Later they used a bullet to accomplish that.”

“So he was going to turn himself in.”

“Right.”

Frank rubbed his jaw. “You know what I’m thinking?”

Jack answered immediately. “He saw it coming.” The two men looked at each other.

Frank spoke first, the words came out low, almost hushed. “He knew Kate was a setup. And he went anyway. And I thought I was so fucking clever.”

“Probably figured it was the only way he’d ever get to see her again.”

“Shit. I know the guy stole for a living, but I gotta tell you, my respect for him grows by the second.”

“I know what you mean.”

Frank put the car back in gear and pulled off.

“Okay, again, where does all this conjecture leave us?”

Jack shook his head, lay back down. “I’m not sure.”

“I mean so long as we don’t have a clue as to who it is, I’m not sure what we can do.”

Jack exploded back up. “But we do have clues.” He sat back as though all his energy had suddenly evaporated after that one thrust. “I just can’t make any sense out of them.”

The men drove on in silence for a few minutes.

“Jack, I know this sounds funny coming from a policeman, but I think you might want to start considering getting the hell out of here. You got some bucks saved? Maybe you should retire early.”

“And what, leave Kate swinging in the wind? If we don’t nail these guys what is she looking at? Ten to fifteen as an accessory? I don’t think so, Seth, not in a million years. They can fry my ass before I let that happen.”

“You’re right. Sorry I brought it up.”

As Seth glanced in his mirror the car next to them tried to do a U-turn directly in front of them. Frank hit the brakes and his car spun sideways, crashing into the curb with a bone-crunching impact. The Kansas license plates on the vehicle that had nearly crashed into them quickly disappeared.

“Stupid tourists. Fucking bastards!” Frank gripped the steering wheel hard, his breath coming in gasps. The shoulder restraint had done its job, but it had dug deeply into his skin. His battered head pounded.

“Fucking bastard.” Frank yelled again to no one in particular. Then he remembered his passenger and looked anxiously in the back seat.

“Jack, Jack, you okay?”

Jack’s face was pressed up against the door glass. He was conscious; in fact, his eyes were staring at something with great intensity.

“Jack?” Frank undid his seat belt and gripped Jack by the shoulder. “You okay? Jack!”

Jack looked at Frank and then back out the window. Frank wondered if the impact had relieved his friend of his senses. He automatically searched Jack’s head for bruises until Jack’s hand stopped him and pointed out the window. Frank looked out.

Even his hardened nerves took a jolt. The rear view of the White House filled his entire line of vision.

Jack’s mind raced; images hurtled across like a video montage. The vision of the President pulling back from Jennifer Baldwin, complaining of tennis elbow. Only it had been inflicted with a certain letter opener that had started this whole crazy thing. The unusual interest taken by the President and the Secret Service in Christine Sullivan’s murder. Alan Richmond’s timely appearance at Luther’s arraignment. Led me right to him. That’s what the detective had said their videotaping citizen had reported. Led me right to him. It also explained killers who killed in the middle of an army of law enforcement officers and walked away. Who would stop a Secret Service agent protecting the President? No one. No wonder Luther felt no one would believe him. The President of the United States.

And there had been a significant event right before Luther had returned to the country. Alan Richmond had held a press conference where he had told the public how terrible he felt about the tragic murder of Christine Sullivan. He was probably fucking the man’s wife and somehow she had gotten killed and this slimeball was gaining political dollars showing what a sensitive and good friend he was; a man who would get tough on crime. It had been a tour de force performance. And that was truly what it had been. Nothing about it had been true. It had been broadcast to the world. What would Luther have thought, seeing that? Jack believed he knew. That was why Luther had come back. To settle the score.

All the pieces had been dangling inside Jack’s head just waiting for the right catalyst to come along.

Jack looked back once more at the catalyst.

Directly under the lamplight, Tim Collin again glanced down the street at the minor traffic mishap, but could make out no details in the oncoming swarm of car headlights. Next to him Bill Burton was also peering out. Collin shrugged, and then rolled the window back up on the black sedan. Burton threw his bubble light on top of the car, hit his siren, quickly drove the car through the rear White House gate and tore off in the direction of D.C. Superior Court in pursuit of Jack.

Jack looked at Seth Frank and smiled grimly as he reflected on the detective’s outburst. The same phrase had erupted from Luther’s mouth, right before his life had ended. Jack finally remembered where he had heard it before. The hurled newspaper at the jail. The smiling President on the front page.

Outside the courthouse, staring right at the man. Those same words had exploded out, with all the fury and venom the old man could muster.

“Fucking bastard,” Jack said.

Alan Richmond stood by the window and wondered if he was destined to be surrounded by incompetents. Gloria Russell sat dronelike in a chair across from him. He had bedded the woman a half-dozen times and now had completely lost interest. He would catapult her away when the time was right. His next administration would be comprised of a far more capable team. Underlings who would allow him to focus on his particular vision for the country. He had not sought the presidency to sweat the details.

“I see we haven’t gained an inch in the polls.” He didn’t look at her; he anticipated her response.

“Does it really matter so much whether you win by sixty percent or seventy percent?”

He whirled around. “Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, it goddamn does matter.”

She bit her lip and retreated. “I’ll step up the effort, Alan. Maybe we can pull a shutout in the Electoral College.”

“At a minimum, we should be able to do that, Gloria.”

She looked down. After the election, she would travel. Around the world. Where she knew no one and no one knew her. A fresh start. That was what she needed. Then everything would be okay.

“Well at least our little problem is cleared up.” He was looking at her, hands clasped behind his back. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed and groomed. He looked like the commander of an invincible armada. But then again history had proven that invincible armadas were far more vulnerable than people imagined.

“It’s been disposed of?”

“No, Gloria, I have it in my desk, would you like to see it? Perhaps you might wish to abscond with it again.” His air was so thick with condescension she felt the urgent need to bring their consultation to a close. She rose.

“Will there be anything else?”

He shook his head and returned to the window. She had just put her hand on the doorknob when it turned and opened.

“We’ve got a problem.” Bill Burton looked at each of them.

“So what does he want?” The President looked down at the photograph Burton had handed him.

Burton replied quickly. “Note doesn’t say. I can guess that the shape the guy’s in with cops on his ass he’s looking for some quick funds.”

The President looked pointedly at Russell. “I’m very puzzled as to how Jack Graham knew to send the photo here.”

Burton picked up on the look from the President, and while the last thing he wanted was to defend Russell they had no time to misanalyze the situation.

“It’s possible Whitney told him,” Burton answered.

“If that’s true, he waited a long time to dance with us,” the President fired back.

“Whitney may not have told him directly. Graham could’ve figured it out for himself. Pieced things together.”

The President tossed down the photo. Russell quickly averted her eyes. The mere sight of the letter opener had paralyzed her.

“Burton, how could this possibly be damaging to us?” The President stared at him, seemingly probing through the inner areas of the agent’s mind.

Burton sat down, rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. “I’ve been thinking about that. It could be Graham’s grasping at straws. He’s in a pretty tight fix himself. And his lady friend is cooling her heels in the lockup right now. I’d chalk it up to him being desperate. He gets a sudden inspiration, puts two and two together and takes a flyer on sending us this, hoping it’s worth it to us to pay his price, whatever it might be.”

The President stood up and fingered his coffee cup. “Is there any way to find him? Quickly?”

“There are always ways. How fast I don’t know.”

“So if we ignore his communication?”

“He may do nothing, just hightail it and take his chances.”

“But again we’re confronted with the possibility of the police catching up to him—”

“And him spilling his guts,” Burton finished the sentence. “Yeah, that’s a possibility. A real possibility.”

The President picked up the photo. “With only this to back up his story.” He looked incredulous. “Why bother?”

“It’s not the incriminating value of what’s in the photo per se that bothers me.”

“What bothers you is that his accusations coupled with whatever ideas or leads the police can develop from the photo might make for some very uncomfortable questions.”

“Something like that. Remember, it’s the allegations that can kill you. You’re up for reelection. He probably sees that as an ace for him. Bad press can be just as deadly to you right now.”

The President pondered for a moment. Nothing, no one would interfere with his reelection. “Buying him off is no good, Burton. You know that. So long as Graham’s around, he’s dangerous.” Richmond looked over at Russell, who had sat the entire time, hands in her lap, eyes pointed down. His eyes bored into her. So weak.

The President sat down at his desk and started to sift through some papers. He said dismissively, “Do it, Burton, and do it soon.”

Frank looked at the wall clock, went over and shut his door and picked up the phone. His head still ached, but the doctors predicted a full recovery.

The phone was answered. “D.C. Executive Inn.”

“Room 233 please.”

“Just a moment.”

The seconds dragged by and Frank started to get anxious. Jack was supposed to be in his room.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“So how’s life?”

“Better than yours, I bet.”

“How’s Kate?”

“She’s out on bail. Got ’em to let her go into my custody.”

“I’m sure she’s thrilled.”

“That wasn’t the word I was thinking of. Look, it’s getting close to shit-or-get-off-the-pot time. Take my advice and run like hell. You’re wasting valuable time right now.”

“But Kate—”

“Come on, Jack, they’ve got the testimony of one guy who was trying to hit her up for an exclusive. His word against hers. Nobody else even saw you. It’s a slam dunk she’ll beat that charge. A slam dunk. I’ve talked to the Assistant U.S. Attorney. He’s looking seriously at dropping the whole case.”

“I don’t know.”

“Goddammit, Jack. Kate is gonna come out of this a whole helluva lot better than you are if you don’t start thinking about your future. You’ve got to get out of here. That’s not just me talking. That’s her too.”

“Kate?”

“I saw her today. We don’t agree on much, but on that we do.”

Jack relaxed, then let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, so where do I go and how do I get there?”

“I get off duty at nine. At ten o’clock I’ll be at your room. Have your bags packed. I’ll take care of the rest. In the meantime, stay put.”

Frank hung up the phone and took a deep breath. The chances he was taking. It was better not to think about them.

Jack checked his watch and looked at the single bag on the bed. He wouldn’t be running with much. He looked at the TV set in the corner but there wouldn’t be anything on he cared to watch. Suddenly thirsty, he pulled some change from his pocket, opened the door to his room and peered out. The drink machine was just down the hallway. He plopped on his baseball cap, donned his Coke-bottle glasses and slipped out. He didn’t hear the door to the stairwell at the other end of the hallway open. He had also forgotten to lock his door.

When he slipped back in, it struck him that the light was off. He had left it on. As his hand hit the switch, the door was slammed shut behind him and he was thrown onto the bed. As he quickly rolled over and his eyes adjusted to the light, the two men came into focus. They were not wearing masks this time, which spoke volumes in itself.

Jack started to lunge forward but twin cannons met him halfway. He sat back down, scrutinized each of their faces.

“What a coincidence, I’ve already made each of your acquaintance, separately.” He pointed at Collin. “You tried to blow my head off.” He swiveled to Burton. “And you tried to blow smoke up my ass. And succeeded. Burton right? Bill Burton. Always remember names.” He looked at Collin. “Didn’t catch yours though.”

Collin looked at Burton, then stared back at Jack. “Secret Service Agent Tim Collin. You pack a nice little wallop, Jack. Must’ve played some ball back in school.”

“Yeah, my shoulder still remembers you.”

Burton sat down on the bed next to Jack.

Jack looked at him. “I thought I’d covered my tracks pretty good. I’m kind of surprised you found me.”

Burton looked at the ceiling. “A little bird told us, Jack.”

Jack looked over at Collin and then back at Burton. “Look, I’m heading out of town, and I’m not coming back. I don’t think you guys need to add me to the body count.”

Burton eyed the bag on the bed and then got up and slipped his gun back in its holster. Then he grabbed Jack and flung him up against the wall. The veteran agent left nothing unprobed by the time he had finished. Burton spent the next ten minutes examining every inch of the room for listening devices and other items of interest, ending his search at Jack’s bag. He pulled out the photos and examined them.

Satisfied, Burton secreted them in his inner coat pocket and smiled at Jack. “Excuse me, but in my line of work paranoia is part of the mentality.” He sat back down. “I would like to know, Jack, why you sent that photo to the President.”

Jack shrugged. “Well, since my life here happens to be over, I thought your boss might want to contribute to my going-away fund. You could’ve just wired the funds, like you did with Luther.”

Collin grunted, shook his head and grinned. “The world doesn’t work that way, Jack, sorry. You should’ve found another solution to your problem.”

Jack shot back, “I guess I should’ve followed your example. Got a problem? Just kill it.”

Collin’s smile evaporated. His eyes glittered darkly at the lawyer.

Burton stood up and paced around the room. He pulled out a cigarette and then crunched it up and put it in his pocket. He turned to Jack and said quietly, “You should’ve just gotten the hell out of town, Jack. Maybe you would’ve made it.”

“Not with you two on my butt.”

Burton shrugged. “You never know.”

“How do you know I haven’t given one of those photos to the cops?”

Burton pulled out the photos and looked down at them. “Polaroid OneStep camera. The film comes in a standard pack of ten shots. Whitney sent two to Russell. You sent one to the President. There are seven left here. Sorry, Jack, nice try.”

“I could’ve just told Seth Frank what I know.”

Burton shook his head. “If you had I think my little bird would’ve told me. But if you want to insist on the point we can just wait for the lieutenant to show up and join the party.”

Jack burst up from the bed and launched himself toward the door. Right as he reached it, an iron fist slammed into his kidney. Jack crumpled to the floor. An instant later he was hustled up and thrown back on the bed.

Jack looked up into Collin’s face.

“Now we’re even, Jack.”

Jack groaned and lay back on the bed, fighting the nausea the blow had caused. He sat back up, caught his breath as the pain subsided.

When Jack finally managed to look up, his eyes found Burton’s face. Jack shook his head, the disbelief clear on his features.

Burton eyed Jack intently and said, “What?”

“I thought you were the good guys,” Jack said quietly.

Burton said nothing for several long moments.

Collin’s eyes went to the floor and stayed there.

Finally Burton answered, his voice faint, as if his larynx had suddenly collapsed. “So did I, Jack. So did I.” He paused, swallowed painfully and went on. “I didn’t ask for this problem. If Richmond could keep his dick in his pants none of this would’ve happened. But it did. And we had to fix it.”

Burton stood up, looked at his watch. “I’m sorry about this, Jack. I really am. You probably think that’s laughable but it’s the way I really feel.”

He looked at Collin and nodded. Collin motioned Jack to lie back on the bed.

“I hope the President appreciates what you’re doing for him,” Jack said bitterly.

Burton smiled ruefully. “Let’s just say he expects it, Jack. Maybe they all do, in one way or another.”

Jack slid slowly back and watched as the barrel moved closer and closer to his face. He could smell the metal. He could envision the smoke, the projectile racing out faster than any eye could follow.

Then the door to the room was hit with an enormous blow. Collin whirled around. The second blow crashed the portal inward and a half-dozen D.C. cops bulled in, guns drawn.

“Freeze. Everybody freeze. Guns on the floor. Now.”

Collin and Burton quickly put their guns down on the floor. Jack lay back on the bed, his eyes closed. He touched his chest where his heart threatened to explode.

Burton looked at the men in blue. “We’re United States Secret Service. IDs in our right inner pockets. We’ve tracked this man down. He was making threats against the President. We were just about to take him into custody.”

The cops warily pulled out the IDs and scrutinized them. Two other cops pulled Jack roughly up. One began to read him his rights. Handcuffs were placed on his wrists.

The IDs were given back.

“Well, Agent Burton, you’re just gonna have to wait until we get done with Mr. Graham here. Murder takes a priority even over threatening the President. Might be a long wait unless this guy’s got nine lives.”

The cop looked at Jack and then down at the bag on the bed. “Shoulda taken off when you had the chance, Graham. Sooner or later we were gonna get you.” He motioned for his men to take Jack out.

He looked back at the bewildered agents and smiled broadly. “We got a tip he was here. Most tips are worth shit. This one. This one might get me that promotion I’m sorely in need of. Have a good day, gentlemen. Say hello to the President for me.”

They left with their prisoner. Burton looked at Collin, and then pulled out the photos. Now Graham had nothing. He could repeat everything they had just told him to the police and they’d just get him ready for the rubber room. Poor sonofabitch. A bullet would’ve been a lot better than where he was headed. The two agents picked up their hardware and left.

The room was silent. Ten minutes later the door to the adjoining room was eased open and a figure slipped into Jack’s room. The corner TV was swiveled around and the back was eased off. The TV was remarkably real-looking and an absolute sham. Hands reached inside and the surveillance camera was swiftly and silently removed and the cabling was pushed through the wall until it disappeared from sight.

The figure opened the adjoining door and went back through. A recording machine sat on a table next to the wall. The cable was coiled up and deposited in a bag. The figure hit a button on the recording machine and the tape slid out.

Ten minutes later the man, carrying a large backpack, walked out of the front door of the Executive Inn, turned left and walked to the end of the parking lot where a car was parked, its engine idling. Tarr Crimson passed the car, and casually tossed the tape through the open window and onto the front seat. Then he proceeded over to his Harley-Davidson 1200cc touring bike, the joy of his life, got on, fired it up and thundered off. Setting up the video system had been child’s play. Voice-activated camera. Recording machine kicked on when the camera did. Your standard VHS tape. He didn’t know what was on the tape, but it must be something pretty damn valuable. Jack had promised him a year’s free legal services for doing it. As he hurtled along the highway, Tarr smiled, remembering their last meeting where the lawyer had balked at the new age of surveillance technology.

Back in the parking lot, the car glided forward, one hand on the steering wheel, the other protectively around the tape. Seth Frank turned onto the main road. Not much of a movie-goer, this was one tape he was dying to watch.

Bill Burton sat in the small but cozy bedroom he had shared with his wife through the evolution of four beloved children. Twenty-four years together. They had made love countless times. In the corner by the window, Bill Burton had sat in a much worn rocker and fed his four offspring before reporting for early-morning shifts, allowing his exhausted wife a few minutes of much needed rest.

They had been good years. He had never made a lot of money, but that had never seemed to matter. His wife had gone back and finished her nursing degree after their youngest had entered high school. The added income had been nice, but it was good to see someone who had long sacrificed her personal goals to the needs of others to finally do something just for herself. All in all it had been a great life. A nice house in a quiet, picturesque neighborhood safe, so far, from the ever-expanding war zones around them. There would always be bad people. And there would always be people like Bill Burton to combat them. Or people like Burton had been.

He looked out the dormer window. Today was his day off. Dressed in jeans, bright red flannel shirt and Timberland boots, he could have easily passed as a burly lumberjack. His wife was unloading the car. Today was grocery shopping day. The same day for the last twenty years. He watched her figure admiringly as it bent low to pull out the bags. Chris, his fifteen-year-old, and Sidney, nineteen, long-legged and a real beauty, and in her sophomore year at Johns Hopkins, with her sights set on medical school, were helping their mother. His other two were out on their own and doing well. They occasionally called their old man for advice on buying a car or a house. Long-term career goals. And he loved every minute of it. He and his wife had hit four out of the park and it was a good feeling.

He sat down at the little desk in the corner, unlocked a drawer and pulled out the box. He lifted the top and stacked the five audiocassette tapes on top of the desk next to the letter he had written that morning. The name on the envelope was written in large, clear letters. “Seth Frank.” Hell, he owed the guy.

Laughter floated up to him and he again went to the window. Sidney and Chris were now engaged in a pitched snowball battle with Sherry, his wife, caught in the middle. The smiles were big and the confrontation culminated in all of them landing in a heap next to the driveway.

He turned away from the window and did something he could never remember doing before. Through eight years as a cop, where tiny babies had expired in his arms, beaten to death by the ones who were supposed to love and protect them, through day after day of looking for the worst in humankind. The tears were salty. He didn’t rub them away. They kept pouring. His family would be coming in soon. They were supposed to go out to dinner tonight. Ironically, today was Bill Burton’s forty-fifth birthday.

He leaned across the desk, and with a quick motion, pulled the revolver from his holster. A snowball hit the window. They wanted their daddy to come join them.

I’m sorry. I love you. I wish I could be there. I’m sorry for all I’ve done. Please forgive your dad. Before he could lose his nerve he pushed the .357 as far down his throat as he could. It was cold and heavy. One of his gums started to bleed from a nick.

Bill Burton had done everything he could to ensure that no one would ever know the truth. He had committed crimes; he had killed an innocent person and had been involved in five other homicides. And now, seemingly in the clear, the horror behind him, after months of mounting disgust with what he had become, and after a sleepless night next to a woman he had loved with all his heart for over two decades, Bill Burton had realized that he could not accept what he had done, nor could he live with that knowledge.

The fact was that without self-respect, without his pride, his life was not worth living. And the unfailing love of his family did not help matters, it only made them worse. Because the object of that love, of that respect, knew that he deserved none of it.

He looked over at the stack of cassette tapes. His insurance policy. Now they would constitute his legacy, his own bizarre epitaph. And some good would come out of it. Thank God for that.

His lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. The Secret Service. Well, the secrets were going to fly now. He briefly thought of Alan Richmond and his eyes glistened. Here’s hoping for life without parole and you live to be a hundred, asshole.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Another snowball hit the window. Their voices drifted up to him. The tears started again as he thought of what he was leaving behind. “Goddammit.” The word floated from his mouth, carrying with it more guilt, more anguish than he could ever hope to bear.

I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Please God don’t hate me.

At the sound of the explosion, the playing stopped as three pairs of eyes turned as one toward the house. In another minute they were inside. It only took one more minute for the screams to be heard. The quiet neighborhood was no more.