Conspiracy

90

“if this turns out to be useful to you in any way, I would appreciate a mention to my mayor,” Chief Ball told Amanda Rauci when she got out of her car. He’d been careful to make sure he parked at the front, blocking the view of the vehicle at the back. Once he turned off the outside floodlight, her car would be invisible.

“Come on — that door there takes us direct to my office,” he said. “A letter from your director — that would be gold.

You wouldn’t believe the sort of small-town politics I have to deal with. They wanted to cut my part-time bud get in half this year. Basically, that would eliminate coverage five nights a week. We hit on a compromise, but I still go without two nights a week. That’s kind of classified, if you know what I mean. Don’t want the bad guys finding out.”

“Sure.”

The sarcasm in her voice was impossible to miss. But that was fine, Ball thought — she was buying the act, completely off guard.

“You have no idea the kinds of things we put up with in a small town,” Ball told her. “It looks peaceful, but believe me.

If we weren’t here, watch out.”

The chief pulled his keys off his belt and unlocked the door. He kept talking, playing the local-yokel angle to the hilt.

“I get asked to fix traffic tickets all the time. I mean, well, in some cases what are you going to do, right? You can use your best judgment if it’s something out of the ordinary. You look at the driving record and you figure, well, all right, just one mistake and what the heck. Why screw up the guy’s insurance rates, you know? Especially if he’s just a working guy like you. But some of the things I’ve been asked to do — I have to draw the line. That’s why I have trouble with the politics. A letter from your boss in my file, that’s something that will count, though. They’ll read it at the village board meeting, see; the local Jimmy Olsen cub reporter will mention it; people will know. It’ll help the department. Not me. I’ve been here so long they can’t touch me. It’s the department this will help.” He opened the door and flipped on the lights. The bud get cuts he was complaining about were real, and in this case were a good thing — he didn’t have to worry about a night man, because there wasn’t one on to night. But the town assessor occasionally came back to the village hall to work after he put his kids to sleep. That gave Ball about sixty minutes to get the job done.

Sooner was always better than later.

“So, do you think you can help me there?” Ball asked as Amanda stepped inside. “You don’t have to reveal anything to me. I know you guys have to follow your own procedures and whatnot. I respect that.”

“If the notebook is helpful, I’ll certainly ask my boss to say something about it,” offered Amanda.

“Thanks. It’s right there on the desk. Excuse me a second—

just going to hit the boys’ room out front. Hey, want coffee or anything?”

“No thanks.”

As soon as she saw the notebook, Amanda was glad she’d come. It wasn’t anything like the ones Forester used; true, it was a stenographer’s notebook, but it had a slick cover, which he wouldn’t have liked, because it couldn’t be written on and was too flimsy.

She reached into her purse and took out the real notebook. She’d show it to Ball, explain why this one was wrong.

There’d be no reason for him to call anyone else.

Amanda flipped the real notebook open, looking for a page of handwriting that would be easy to compare. As she did, she noticed a page with some impressions on it in the middle of the book — writing maybe, from another page that had been so carefully removed that she hadn’t noticed it before.

She held it to the light, trying to see what it said. When that didn’t work, she reached over and took a pencil from the holder on Chief Ball’s desk.

She could tell right away that this wasn’t just a page of notes; there were too many words. It was a letter — a short, terrible letter that Gerald Forester had started to write to his sons.

Amanda Rauci felt a tear well at the side of her eye. She put the notebook down on the desk and took a tissue from her purse.

Ball watched from the corner of his eye as Amanda put down the notebook and picked up her bag.

Was she going to leave? Was she getting a gun?

He couldn’t seem to get himself to act. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to. Or rather, he didn’t want it to be necessary to do.

Do it now!

The paralysis that had held him still finally melted away.

He reached into his pocket and took out the wire.

Quickly, quickly!

Chief Ball hadn’t strangled anyone in more than thirty years. The key to success was surprise, especially in this case, since Amanda Rauci was presumably trained in self-defense tactics. She was sitting, though, and unsuspecting.

He waited to strike until she put the tissue down and her hands were in her lap.

His wrists swept forward and then up and back in a graceful, easy, instant motion. From there, it was all strength and weight.

Rauci reached back, trying first to grab his arms. The chair slipped down; she lost her footing. Ball pulled his hands farther apart and kept his feet braced. He felt her weight, pulling against him. Something erupted inside him, a black energy that flooded his arms.

Killing someone with a wire was personal. Even if you had the advantage, the tables could be turned right up to the last instant; there was a huge amount of risk. At the same time, your victim was within inches of you, not dozens or hundreds of feet away. You were as close as if you were making love.

Amanda managed to get her foot up against the desk, but Ball realized what she was trying to do just in time. He pushed off to the right and pulled back, dragging her across the floor before she could throw herself back into him. The chair slid across the room. Ball threw his knee against her back, leveraging it against her as they twisted down to the floor. She was desperate now, her oxygen-deprived brain realizing that it didn’t have long to live.

Ball was desperate as well. Adrenaline surged in his arms as he pulled against the wire. He pushed his knee hard against her back, harder and harder, pressing as she continued to struggle. His body began to swim with sweat. A metallic, musky scent rose to his nose. He slipped down to the floor with her but hung on.

Amanda Rauci dug her elbow into his gut. Ball clamped his teeth together and held on.

And then it was done.

Ball didn’t realize it at first, and when he did realize it, he didn’t trust it. He kept his arms taut, his knee braced. He lay on top of his victim, his clothes soaked in perspiration, his lungs venting like an overworked blow furnace.

The last thing she thought was how unjust it was. Not this, not the attack or her death, but for the boys. They’d be haunted by something they had no control over for the rest of their lives.

Ball got to his knees, still holding the garrote. Amanda Rauci’s lifeless body followed, her head bobbing to the side.

The wire had gone deep into her neck, and in fact had cut into his own hands; their blood mixed together on her shirt.

Blood.

There wasn’t much of it, but there was more than he wanted. The floor would be easy to clean, but he’d have to move quickly.

The chief’s fingers trembled as he unwound the wire.

Damn bitch. What’d she make him kill her for? Why the hell didn’t she just mind her own business? Why didn’t they all mind their own business?

It was Gordon’s fault. He’d set Forester on Ball. The funny thing was, he had convinced Forester that eve ning when he stopped him on the road in the car. Ball knew he had. He could tell by the Secret Service agent’s face.

“I wasn’t even in that unit,” Ball had told him. “I knew who McSweeney was, but he wasn’t my CO. Just dig up my military record. Come by tomorrow and I’ll help if you want.”

And Forester had nodded. Then he’d gone off and killed himself.

Jerk.

Ball got to his feet. There was too much to be done now to waste time cursing his rotten luck.