Perfect killer

CHAPTER 22

Darryl Talmadge's collapse on the VA hospital floor dominated Clark Braxton's flat-panel computer monitor. The General pushed his Aeron chair back from his black granite slab desk to give Frank Harper a better look.

Harper studied the image, leaning one bony hand on the brilliantly polished desk and the other on his polished briar cane with the brass knob cast from melted shell casings he had collected from the sands at Juno Beach. Braxton resisted the impulse to remove the old doctor's hand from his desk and polish away the residue left behind. He loathed having other people's bodily oils on his belongings.

Instead, the General studied Harper's faint trembling. Secretly, Braxton had learned Harper's new palsy had lately begun to overwhelm the Parkinson's medication. Despite this, Harper's back was straight and his bearing sufficiently military and his intellectual capacities still useful enough to warrant Braxton's continued association.

"Would you like a chair?" Braxton made sure not to sound overly solicitous. When Harper shook his head, his sparse, down-fine, white hair swayed, then landed in disarray. Chaos irritated Braxton and he turned toward the window. The General stared at his own well-crafted image in the glass, mirrored by the darkness beyond. His frown deepened as he visualized the well-remembered view down the hill- his hill. Braxton's frown embraced the small brushy patch at the base that belonged to a stubborn son of a bitch in the ersatz Spanish stucco McMansion on Oakville Crossroad who kept jacking up the asking price.

That brushy patch remained the sole piece of his hill he had not been able to acquire. The arrogant bastard had let the land go to hell, didn't even have the decency to plant grapes on it. The parcel left a breach in security and posed a severe brush-fire hazard.

A recurring fantasy visited him now, replaying images of a solitary jog through vineyards glowing with the faint green haze of spring. Corning round a row, he confronts the stubborn landowner and settles the dispute with a lethally honed grape knife, crescentcurved and wicked with serrations. Braxton's frown vanished as he unzipped the man from sternum to scrotum. Then the General smiled, visualizing the first sip of wine made from the grapes fattened on the man's blood. "That happened awfully fast."

Reluctantly, Braxton turned back toward Harper. On the flat-panel display, a burst of white coats and scrubs exploded into Talmadge's room. The phone on Braxton's desk rang then; Braxton hit the pause button on the video stream, freezing two uniformed MPs in midlunge.

"Braxton," the General barked into the mouthpiece. He tilted his head as he listened.

"Ben, how many times do I have to tell you, price is not the issue?" Braxton dosed his eyes for a moment and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Harper watched the microtremors ripple across Braxton's jaw that indicated he needed to adjust the General's medication. Harper had trained himself to see the symptoms where others couldn't. That's why he and he alone treated the General. The speed with which the tremors intensified now alarmed him.

"Just get me the fucking wine, Ben!" Braxton's voice carried a deep, honed menace few ever cared to provoke. "This is my collection and it is incomplete. Incomplete! Do you know what that means? It means this collection is worthless-worthless-without that 1870s solera vertical…

"Yes, I know I've already spent millions, but this is not about the money; this is about having a complete collection. Complete!"

Braxton listened for a few more seconds. "Ben, I am paying you for results. Get me the collection or get the hell out of my life!"

Harper looked discreetly out the window as Braxton struggled not to slam down the receiver. The dosage and formula of the General's drug cocktail had become increasingly complicated with week-to-week and sometimes daily adjustments needed. Neither the General nor any other person knew how much effort Harper put into keeping one of his oldest surviving patients on an even keel.

After hanging up the phone, Braxton restarted the Talmadge video. After Braxton's microtremors subsided, Harper said, "I still don't understand why you didn't have Talmadge killed like the others."

Braxton offered the old Army physician another question: "Well, for one thing, have you recovered the old microfilmed files you left in Belzoni?"

Harper sighed and, with considerable effort, straightened up and faced Braxton. He was taller than the General and more than two decades older. When he spoke, his voice failed to hide his own lack of patience.

"Obviously I would have told you if I had. Why do you keep giving me that question instead of an answer?"

"Because you keep asking me that very obvious question." Braxton worked to maintain a neutral tone. "You know darned well our Mr. Talmadge got his hands on those records and his do-gooder lawyer burned them all on CDs. For all we know, lawyer Shanker or an ally made arrangements to have the CDs turned over to the press if Talmadge dies in our hands." Braxton paused to select a tone of voice conveying the appropriately serious edge. "The problem with old men is that time and guilt loosens their lips. When consequences disappear, people do things that we can't tolerate."

"Clark, you know that without the microfilm of the documents, or your testimony, the CD copies can be dismissed as forgeries," Harper responded. "Something concocted by desperate people who want to block your election." He paused. "Besides, the real dynamite is still here." He tapped his head.

Braxton shook his head. "Frank, with all due respect"- which is rapidly diminishing, you old fool, Braxton thought-"you simply don't understand the process. All those ankle-biting Chihuahuas in the media have to do is release the CD a couple of weeks before the election and I've lost."

Harper shrugged.

"Until we find those documents-and any copies which might be out there-we cannot be sure, and until we are sure, my bid to rescue this great country from its own sloppy foolishness is in grave danger."

"Yes, yes." Harper waved his free hand about. Braxton noted that Harper had, indeed, left a handprint on the black granite. "But don't you think the longer he continues this"-Harper pointed toward the screen-"this repeating drama, the greater the danger?"

Damn! The old fool was losing it. And he's wasting my time as well, Braxton thought as his eyes strayed to his desk and the two unread hardcover thrillers by David Baldacci and Dale Brown. They were his favorite authors and had much rather be reading them rather than nursemaiding a broken-down old sawbones.

"Frank, you're a brilliant physician, a gifted researcher, and a loyal, patriotic soldier who has served his country well." Braxton turned toward Harper and placed his hand on the old man's shoulder and felt the bones. "You understand the inner workings of the human body, and I, for one, am grateful for your work." Braxton paused as he shifted from the richly warm congratulatory tone that had brought a smile to Harper's face, to one now of wisdom and caution.

"But, Doctor, dealing with these sorts of situations is not your expertise. The Good Lord didn't bless me with the immensity of your intellectual gifts, but he did give me an operational sense of how to handle things such as this, and I think you should let me worry about that. It's worked well so far-this division of labor-for damned close to forty years, hasn't it?"

Braxton paused. "Think about it: How many from your original program are left?"

"Only Talmadge and you," Harper said without hesitation. "We have a few more recent head-wound veterans using the medications, but those are administered indirectly"

"And who knows the whole story from beginning to end?"

"Just you and I."

"There," Braxton said. "See? I've done all right with that part of things, have I not?"

Harper offered an uneasy smile. "I only wish I had been as successful with the others." He nodded toward the screen.

Braxton was disappointed at Harper's swift concession. Not long ago, Harper had been a formidable intellectual opponent. They had enjoyed sparring and Braxton didn't always win. But, the General knew, it was time for being graceful.

"Frank, I admit we failed by not taking Talmadge out before he fell into the hands of people we don't yet control. But by the time we found out, he was spilling the beans to the shrinks in Jackson. You know as well as I do, we can't do anything while he's in custody. That would only invite more questions. Things will change after my election, but until then we need to work with what we have.

"But you have to admit his mental condition and the nature of his crime pretty much destroyed his credibility. Nobody wants to believe a man like that."

Harper shrugged and made his way to the window "Except for Jay Shanker and the nosy bitches at the legal foundation." He looked over at Braxton. "And of course we still have the daughter to contend with and she's as bad as her mother. And there's Stone."

"I disagree. She's not half the lawyer her mother was. And we're well on the way to taking care of Stone."

"Oh, yes, your crack teams have taken very good care of him so far"

"Stone's a capable man," Braxton said evenly enough to keep the brief flare of anger from showing on his face. "He's a natural two-percenter-and not one of ours. We have ways to handle him."

"How- "

Braxton shook his head. "You don't want to know." He nodded. And the gas chamber will take care of Talmadge. Either that or the cancer. That's my bet." Braxton faced his old comrade. "Frank, things will be fine so long as your records don't emerge from the grave you were supposed to put them in."