President's assassin

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

There were three of them in the elevator. Nobody said a word. We were all winded, breathing heavily, and, for different reasons, consumed with our own thoughts and fears.

I used the descent to take stock of my new companions. They were dressed regularly-if shitkicker haberdashery can be termed regular-with black balaclava hoods over their heads, so I couldn't observe their fiendish faces, just their soulless eyes.

The one to my right, who maintained a vise grip on my arm, was square-shouldered, lanky, and extremely tall, perhaps six foot six or six foot seven. He smelled a little rank, or these days, I guess, "hygienically challenged."

The one to my left-specifically, the one holding the Glock pistol at my ear-had a feminine physique, slender where it counted, curvy where it counted, with a pair of huge rockets where it counted more. I assumed this was the same lady who had jerked me around on the phone.

The third member of their party had positioned himself in front of the elevator control panel. About my size, just shy of six feet, roughly 190 pounds, which coincided neatly with the descriptive data in Clyde Wizner's personnel files.

In fact, sexually, physically, and morally, these three were a cold match for Eric Tanner's hypothetical ring.

Not present in this gathering of murderers was the fourth party in their conspiracy, the brains of this outfit, Mr. Jason Barnes. Not really surprising, considering that his picture was in every newspaper in the country.

The elevator doors slid open. We were now on the ground level of the shopping center, and mirroring the upper level, there were no walls enclosing the shops; only a narrow covered walkway separated us from the lower parking lot. The cart and I were shoved out of the elevator, then straight toward the curb, where there were two Texas Cadillacs, i.e., beat-up Ford pickups, one red in color, one black, cabs empty, engines idling.

The guy who appeared to be Clyde Wizner said to the woman, "Get yers. Hurry" and off she loped, bouncing and jiggling.

He said to me, "You kin help load these cases, or you kin stand with yer thumb up yer butt and I'll blow yer brains out."

Time to be the perfect guest. I lifted the first suitcase and set it gently in the back of the black pickup.

Then the three of us were tossing suitcases into the beds of the red and black pickup trucks. There were no bags or luggage in any of the trucks, indicating, I thought, the possibility of a nearby hiding place. The license plates on both vehicles were Virginian, though presumably they were stolen, as was the fifty million, as was Sean Drummond.

In less than thirty seconds, the lady rolled up in her pickup, a yellow one, and the last four suitcases were thrown into the bed. The tall guy ran down the line and drew canvases over the cases, and there was their haul-fifty million in clean, untraceable cash divided not quite equally three ways, plus indivisible me.

The lady tossed me her keys and said, "Yer drivin' mine. Git in."

To clear up my apparent hesitation, she allowed me to examine how clean she kept the bore of her Glock pistol. She said, "I'd jus' as soon kill you. Move it, asshole."

And like that, I was in the mood for a drive.

The other two pickups sped off in different directions, as she and I climbed into the cab of her yellow Ford. Fastidiousness and nutritional fussiness were not among her faults; the floor was covered with crushed Bud cans and balled-up candy wrappers, and the lady appeared to own a bald dog, because tiny gray hairs were matted everywhere. Also, on the dash, directly in front of the steering wheel, was mounted a small video screen, presumably the one she had used to observe me inside the van.

Her right hand kept her pistol leveled at me, and with the other she removed her black balaclava hood and shook out her blond hair. As Chief Eric Tanner's witnesses attested, this was a lady who could spin a few heads; a little past thirty, cool blue eyes, tanned skin just turning wrinkly, pouty lips, and a firm chin. She was quite pretty, though a little slutty. Definitely not the type of girl Mom dreamed you'd bring home, but I think Pop would've enjoyed her. Except this lady had no heart and the black soul of a murderess.

Obeying perhaps her only law of the day, she buckled her seat belt. She said to me, "Don't buckle yers. Try crashin' this truck, yer goin' through the windshield, not me." She waved her pistol in front of my nose. "What'n the hell you lookin' at? Move it."

I pulled forward, and she directed me toward the far end of the parking lot. We sat on a long bench seat, and, showing sound survival skills, she scooted up against the passenger door and faced me. She said, "Don't speed, neither. Git back on Route 50, toward D.C."

After a moment, I commented, "You lied."

"I lie all the time. What's yer point?"

"There was no bomb."

"Oh… yeah." She looked around to see if any cops were in the vicinity. Unfortunately, they were all attending a convention on the other side of the mall, and it was smooth sailing. She looked at me and giggled. "Now, don't you feel like a stupid ass? Law degree and all that… still, I bullshitted you down to yer underpants. You were shittin' yer drawers."

"I never believed you in the first place."

"Liar." She laughed. "I saw yer face through the camera, and heard you tell the FBI. Like hell you din't believe me."

I laughed, too. "It did kind of suck."

I kept my eyes on the road, but after a moment I said to her, "You know, every cop in the entire world is going to come after you. Forever. You murdered a lot of important people. They'll never forget. Never. Eventually, they'll get you."

"Shut up."

"I just thought you should know they're really pissed."

"So what? They ain't impressed me yet."

That was probably true. After another moment I said, "What should I call you?"

"Don't call me nothin'. Shut up and drive."

"Come on. Give me a name. You're going to kill me anyway. Think about it… What will it hurt?"

She seemed to consider this. Obviously, she had removed her balaclava because in this era of terrorphobia people get a little stressed when they see hooded people riding around town. Yet allowing me to see her face was bad news for me. In fact, I was clueless as to why they hadn't already whacked me. Somehow, I fit into their agenda. Probably it suited their purposes to keep a hostage until they were free and clear, not a second longer. In any event, her failure to contradict my assertion confirmed that I didn't have to worry about my dinner plans. She said, "Mary-Lou."

Why do all these people from Texas sound like country singers? I said, "Pretty name."

"Don't try that shit. We ain't gonna be friends."

I looked at her. "You're right, MaryLou, we'll never be friends. I'd just like my last few hours to pass pleasantly. Okay with you?"

We could hear, off in the distance, the screams of sirens, and again she twisted around and looked to be sure there weren't any flashing lights on our tail. No such luck.

I mentioned, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Bureau already knows about you."

"Yeah, right-nice try. They don't got a clue about me."

"Well… look, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news here… but yeah… they really do."

"Bullshit. They don't-"

"They know you're from Killeen, they know you've been pilfering weapons, and they know all about your pal Clyde Winner."

As intended, this disclosure got a big jolt out of her. She sort of recoiled backward, the pistol dipped a little, and her eyes went wide.

"Investigators are running all over Killeen," I continued. "What I'll bet is somebody will remember seeing you and Clyde together." I added, "With your looks… the boys do take notice, don't they?"

"I… when… I mean, how-"

"Hey… you should see the composite of you they're flashing around. From that range theft-the day you ran around Fort Hood in the range control getup. Those guys on the range sure remembered you. In fact, seeing you in the flesh-wow, it's you… a dead ringer." I glanced at her and said, "Hey… you seem a little tense… upset. Should I be telling you this?"

"Jus'… fuck- Jus' shut up."

"Fine. I'll just, you know, drive."

I stared straight ahead. MaryLou was apparently not one of those people who accepts bad news gracefully. Neither am I.

I was thinking on my feet, looking for an angle, trying to get a bead on this lady. Having grown up in Army bases in the South, I knew girls who at least looked and sounded like MaryLou- rednecky, bred on the wrong side of the tracks, and willing to do anything to get to the right side. Mentally underendowed, but overendowed with great looks, great knockers, and the drives and instincts of a true carnivore.

Okay, I was constructing an overused stereotype, but stereotypes have their uses, and often even have roots in some useful and telling truths. For instance, I guessed that MaryLou probably was a little insecure about her background, resentful toward authority figures, and probably had a history with the coppers. Like most people from hardscrabble backgrounds, she was perhaps prone to believe that every piece of good fortune comes wrapped in a shitty lining.

Motive was also a factor. I would guess MaryLou beat the odds of early disaster, and now the shadow of long-term failure loomed; she was too old and carried too much baggage to impress a rich boy, her good looks were getting wrinkly, and a fork-lift was required to keep her boobs aloft. For MaryLou, it had become all or nothing, which was not really happy news for me.

As I suspected she might, she waved her pistol and asked, "Hey, you. What else the cops know?"

"MaryLou, it's not what they know now-it's what they'll soon know. You born and raised in Killeen?"

"So?"

I shook my head. "So, that's unfortunate for you. For the cops, it's one-stop/one-shop. The thing with cops is, they may get off to a slow start, but they're resilient and very persistent." I added, "By nightfall, they'll know your name, your history, even your shoe size."

Actually, from the molds taken at the Hawk's place, they already had her shoe size, width, an estimate of her weight, and even her shoe type. Under the circumstances, however, it probably was best not to bring that up. I suggested, "But maybe you don't have a problem."

"How's that?"

"Well, I'm sure you've got a good disguise and a fake passport to get out of the country. Right?"

"Nope. I know where I can git one, though."

"Killeen?"

"So?"

"What do you think?"

"Too hot, huh?"

I allowed her to think about that. She didn't strike me as overly bright, but I would be foolish to underestimate her. At least given our brief history together, there was no risk she would overestimate me. I suggested, "I'm not saying you're going to get caught, but I don't really see how you're not."

From her expression, these thoughts were disturbing for her. Actually, I was a little astonished. These people had thought out everything; why not a reasonable escape plan? Then again, success breeds overconfidence, and we all know where that lands you: sloppy

Eventually she said, "Maybe yer not as smart as you think, Drummond."

"Maybe. I know this; once the cops ID you, you'll be as recognizable as Madonna. As will your partners. You murdered some very important people, MaryLou, and you painted a bull's-eye on the President's ass. They're calling this the crime of the century"

"I kin still get away"

"Maybe. But what if you don't?"

"What's that mean?"

"A smart person considers the alternatives."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes shit happens, MaryLou. But it doesn't have to happen to you."

"I'm listenin'."

"We're talking multiple counts of murder in the first degree, extortion, and conspiracy to commit murder…" I looked at her and explained, accurately, "The government will have to ask for capital punishment. At least a couple of you will fry." I paused to allow that reality to register, and then suggested, "But I'll bet one of you won't."

I directed my eyes back to the road, though I could sense her studying me. Eventually she said, "Look, asshole, I got maybe twelve million comin' to me. Now yer tryin' to jerk me around, like I got a problem."

"Don't you?"

"Turn there, on Glebe." She added, "Way I see it, only problem I got's how to spend all that cash."

"Fine. Good luck."

"Yeah? Well, nobody kin prove shit on me."

"Except your partners." I smiled.

She raised her pistol and pointed it at my head. With a quick glance I saw that her trigger finger was white with pressure and her pupils were dilated with anger. Uh-oh. She said, "I think I'll jus' blow yer friggin' brains out."

"Boy, is that my thanks for trying to help you out here?"

Her fingers tightened a little more, and she was about a millimeter short of ending this conversation. "Don't, MaryLou. I'm driving, we'll crash, the cops will come, and you might have a little trouble explaining those suitcases in the truck bed." I very reasonably added, "Take a deep breath. Forget everything I said."

She obviously couldn't, however. She said, "Clyde's smart-erin' you anyway"

"Probably"

"He thinks things through."

"Sure does. I'll bet he knows exactly what he's going to do if you're apprehended."

"What's that mean?"

"Think about it."

"Yer tryin' to fuck with my head."

Exactly. "No, I'm simply suggesting that if you're apprehended, your reality changes. Maybe you and Clyde are as close as brother and sister. Or maybe you're not."

"Clyde always played me square."

"And the big guy?"

"Hank? Well, he's a little slow. Stupid, actually."

"You see… that's exactly what I'm talking about. If you're caught, somebody's going to squeal. They always do. The Feds will separate you, sweat you a little, and then offer you each one chance to live. First to squeal gets the deal. Maybe it'll be the smart guy who thinks ahead, or maybe the dumbass who can't think two seconds ahead."

She appeared to be pondering which of her partners, Hank or Clyde, would be the first to rat her out. I added, "The thought often thousand volts popping your eyeballs out of your skull… your teeth exploding… smoke curling out your hairtips and pouring out your ears… Some people… well, you know, they go all squirmy just thinking about it."

A little revolting imagery is always sobering. We were still headed west on Glebe Road, and she had cooled off a bit and was cradling her gun in her lap. Off to the left was a turn into a large and slightly run-down complex of red-brick townhouses and apartment buildings. She pointed at a turn into the complex and said, "Go past that. Circle 'round a bit."

"Fine." I now knew where we were going to end up.

After a moment, she said, "All right, Mr. Smartass Lawyer, say I git caught. What am I supposed to do?"

"First, don't hesitate. Like that game show… you know, Jeopardy, that Alex guy asks the question and whoever hits the buzzer first gets first shot."

"What's that mean? First shot?"

"Well, I didn't say it was automatic, did I?"

"No?"

"No. Maybe Hank, or maybe Clyde, or maybe both, will also jump at the deal." I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe how often that happens."

"I thought you said first to squeal gets the deal."

"Didn't I also say that somebody has got to fry?"

She nodded.

"See the problem here? The prosecutor's going to tell the cops the quota's for one. Only one. Whoever games it best gets the deal."

"Uh-huh. How's that work?"

"Well, it weighs on what they call extenuating factors. Like… for instance, who murdered the most people?"

"Uh… well, that would be Clyde and Hank, for damned sure. I only did… like two. Uh… maybe three."

"Which three? The lady at the door at Belknap's?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh."

My grip on the steering wheel got a little tighter. "Belknap's driver?"

Another nod.

"And was it you who planted the mine beside Justice Fineberg's door?"

"Nah. Clyde did that. He's really into bombs and shit. He don't let nobody near 'em. I jus' pushed the button that blew the old fart in half."

"That it?"

She had to think about it a moment. This was surreal. "Maybe one more," she said after a hesitation.

"Maybe"

"Okay, one more… Belknap's old lady" She looked at me and said, petulantly, "Clyde and Hank did like… I don't know… like maybe ten people."

It's always amazing, not to mention dismaying, when you talk to killers and discover what idiots they are, and how shockingly little remorse or even guilt they feel. I shook my head.

"What? You got a problem with that?"

"No, but you will. MaryLou, you need something else to offer the Feds. Exactly how dumb is Hank?"

"Real dumb. Clyde and I got all the brains. We'd get the targets, and plan 'em out." She laughed. "OF Hank, you tell him to stick his head up a cow's butt, he don't even think about it. That boy's stupider'n dirt."

"Well, that's not good."

She stopped laughing. "What ain't good?"

"You have to understand, the law gives idiots all the breaks. Like, the stupider you are, the less guilt you bear. You've got to balance that out."

"Yeah? How?"

"Maybe show you had a stab of conscience. Do something good to outweigh the bad. Remember, you only have to look slightly better in comparison to them." I added, quite sincerely, "That's not hard, is it?"

She studied me a moment. She said, "Like I should let you live? That's what yer edgin' at, right?"

"Not at all." After a moment, I added, "Well, obviously it wouldn't hurt."

"Uh-huh. And you'd say nice things about me?"

"It's a little late to make you sound like a saint. I'd be as complimentary as circumstances allow."

She said, "Go back to that turn I showed you."

"Sure." I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"Don't know yet. Gotta think about it."

Neither she nor I said a word the rest of our way. I had planted the seed, and either it would sprout or I was screwed.

I made the turn into the complex, then two rights and then a left, and we ended up in a tight cul-de-sac, where I pulled into a space right beside Hank's red pickup. Clyde's black pickup was nowhere in sight.

MaryLou hung a cloth over her pistol and ordered me out of the truck. We looked a little suspicious walking up the sidewalk, me in my underpants, her three paces behind me with her right arm locked. But the neighborhood was run-down and decrepit, and neighbors probably tended to mind their own business.

We entered a two-floored colonial-style townhouse, and I was directed down a narrow hallway that led into the sparsely furnished living room. I observed a small TV, a foldable card table, and some plastic outdoor furniture; otherwise, the place was bare. Martha Stewart would have a fit.

Hank stood off to our left, in the efficiency kitchen. He was a bit older than I expected, maybe fifty, dark-haired, slack-jawed, sugar-sabotaged teeth, and there was sullen dullness in his dark eyes, like somebody forgot to turn on the lights inside his skull. He was just knocking off a Bud; he tipped, it at MaryLou and said, "Hey"

"Hey," she replied.

"Him?" he commented, directing the beer can at me.

"Him," replied MaryLou, which seemed to end their monosyllabic discussion.

Incidentally, seated in a chair in the middle of the living room was a guy with his hands tied behind his back, with a black gag taped around his mouth, and with a face I instantly recognized: Jason Barnes.