Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  “No,” Deke said, “if I go back I’ll play by the rules. I will think about it for a while. I’ll go sit with Leo out front.”

  McGill nodded.

  Sweetie waited until Deke was out the door before saying, “He’s right. If he goes back, he has to be subject to all the usual regulations. That’d be best for him as well as you.”

  Sweetie’s instincts were on the mark as usual, McGill thought.

  “You’re right. I just hated to ask him. It seemed like he’s enjoyed being a member of our team.”

  “Might be an alternative,” Sweetie said.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, talking with former SAC Crogher, I got the feeling he might be having second thoughts about retirement. If it turns out he doesn’t enjoy his private sector work with Welborn, he might agree to rejoin the ranks.”

  McGill looked at his old, dear friend as if she’d started speaking in tongues.

  “Are you saying, Margaret, that Celsus should displace Elspeth and she should become my personal Secret Service bodyguard?”

  Sweetie shook her head. “It would be unfair to Elspeth to demote her. I was thinking you and Crogher might be able to work out your differences if he worked more closely with you.”

  “Yeah, that might happen or, far more likely, we’d kill each other.”

  “Just an idea,” Sweetie said. “No need to get dramatic. Deke will probably bail you out.”

  McGill almost felt like sulking. Time was, he hadn’t needed anybody to help him take care of himself. He was more than self-sufficient. If something really big came up, he could always count on Sweetie to help out. Only now that she was married, most of her protective energies were directed toward Putnam. That was natural enough. He didn’t resent it.

  He did, however, feel a sense of loss.

  And maybe a touch of concern that his backside might be exposed.

  To anyone who might care to come by and kick it.

  But, good God, rely on Celsus Crogher?

  McGill interrupted his reverie when he saw Sweetie looking at him. She knew just what he was thinking. That he was considering her suggestion. It was time to change the subject.

  He asked Sweetie, “Have you heard anything about that new mystery building going up in Southeast?”

  “I have,” Sweetie said. “It was all Putnam’s idea.”

  “What is it?” McGill asked.

  “It’s a new art museum, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  Even so, Sweetie was telling him, McGill thought. Their bonds might not be quite as tight as they once were, but they were still close. Quick as a finger snap, he felt a lot better.

  “Is there anything else you can share?” he asked. “Without going too far?”

  “Let me see,” Sweetie said. She picked up an old-fashioned phone that was hard-wired into a wall. “Putnam’s in Omaha right now visiting Darren Drucker. I’ll see if he’ll forgive me for what I already let slip, and we’ll take it from there.”

  Let slip, my Aunt Fannie, McGill thought. He now realized Sweetie had an ulterior motive for sharing that tidbit. Maybe Putnam had been having a hard time measuring up against Sweetie’s nearly continuous state of grace. So she’d created a flaw for herself that would benefit both McGill and Putnam.

  Margaret Mary Sweeney’s cunning was never to be underestimated.

  She said hello to her husband and McGill saw a joyful softness round the planes of her face. Before she’d gotten married, he’d seen that expression from Sweetie only when she talked with children, his or other people’s. That Putnam could bring out the same feeling in her was worth a prayer that the two of them would have a long and happy marriage.

  After a moment of conversation, Sweetie confessed to letting a bit of their secret slip to McGill. She asked if having transgressed already she might tell McGill a little more. Sweetie listened to Putnam’s reply, said okay, told Putnam she couldn’t wait until he got home.

  Sweetie hung up the phone and looked at McGill.

  “Putnam says hello and he’s sorry but I can’t blab anymore than I already have.”

  “Okay,” McGill said, respecting spousal privilege, “I’ll just have to do some detecting.”

  “I can give you a clue,” Sweetie said.

  “Clues are always good.”

  “Putnam said to ask Patti.”

  “Patti knows?” That surprised McGill.

  “Maybe not,” Sweetie said. “But she should be able to find out.”

  “Because she’s the president,” McGill said.

  “Because The Andrew Hudson Grant Foundation is one of the new museum’s major benefactors,” Sweetie replied.

  Williamsburg, Virginia

  Arlo Carsten’s conditions of bondage had improved to the extent that his ankle was now bound to a U-bolt screwed into the wooden floor of the blacksmith’s cottage. The heft of the chain that had been draped around his neck still weighed on his memory. He also looked up frequently to see if some crushing weight might descend upon him.

  Shitkicker bastards had inflicted psychological damage on him.

  Had learned his big secret, too.

  But who the hell was he going to complain to?

  If he told anybody connected with law enforcement what was going on, they’d set him up in the Timothy McVeigh suite at that Indiana prison where the federal government executed people. Thinking in terms of McVeigh, Arlo realized he’d sold himself cheaply. He didn’t want to end up being responsible for killing a bunch of innocent people just doing their nine-to-fives.

  He sure as hell didn’t want any little kids in a day-care center to get killed.

  The president and the other budget-slashing politicians who didn’t believe in manned space flight and cost him the only job he’d ever dreamed of, them he’d kill in a heartbeat. But as precise as drone-fired missiles were, they weren’t that accurate.

  You could nail an SUV going down a dirt road in some third-world garbage dump of a country, sure. But you couldn’t program your weapon to kill the guy in the rear seat on the passenger side and leave everyone else in the vehicle alive. Maybe it’d come to that someday. Be kind of an interesting problem to solve, really. But that wasn’t the state of the art today.

  So, yeah, it was a pretty good bet he was about to become a mass murderer.

  Shit. His mama hadn’t raised him to be like that. Good thing she and daddy were already gone. They’d be horrified that things had already gotten as bad as they had. Him staked out like a judas-goat in some old tumble down shack.

  He hadn’t eaten in long enough he felt like something was chewing on him from the inside.

  All because he’d lost his fool head to —

  The woman who walked through the door that very moment. His breath caught in his throat, seeing her again. She wasn’t all dolled up liked the two times he’d seen her at the hotel bar. She was wearing sneakers, blue jeans, a UVA sweatshirt and a pink leather jacket.

  Appropriate clothing to a chilly night that promised to get colder.

  And she still looked mighty fine.

  Arlo expected one or both of the shitkickers would be with her, but she left the door ajar and came in alone. He didn’t see anyone outside. He was tempted to … shit, that didn’t matter. What his temptations were.

  He was chained to the goddamn floor, had enough slack to lie on the narrow bed the two assholes had dragged in for him. Of course, if he criticized his accommodations, the shitkickers might hook him back up to the anvil.

  “I brought you some food,” the woman said.

  She dug into her jacket pockets and pulled out a granola log, a jumbo size Snickers bar and a cardboard container of Juicy Juice Punch Splash. She tossed the items to him while standing out of reach. It surprised Arlo anyone could think he was dangerous at that point.

  Made him feel a little bit good the woman did.

  Think he was a threat.

  That made him wonder. Maybe he could trick her into coming clo
ser. See what happened then. Not that he could see how taking her as a hostage could work out to his advantage. He didn’t have it in him to kill a woman. Except for the president, and her only from a distance.

  “You’re all confused, aren’t you sugar?” she said. “I can see it on your face. You only sorta know how you got here and you don’t have a clue how you can get out.”

  In a damn nutshell, yeah, Arlo thought.

  All he said was, “You mind closing the door? It’s cold enough in here.”

  She smiled at him and went to the door, stepped outside. He thought she was about to leave, and forget to close the stinking door. But she didn’t go. She only looked around. Like she wanted to make sure the shitkickers weren’t nearby.

  Then she came back inside and closed the door.

  Why would she do that?

  What the hell was going on?

  Arlo had the feeling he was being set up. Something bad was about to happen. He was not going to like the way things turned out.

  “I just want to tell you how sorry I am, sugar,” the woman said. “This is all my fault. I’m such a terrible tease. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. I must be insecure or something.” She paused before adding, “You’ll never guess what I have in mind now.”

  “You’re going to stand me up for a date?”

  The snappy comeback cheered Arlo. If one of the shitkickers burst in and killed him right now, at least he’d die knowing he got one good lick in.

  “No, silly.” The woman was smiling. Took no offense. “I was going to show you what you’ll be missing. Undress for you. Down to my lingerie, anyway. Might’ve been more than that if it was warmer.”

  Arlo looked at her with suspicion, and a flicker of hope.

  “You’re engaged to that cowboy?” he asked.

  “At the moment,” she said. “Things can change, you know.”

  He shook his head, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  With a bit of a pout, she said, “Well, you should. That’s the way all you guys are. Reaching out to grab any girl that gets close enough. You want your way with all of us. Well, that’s what I’m like, too.”

  Arlo gave the idea fair consideration. There was some truth to what she said.

  “So would you like to get a peek at me or not?” she asked.

  He decided it was time to keep quiet again.

  Didn’t look away, though.

  As if reading his mind, the woman said, “Okay, here’s how we’ll do it. I’ll start stripping and maybe I will go all the way. Or you can make me stop any time you want. You just say so, I’ll get dressed and be on my way.”

  Arlo couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You get a thrill from me being all chained up?”

  She gave him a big smile and nodded, like she was getting the chance to act out a favorite fantasy. A sudden thought chilled him. Maybe this crazy woman and the shitkickers had done all this before. Lured some sad sack into a trap, brought him out into the boonies and …

  Well, shit, if they were going to kill him, he might as well enjoy the show first.

  He unwrapped the Snickers bar and took a bite.

  While chewing, he said, “You know, I forgot your name from the other night. You care to tell me what it is?”

  “What’s your favorite lady’s name? The name of the girl you always hoped you’d end up with?”

  Arlo knew that right off. He said, “Dolly.”

  She smiled. “You like those real big boobies, huh? Well, I’m not in that league, but I do okay. You can call me Dolly, if you want.”

  He didn’t call her anything. He just lay back with his hands under his head and watched. She took her jacket off first, shimmying as she worked her arms out of the sleeves. It didn’t have the polish of a real stripper doing a number, but Arlo didn’t complain.

  She put the jacket down on a rickety old table.

  Arlo heard a jingling sound and a thunk.

  Like some keys, coins and a heavier object had fallen out of a pocket.

  Dolly didn’t pay any attention to that. She was too busy trying to get him worked up. She did a little hip-swaying number in front of him, like she was dancing with that cowboy again. She moved a whole lot better when she didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t.

  Then she started to pull her sweatshirt up, an inch or so at a time. Wasn’t long before he could see her nice flat tum-tum. All speckled with goose bumps from the cold, too. Damn, he was getting excited. Wouldn’t be long before she got her shirt lifted high enough for —

  Her to turn her back and look at him over a shoulder.

  Grinning to show she sure as hell knew how to tease.

  But she kept going with her back to him. Got the sweatshirt up all the way to her shoulders. Her damn back, with a million more goosebumps and no bra straps in the way, was enough to get him breathing fast. He hoped she’d turn around and give him a real show. Take everything off, like she’d said. Then the high beams of a car or a truck swept through the dirty window.

  In a high-pitched squeal, the woman said, “Oh, shit!”

  She pulled her shirt down, grabbed her jacket and was out the door in a heartbeat. Christ, Arlo thought, he’d been cheated out of having fun with the damn woman again. His shoulders sagged and he was tempted to beat his head against the wall. Save the shitkickers the trouble of doing him in.

  Only he didn’t have the energy to kill himself just then.

  Maybe he could find the grit to do it later.

  At least the goddamn woman had closed the door on her way out.

  Then he noticed something else. The stuff that had fallen out of Dolly’s jacket pocket onto the table. She’d been too scared, in too much of a hurry, to notice it when she’d run from the shack. He’d been right about the keys and the coins.

  And the thing that had gone thunk?

  Well, it turned out that was a cell phone.

  Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC

  Pruet’s typical guitar repertoire ranged from classical pieces, Chopin’s Prelude in D, to French folk ballads, “J'ai vu le loup.” I saw the wolf. The folk music was usually reserved for festive family occasions when the wine flowed freely and the magistrate chose not to object to Odo’s off-key singing. The classical pieces were played when serious analysis or introspection was required.

  Odo had never heard Pruet play blues numbers, especially not following along with someone else playing on the radio. Or in this case a laptop computer. The magistrate’s room came with wireless connectivity. Electronic communications and Internet research comprised the normal uses for Pruet’s computer.

  With Jean-Louis Severin no longer the president of France, and Pruet’s political cover gone with him, M’sieur le Magistrat also had to stay abreast of any political intrigue that found its way into the electronic pages of Le Monde and other online journals.

  When the machine was not otherwise occupied, Odo used it to Skype with his wife, Marie, and their children. It invariably astonished Pruet to see Odo’s hard Corsican face transform itself into the visage of a warm, wise papa whenever he spoke with his children. Not that any of them would ever think of disobeying him.

  Odo had explained to each child that he didn’t need a computer to see them and know if they were obeying their mother. Père Noël had nothing on him. Wasn’t the only one who kept a list. Checked it twice.

  And that was the extent to which the laptop was used, until Pruet took the borrowed Martin guitar out of its case, intending to work through his usual playlist. Then a brochure fluttered out of the case along with the guitar. Pruet picked it up and took a look.

  Spotify. “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” he asked Odo. What’s this?

  The bodyguard could only shrug.

  Opening the brochure, Pruet saw a headline: The Soundtrack of Your Life.

  With a rueful smile, the magistrate thought that would be a somber medley indeed. He was about to put the brochure back in the case when he saw a code that offered a free
forty-eight hour trial to Spotify’s premium service. Music for every mood and moment, it said.

  Who could resist such an offer?

  He signed up. Browsed an astounding variety of musical offerings and decided to go with American blues. Thus did the music of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Joe Bonamassa and Kenny Wayne Shepherd make his acquaintance. At first, Pruet was content to listen as he cradled the Martin on his lap. Then his toes started to tap. His fingers kept time gently on the body of the guitar.

  When he thought he understood a melody, had a feel for where it might go, he started to play along. He took many a wrong turn, but after an hour he stopped thinking about what to do and just played from his heart. More often than not, he got things right, note for note.

  Even when he didn’t, he felt he’d achieved an improvisation that worked well with the original composition. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so alive. So vibrant.

  Watching from the equivalent of a front row seat, Odo didn’t know whether his old friend, smiling ear to ear, bobbing his head, sweat forming on his brow, was being reborn or losing his mind. Then the spell broke. Pruet stopped playing. Turned off the computer.

  Still holding the guitar, he looked at Odo and asked, “What do you think will become of us when we are forced to leave our current employment?”

  “Nothing too difficult,” Odo said. “I will have my pension and your family is quite rich.”

  “My family but not me. Even if money is not a concern, what will we do? Meet at a café each morning? While away endless hours until we forget we once had a purpose in life?”

  “I can think of worse things. You forget, of course, I have children to look after.”

  “Yes, you do,” Pruet said. “I should have acquired one or two for myself by now. May I buy one of yours?”

  Odo said, “For the right price, you can take them all.”

  The two of them laughed.

  “I suspect we will find ways to fill our time,” Odo said.

  “I hope you’re right. While I was trying to play along with all this new music, it came to me. M’sieur McGill knows we have more on our plates than just recovering a Renoir.”