A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

  “Follow me,” the agent ordered.

  He was the strong, silent type, with an emphasis on silent. He never said a word as he led us up one of the staircases. I casually mentioned I’d heard there was a problem with Mrs. Harris’s security yesterday. The agent looked at me and kept on walking.

  “In fact,” I said, “I heard they lost her for four or five hours.”

  This time he didn’t even bother with a look.

  We reached the second floor. Before us was a lounge area and beyond, the doors of the auditorium. They should have been closed, but instead most stood open and we could see that the house lights were on. The place appeared to be packed and we could hear a buzz emanating from the audience, as they conversed among themselves.

  Amanda and I checked our watches. Simon, I noticed, didn’t. Amanda said to the agent, “Wasn’t Mrs. Harris supposed to speak at eleven?”

  “Yes.”

  His only response. He made a sharp left toward a hallway, which I knew led to a series of administration offices and eventually descended to an access for the stage.

  Simon said, “I need to freshen up.”

  I said, “You should have tried some Perrier.”

  He appeared less than amused. I told him the restrooms were just ahead. I added, “I’ve got to go too.”

  He froze me with a look. It took me a second to understand what the problem was. When we came to the restrooms, Simon and Amanda disappeared through their respective doors, while I remained in the hallway with the agent.

  Noticing his frown, I said, “Bladder’s bigger than I thought.”

  No reaction. Apparently, Simon wasn’t the only one without a sense of humor.

  As the agent and I watched the walls, I wondered how Olson had managed to get in the building. It had to be that certain reporters had been allowed to cover the speech. The ones who promised to behave.

  Amanda alighted from her restroom first, followed by Simon a few seconds later. I cocked an eyebrow at him. He ignored it and the question that came with it.

  As he went past me, I brushed against him. That generated a glower from Simon; he knew why I’d done it. I didn’t care. He’d forced my hand and I wanted to know whether he still had the tape.

  He didn’t.

  The hallway seemed to go on forever. In actuality, it’s something like seventy meters and change. I only knew this because, as a freshman cadet, I was required to measure all the hallways in Burruss. One of those hazing pranks that seemed senseless then, but looking back, I realized it had been crucial in my development as a military officer.

  Uh-huh.

  We continued past more offices. Since it was the weekend, they were unoccupied. As we walked, I lagged behind, firing glances toward the restroom. After a dozen steps, I saw a man emerge. It wasn’t Olson or anyone I’d ever seen before. The man was pushing forty, small and bookish, and wore black-framed glasses that seemed too large for his head.

  He also carried a briefcase.

  When he noticed me looking, he quickly walked away in the opposite direction.

  What are you up to, Simon?

  Prior to reaching the stairs that descended toward the stage entrance, the agent turned into a spacious office with an elegant reception area. Two tense-faced twenty-somethings were pacing circles in the carpet, talking into cell phones. Several others sat at desks, clicking frantically on laptops. No one looked more than thirty. Campaign staffers out to change the world.

  “In there,” the agent said, pointing us to a door marked “Conference Room.”

  As our escort departed, we headed for the door. From within, we could hear the loud voices of an argument. A man was saying he thought the speech should be canceled. Someone—a woman—interrupted him. It sounded like Teresa Harris and she was clearly furious.

  “I spoke to General Murdock,” she said. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Half the members of Congress and the president have called him to reconsider. The VFW has launched a letter-writing campaign against him. We wait and we can kiss his endorsement good-bye. Rollie, what are we running against conservatives?”

  “Under thirty percent according to the latest Gallup,” Roland Slater said. “And conservatives vote. They go to the polls. If we can’t raise our unfavorables by at least three points, we could still lose the general election.”

  “That settles it,” Teresa Harris said. “I’m giving the speech.”

  “Honey,” a third man, who was obviously Congressman Harris, said. “Agent Hassall is right to be cautious. We shouldn’t compromise security because—”

  “Garrison, let me worry about that. I’m making the speech, not you.”

  “Mrs. Harris,” Hassall said. “A door was breached. There’s no telling who might—”

  “I don’t give a damn. I want General Murdock’s fucking endorsement.”

  We waited a few seconds. There was only silence.

  Simon knocked.

  Filing inside, we saw six people standing around a conference table. Four we’d previously identified: Teresa Harris, Congressman Harris, Slater, and Agent Hassall. The fifth person was Hassall’s sidekick from last night, Agent Coleman, and the sixth, another guy with an earpiece. No one looked happy, but I knew that wasn’t our fault.

  Yet.

  Teresa Harris dismissed us with a cryptic glance and returned her attention to Hassall. “I’m going on stage now. I’ll shorten my speech. Once General Murdock gives us the endorsement, we’ll leave. That’s the best I can do. If you can’t protect me for twenty minutes from some imagined threat—” Her face went glacial when Hassall started to speak. “Not a word. You told me those doors are often breached by students as a prank. You said it happens dozens of times each year. Is that true or not?”

  I realized what doors she was referring to. And Teresa Harris was right. They were broken into all the time.

  Hassall said, “According to Dr. Peters, that’s true, but—”

  “Peters should damn well know. He’s the president of the university, for Christ’s sake. Now get out of here, Hassall. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Hassall’s face reddened. He looked to Congressman Harris, seeking support. For a moment, it seemed as if Harris was on the verge of doing so. But when he saw his wife glaring at him, the man who would be president reconsidered and remained silent.

  Congressman Harris’s reaction was telling. Yesterday, when I’d met the two of them, I’d assumed he was the one who called the shots in their relationship. Now I realized it was the other way around.

  Teresa Harris said to Hassall, “I told you to leave.”

  Without a word, the emasculated agent turned away from her and departed the room.

  “You too, gentlemen,” Teresa said. “Wait outside. Go.”

  Coleman and the third agent followed their supervisor out.

  Addressing her husband, Teresa said, “I want Hassall replaced.”

  “Let’s not be hasty. He’s only doing his—”

  “Tomorrow, Garrison. He’s disrespectful and incompetent. I won’t put up with him. I simply won’t.”

  Congressman Harris sighed, nodding.

  Watching Teresa Harris, I found it inconceivable that she was the same person who had been so distraught over viewing her nephew’s body. Everything about her manner, from the tilt of her beautiful head to the arrogant set of her perfectly formed jaw, projected a sense of innate superiority and open disdain. Up to this moment, I still had difficulty believing that she’d carried out the murders with her own hands, but now there was no doubt. This was a ruthless calculating woman, who was capable of anything.

  A total bitch.

  Her eyes went to a television mounted on a wall. It was on a closed circuit and showed the center of the stage. Angled behind an empty podium, we saw a single row of chairs. Perhaps a dozen. Some were occupied—I recognized the university president and the dean—but most weren’t. Teresa asked Slater how long it would take to get everyone to return.

  “I
told them to remain nearby until we made a decision.”

  “All right. Let’s do it. Coming, Garrison?”

  “In a minute.”

  As Teresa Harris and Slater walked past us to the door, she said, “Where the hell is Abigail? Those stage lights can be brutal. I’ll need my makeup retouched.”

  “She went to find somewhere quiet to make calls,” Slater said. “I’ll have Donna run her down. Have you decided what to cut from the speech?”

  “Social Security and universal health care—”

  “Perfect. These kids don’t care about medical coverage. They think they’ll live forever. Go after the president’s economic policies hard. Particulary the rising unemployment. That’s the one thing these kids understand. Jobs. A lot of them will be graduating and if we frighten them…”

  “I know what I’m doing, Rollie.”

  “Hey, hey. Relax. I’m only reminding you….”

  They continued into the outer office. Amanda was frowning, as I was. We wondered why Simon hadn’t said anything. We watched Slater and Teresa Harris disappear into the hallway, Agent Coleman in tow.

  Still, Simon said nothing. He seemed content to stand quietly, looking at Congressman Harris.

  “I understand,” Harris said to him, “that you’re here to brief me on the case against Colonel Kelly.”

  “Yes, Mr. Congressman.”

  “By the way, nice work, Lieutenant. I knew he was responsible. Sorry, I had to pull strings, but it all came out in the end. No hard feelings, huh?”

  “None, Mr. Congressman.”

  Simon was smiling. It was a pleasant smile and seemed distinctly out of place. I saw Amanda stiffen slightly. Like me, she sensed this meant Simon was getting ready to drop the bomb.

  I folded my arms and prepared for the explosion.

  Except the explosion never materialized. Rather than going nuclear, Simon tossed out what amounted to little more than a stun grenade. He said, “Tell me about the club, Mr. Congressman.”

  “Club?” Harris frowned. “What club?”

  “The one northwest of Manassas. It’s in the country about thirty miles away. You don’t know of it?”

  “Should I?”

  “It’s where the videotapes were made, sir.”

  “Videotapes? The ones Franklin had?”

  “Don’t you know, sir?”

  “No, I don’t.” Harris was getting irritated. He seemed to have no idea what Simon was talking about. “What the hell is this, Lieutenant? I thought you were here to brief me on the evidence against Colonel Kelly.”

  “I’m getting to that, sir.”

  A woman stuck her head in the door. “Congressman, we need to leave now if you want to be on stage before the introductions.”

  “Christ.” To Simon, he said, “Well, you better do it damn quick, Lieutenant. I’m a busy man. When I return, I expect answers, not questions. You understand me?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Let’s go Tanya.” Harris hurried from the room, gathering several aides as he went. The Secret Service agent I hadn’t recognized followed the group, talking on a radio.

  Amanda murmured, “He really didn’t know, did he?”

  “No,” Simon said.

  This was why he’d danced around the club and the videotapes: to judge Harris’s reaction and determine whether Sam’s assessment of his innocence was correct. From what we saw, it was. I wondered why Simon wanted to clear this up now. It didn’t really prove anything. Harris’s guilt or innocence would come out later, once a more comprehensive investigation was completed.

  Before I could ask Simon about this, he said, “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “Where are you going?” Amanda asked.

  Simon slipped out of the conference room. He looked suddenly anxious about something. Pausing in the outer office, he took out his cell phone and contemplated it. Shaking his head, he returned it to his jacket, stepped over to a desk, snatched up a receiver.

  Amanda said, “What was that all about? He didn’t want to use his own phone.”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Reacting to something in my voice, she said, “Spill it. What’s bugging you?”

  After I told her about the man I saw leaving the restroom, she said, “Maybe it was a television reporter Simon gave the tape to. When you think about it, that makes more sense anyway.”

  “The guy didn’t strike me as a reporter. He looked more like a businessman or an accountant. He had a briefcase.”

  “Sure. He needed the case to hide the tape. Besides, who else could he be, if he wasn’t a reporter?”

  Which was precisely the problem. He couldn’t be anyone but a reporter.

  Could he?

  Simon was still talking on the phone. Glancing at the television, I saw various dignitaries beginning to take their seats on the stage. General Murdock was sitting on the very end, opposite the podium. A burly man with red hair appeared and eased down beside him.

  I realized I recognized him. It was Senator Tobias Hansen. Like General Murdock, he’d also been blackmailed by Slater. Hansen’s presence here puzzled me because he was the conservative senator who had previously endorsed Congressman Harris. Was he here to ratchet up the pressure on General Murdock, ensure he went through with his—

  Another man appeared. He strode rapidly across the stage toward Senator Hansen. He leaned over and spoke to him. Only I was mistaken. He was speaking to both men.

  Senator Hansen and General Murdock.

  My mind kicked into overdrive. I tried to decipher what I was seeing, but couldn’t even come close. One thing I did know for certain was that Amanda was wrong. This man sure as hell wasn’t—

  “Marty…”

  Amanda was reading my face. She sighed. “What’s the problem now?”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon?”

  “Something doesn’t smell right. Take a look at the man who is—” I stopped. Simon was reentering the office. His expression was relaxed, his earlier anxiety gone.

  “Who is the man with the glasses?” I asked him.

  His face went blank. “Man with glasses?”

  I pointed to the television. “The guy talking to Senator Hansen and General Murdock.” As I said this, the man with the glasses turned and hurried from the stage.

  Simon said, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him—”

  “You passed him the tape in the restroom.”

  Amanda said, “That’s the guy?”

  Simon went still, staring at me. Most people who get caught in a lie go on the defensive. Not Simon. His face darkened and he became angry. He snapped, “This doesn’t concern you, Martin.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Something’s going on here. Something between you and Senator Hansen and General Murdock—”

  “Forget about this. It’s for your own good.”

  There was an ominous quality in his voice. Amanda picked up on it too. “My God, Simon. What have you done? What is going on?”

  A long silence. I would have bet a month’s pay he would never answer her, but he surprised me.

  “I did what was necessary,” he said.

  The blood drained from Amanda’s face. She knew Simon and knew the significance of these words. I did what was necessary.

  An instant later, we heard what sounded like a scream.

  50

  The scream was faint, muffled. It sounded as if it came from a room some distance away. The scream was followed by sounds of hysterical crying. We looked out the door into the main office. The remaining aides were rising to their feet, their faces quizzical. Then we saw expressions of growing alarm as they hurried into the hallway. Amanda ran after them, with me on her heels. Racing out the door, I looked back at Simon.

  He was walking.

  I swore. It was starting.

  Amanda and I sprinted down the hall. We were running away from the stage, toward the entrance to the auditorium. We could still hear the crying. Ahead, I saw the aides duc
k into an office. One that should have been empty.

  That’s when I knew who it was. Who it had to be.

  She went to find someplace quiet to make calls.

  As we ran, I kept looking for Secret Service, but didn’t see any. Harris wasn’t the president yet and would have a reduced security complement. Not more than eight or ten agents. And they would be manning the building’s entrances, or on the stage or inside the auditorium.

  They wouldn’t be here.

  Amanda and I darted inside the office. The cries abruptly quieted. We found ourselves in another large reception area, private offices toward the back. In the far corner, we saw an open door, the aides we’d been following cluttered around it. They parted to reveal a young man clutching a sobbing woman.

  “Get back,” Amanda ordered, running up. “Police.”

  The aides drifted aside. All wore expressions of horror. The man and the woman walked past us. She was young, no more than twenty-one or -two. Amanda and I went into the office and saw the victim immediately.

  It was Abigail Gillette.

  The big, muscular woman was lying on the floor in front of the desk, her chest matted with blood from several deep stab wounds. It only took a glance to see she was dead. Looking at her, I felt a complete absence of emotion. No regret, no sympathy, no pity.

  Nothing.

  Amanda rose after checking her carotid artery. “Still warm. Couldn’t have happened long ago.”

  I nodded.

  She looked to me. “What do we do?”

  She was asking whether we should follow Simon’s advice, let this play out. For a moment, I was tempted to say yes. Just say yes and do nothing. It was more than because I felt Abigail Gillette deserved to die. Much more.

  I knew who was responsible for her death.

  When I revealed his name to Amanda, she said, “That’s impossible. He wouldn’t have time. We just got here ourselves.”

  “It’s him. It has to be him because of the door. The one that was breached. Only he would know.”

  “Huh?”