A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

When I explained, I saw her nod her acceptance. “Coller,” she said. “He’s the one who killed Coller.”

  “Yes.”

  “Simon lied to us. He knew all along.”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “But the rest of it. It’s crazy. You really think there’s a chance he will—”

  “He broke the door for a reason.”

  Her eyes held mine. “So what are you going to do?” she asked again.

  I was still conflicted. I wasn’t aware I’d responded until I heard myself say the words.

  “We’re police officers,” I said quietly.

  Reluctance and disappointment registered on her face. Not the answer she’d been hoping for.

  But as I hurried from the room, she was right behind me.

  Simon was entering the outer office as we ran up. He said, “Abigail Gillette?”

  I looked right at him. “Like you didn’t fucking know.”

  His jaw knotted. Grabbing me hard by the elbow, he leaned close and whispered harshly. “You’re being foolish. Your interference will only cause trouble. It’s all arranged.”

  “What’s all arranged?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s not my decision.”

  “Not your decision? Whose the hell is it?”

  He said nothing.

  “God dammit, Simon—”

  “People of influence. Do not interfere.”

  “You talking about Senator Hansen, right? Who else? General Murdock?”

  Another silence. I saw his frustration. This was a reflection of our divergent moral outlooks. He believed the end justified the means; I didn’t.

  He abruptly stepped away from me and said stiffly, “I’ll notify the Secret Service.”

  He went down the hallway, toward the stage. Still walking.

  It was the long way. At Simon’s pace, it would take him over a minute to raise the alarm, which was his intention. That suggested that whatever was about to happen was going to happen soon.

  “This way is quicker,” I said to Amanda. “There will be Secret Service guarding the auditorium entrance.”

  I broke into a jog. After about five yards, I realized I was alone. Turning, I saw Amanda standing in the middle of the hall, shaking her head.

  “Damn you,” she said. “Damn you.”

  She began to run after me.

  I sprinted up to the auditorium. The doors were closed, indicating the presentation had started. As I gripped a handle, I heard Amanda’s footsteps behind me. I yanked open a door and we ducked inside, pausing to let our eyes adjust to the darkness.

  On stage, Dr. Peters, the university president, was at the podium, introducing Mrs. Harris. She remained off to his side, taking in his glowing words with apparent modesty. On the chairs behind the podium, we saw her husband sitting in the center, Slater in his customary position to Harris’s right.

  “There,” Amanda whispered.

  She gestured to the left. An agent was standing on the other side of the projection booth. It was Coleman. I gave him an urgent wave. He disappeared behind the booth, making his way toward us. Two more agents stood alongside the right wall of the auditorium—one about midway, one near the bottom—monitoring the audience.

  “And now without further ado,” Dr. Peters said, “I’d like to introduce the next first lady of the United States of America, Teresa Harris.”

  The auditorium erupted in enthusiastic applause. Teresa Harris stepped up to the podium. Behind me, a voice whispered, “What’s the problem?”

  People seated nearby watched us curiously. Their faces were all young. Taking Coleman by an arm, I drew him back a few steps. “Something’s going to happen, but I don’t know what. We just found Abigail Gillette—”

  “What the hell?”

  This came from Amanda. At the same instant, a rumble of surprise rose from the audience. A man in the back row said loudly, “My God, is that who I think it is?”

  Then a woman squealed: “It’s her. It’s really her.”

  Turning, I saw Teresa Harris standing at the podium, beginning her speech. Behind her, images danced across the curtains at the rear of the stage. Because of the creases in the curtains, the images had a wavy, almost ghostly quality. It could have been a movie that had been inadvertently started, but we realized it wasn’t.

  Someone was playing the video of Teresa Harris and Abigail Gillette having sex with Major Talbot.

  Teresa Harris continued her speech, oblivious to what was going on behind her. Finally, she heard the gasps and titters and broke off, frowning. Hundreds of hands rose up, pointing.

  “Oh, fuck—”

  Coleman rushed past me and tried to open the door to the projection booth. He began to pound on it. “Terry, what’s going on in there? Terry, open up. Dammit—”

  At that instant, it happened. Like everyone else, I’d been watching Teresa Harris, waiting to see her reaction to the video. She was slowly pivoting, eyes crawling up the curtains. That’s when I noticed a sudden movement over to her right. On one of the chairs where the dignitaries were sitting.

  Shifting my gaze, I saw Slater buck violently and clutch at his chest. He had a confused expression.

  Then he slowly toppled forward, his hands falling away, and we saw the blood.

  51

  The silence was deafening. Everyone was confused, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. Then one of the dignitaries jumped from his chair and shouted, “My God, he’s been shot.” Pandemonium immediately followed. People rose from their seats, shouting and screaming. Those seated in the rear clawed over one another and raced toward the exits. They were upon us within seconds. Amanda and I pushed our way through the panicked mass, fighting to keep our eyes fixated on the stage.

  We saw agents rush out from the wings toward Teresa Harris and her husband. In her case, they were too late. The next bullet struck Teresa in the head, tearing away a part of her scalp. A third shot struck her in the shoulder, spinning her as she fell. We saw the blood and gore, but heard no gunfire. It was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. I turned to the projection booth. Through the little window in the front, I glimpsed a rifle barrel.

  It disappeared.

  A hand struck me in the chest and I winced. Someone began pulling on me from behind. Amanda shouted, “This way or we’ll get trampled.”

  I followed her lead and we moved back, crouching against the front of the booth. Peeking around the corner, I saw that Coleman was no longer knocking on the door. Instead he was pressed against it, trying to avoid people who were running by. On stage, agents shielded Congressman Harris with their bodies, dragging him to safety. As I watched this frantic scene play out, I finally understood Simon’s questions to Congressman Harris and his subsequent phone call—the one he’d been hesitant to make on his cellular.

  Simon would have wanted to be certain there was no mistake as to the congressman’s guilt. He would also have wanted to ensure the call would not be traced to his phone.

  “Look, Marty,” Amanda said.

  She pointed to the left edge of the stage. At two men who were staring at the body of Teresa Harris. There was no panic or fear on their faces…and certainly nothing approaching remorse.

  Moments later, General Murdock and Senator Hansen disappeared into the wings.

  Amanda said, “You called it…”

  I nodded.

  “Wonder who else was involved?”

  I passed on a response; she was musing aloud. We continued to stare down at the two bodies, lying still on the stage.

  Amanda said, “I wish I could say I felt badly about this…”

  “I don’t.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “I don’t,” I repeated.

  It wasn’t a lie. Once again, I hadn’t seen the complete picture. If I had, I would have realized there was no other logical way for this to have ended. He couldn’t have handled testifying and a trial. He certainly couldn’t have tolerated the sha
me of going to prison. In his mind, this was the only option.

  The crowd was beginning to thin, most of the people having escaped. The two agents I’d noticed earlier were working their way up behind it, coming toward the booth. More fanned out behind them. It wouldn’t be long now and I wanted a chance to say good-bye.

  “I’m going to try and get into the booth,” I said to Amanda, rising from my crouch.

  She looked at me and I saw a glimmer of understanding. “You could be too late. We wouldn’t have heard the shot.”

  I spoke into the opening of the booth, which was just above my head. “It’s Marty. I’m coming in.”

  There was no response.

  I went around to the side door anyway.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Coleman slapped my hand away as I reached for the door knob. His mouth was bleeding, his eyes a little wild. He had his pistol out and was waving it in my direction.

  “I’m going inside.”

  “The hell you are. We got an agent in there. He could be hurt or worse. Not to mention at least one more hostage. Either the projectionist or—”

  I tried the nob and was surprised when it turned.

  “Goddammit,” Coleman roared. “I’m warning you. Step away or—”

  The door to the booth suddenly opened and an elderly man with fearful eyes tentatively emerged. He stopped after a single step and looked at Coleman and me. In a wavering voice, he asked, “One of you Collins?”

  “I am.”

  “He’ll let you in. No one else, or the agent dies.”

  I glanced at Coleman.

  He hesitated. “Fine. Be my guest. It’s your funeral.”

  I motioned the old man forward, then slipped by him and closed the door behind me.

  “Hello, Marty,” a voice said.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  52

  The booth was cramped, not much larger than a prison cell. Sam was sitting on the floor, across from the door, looking up at me. He wore his class A military uniform, his stars glittering on his shoulders, a dizzying array of medals on his chest. In his big hands, he held a civilian version of the M-16, affixed with a silencer. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen it in his collection, but couldn’t remember. He had so many guns.

  He gave me a tired smile, shifting the barrel from the door. “So you figured it, huh?”

  “It couldn’t be anyone else.”

  “No lectures, Marty. It was meant to end like this. Call it fate. Call it anything you want. They were coming here. The one place where I could pull this thing off. Besides, once I killed that double-crossing son of a bitch Coller, I was committed. There was no going back. Sorry about the ear. That was one tough shot.”

  “You could have killed me.”

  He grinned. “Have a little faith. I wouldn’t have fired if I thought I’d miss.”

  “Uh-huh. Mind telling me why you were driving Talbot’s M5?”

  His grin faded into a somber line. “It was a gift. Franklin bought it for me. I told him I couldn’t accept it, but he insisted I drive it for a few days.” His expression turned wistful at some private memory. “Franklin was always doing that. Surprising me with gifts.”

  I didn’t ask Sam what the car was doing in the Pentagon lot; the answer was obvious. Knowing the vehicle had been spotted by Officer Hannity, he’d ditched it there, figuring it wouldn’t be noticed for at least a day.

  And that’s all Sam needed. A day.

  My eyes fell on an unconscious man in a suit, lying face-down a few feet from Sam. His hands were bound with duct tape, an ugly wound visible on his scalp.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Sam said, “but it couldn’t be helped.”

  “He needs medical attention.”

  “Take him when you leave.”

  There was a chilling finality to that statement. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye quite yet and sensed Sam wasn’t either. He’d allowed me in here for a reason and I waited for him to bring it up. When he didn’t say anything, I asked him how he managed to gain access into the booth.

  He shrugged. “The uniform. One of the perks of being a general is that no one questions you. I told one of the agents that the projectionist was an old friend, from when I was a student here. I said I just wanted to say hello. What I didn’t figure on was that they’d have another agent inside.”

  “You smuggled the rifle through the steam tunnels?” This was what tipped me off that it must have been Sam who killed Abigail Gillette. Only someone who had gone to school here would be familiar with the labyrinth of steam tunnels that snaked below the campus.

  “Yeah. Brought it in that.” He indicated a large briefcase sitting beside him. “A couple of hours ago. Right after I flew in.”

  This was how Sam had beat us here. He’d flown himself, landing at the airport on campus.

  I said, “And Abigail Gillette?”

  He looked surprised. “You know about her already?”

  I told him we’d found her body.

  “Got a little lucky with her,” he said. “Call it a bonus. When I planned all this, she was the one person I never counted on getting. I didn’t see how I could. She wouldn’t be on stage like Teresa Harris and Slater. But once I had everything ready, I had a few minutes, so I went by the offices where the Harris people were setting up. Someone told me she’d stepped out to make some calls. They didn’t know where. I walked around until I found her. After that…” His eyes went cold. “She got off easy. Died quick. They all did. Not like Franklin.”

  He stared into space, gone for a moment. Abruptly, he said, “Hell, you can’t have everything. So what if they didn’t suffer? They’re dead and that’s all that matters.”

  “What about General Murdock and Senator Hansen?” I asked. “What are their roles in this?”

  Sam squinted. “What makes you think they’re involved at all?”

  I went over to the VCR machine and removed the tape. “A guy who works for Senator Hansen gave you this.”

  He was silent, measuring me. “Lieutenant Santos say that?”

  “I got this on my own.”

  He appeared relieved, probably because Simon hadn’t broken a confidence.

  “The way I figure it,” I said, “is that at least three people knew what you were going to do. I understand why Senator Hansen and General Murdock signed on; they were being blackmailed by Slater. What I don’t know was why you needed them. You could have pulled off the killings on your own. Why tell them?” I waited to see if Sam had a response. He didn’t.

  I went on, “Simon’s involvement also confuses me. How did he get wind of what you intended? Was it in your phone conversation with him? It must have been. After he confronted you with the fact that you’d killed Coller, you must have said something which made him believe you were going to finish the job. Or maybe he guessed. Knowing Simon, he might have even asked you straight out if—”

  “No,” Sam said.

  “No? Simon didn’t ask—”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you a damn thing. Quit playing cop, huh. It’s over. Does it really matter who did what, Marty? Does it?”

  I hesitated and shook my head. Holding up the video, I said, “At least clear this up. You could have taken this when you were at the club. The reason you didn’t—”

  “It had to look good. Couldn’t have you and Major Gardner wondering why I’d needed the key piece of evidence against Teresa Harris. You might have put two and two together, tried to stop me.” He paused, looking at me. “So? Would you have tried to stop me, Marty?”

  I looked right back at him. “I did try, Sam.”

  He winked. “That’s my boy. You always were too straight for your own good.”

  Outside the door, we could hear voices. Someone was saying this was a hostage situation and was asking for SWAT.

  Sam’s expression softened. “Looks like our time’s almost up.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Do me a fa
vor, Marty. I wrote a couple letters. One to my son Ryan and one to my folks. Ryan’s a strong kid; he’ll get through this. I don’t know about my folks. If you can, I’d like their letter delivered today. What I did will be all over the news soon. It’s important that they understand why. It will be easier on them if they do.”

  “Sure,” I managed over the lump in my throat. “Where are the letters?”

  When he told me, I tried not to appear surprised. This transaction must have occurred when I went to get the tape recorder from the limo.

  After I slipped the video into my waistband, Sam helped me drag the agent toward the door. The man moaned, a sign he was coming to.

  Sam held out his hand and we shook. It was a lingering handshake, neither of us in any hurry to let go. When I released my grip, I had the fantasy of knocking the rifle from Sam’s hand and overpowering him.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Marty,” Sam said, reading my body language. “You’ll only delay the inevitable. I have to do this. He’s scared. I can’t leave him there alone.”

  I was confused by this comment. Then Sam explained what he meant. He spoke of how terrified Major Talbot was of being in Hell.

  “I hope he’s not there. But if he is, I’ve got to be with him. You understand what I’m saying, Marty. I’m not crazy. It’s just something I have to do.”

  “I understand.” And for the first time, I realized I truly did.

  “Good-bye, Sam.”

  “Good-bye, Marty.”

  As I reached for the door, Sam was smiling. He appeared completely relaxed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It was an act. He was doing it for my benefit, to make it easier on me. In actuality, it made it even harder. If Talbot had been terrified of what awaited him in the afterlife, I knew Sam must be also.

  “It’s Agent Collins,” I shouted. “I’m coming out.”

  53

  I opened the door to find at least a half dozen guns pointed at me. No one moved until I dragged the groaning agent clear and the door closed behind me. Several people rushed forward. Among the faces, I saw Coleman and Amanda, but no Simon or Agent Hassall.