A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

  “He’s alive,” Coleman said. “Terry’s alive.”

  “Let go, Collins,” another agent said. “We’ve got him. Where the fuck are the EMTs?”

  “Outside,” someone else replied. “I just talked to Hassall. We’re to keep everyone outside the building. Local cops too.”

  “No SWAT?” Coleman said. “Who’s supposed to get that pyscho general out of there? Us? Hell, he’s got us outgunned. Whose bright-ass idea is that?”

  “Relax, Barry. Someone’s flying out to handle the extraction. Our job is to secure the scene until they arrive. Give me a hand.”

  The agents moved away, carrying their injured comrade. I turned to Amanda. “No local police?”

  “It’s going to be a federal show.” She punctuated the statement with a look that was more than suggestive. “What’s the status on General Baldwin?”

  Several agents crowded around, waiting for my response. Before I replied, I pictured how long it would take Sam to act. Not more than a minute or two. Once he gathered up his courage, he would place the rifle barrel beneath his chin and slowly squeeze the—

  I flinched, looking at the projection booth. It was as if I’d heard the silent shot, though that was impossible.

  “I think he’s dead,” I told Amanda.

  “Think?” an agent asked.

  “He was going to commit suicide.”

  “Great,” he grunted. “Now all one of us has to do is stick our head in the window and hope to hell we don’t catch a bullet…”

  The emotion of the moment caught up to me and I’d turned away to wipe the wetness from my eyes. I never made it because I found myself confronted by the determined face of the black agent who’d escorted us into the building.

  “Come with me,” he ordered.

  He was too big to argue with, so Amanda and I fell into step behind him. She whispered, “It’s okay, Marty. He was your friend. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I still waited until none of the agents was looking before I wiped my eyes.

  Déjà vu.

  Once again, the agent deposited us in the office we’d been in only fifteen minutes earlier. Pointing us to chairs across from the conference room, he said, “Someone will talk to you shortly.”

  Six whole words. He was practicing. I said, “Lieutenant Santos?”

  True to form, he pulled his disappearing act and slipped out the door.

  In contrast to the frenzied activity that had greeted us when we’d first arrived, the room was quiet, the campaign staff long since cleared out. Other than Amanda and me, the only other person present was a stern looking female agent, who was seated near the conference room. Occasionally, voices filtered out, the words too low to be decipherable.

  Amanda said to the woman, “Is Lieutenant Santos in there?”

  A nod.

  “You know how much longer it will be?”

  Head shake.

  “Who is with him?”

  A shrug.

  Another dazzling conversationalist. I took out my cell phone.

  “No calls,” the agent said.

  “Why?”

  “I was told not to allow you to make calls.”

  “It’s personal. It’s to my daughter.”

  “No calls.”

  I stood, putting away my phone. “I need to use the restroom.”

  “You’ll have to leave the phone,” she said, extending her hand.

  She was smarter than she looked. I sighed and handed her the phone.

  Shortly after I returned from the restroom, Agent Hassall stepped from the conference room, scowling. Ignoring Amanda and me, he said to the female agent, “Pass the word we’ll be moving out when the choppers arrive. Probably within the hour.”

  She produced a radio from beneath her coat. “Who’s replacing us, Chief?”

  “Edith, just make the damn call.” Hassall left the office, walking quickly.

  “Asshole,” Edith mouthed, keying the radio.

  “Interesting,” Amanda murmured

  The conference room door was open and we could see five people seated around the table. Senator Tobias Hansen sat at the head, facing us. To his right were General Murdock, Simon, and the man with the glasses, who had a laptop, a small printer, and a neat stack of papers arranged before him. The person Amanda and I were interested in was the person sitting to Hansen’s left.

  Congressman Harris appeared to age five years since we’d last seen him. His face was drawn and pale and he blinked constantly as if under great stress. Initially, I concluded he was suffering from the shock of seeing his wife brutally murdered in front of him, then realized he was staring at a folder on the table.

  No one in the room was speaking. The other four men were fixated on Harris, as if anticipating a response. But Harris remained silent, looking at the folder.

  Sitting back, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I need time. This is too much to assimilate. I can’t make a decision until—”

  “Get the tape,” Hansen ordered.

  Simon left the conference room and came over to Amanda and me. By then, I was holding out the tape to him. As he took it, I asked him what was going on.

  “A negotiation.” He returned to the conference and closed the door.

  “What?” Amanda asked, noticing my frown.

  “I wonder how Simon knew I had the tape.”

  “Easy. He knew you went into the booth and assumed you’d get it.”

  I nodded slowly. “Unless maybe Sam called Simon after I left.”

  “You think a guy who’s about to commit suicide would stop to make a phone call?”

  Point taken; it was a stretch.

  Under her breath, she said, “At least this explains why they’re keeping out the local cops.”

  “Because of the coverup,” I said.

  This was an eventuality Amanda and I should have seen coming. By definition, a homicidal would-be first lady who specialized in kinky sex with her nephew and subsequently murdered him was a monumental scandal. Add in her dramatic assassination by a vengeful general officer, the homosexual and blackmail angles, the ties between the club and prominent government officials and celebrities, the attempt by Slater to corrupt the presidency—and you were talking about a scandal of historically epic proportions. One that would almost certainly shake the public’s faith in the electoral process, destroy countless reputations, and damage America’s credibility throughout the world. This latter consideration was by the far the most important. With the ongoing war on terrorism and the occupation of Iraq, the last thing America needed was to be likened to some Third World dictatorship.

  A coverup?

  Hell, it was a given. The more that could be swept under the rug, the better for all parties concerned. It occurred to me that this must be why Sam had revealed his plans to Senator Hansen and General Murdock. So they could be here to protect his interests when he was gone.

  For the next forty minutes, Amanda and I sat, cooling our heels. For a tenth of that time, we had a whispered discussion, as I related my conversation with Sam. Afterward, we kicked back and played stare and silence with Edith.

  And that woman could stare.

  “You hear it?” Amanda said.

  I nodded. The beat of approaching chopper rotor blades. There were at least two machines, perhaps more. They chattered toward the rear of the building and we heard the engines wind down.

  “FBI Emergency Response?” Amanda asked.

  “Be my guess.”

  Edith’s radio squawked. Hassall told her to expect to leave in ten minutes. Seconds later, the conference room door opened and Simon exited, motioning Amanda and me to follow. Before he shut the door, we glimpsed our friend with the glasses, punching away at the laptop.

  Simon led us to a corner of the room, out of earshot of the female agent. With a tight smile, he said, “It’s finished. I’ll have to remain for the press conference, but your presence won’t be required. You can leave with Enrique and I’ll ar
range—”

  “What exactly is finished?” Amanda asked.

  “The press statement. Once a few details are resolved, it will be released. It will be somewhat sanitized, but that was unavoidable. To satisfy the parties, concessions had to be made.”

  The ubiquitous C word. Amanda jumped on it, saying, “Define ‘concessions.’ ”

  Simon hesitated. “I can tell you that some aspects will be…disappointing. Don’t dwell upon them. It will only make you angry. The outcome is the best that can be achieved under the circumstances.”

  Amanda grimaced, realizing what he was really telling us. Somehow, the official version of the murders would tone down Teresa Harris’s role. As I mulled this over, I decided I could live with a shading of the truth, as long as Sam got the same treatment.

  But when I asked this question of Simon, his only response was to say that Sam got what he wanted.

  I pressed, “So there will be no mention he was a homosexual?”

  “Not directly, but it will certainly be implied.”

  “You said he got what he wanted.”

  “He did. He wanted a public acknowledgment that he and Major Talbot had great affection for each other.”

  “But that makes no—”

  I broke off because I realized it did make sense. It made perfect sense. Sam had been tired of living a lie and wanted people to know.

  Now they would.

  I said to Simon, “I understand you have some letters…”

  Walking Amanda and me to the door, Simon asked us to attend to a final loose end and we said we would. As we shook hands, he told us we’d both done our jobs well. He also apologized for not being more forthcoming over his arrangement with Sam.

  “In some respects, Martin,” he said, “you share some of the blame. If you’ll recall, you told me you didn’t want to know if I intended anything…untoward.”

  Simon was alibiing; he wouldn’t have come clean, regardless of what I’d said. I let his comments go for the simple reason that I was glad I hadn’t known. Sure, it was a cop-out, but the truth was it was a decision I’m not sure I could have made.

  A spur of the moment judgment was one thing, but if I’d had the time to think everything through, would I have stopped Sam from killing Teresa Harris? I probably would have tried; it’s the way I’m conditioned. But deep down, I realized it was a decision I might have regretted. No, I’m glad Simon never told me…unlike Amanda.

  “Next time,” she said to him, “how about keeping me in the loop?”

  “It was an oversight. I intended to tell you, but there never was a good time.” He said it as if he expected her to believe him.

  “Uh-huh.”

  The conference door opened and the man with glasses peered out. “Lieutenant Santos, we’re almost ready…”

  “Coming.” To us, Simon said, “The reporters are restricted to the front of the building, where the press conference will take place. I’ve told Enrique to meet you around back. It goes unsaid that the events which transpired can never be repeated. Amanda, give me your keys, I’ll have your car delivered in the morning. It will save you a trip.”

  Amanda couldn’t hand over her keys fast enough.

  I said to Simon, “What about General Hinkle?”

  “He’ll be briefed.”

  “And Colonel Kelly?”

  “We’re in the process of arranging his release.” He was smiling. “Relax, Martin. Your job is finished. Go home and get some rest.”

  After patting me on the back, he returned to the conference room. As the door closed, I saw Congressman Harris slumped in his chair, staring vacantly into space.

  “I feel sorry for him,” Amanda said. “He was almost the president.”

  “Almost.”

  As Amanda and I walked out into the hallway, she said, “Isn’t the exit the other way, Marty?”

  54

  I had an obligation to Sam’s parents. They had a right to know whether their son had completed his final act.

  Approaching the auditorium, we saw armed men in black uniforms rush up the stairs. Two carried collapsible stretchers. They moved with military precision, communicating with hand gestures. Several raced past us, heading the way we’d come. One detached and came over to inspect our flip top IDs. We noticed his uniform was completely unmarked, no insignias of any kind.

  The man returned our IDs. “You’ll have to leave the building immediately.”

  “I need to confirm the status of the shooter,” I said. “He’s in the projection—”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave.” His weapon inched up fractionally.

  Amanda and I weren’t crazy enough to argue. We smoothly about-faced and went down the stairs to the first floor. She said, “They might not be FBI.”

  I nodded.

  “Delta Force?”

  “They’d have some kind of insignia.” I added, “My guess is they’re a special unit of the FBI.”

  We continued down a hallway toward the rear exit, encountering more black-garbed Rambo types who again checked us out. Passing through the double doors onto a stone landing, we were greeted by the sight of three military Blackhawk helicopters parked on an expanse of lawn. In the distance, large crowds watched from behind a barricade of police vehicles. The sheer number of people made you stop and look; there were thousands. Closer in, the police had set up a second perimeter around the building.

  “The Virginia Tech connection,” Amanda said, surveying the scene. “Remember, when I mentioned it last night…”

  “I remember.” Uniformed officers on the sidewalk below motioned to us and we started down the steps.

  Amanda said, “I know it’s all a coincidence. You said General Baldwin called it fate. Whatever term you use, it’s damned convenient, the way everything worked out.”

  “You going somewhere with this?”

  “Take those helicopters. I don’t understand how they got here so—”

  “IDs?” a cop demanded, the moment we reached the bottom of the stairs.

  He and his partner scrutinized our identification. They were expecting us, since one pointed to Simon’s limo parked along the sidewalk. Enrique was leaning against the driver’s door, waving.

  Walking toward him, I said to Amanda, “The helicopters?”

  “How’d they get here so fast? There’s no base nearby. If they are FBI, that means they flew from Quantico. That’s at least an hour flying time, not counting alert and mobilization. Yet they showed up in what, forty-five minutes? The only way that could happen is if they were already airborne—”

  “Stop,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  I said, “You don’t want to go there. You know you don’t.”

  “Marty, someone with real clout had to be in on this thing from the beginning. Someone above Senator Hansen. It might have even been someone in the White—”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

  We walked without speaking for a few steps.

  “You know,” she said, “the government is capable of doing something like this. You’re naive to believe they wouldn’t.”

  So I was naive.

  Dead man walking.

  That was my conclusion when I saw Enrique. He looked completely wasted. He could barely stand upright and his eyes had more red lines than a AAA road map. Ignoring his protests, I told him to get in the back with Amanda and I would drive. It was a prudent move. Halfway through Amanda’s account of the shooting, he began nodding off. Within minutes of her description of the climax, he was asleep.

  Sam’s parents lived on several acres twenty minutes southwest of Blacksburg. When I called to tell them I was coming by, Sam’s mother sounded thrilled to hear from me.

  “Why, it’s been years, Marty. What’s the occasion?”

  I told her the truth; I had to drop off something from Sam.

  My intent was to get to their place before the press conference began, so they could read the letter before they hear
d the dirt about Sam. Three miles after we left the campus, that goal went out the window.

  “It’s starting,” Amanda said.

  Checking the rearview mirror, I saw her watching the TV. She gave me a play-by-play, saying, “Simon and Senator Hansen are coming down the steps outside Buurrus Hall. I don’t see Congressman Harris or General Murdock. Simon and Hansen are walking up to a podium. Hansen’s introducing Simon. The senator is going to read the statement.”

  I heard the words faintly. “Mind turning up the volume?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  In a somber baritone, Senator Hansen announced the deaths of Teresa Harris, the wife of presidential hopeful Garrison Harris; Roland Slater, her husband’s campaign manager; Abigail Gillette, an aide to Mrs. Harris; and Major General Samuel Baldwin. He went on to say that Mrs. Harris and Mr. Slater were shot during a speech she was giving at Virginia Tech University, while Ms. Gillette was killed in a separate incident, the victim of a stabbing. After identifying Major General Samuel Baldwin as the shooter who subsequently committed suicide—I had my confirmation—Hansen expanded on Baldwin’s motive for the murders. Citing new evidence unearthed by Lieutenant Santos, Senator Hansen stated that Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette—and not Colonel Kelly who had been charged earlier—murdered Mrs. Harris’s nephew, Major Franklin Talbot, and four other individuals in an attempt to prevent Major Talbot from revealing an affair that Mrs. Harris and Major Talbot were having.

  At this bombshell, there was a flurry of questions from reporters.

  In the limo, the reaction of Amanda and me was diametrically opposite. We were silent, too disgusted to speak.

  Finally, I heard her say bitterly, “They’re giving her a pass. She’s a murderer and they’re giving her a pass. I can’t believe it.”

  Neither could I. Toning down Teresa Harris’s role was one thing, but this—I felt angry enough to tell Amanda to turn off the television.

  Instead, I kept listening.

  When the questions died down, Senator Hansen explained that General Baldwin’s motive for the killings was revenge. While Hansen never used the word homosexual, he might as well have. Characterizing the bond that existed between General Baldwin and Major Talbot as longstanding and extremely close, the senator concluded that a grief-stricken General Baldwin had acted to avenge the death of someone whom he cared for deeply.