Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  It was the fifth day since Dewey had returned from Tunisia. It was the fifth day he’d awoken early and climbed onto the motorcycle. In five days, Dewey had yet to see a policeman. He’d only seen a handful of cars, each time slowing and passing at a reasonable speed, before quickly opening the machine back up.

  The parkway led out of Washington, D.C., into Maryland, eventually stopping in Chevy Chase. Dewey brought the bike to a stop where the road dead-ended at Western Avenue, pausing to catch his breath and glancing at his watch. It was 5:30.

  As he’d done the previous four mornings in a row, Dewey drove north into Maryland. The roads were beginning to fill with traffic and he kept the bike within the speed limit, moving on side roads through Silver Spring, Kensington, Rockville, North Potomac—heading west on winding roads, passing through suburban neighborhoods, with houses that grew bigger, with larger lots and land, making his way into the Maryland countryside as the morning sun warmed his back and the wind brought the familiar smells of country—fresh-cut grass, manure, wheat, and pine.

  On a hill overlooking a sweeping field of green, he pulled over and stopped the motorcycle. He turned the engine off and put down the kickstand.

  In the distance, down a long driveway lined with white horse fence, he saw a rambling farmhouse and, behind it, a big barn.

  Dewey felt his adrenaline spiking as he stared at the house in the far distance. The barn reminded him of the farm he’d grown up on in Castine, Maine. But the land surrounding the farm was altogether different. In every direction, fields of low green grass spread in lumpy, lush hills, interrupted here and there by trees—a massive oak, a stand of birch, a gorgeous geometric line of elms. It was an exquisite piece of land.

  It was the same ritual now for five days in a row, and each day Dewey felt his heart beat faster. He’d just flirted with death on the Rock Creek Parkway and yet it was not until now, sitting in silence, staring at the farmhouse, that he felt adrenaline and anxiety.

  Anger.

  Hatred.

  Dewey had killed Charles Bruner with his own gun and yet he still wasn’t satisfied. He killed Flaherty and Kyrie. Yet he still felt the rage. He wanted revenge a hundred more times, a thousand more times. Above all, he wanted his wife back.

  It had been Bruner who ordered her murder—and killing him had done nothing to quell the fever that burned inside Dewey’s heart.

  Finally, he started the motorcycle back up and kicked up the kickstand. His hands were shaking as he fought the voice inside his head.

  Do it. No one is innocent.

  He started to drive away, as he had done five days in a row now, as the voice inside his head grew louder and stronger.

  Do it. You’ll never be free until you do.

  Dewey suddenly turned the bike in a 180-degree turn. He drove back toward the driveway to Bruner’s farm and cut in, entering the property of the man who killed his wife.

  After Dewey stopped Bruner, the entire conspiracy had been laid out. Bruner and Flaherty had created a secret cabal inside the U.S. government, killing the Speaker of the House and then the vice president. They’d come within moments—inches—of killing President J. P. Dellenbaugh. Had they succeeded, the cabal would have been in control of the White House. They would’ve had control over the most powerful nation on earth. In the days following Bruner’s death, there was an unprecedented roundup of the conspirators. Most had been caught and now awaited trial for high treason. Several members of the cabal, including Harry Black, the U.S. secretary of defense, had committed suicide rather than face the public disgrace, humiliation, and punishment for their misdeeds. A handful had fled and were actively being hunted down by the FBI or CIA, with support from the NSA.

  Flaherty was dead.

  Bruner’s wife had been brought in and interrogated for more than two weeks. Dewey had forced himself to watch video from the interrogations. The woman had known about almost everything—the assassinations, the plan to seize power, the massive nuclear strike Bruner had planned for the Middle East. But she had not known about the only thing that mattered to Dewey, the cabal’s early years, when recruits inside Delta and the Navy SEALs were identified and, if married, their spouses killed, the murders made to look like suicides. She claimed not to know. At Dewey’s insistence, they had even tried pharmaceuticals on her, using an advanced complex of drugs to enhance her ability to speak freely and honestly. But her story had not changed. She didn’t know her husband had ordered Holly’s death.

  Ultimately, Dellenbaugh had made the decision not to prosecute Janie Bruner. She was seventy-seven years old and in frail health already, having survived two bouts of cancer. No one had objected, not the attorney general nor Calibrisi. They’d cut a deal with her lawyers. Janie Bruner could never leave her farm again in exchange for a plea of no contest. She was allowed one visitor a week, such as a cleaning person, someone to cut the lawn, someone to bring her groceries, or a doctor. She was not allowed use of any form of external communication, including regular mail, nor was she allowed to watch television. She’d been exiled within her own world.

  Dewey didn’t disagree with the decision, at least not at the time. Even now, he didn’t care if she was locked up or free, if she was innocent or guilty. She’d been there. That’s all that mattered. She’d lived with the monster who killed his wife.

  Maybe it wasn’t even about her. Maybe the reason he was now moving at 20 mph up the long gravel driveway had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Charles Bruner. After all, he’d killed Dewey’s wife. Why shouldn’t Dewey kill Bruner’s? Bruner might not be alive for Dewey to enjoy the feeling of vengeance, but did that matter? Or was he doing it not to spite Bruner, but rather for himself—to try to redeem at least some small part of the guilt that now inhabited his every moment, guilt for being the one who caused Holly’s death?

  All of these thoughts swirled through his head as he moved slowly along the driveway. Finally, he came to the circle that marked the driveway’s end.

  Dewey turned off the motorcycle and put the kickstand down, then removed his helmet and climbed off. Behind the seat was a small glove box. He opened it and removed a pair of thin leather gloves and pulled them on. Beneath the gloves was a gun: Glock G35, sanitized, untraceable, never used, loaded.

  Dewey chambered a round and then stepped toward the front door. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside, clutching the pistol in his right hand and training it on the floor.

  The entrance hallway was littered with piles of clothing and several trash bags. A foul odor occupied the house. Dewey maneuvered through the piles of trash and clothing and entered the kitchen. The sink and counters were crowded with dirty dishes. The kitchen table also held piles of clothing as well as half-eaten plates of food and dozens of dirty coffee cups and half-filled glasses.

  The smell of burning coffee stung his nostrils and he moved to the coffeemaker, where a nearly empty glass carafe sat burning on the warmer. He turned the appliance off and looked around the kitchen. The walls held several photos of Bruner and his wife, along with Bruner alongside a succession of dogs. One wall displayed older photos, each one of their young daughter, who’d been killed by a suicide bomber at age nine in Madrid. He stepped closer to the photos and looked at the girl. She had short blond hair and wore glasses. Her smile was warm, even infectious. Dewey forced himself to look away. He passed through the kitchen and entered a long hallway, following it until he came to a door. He could smell the wood of a fire burning. He leaned toward the door and could hear the faint crackle of the fire. He took the door latch in his left hand and gently lifted it up, then pushed the door in as, in the same instant, he raised the weapon and stepped into the room.

  It was a large room, filled with bookshelves and overstuffed chairs. A big brown-and-white Saint Bernard was asleep on the ground just inside the door. Dewey’s eyes moved to the fire—and then to the corner of the room, blocked by a table. A large pile of blankets. His eyes met the eyes of a woman. She
was seated in the corner, pressed back against the wall, everything but her head covered in blankets. Her hair was light gray and long, tangled and messed up. Her face looked haunted, her skin a pale gray, with dark bags beneath her eyes. Dewey stepped slowly across the room, the pistol in his right hand, aimed at the woman. He said nothing as he moved closer and closer. He came to the corner and was now in front of her. He held the gun so that the muzzle pointed between her eyes. He felt the trigger beneath his index finger.

  She stared up at Dewey with a confused, pitiful expression, though she was not scared.

  “Are you from the government?” she whispered.

  Dewey said nothing. He stared at her for several quiet moments.

  “I thought you’d be coming someday.”

  He could see his right hand tremoring ever so slightly as he gripped the handgun.

  “I told them everything,” she said. “It’s okay. You can do it if you want to. I have nothing left. I’ve been dead for so long now I can’t remember when I died.”

  Dewey continued to say nothing, to look into her eyes, as if searching for something, some sign of guilt, some connection to the man who killed his wife, some connection to Holly. But there was nothing. Only a dull, bloodshot gray, dotted with cloudy cataract white.

  “Please will you take care of him?” she whispered.

  Dewey turned and looked at the dog, still asleep on the Oriental rug. His furry head was tucked between his paws. His tongue was hanging out. Slowly, he turned back to Janie Bruner. He nodded.

  “Even a call to the ASPCA. They’ll find him a good home. His name is Wrigley.”

  “Stop talking,” said Dewey.

  He felt the trigger harder in his hand now, clenching it tighter. He wanted to pull it; needed to pull it.

  She nodded meekly.

  “He killed my wife,” said Dewey.

  She kept her eyes focused on his, looking back up into his eyes in the moments after his words. Then, she shut her eyes for several seconds, tilting her head down. When she opened them again, she was staring at the blanket. Her forehead, brow, eyes, and cheeks all crinkled up into a wince, as if in pain. She let out a quiet sob and tears appeared on her cheeks.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Dewey wanted to say more. He wanted to scream as he imagined what Holly went through.

  They stuck a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. She was twenty-eight years old!

  He wanted to step forward and put the gun in her mouth and fire. Blow her brains across the bookshelves. Do what they’d done to her …

  But he couldn’t. Instead, Dewey lowered the gun to his side. He looked at her for one more moment. She’d shut her eyes again and seemed to be swaying back and forth. He watched her for one last second—then he turned and left.

  * * *

  When Dewey arrived at CIA headquarters, he was still dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He’d forgotten his ID but the security guards outside the main gates knew him and let him in.

  Once inside the building, Dewey went through two more security checkpoints, both of which used iris scanners to confirm his identity.

  He took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked to the entrance to the suite of offices reserved for the director of the CIA, Hector Calibrisi, and key members of his senior staff. Two armed, uniformed agents stood outside the locked, bulletproof glass doors. They recognized Dewey as he approached, and let him in.

  He continued down the hallway. The director’s suite of offices was shaped like a horseshoe, with glass-walled offices on the external sides of the suite and a bullpen of workstations in the middle. Dewey came to the corner, where Calibrisi’s office was located. As he approached, Calibrisi’s assistant, Lindsay, stood up. A large smile was on her face. She stepped around the wall of her workstation and approached Dewey, giving him a hug.

  “Hi, Dewey,” she said.

  “Hi, Lindsay.”

  “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Dewey nodded, but didn’t say anything. He glanced inside Calibrisi’s office. Calibrisi was seated on one of the leather sofas. A woman, whose back faced Dewey, was seated across from Calibrisi.

  “You look tan,” said Lindsay. “Where were you?”

  “I took a little vacation,” said Dewey. He nodded toward Calibrisi’s office. “How long’s he going to be?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s with Governor Brown from New York. You didn’t hear it from me, but the president is thinking of asking her to serve as vice president.”

  “Why’s Hector meeting with her?”

  “She asked for the meeting,” said Lindsay. “She’s one of the ones who says he’s too old to be running the CIA, so maybe she’s trying to schmooze him before she sticks a knife in his back.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll wait.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? Water?”

  “Sure,” said Dewey, “but I’ll get it.”

  Dewey went back to the suite entrance, took a left, and continued until he came to the kitchen. He went inside and poured a cup of coffee. He walked back along the opposite wall of offices to the end, took a left, and came to Lindsay’s workstation. Calibrisi made eye contact with him as he passed. There was an empty chair at the workstation next to Lindsay’s and Dewey sat down. Lindsay was on a phone call, a thin wireless headset over her head. She looked at Dewey, rolling her eyes. When she finished, she removed the headset.

  “Members of Congress,” she sighed. “They’re like mosquitoes.”

  Dewey laughed. He took a sip of coffee and recoiled. It tasted old and sour.

  “It’s terrible coffee, I know,” she said.

  “I’ve tasted worse,” said Dewey. “So, how are things going around here?” he added, trying to make conversation.

  “Not bad,” she said. “I mean, not great either. Ever since the attempted assassination, it feels like a twenty-four-hour inquisition around here. Some people think we’re to blame. Langley should’ve seen it, that sort of thing. She,” said Lindsay, nodding toward Governor Brown, “is leading the inquisition. She says the president should clean house here and at the FBI.”

  “Why did Dellenbaugh choose her?”

  “The House and Senate have to approve the president’s nominee. She’s the only one that’ll survive a vote up there. That’s why Dellenbaugh chose her.”

  Dewey took another sip. It still tasted like crap but it went down easier this time.

  There was movement inside Calibrisi’s office. Governor Brown stood up, along with Calibrisi. When the door opened, the governor of New York, Judy Brown, stepped out into the hallway in front of Lindsay and Dewey. Brown was dressed in a dark navy pantsuit. She was short and thin, with a pretty face. She had long, straight brown hair, combed neatly back. She smiled at Lindsay, then registered Dewey, taking in his shorts, T-shirt, messed-up hair, and overgrown beard and mustache.

  Calibrisi came out of his office and stood by Brown’s side, grinning ever so slightly at Dewey.

  “Hi,” said Brown, reaching her hand out toward Dewey. “I’m Judy Brown.”

  “Hi,” said Dewey, standing up. He towered over her. He leaned forward and shook her hand.

  Brown looked back at Lindsay.

  “Thank you, Lindsay,” said Brown.

  “You’re welcome, Governor Brown.”

  After Brown had left, Calibrisi nodded to Dewey, telling him to follow him into his office.

  Inside, they sat down across from each other on the sofas.

  “Welcome back,” said Calibrisi.

  Dewey had an emotionless expression on his face.

  “You’re pissed because I sent a team over?”

  Dewey shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “That was quite a job you did on Flaherty and Gant.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “The Russian you killed is Putin’s brother-in-law,” said Calibrisi.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Everything’s all right,” said Ca
librisi. “I had Bill clean it up. We sent in SEAL Team 4. They ripped out the GPS and took the yacht and sank it thirty miles offshore.”

  “I left it clean.”

  “I’m sure you did, but the last thing we need—the last thing you need—is another enemy, especially Putin.”

  Dewey stared at Calibrisi. After several moments, he spoke:

  “I’m done,” said Dewey.

  Calibrisi sat back, nodding slowly.

  “Done?”

  “Yeah. I’m resigning.”

  “Okay,” said Calibrisi. “You mind if I ask why?”

  “I don’t mind,” said Dewey. “But I don’t really feel like explaining.”

  “I need you to,” said Calibrisi. “NOCs don’t just walk away. It’s not that simple. So either you explain it to me or you explain it to someone else.”

  “I want a family,” said Dewey. “I want another child. I want to teach him about football and hockey. Or, if he’s a she, I don’t know, I’ll teach her hockey but maybe not football. Hell, I’ll teach her whatever she wants.”

  Dewey’s eyes were red and sad, though he fought to keep his emotions in check.

  “I liked Australia,” said Dewey, barely above a whisper. “Working outdoors.”

  “Tunisia wasn’t outdoors enough for you?”

  “You know what I mean. I’m sick of killing people.”

  Calibrisi started to say something and then stopped. He bit his lip, trying not to utter something he would regret. If there was anyone who knew what Dewey had been through, it was Calibrisi, and beyond his duties as CIA director, a more powerful force ran through him. He loved Dewey like a son, the son he’d never had.

  “How soon?” said Calibrisi.