by Stephen Frey
A loud chorus of cackles and boos arose from the crowd.
“What I said was—”
“I know about you, Mr. Gillette,” Becky said, pointing at him and silencing the crowd as they hung on her every word. “I know there are people who question what you’ve done with some of the money they’ve given you.”
“That’s not true.”
“I understand there’s going to be an investigation,” she said loudly, turning to the crowd. “This is not the kind of man we want in our town, people. Believe me. A man who’d build half a school and who’s about to be investigated for fraud!”
GILLETTE AND BECKY ROUSE stood on a darkened, tree-lined side street a few blocks from the high school. It had been thirty minutes since the scene on the auditorium stage.
“What do you want?” she asked, grinning smugly. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you.”
“Yup.”
“You know I’m not being investigated.”
She pointed back toward the high school. “Yeah, but they don’t.”
Gillette glanced over his shoulder. He’d parked Lundergard’s car back up the street and told the QS agent to stay there. “I want a truce; I want to call off the war,” he said. “I want my store, and I want you to support it.” It had started to drizzle, and he spotted a couple beneath an umbrella walking down the other side of the street. “I’ll give you everything you want. The elementary school, the retirement home, the squad cars. I just want this back-and-forth to be done. There’s no reason for it.”
“You better not go back on this,” she said, her voice rising.
Gillette glanced through the darkness at the couple across the street, their silhouettes outlined by a streetlamp. “Easy,” he urged, trying to calm her down, noticing that the couple had stopped and was looking toward them. “I’m not going back on it. There’s no reason to think I would.”
“There’s every reason to think you would. I know your kind, Christian. You think the world revolves around you!”
“Becky, come on, that’s not fair. I’m the one that ought to be upset here. With what you said to the crowd about me being investigated.”
She shrugged and turned away.
“Hey, look,” he said, moving to her side, “I’m just trying to—”
There was a flash and the blast of a gunshot. A bullet tore through Becky’s back and out her chest, grazing Gillette’s arm and hurling her against him. He tried to catch her, but she fell from his arms, dead even before she hit the street.
Another gunshot exploded, closer this time.
Gillette wheeled around and sprinted the other way. Whoever was shooting was trying to hit him, not Becky. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the couple standing on the other side of the street dive for cover behind a car, then he cut right, hurdled a waist-high hedge, and darted between two homes. At the back of the house, he scaled a six-foot chain-link fence and dropped into the thick brush on the other side.
He pulled himself to his feet and waded through the raspberry bushes, thorns tugging at his clothes. Finally the bushes gave way to woods, and he raced ahead, wincing as his feet crashed through dried leaves, careful to avoid the trees in the darkness. When he reached the edge of the trees and the next street over, he hesitated, pressed behind a large oak, gazing back into the gloom of the woods, listening carefully for any sound. But there was nothing more than the consistent patter of drops as the rain began to fall more steadily.
Gillette waited ten minutes, then saw a police car cruising slowly down the wet street, lights flashing in the growing fog. A huge stroke of luck. He moved out from behind the oak tree, waving his arms as he stepped into the glare of the headlights.
The police car stopped, and the driver’s-side door opened instantly.
“Down on the ground,” the cop yelled. “Now!”
Gillette put his hand up over his face and squinted against the high beams. He could barely make out the officer kneeling behind the door, aiming a pistol at him over the mirror. “Officer, my name’s Christian Gillette. I was just shot at. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”
“Get down, now! Arms and legs spread.”
Gillette made a snap decision and bolted back for the woods. He heard the pop, pop, pop of the policeman’s revolver, but he was quickly back into the cover of the trees, impossible to see in the darkness. As he hid behind another tree, he peered around the side of it.
The policeman was on the radio, calling for backup. Gillette wanted to give himself up, but the flash drive was in his pocket. The officer would have confiscated everything on him, and he wasn’t going to let the flash drive go. Not for anything in the world. It could easily fall into the wrong hands.
Then he heard sirens, several of them, quickly growing louder. He turned and ran as the rain became a downpour.
21
FARADAY RELAXED into his favorite easy chair, propped his feet up on the ottoman, clicked the television on with the remote, then reached for a heaping bowl of cookie-dough ice cream sitting on the table beside the chair. He’d thought about going out tonight—he had several invitations—but he was dead tired. It had been a long week, and all he wanted to do was relax in his apartment. If the past was any indicator, he’d be asleep in an hour, wake up around midnight, and drag himself to bed.
He watched the last few minutes of Seinfeld, finishing the ice cream as the credits rolled and settling in for the news.
When Christian Gillette’s face appeared on the screen over the anchor’s shoulder, Faraday shot out of the chair, dropping the bowl to the floor. The woman relayed that the Everest Capital chairman was a fugitive. That he was wanted for the murder of Becky Rouse, the mayor of a small town in Maryland called Chatham. That there were two witnesses to the shooting. That he had evaded an attempted arrest and was considered extremely dangerous.
GILLETTE FOUND Percy Lundergard’s cell number on his phone and called. He was somewhere on the east side of Chatham, at the edge of a trailer park and a cornfield. His plan was to get off the Eastern Shore of Maryland as soon as possible—by going either north to Wilmington, Delaware, or east over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge toward Washington, D.C. He pressed his arms close to his body and stomped his feet. It was still raining, and the temperature was dropping fast.
“Hello.”
“Percy?”
“Christian?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“What in the hell is going on?” he asked, ignoring the question. “Why did a Chatham cop try to arrest me an hour ago?”
“The police think you killed Becky Rouse.”
“What? That’s insane.”
“That’s exactly what I told them.”
“Whoever shot her was trying to kill me,” Gillette said.
“The cops say they have two witnesses.”
The couple walking on the other side of the street under the umbrella, Gillette assumed. They’d heard Becky shout his name.
“And,” Lundergard continued, “they’re saying they’ve got the murder weapon with your prints on it.”
Planted, obviously. “What about the guy who was with me?” Gillette asked. “My bodyguard.”
“No one can find him.”
The guy was dead, was helping whoever shot Becky, or was the one who shot her. Gillette patted his shirt pocket, making certain the flash drive was still there. He had a pretty damn good idea of who was responsible for her death. Maybe he didn’t know who’d actually pulled the trigger, but he knew who was pulling the strings.
“Why don’t you come here? To my house?” Lundergard offered. “We’ll figure out what to do next when you get here.”
Gillette thought for a second. “Okay, see you in a little while.”
FARADAY REACHED for his apartment phone, hoping it was Gillette. It wasn’t. It was Allison.
“Have you heard what’s going on?” she asked excitedly as soon as he pick
ed up.
“You mean about Christian?”
“Of course that’s what I mean.”
“I’m watching the news right now.”
“Nigel, what do you think happened?”
“Somebody’s made a terrible mistake.”
LUNDERGARD PUT DOWN the phone and glanced up at Jim Cochran, the Chatham chief of police, who was standing in his living room. On either side of Cochran were two men claiming to be federal agents. Lundergard hadn’t seen the big gold badges for long—the agents had flipped them open and shut quickly—but Cochran seemed satisfied.
“So?” Cochran demanded gruffly.
“Gillette says he’ll be here in a little while. You better get all the police cars out of here.”
GILLETTE’S NEXT CALL was Derrick Walker. He’d thought long and hard about whether or not to make this call. If the agent who’d been with him in the car had turned on him, then Walker could easily have turned, too. Walker wasn’t like Stiles; he didn’t own QS Security—he could be bribed. But in the end, Gillette had no choice. He needed someone’s help.
Walker picked up on the first ring.
“Hello,” he answered fiercely. “Are you all right?”
Obviously, Walker had seen the number on the cell screen. “Where are you?” Gillette asked.
“The Chatham police station.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yeah,” Walker said quietly.
“I didn’t shoot this woman.” It was stupid to have to say it. If it had been Stiles, he wouldn’t have even bothered.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“What happened to your guy?” Gillette asked. “The one who was with me tonight?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead. He’s not answering his phone or his pager.”
“Maybe he’s working with whoever shot Becky Rouse. Maybe he shot Becky.”
“Not a chance. I’ve known Lionel for seven years. I’d trust my life with him. That’s why I had him with you. Now what the fuck is going on?” Walker asked angrily. “Do you know?”
Gillette hesitated. “I’m pretty sure I do, but I don’t want to say anything on this line.” He watched as a man came out of one of the trailer homes close to where he was standing and stuffed a garbage bag in the trash can, then hurried back inside. “I need to meet up with you.”
“Where?”
“At that place I told you I had that meeting yesterday.”
WALKER HUNG UP with Gillette, then made another call immediately. It lasted just twenty seconds. After he slipped the cell phone back into his pocket, he stood up from the desk he’d been sitting on and turned around. Jim Cochran was directly in front of him, flanked by several deputies.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Walker. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“For what?” Walker demanded.
“Aiding and abetting.”
“Aiding and abetting who?”
“Christian Gillette.”
GILLETTE SPRINTED across the open field toward the rest stop and the idling tractor-trailer. He had no intention of going to Percy Lundergard’s house or anywhere else the authorities might be waiting. He’d watched the truck driver jump down and trot toward the bathrooms through the driving rain. He shivered as he pulled himself up between the cab and the trailer. This was going to be a cold ride.
22
GILLETTE HAD BEEN waiting two hours for Derrick Walker on the ground floor of the same Georgetown parking garage where he’d met Ted Casey, the CIA cutout specialist, a few days ago. They must have gotten Walker, too, he realized. Walker had had a day and a half to get here, but he was a no-show.
Gillette had spent the last two nights outside in the elements. Saturday night, beneath a railroad bridge in southwest Washington fighting a torrential rain; last night, beneath the stars on a steam grate near the Washington Monument along with three indigents, bundled up in blankets. It had turned unusually cold for early October after the rain had passed through. He hadn’t used his credit cards, cash card, or cell phone until this morning, not wanting to give anyone any clue to where he was. Now he didn’t care.
It was five after ten, and he needed to get to Tysons Corner out in northern Virginia—a twenty-minute cab ride from here. He let out a frustrated breath. He really could have used Walker.
TYSONS CORNER was fifteen miles west of downtown Washington, D.C., and only a few miles from where Gillette, Boyd, and Ganze had first met. One anchor of the Dulles Corridor—the area’s high-tech center stretching to Dulles Airport fifteen miles farther west—Tysons was also the location of two large, popular shopping malls—Tysons I and II—that were less than half a mile apart.
Tysons II, built on a hill overlooking the area, was a sprawling three-level structure full of upscale shops and restaurants, all attached to a Ritz-Carlton Hotel and two office buildings rising up on either side of the Ritz. Gillette had stayed at the hotel several times in the last few years for technology conferences, so he knew the mall well. Also called the Galleria, the mall would be crowded now at lunchtime, which was perfect for what he was planning.
It was twelve-twenty. Gillette had called Boyd and Ganze forty minutes ago, giving them until twelve-thirty to get here. They’d agreed to come immediately. Gillette now knew how important the flash drive was.
He grimaced. Mary was so timid, but she’d shown so much courage in giving him the drive. He had no doubt they’d gotten to her. Davis, too. Getting to Mary and Davis was the only way they could have connected the dots and known about the flash drive so fast. He just hoped they’d been merciful and ended it quickly for both of them. And he hoped that if something went wrong in the next few minutes, they’d do the same for him.
Gillette walked slowly, a Washington Nationals baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, looking around constantly as he approached PF Chang’s, a popular, high-end Chinese restaurant located at the mall’s northwest entrance. He wasn’t worried about Boyd’s people—including the Carbone family—trying to kill him. Boyd needed the flash drive almost as badly as he needed his next breath, so they weren’t going to do anything stupid. Not yet, anyway. But the police or some bystander might. If he was still being accused of Becky Rouse’s murder, the cops would be on the lookout for him, even over here on the western side of the bay. And if his face had been on the news, there was always the chance some do-gooder might try to take him just to get his name in the paper.
Gillette moved through the mall to the escalator and took it up to the third level, then followed the concourse to a Hallmark store in front of the south escalators. Boyd was standing in front of the store, alone, as Gillette had instructed.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Boyd said as Gillette stopped ten feet away. “You look like crap.”
“But I’m alive.”
“Only because I want you that way. Now give me the drive,” Boyd demanded.
“Not yet.”
“I told you, pal, I have a lot of friends in the right places. I can take Everest down in a heartbeat. Find something wrong with it and you in no time.” He sneered. “Hell, there’s already a kiddie porn aggregator on your hard drive at Everest, Christian, pulling enough nasty videos onto your machine to put you away for a few years. We installed it yesterday, remotely. But no one will ever know it was done that way. All the feds will know is that Christian Gillette is into kiddie porn. How’s that gonna look in The New York Times, pal?”
“I have the flash drive. The rest will take care of itself. The truth will out.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’m glad you’re that naÏve.”
“You live in your world, Norman, I’ll live in mine.”
“And of course,” Boyd continued, “you’ve got that little issue of murdering the Rouse woman down in Chatham.”
“You know I didn’t kill her.”
“But the cops think you did. That’s all that matters. Now, give me the damn drive.”
Gillette moved a few steps cl
oser. “What? You think I’m going to just hand it over so your Carbone friends can pop out of a couple of these stores and mow me down?” He saw shock register on Boyd’s face. “That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it? Those guys don’t mind making a hit in a public place. They don’t mind killing anyone anywhere, right?”
Boyd shook in silent rage.
Gillette could tell he’d hit a nerve. His suspicions were dead-on. “Look, all I want is closure, Norman. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want answers. Answers you and Ganze promised to give me about my mother and father.”
“I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to talk to Daniel, but you didn’t want him with me.”
“But he’s here at the mall, right?”
Boyd nodded. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about those questions of yours.”
“I think you do. I think you made Ganze and everyone else believe you didn’t, but I think you know everything. I think you threw Marilyn McRae to Ganze and me. I’m sure she would have sworn to Ganze and me until the day she died that she really was my mother, but I know she’s not. What did you give her, Norman? Money? A career? Promise her the world if she’d do a few favors for you and your government cronies? You’ve probably manipulated her for years.” Gillette hesitated. “Like you manipulated the sale of the Vegas franchise to Everest so your Carbone buddies could get their money through Carmine Torino, and ultimately get their claws into the casino. We were the only ones who put in a bid that included a casino, weren’t we, Norman?”
Boyd smiled slightly.
“It was perfect. You’re always looking for ways to pay the Carbones back for the dirty work. The tortures and the assassinations. Right? You called a few of the owners you have in your hip pocket and influenced them to give Everest the nod in the auction, even though there was another bid that was fifty million dollars higher. You rigged that thing, didn’t you?”
Boyd shrugged. “You’ll never prove it.”