“Safe and sound. For now. You want to see him?”
“I don’t want to go anywhere near that kid. He knows me, something goes wrong and he gets to Francis . . .” The fear was palpable on Peebles’s features.
The car stopped and Macy got out and scanned the alley in both directions and then looked up to the rooftops. He finally signaled the all-clear to his new boss. Peebles climbed out, adjusted his tie and buttoned up his double-breasted suit. Macy held the building’s door open for him and Peebles walked briskly through. They climbed the steps and with each one Peebles seemed to transform into a larger and larger presence. This was his moment and he had been waiting for it for years. Out with the old and in with the new.
He reached the top and waited for Macy to open the door for him. There would be seven men waiting for him in here, each representing a slice of the District’s illegal drug distribution. They had never worked together; instead, each had grabbed his little share and over-seen his own little fiefdom. They shared neither information nor resources. When disagreements came up, they resolved them by shooting each other. They fed information to the police about other crews when it suited them and the cops came in and cherry-picked them. Francis had done the same thing, and while it was a short-term fix that seemed to have merit, Peebles knew it could not have been more of a management disaster from a long-term perspective. And it was time for Antoine Peebles to step in and take charge.
He opened the door and walked into the room where he would start his own legend.
Peebles looked around. And saw no one there.
Peebles didn’t even have a chance to turn before the pistol was at his head and the shot was fired into his brain. He dropped to the floor, blood running down his fine tie and over his very professional attire.
Macy put the pistol away and bent over the dead man. “I read Machiavelli, Twan,” he said without a trace of conceit. He turned out the light and walked back down the stairs. He had a plane to catch because things were really going to start rocking now.
Web guided Boo up the small hill and reined up next to Gwen, who was on Baron.
Romano was covering Billy down at the equestrian center; actually, Web had left the two admiring Romano’s Corvette. With most of the farm’s men gone to the horse sale, Web had felt particularly vulnerable and had gotten Canfield to okay some more agents coming on the farm to patrol the grounds and keep watch, at least until the men returned.
“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” said Gwen. She looked over at Web. “I guess you think we have a pretty easy life here. Big house, lots of help, just ride around all day admiring the view.”
She smiled, yet Web sensed she was being serious. He wondered why a woman like Gwen Canfield, with all she’d been through, would have the need to seek approval from anyone, especially a stranger like him. “I think you’ve both been through a lot, you’ve worked hard and now you’re enjoying the fruits of that labor. That’s supposed to be the American dream, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she answered without conviction. She looked at the sun overhead. “It’s hot today.” Web could tell the woman wanted to talk to him about something but didn’t quite know how to broach it.
“I’ve been an FBI agent for so long, Gwen, I’ve heard just about everything and I tend to be a very good listener.”
She shot him a glance. “I don’t spill my heart even to people I know well, Web, at least not anymore.”
“I’m not asking you to. But if you want to talk, I’m here.”
They rode some more and then she stopped. “I’ve been thinking about the trial in Richmond. Those awful people even sued the FBI, didn’t they?”
“Tried to, but it got thrown out. The lawyer, Scott Wingo, the one who was recently killed, he tried to make some hay out of that during Ernest Free’s trial, but the judge saw right through it and put a stop to it. But it probably caused enough doubt in the jury’s eyes that the prosecutor got scared and did a plea bargain.” He paused and then added, “Of course he’s dead too now, and the judge.”
Gwen stared over at him with her large, sad eyes. “And yet Ernest Free is alive and free, after everything he did.”
“Life makes no sense sometimes, Gwen.”
“Billy and I had a wonderful life before all that happened. I love him very much. But ever since David was killed, it hasn’t been the same. The fault probably lies more with me than him. It was my idea to put David in that school. I wanted him to get a first-rate education and I wanted him to be exposed to lots of different types of people—translation, people of color and ethnicity. Billy is a good man, but he was born and raised in Richmond, not with any sort of wealth or privilege but in a neighborhood where you’d never see anyone but those of your own kind.” She added quickly, “He’s not a racist or anything like that. Half the drivers and dockworkers at his trucking company were black and he treated them all the same. If you worked hard, you had a job at fair wages. I’ve even gone with him to drivers’ homes when they’d fallen off the wagon. He would bring food and money to the families, counsel the men, get them professional help and pay for it, or AA meetings, get them back on their feet. And even though he could have fired them, even under union rules, he didn’t. He told me once his lot on earth was to be the King of Second Chances, because he’d had enough of his. I know some people might look at him and me and not see the attraction, but I know there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me and he’s stood right next to me through good and bad times and we’ve both had our share of those.”
“Hey, Gwen, you don’t have to convince me. But if you’re having problems, have you sought counseling? I actually know someone.”
She gave Web a hopeless look, gazed up at the hot sun again and said, “I’m going for a swim.”
They rode back to the stables and Web drove Gwen back to the house in one of the farm trucks. She changed into her swimsuit and met Web at the pool area. He wasn’t swimming, he told her, because his gun would get wet. She smiled at this remark and went over and turned a key that was set in a device built into a stone wall next to the pool. The gray automatic pool cover slid back on its tracks.
“We put this in because we kept finding turtles, frogs and even the occasional black snake in the pool,” she explained.
As the cover slid into its holding trench at the far end of the pool, Web squatted down and examined the current-machine built into the deep end of the pool. He looked up in time to see Gwen step out of her sandals and slip out of her robe. She had on a one-piece suit that was cut a little low at the bosom and a little high at the hips and buttocks. Her body had a nice tan, and the muscles in her thighs and calves matched those he had already seen in her arms and shoulders. Forget the butt-burners and thigh-masters, women should just go horseback riding.
“How’s this thing work?” asked Web.
Gwen tucked her long hair under a swim cap and walked over to him. “Water’s pumped from the pool and through the cannon that you see there. It shoots out the water at a certain rate providing a resistance that you can increase or decrease, as you want. We had a portable machine for a while that was very cumbersome. And then I was using it so much that it made sense to have it built in. The pool’s heated, so I use it pretty much year-round.”
“I guess that’s why you’re in such great shape.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Sure you don’t want to swim with me?”
“I’d probably just slow you down.”
“Right. There’s not an ounce of fat on you.” She went over to a control panel that was bolted to the stone wall that was set against the side of the pool nearest the house, opened the box and pushed some buttons.
Web heard water pressure building up and then he looked into the pool and saw white frothing water pouring out of the underwater cannon, creating the current Gwen was going to swim against.
She put on a pair of swim goggles and dove in. Web watched as she came to the surface and started her strokes. He watched for about ten min
After about twenty minutes the frothing water stopped and Gwen came over to the side of the pool.
“Done?” asked Web.
“No, I had it set for forty-five minutes. The circuit might have tripped.”
“Where’s the power box?”
She pointed to the double doors set in a stone wall that was built up against a small slope. “In the pool equipment room.”
With the grade of land the way it was here, Web figured the room was partly underground. He headed over and turned the knob. “It’s locked.”
“That’s odd, we never lock it.”
“You know where the key is?”
“No. Like I said, we never lock it, I just assumed there wasn’t a key. I guess I’ll have to cut my swim short.”
“No, you won’t.” He smiled. “The FBI is a full-service agency and a happy client is our best customer.” He pulled out his key ring, on which he always carried a very slim piece of metal that could pick ninety-nine percent of the world’s locks in about thirty seconds. He opened the pool equipment room in half that time.
He went in, found the light switch and turned on the lights, which was a good thing, because even with the lights, he almost took a tumble down a short flight of steps just inside the doorway. Well, he thought, that was a lawyer’s dream case. The place was noisy, with water running and machinery clanking and pumping. He went down the stairs. There were shelves filled with pool stuff, big canisters of powdered chlorine, skimmers, scrubbers, an aquatic robot to clean the pool and assorted junk that probably no one had used in years. It was cool down here and Web calculated that he was about ten feet underground at this point because the floor had continued to gently slope downward once he had gone down the stairs.
Web found the power box and sure enough the circuit had tripped. Since the current machine was a new addition, unless they had upgraded their wiring, it might be throwing too much electrical strain on the system. They should probably have that looked at before it blew and started a fire. He made a mental note to tell Gwen this. As he threw the breaker back on, he heard the machine start up again. There was really quite a racket down here. As he turned to go back outside, Web didn’t notice another door down a short hallway. He turned and walked back out, turning off the light.
On the other side of that door and down another short hallway was another door, for there was quite the little maze down here. Inside that room Kevin Westbrook held his breath. First he had heard footsteps and then he hadn’t. He had heard the damn machine go on and then off and then on again. And the chlorine smell, for he had long ago deduced what it was and grown used to it. But the footsteps going away had surprised him. Whenever people had come down here before, they had come to see him. He wondered why they hadn’t this time.
41
While Gwen showered, Web waited in the library. One wall of the room consisted of built-in cabinetry with a large-screen TV. There were also five shelves filled with videocassettes and Web idly ran his gaze along them until the handwritten numbers on one of them made him freeze. He reached out and took it off the shelf. The numbers he had seen were only a date, yet the date was one that Web would never forget. He looked around, but there was no one about.
Web popped the tape in the VCR. The scene was one he had played over and over in his head. The Richmond school was filled with smart, willing children from all types of socioeconomic backgrounds. It was quite symbolic, the newspapers had said at the time, that the former capital of the Confederacy was trying a bold program to reintegrate its schools after most federal courts and most states had thrown up their hands and said what was there was the best that could be done. Well, Richmond had tried to do more and was succeeding, drawing national attention to its programs. Then Ernest B. Free and several of his homicidal gang had walked in the front doors with body armor and enough automatic weaponry to defeat the Union in the Civil War.
Chaos had followed as the two teachers were gunned down and over forty hostages, including thirty children, ages six to sixteen, were forced to take part in an event not one of them wanted anything to do with. The negotiators had worked the phones nonstop with the men inside, trying to keep them calm, to see what they wanted and whether it could be gotten for them. And all the time Web and his Charlie Team were standing by along with Zulu Team sniper guns trained on every available point of attack. Then there were sounds of gunfire inside and Web and his men were called up to the front lines. Each man had the battle plan firmly in mind, though it had been concocted on the fly on the way down from Quantico. Web remembered that they had gotten so close to getting the call to hit the target that he had even rubbed his .45s for luck.
What little Web knew about the Frees had not made him feel any better. They were violent but disciplined and well armed. And they were entrenched and had lots of innocent lives in their control.
The Frees had contacted the negotiators through a phone system that they had jerry-rigged. The shots were merely a misfire, they had said. Right away Web hadn’t liked that. He could sense something bad coming, for the very simple fact that men like the Frees didn’t operate under good faith. Yet Charlie Team had been called off. After Waco, the FBI’s position on hostage rescue had changed. Basically it was a sit-and-wait game and the Bureau had shown that it was willing to wait until a new year had dawned before forcing the issue, so deeply ingrained was the starkly brutal image of lost children burning in Texas. But after the Frees had broken off negotiations, HRT had been called up again and this time Web knew they were going in.
With the TV cameras out front letting the whole world watch this drama unfold frame by frame, Web and Charlie Team had inched toward a little-used entrance at the rear of the building. To maximize surprise, since the precise location of the hostages and the Frees was not known, they had decided against using a breach charge to blow the exterior door and had opted for stealth. They had gotten inside quietly and made their way down the corridor and toward the gymnasium, where the best intelligence available said the hostages probably were.
HRT had crept to the double door, where Web had peered through the glass on the door and methodically counted hostages and hostage takers. They all appeared to be there. Just before ducking down, Web had made eye contact with the boy; he tried to keep him calm so he wouldn’t give Web and company away, even giving him a thumbs-up. At the time Web didn’t know that the young man was David Canfield.
HRT had begun its countdown. Each operator knew exactly where to shoot and they were confident that they could take out each of the Frees without losing any more hostages, though each of them also knew that things could go to hell quickly through the unexpected.
And they did.
Right before they burst into the room, there came a loud, high-pitched sound. It could not have come at a more inopportune time. And to this day Web didn’t know its source.
HRT came in firing, but the Frees, now forewarned, instantly returned it.
And the shots were carefully placed. David Canfield had been shot through his left lung, the round exiting out of his chest. He dropped to the floor. With every breath the boy was jettisoning his blood through the large hole in his body. Though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, David Canfield had stared at Web with an expression the man would never forget. It was as though the boy had put his entire faith in Web, his touchstone against all the madness, and Web had let him down. Thumbs-up.
That’s when the real fighting started, and Web had to forget about David Canfield and concentrate on the other hostages and the men trying to kill him. He had taken the flamer after saving Lou Patterson, then eaten the rounds in his neck and torso. After that he had been a one-man wrecking crew and none of the Frees were left standing. Web couldn’t believe that Ernest Free had managed to survive.
Reliving this was sickening, yet Web hunched forward as the cameras captured him once more. He was being brought out on a stretcher, paramedics surrounding him. To his left was Lou Patterson. On his right was a sheet over a body. David Canfield was the only hostage to have died with HRT on the case. Web continued to watch himself on the TV as the cameras alternated between him fighting for his life and David Canfield’s still body. A light from one of the TV cameras continued to shine on the boy until somebody actually shot it out. Web often wondered who had done it. And then the tape went dark.
“I was the one who shot out that camera light.”
Web whirled around and saw Billy Canfield standing there, staring at the TV and seemingly having been privy to Web’s thoughts. He moved forward, his steps halting, his finger pointing at the screen.
Web rose from the couch. “God, Billy, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“See,” Billy continued, “that damn light was shining right on my boy. They didn’t have to do that.” He finally focused on Web. “They didn’t have to do that, it wasn’t right. My little Davy was always sensitive to bright lights.”
It was then that Gwen came in, dressed in jeans and a pink blouse, her feet bare and her hair still wet. Web shot her an apologetic look and she quickly deduced what had happened. She took her husband by the arm, but he immediately pulled away from her. Web read something close to hate for her in his eyes.
“Why don’t you two sit in here and watch it?” he shouted at Gwen. “Damn you. I know, Gwen. Don’t think I don’t.”
He stalked out of the room, while Gwen, without even looking at Web, fled in the other direction.
Feeling tremendous guilt, Web popped the tape out and started to put it on the shelf; and then he stopped. He glanced toward the door, slid the tape in his jacket pocket and went back to the carriage house. He put the tape in the VCR there and turned on the TV. He watched the tape five more times and something was there that he just couldn’t quite get, a sound in the background. He turned up the volume and got very close to the screen, yet that didn’t work. Finally he called Bates and explained what he was thinking. “I’ve got the tape here,” he said.
Bates said, “I know the one you’re talking about. It was shot by a network affiliate in Richmond. We’ve got one in archives. I’ll have our guys give it a close look.”
Web clicked the TV off and took the tape out of the VCR. It had also been discovered later that two black teenage females had been raped by the Frees; apparently their hatred for those of color did -->