by Glen Carter
“Not now,” Rutter shouted.
The door swung open.
Two soldiers flanked the man standing there. Both armed. They stepped into the den. The Secret Service agents outside dumbly watched as the door was slammed in their faces.
Stoffer rose from the desk. “No interruptions.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Gordon Lilly replied.
“We’ll tell you what’s possible,” Stoffer fumed.
Lilly ignored him, parade stiff, hands balled at his sides. “As prosecutor for the Judge Advocate General.”
Rutter jumped up. “Get the hell out.”
Lilly stepped closer, unfettered. “And with the authority vested in me by the United States government . . .”
“What’s your game, Gordon?” Rutter snarled. “You still smarting over the drubbing I gave you in the primaries? Attorney General not enough? You wanted Veep, right?”
“It’s over, senator,” said Lilly.
“Don’t be a fool,” Rutter yelled. “The video is a goddamn fabrication!”
“Not a fabrication.” Lilly checked the two soldiers with him. They would not repeat what he was about to say. “The incident report was clear on what happened. Three men shot once. Doody took two bullets. One in the head, the other in the heart. Classified information, including where the bodies were extracted. The video shows it all. If it were some elaborate fake, Senator, how would the fabricator have known these details?”
Rutter looked straight ahead.
“I’m placing you under arrest for violations of Article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” Lilly said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Rutter took a threatening step. The two Marines stood in his way.
“Fuck you,” Rutter spat. “You’re done.”
“Soldier first, lawyer always,” replied the JAG prosecutor. “Pat the bastard down.”
Rutter jumped back. Shouted for the agents. The door was thrown open just as a pair of hands was laid on. The Secret Service had one purpose. Keep the candidate safe. A fist was thrown, followed by a couple more, and then the room became a brawl. Agents and Marines tumbled across furniture. In the middle of the maelstrom, blood suddenly appeared on the face of a combatant. Stoffer cowered in a corner. Lilly shouted an order to stand down, but it was ignored. Neither side would surrender their duty. Custody trumped protection, but not as far as the Secret Service was concerned. Weapons were drawn in a tense multi-service deadlock. Even with the overload of adrenaline, no one was stupid enough to pull a trigger. Everyone breathed, allowing the standoff to de-escalate.
Lilly pounded a fist, then, and cursed. Rutter was gone.
* * * * *
It was smaller than a school eraser, Bolt thought, pulling the thumb drive out. Lazily putting it back into his pocket. It was out there now. For the world to chew on. It felt good, so damn good. In his mind, rough hands were on his shoulders, grave voices at his ear. Oorah. Bolt jerked around to confirm no one was at his back. Sarah watched him, not smiling, not particularly smug or satisfied or anything else. Just watching him, like one person did another, sharing the same space and time.
Bolt was amazed. Social media was a landscape of pitchforks and torches. Rutter’s base was collapsing. It went on in waves, the tweets and retweets a replicating virus. Bolt couldn’t keep up. He smiled to himself and wondered if the monster was already in leg irons.
The television was turned on. Liz filled the screen.
“Do you think she’s nervous?” Sarah asked.
“Naw,” Bolt replied. “Does a lion get nervous chasing down a gazelle?”
“I guess not.”
“I’d say she’s headed for big things at the network.”
CNN was replaying the video. Pixelated. No blood or bullet holes. Still, Sarah turned away, got up, and walked to the window. “You’re so much like him,” she said, nearly a whisper.
“Kallum?”
Sarah smiled. Nodded slightly. “That day during the interview. I can’t explain it. I couldn’t stop staring.”
“I noticed.”
“Did you feel it, too?”
“Olaf taught you. How to open up to the energy.”
“To comprehend the limitless possibilities.”
“Like Diana’s garden.”
Sarah looked at him quizzically.
“A clipping that grows into a duplicate flower,” he offered.
“That’s so lovely,” Sarah replied.
Was it possible? Two men, and the sum of both lives, inhabiting one soul? Or, as Olaf had suggested, two souls were at play. Bolt didn’t have all the answers. He’d concentrate on the things he could see and feel, which included his ripening affection for this beautiful woman.
“I’m not sure who you are, Samuel,” she said. “My late husband’s son? Though I could never believe that. A son wouldn’t know the things you know.”
“Such as . . .”
Her face reddened.
They both laughed, bleeding some of the day’s incredible stress. After a moment: “Should I apologize,” Bolt asked.
“No.” Sarah smiled, impishly. “It was wonderful. It was right.” Bitterness crossed her face, then. “My marriage has been over for a long time. It never was a marriage. I was going to divorce him after the election.”
“You’ll probably have to serve him the papers at Leavenworth.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“How do you feel?” asked Bolt.
“Relieved. Angry.” Sarah paused. “Ashamed.”
That didn’t make sense.
“For being so blind,” she continued. “How can I forgive myself?”
“You couldn’t have known, Sarah. You were alone, confused. Rutter took advantage. You were just another of his victims.”
“Kallum deserved more,” she said.
“Yes, he did. But that’s not your fault.” The TV switched to a tight shot of Rutter, at the microphone, in the seconds before all hell broke loose. Bolt was impressed with how Liz was handling the story.
“We still don’t know if or when the senator will be making a statement about that shocking video,” Liz said. “But I think it’s safe to say he’s fighting for more than his political life right now.”
“The families of those four soldiers are being contacted,” the anchor interjected. “No doubt they’ll have plenty to say.”
Sarah turned at the window. Tears streamed down her face.
Bolt got up and walked to her. They embraced. “Kallum was a lucky guy,” he said. “I’m glad I’ve gotten to know him.”
“And I’m sure she’s glad to have gotten to know you.”
Bolt spun around to see Abe blocking the doorway. A second later, he was pushed into the room, followed by Rutter with a dirty grimace and a gun.
“Now let’s all get to know each other,” Rutter added menacingly.
45
The fog rolled in like an illusory bugaboo, fed by a swath of cool air that drifted south from Nova Scotia. It settled along the rocky coastline and crawled slowly onto the green landscapes and unbroken forests that ran for miles on either side of Harbour Rock.
Mystic Blue was adrift, a derelict on a black, calm sea. Four souls were aboard. A revolver was pointed at three of them. Billy Rutter was holding the gun. Rubbing the back of his head, where Abe had swung a lamp to put his lights out.
“Like old times,” Rutter said. “The four of us, hanging out. Abe, I bet you’re thirsty. There’s beer in the fridge. Sarah, get Abe a beer. Samuel, you want a beer? We’ll drink to your father. The prick.”
“Sure,” Bolt replied. He nodded at Sarah, who got up and walked to the fridge.
“Nice touch,” Rutter said. “Her new master callin
g the shots. Or should that be old master, once removed?”
“Whatever you say, Billy Boy,” said Bolt.
Rutter waved the gun. “Don’t call me that, you son of a bitch.”
Bolt drew a finger across pressed lips. “Sorry. William.”
Sarah handed them bottles and sat again.
Rutter took a mouthful. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “That trick with your fingerprints. How’d you do that, Bolt?”
What the hell was he talking about? The bees felt like a swarm behind his eyes. He tried not to show it.
“You and Kallum. The same fingerprints.”
Abe grinned. Sarah’s eyes were wide.
Bolt shrugged. Made a show of inspecting his fingertips. “Me and a dead man. Go figure.”
“It’s part of the con, right?”
“You’re a smart guy. You figure it out.”
“And the video. Another part of your little vendetta.”
Bolt looked at him disgustedly. “Four men deserve justice.”
“So, you’re judge and jury.”
Abe jabbed a finger. “And executioner, Billy Boy.”
Rutter swung the gun. Mumbled something under his breath.
“Don’t, Abraham,” Sarah implored. She would have seen the warning on Rutter’s face too many times.
“Listen to her, Abraham. She knows me well.” Rutter got up, glanced through a porthole. “We’re pretty invisible out here with this fog.”
They’d still be looking, Bolt knew. The coast guard, with its fast rescue craft. Police, too. Mystic Blue was a ship of fugitives. Rutter was likely on the lam, as well. Exposed as a war criminal. Bolt wondered how he managed to slip away, with so many guns and badges around him.
Rutter leaned over and flipped on the radio. Chatter filled the cabin. A surface vessel was closing in, and by the sounds of it, a helicopter was in the air. The pilot was complaining about the “soup” and advising he was low on fuel. Whatever Rutter was planning, he didn’t have much time. That meant they didn’t, either. Abe had a fist wrapped around his bottle, his body language suggested something ballsy was in the works. Imperceptibly, Bolt shook his head. “They’ll be aboard soon, William,” he said. “Then you’re going to be the big story for a long time. There’ll be a military court, but if I were you, I’d shoot for civilian. Plead something silly. You were having a bad day, and when it was up, your buddies were all dead. Maybe PTSD.”
“Shut up.” Rutter shifted for a tighter grip on the revolver. A finger on the trigger. His eyes were blank, dead holes at the front of his skull. Bolt knew what was coming. He’d seen it before. On the video, when Rutter was done killing. Bolt planted his feet firmly on the deck, the bottle in his hand a weapon, like Abe’s. The swarm in his head was deafening. The helicopter was suddenly overhead. The downwash whipped through the rigging, pinging and slapping the masts. Time was bleeding away.
“Tell us what happened in Iraq, William. Tell Kallum’s widow.”
It took only a moment for Rutter to assemble his confession. Reticence wasn’t part of the process. “There was another time,” he began. “I fed a bullet into the weapon Kallum was cleaning. He dodged it, which was unfortunate. When we were ambushed and imprisoned, the pieces just fell into place.”
“You ran.”
“I saw what was coming. Damn right I ran. What would you have done?”
“Kallum stayed and fought.”
“And sadly survived.”
“Survived the enemy. But not his friend.”
“Kallum was not my friend.”
Abe went to get up.
Rutter pointed the weapon. “Now, now, Abraham. Your knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“Don’t need knees. Just a good pair of hands.”
Rutter laughed it off and continued. “The Rangers hit the place hard. I had only a few minutes to do what needed to be done. There was a guard outside the door. Just a kid. I beat the snot out of him, and his weapon was just lying there. Oh, what a sweet opportunity. How could I let it pass?”
“You didn’t have to do it,” Bolt said. “Everyone could have made it out.”
Rutter stared blankly. “Kallum was blind to the rage I felt. And you, Sarah. You adored him but settled for me. Can you imagine the resentment after all these years?”
Sarah reflexively swept a hand along her leg and with Herculean strength constrained a bubbling fury. Her tipping point was inescapable.
“I unlocked the courtyard door and . . .”
“You shot them,” Bolt finished.
“The Rangers had breached the compound. They were coming.”
“Kallum was last.”
“The guard was last.”
“Part of the cover.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a stretch to believe the guard carried out orders to kill the POWs. When I got there, I fought the bastard and killed him. Sadly, no one got out alive, except for me. Tidy little pack of lies for my debrief. No loose ends. Except for that goddamn video. Where did you get the video, Bolt?”
Bolt grinned. “I’m betting the video has been gathering dust for a long time.”
Rutter scowled but said nothing.
Sarah watched him with dreadful comprehension. “My parents,” she said, haltingly. “My father said something to you the day they died.”
Rutter thought about it for a moment. “Your father was so well-connected. I saw the opportunity, even at that young an age. But he was such a sanctimonious fool. I was beneath you, like the rabble from town.” Rutter paused. “Then Kallum got in my way.”
Sarah suddenly flung herself at him, a flurry of arms and legs. Scratching and clawing at everything she could.
Rutter handled her easily while managing to keep his gun trained on both men. She went still in his grip, sobbing at his feet. He stroked her hair. “Pennsylvania Avenue is far beyond anything Theodore could have imagined for his little princess.”
Psychopath, Jürgen had said, comfortable in his diagnosis. He had treated the sick and deranged, including a man who had impaled nine human beings. Rutter’s body count was not so high, or was it? Bolt wondered.
A boat’s horn sounded through the fog.
“They’ll be here soon,” Bolt said.
“Can’t wait,” Rutter said smugly. “I’m the hero who went after the two men who took my wife. You had a knife. Forced us aboard the boat. The gun was in a storage locker. I got to it but, sadly, too late to save Sarah. You killed her before I could put you down. You were the architect of everything, Bolt. A madman driven by hatred and the phantoms in your head. All I was trying to do was protect my wife. What man wouldn’t have done the same?”
“You’re insane,” Bolt said.
“You would never come close to understanding what I am.”
The boat horn sounded again, closer.
Without another word, Rutter pointed the revolver and fired.
Abe grunted in pain and tumbled to the floor.
Bolt lunged. He grabbed the gun as it levelled for another shot. The weapon fired again, this time wild. They crashed onto the navigation table, sending the charts and radio into a heap. Rutter swung hard, connecting. The agony inside Bolt’s head was excruciating. He pulled Rutter to his feet and punched, full impact to his face. The gun skittered across the deck. Hands slapping, punching. Rutter was wild with rage. Bolt took it until he could take no more. He pulled back, allowing the strength to build on the right side of his body, and then drove his fist solidly into Rutter’s chin. A second punch half-connected. Bolt struck the bulkhead and shouted out. Rutter laughed. A knee was jammed into Bolt’s stomach, driving him back and down onto the deck. Sarah screamed, pounded on Rutter’s back. Then he was quickly up the stairs and gone.
Gulping air, Bolt
wiped the misery from his face and went after him. He stumbled out of the hatch, ducking a grappling hook that sliced the air above his head. Rutter taunted, cursing, urging him on. “The head and heart. That’s what he got. You should have seen the look on his face.” The grappling hook swung again, striking Bolt in the side. He grabbed hold, throwing Rutter off balance. Bolt flew into him, sending them both over the side, into the icy water. Bolt’s limbs became stone, paralyzed while Rutter clawed at his legs, pulling him deeper into the black, numbing sea. Bolt couldn’t shake him off. Helplessly, he sank. Colder, darker, deepening his panic. His arms flailed impossibly for light. Rutter tightened his grip. Bolt gulped a mouthful of brine, spent with surrender. The life that flashed past was not his own. Nor the regrets. It was Kallum’s movie. It always had been. With the same bastard now writing the final scene. Bolt caught a flicker of light on Rutter’s face. His black eyes. Lips drawn into a sardonic sneer. A cold fog pushed away Bolt’s ability to think. His very consciousness. A whisper suddenly came to him. So soft it might have lulled him to sleep.
He’s already gone, Samuel. You are alive.
Alive but sinking. The voice had to be part of the processes of his death.
Kallum?
I am not.
Then who?
The answers you need are far beyond your understanding. Even the questions.
Help me to understand.
The miracle of you began with another.
With Kallum, in the sand?
In the depths of the sea. The energy of life has no time, no beginning or end.
Why me?
You’ll know.
Now?
No, Samuel. Not now.
When?
The voice whisked away. An easy peace embraced him, a swaddling of life force, which Bolt seized riotously. There was a bump at his back. Then another. A tug at his collar. Something hard scraped against Bolt’s skin. He suddenly broke the surface, and cold, moist air cascaded down his throat. When he opened his eyes, Sully was standing there, at the other end of a grappling hook. Sarah shouted her joy while a pair of hands grabbed his arms and dragged him aboard. Bolt collapsed on the deck, at Sully’s feet, sputtering salt water, and shivering from his shoeless feet to the tips of his fingers.