“What is Operation Talon?” the man asked again, this time addressing Morales specifically.
“My name is Sergeant Fenton Morales. I am a citizen of the United States of America.”
The man nodded dully, assessing both marines with complete disinterest. He turned his back to the hostages, and when he faced them again, he was wielding a pistol, which Townsend recognized as a Glock 19. With his arm extended, rigid as a steel girder, the terrorist pointed the barrel of the gun at Morales’s head.
“Last chance, Sergeant Morales,” he said with absolutely no inflection in his voice. “What is Operation Talon? When will it be taking place?”
“My name is Sergeant Fenton Morales, I am a—”
Morales’s words were cut short by a loud pop, followed by a bright flash of light mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder. In the same instant, Morales’s head recoiled back violently as the bullet splintered through his skull. Blood, bone, and brain splattered across the wall behind him, leaving a grotesque spin art pattern of red and white. Morales slumped forward in his chair, lifeless, blood still dripping from the gaping hole in the center of his forehead. Townsend stared wide-eyed at his friend.
Whatever it takes, he recited to himself. Whatever it takes.… Whatever it takes.…
Townsend felt sick, but he did not feel panicked. He would kill these men or they would kill him, but there was no way they would learn even one word about Operation Talon. Morales was a lesson for him—a warning to cooperate or die. That just wasn’t going to happen … ever.
“Now, what is Operation Talon?”
“Fuck you.”
Townsend stared straight ahead with unblinking eyes.
The terrorist leader slapped him viciously across the face, then motioned for Morales’s corpse to be removed. Two guards cut him free. As they dragged him away by his undershirt, the heels of his boots left long rubber streaks across the gray linoleum floor. Bucky Townsend clenched his jaws. All he could think of was getting a crack at even one of them. Just one.
The leader ushered the remaining guards out of the room and followed them, closing the door softly. When he returned minutes later, he was wheeling a steel pushcart containing an array of instruments, most of which Townsend could identify. Some, though, he could not.
“What is Operation Talon?” the man said.
“My name is—”
The terrorist held up his hand, cutting Townsend’s words short.
“Bucky,” the man said, crouching down to get eye level with Townsend. “My name is Abdullah, and I do not wish to cause you harm, but I need information from you, information that I will hurt you to get. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Townsend said. “I understand. Hey, Abdullah, take these ropes off my wrists and give me your Glock. Just for a minute.”
“I’m now going to blindfold you, Bucky. You will hear my footsteps walking around your chair. In my hand I’m going to be holding this.” Abdullah picked up a ball-peen hammer and showed it to Townsend. “I am going to strike your body with this hammer,” he said. “Maybe your knees, an elbow, your neck. You won’t know when I’m going to hit you, or where, and you won’t know the blow is coming. You can avoid all this unpleasantness if you answer my question. Exactly what is Operation Talon, and when will it be taking place?”
Townsend’s nostrils flared as he fixed his gaze on the hammer gently tapping away against Abdullah’s meaty palm.
“My name is Bucky Townsend—”
Townsend’s world went dark again as Abdullah pulled a cloth blindfold across his eyes and tied it tightly in the back. Then, as promised, there were footsteps circling around him.
Breathe in … breathe out … in and out … whatever it takes …
The footsteps stopped and Townsend waited for the pain, sucking down air in preparation. He waited … and waited. Nothing. Then the footsteps began again; round and round they walked.
“You don’t need to die like your friend Morales. You don’t need the excruciating pain you are about to suffer. Tell me about Talon, and you can go.”
“Fuck you.”
The footfalls continued, then came to another stop, this time to Townsend’s left. He felt the ball-peen hammer bouncing on his left knee, though not with any great force. He braced himself for the strike. The pain he knew would be unimaginably intense.
I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee.…
“One last time. What is Operation Talon? When is it going to happen?”
Townsend stiffened and muttered another stream of curses. All he could think of was dying with the class and bravery of Morales. He would make every marine in Mantis proud.
At that instant, instead of the pain he was anticipating, Townsend felt the blindfold being loosened. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he cried out. On the chair next to him, with an artfully done gunshot wound at the center of his forehead, sat Fenton Morales, beaming.
“What the—?”
“Nice going, pal,” Morales said. “I knew you could do it.”
The door to Townsend’s left opened, and Major Charles Coon entered the small room, followed by a gangly man in his thirties wearing paint-stained fatigues.
Coon was grinning even more broadly than Morales. “Sergeant Townsend, meet Sergeant Brett Coughlin, the best illusionist and makeup artist in the military. We use him and his special skills for jobs like this. That directed spray of blood and bone is a miracle—a friggin’ miracle.”
Coughlin nodded toward Coon, then to Townsend. Then he set about peeling off the gunshot from Morales’s forehead.
“Sonofabitch,” was all Townsend could say. “Sonofa rat-nosed bitch.”
The tall man who had identified himself as Abdullah used a ten-inch razor-sharp Bowie knife to slice through Townsend’s restraints. Then he helped him to his feet.
“Orders are orders,” the man said without emotion, peeling off his fake beard and revealing himself to be one of the Palace Guards.
Townsend understood fully. This was his final test for Operation Talon. There would be others who would be exposed to Brett Coughlin’s magic, or else they already had been. But he was done.
Coon set a strong hand on Townsend’s shoulder. “You did well,” he said. “Damn well.”
He motioned a graying man into the room, whom Townsend recognized as Coon’s chief medical officer. The CMO held an open laptop. “His vitals were well below expected this time,” he said. “He was basically at rest, almost in a sleep state. Heart rate, muscle tension, oxygen levels, everything. It’s rather remarkable. I think we’re there.”
Coon nodded. “Sergeant Bucky Townsend, I’m pleased to inform you that you are now an official team member of Operation Talon.”
“Sir, thank you, sir,” Townsend said, snapping to attention. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Coon smoothed out his uniform. “I’m sure that I won’t be,” he said. “In fact, I’d bet my career on it.”
CHAPTER 20
Lou picked up a pen and flipped to a blank page in his yellow legal pad. He was seated at his kitchen table with a steaming mug of cocoa, looking, he hoped, like a suave, unrumpled novelist in a coffee commercial. He started with the first few words he recollected from the conversation between Elias Colston and Hector.
Hi, Hector.
Or did Hector say hello first?
Lou tore off the sheet and started again.
He made another attempt, feeling more foolish by the minute for not waiting to give the disc to Sarah rather than rushing to take it to the police. Arrogant. According to the article Emily had dug up, the word was one that, for some years, Sarah had associated with physicians. Now it appeared she had good reason to be using it again—Lou was arrogant to believe he could recall anything verbatim. Another try, another crumpled ball of yellow lined paper. He simply had not listened to the recording closely enough or for enough times for the conversation to take precise root anywhere in his memory. God, but he hated being wrong.
“That’s w
hy lawyers never say anything that will matter without having a stenographer typing it down.”
Hadn’t Sarah been smiling when she said that?
For his fourth attempt, Lou tried an entirely different approach, jotting down words, phrases, and recollections in free association.
Long time since they last met.…
They ordered sandwiches.…
Colonel Brody requested the meeting.…
Colston wanted to cut funds for Mantis.…
The palace guards … toughs that are never far from the colonel …
Ever heard of the Reddy Creek Armory?…
Don’t know nothing about no armory.
Something about a blog.
Lou set down his pen. This was hardly the detail Sarah had in mind. He hated giving her another reason to be disappointed in doctors, but this effort was fruitless. The best he could do was to bank on Detective Bryzinski coming up with the disc. He went to get some carrots and celery sticks, and spied Diversity manning his fort atop the refrigerator. The cat mewed, then hissed. For a moment, Lou thought he was going to spring.
“Come on big fella, let’s be friends.”
He opened a can of gourmet cat food he had bought at Whole Foods for what seemed like the price of a restaurant meal for himself. Diversity eyed Lou until he had returned to the legal pad, then leapt to the floor via the counter and began chowing down.
Nice kitty.
Another page or two, and Lou finally admitted defeat. There had to be another way.
“What do you think, pal?” he said to the tabby. “Should I try to find this Hector?”
Diversity turned his head toward Lou’s voice, licked his lips, and mewed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Lou crossed to the phone by the couch. Jeannine Colston answered on the second ring. She sounded as if she had been sleeping or crying, or possibly, Lou guessed, both. Many things were going to have to go right before life made sense to her again.
“I found something when I was looking through Elias’s office,” Lou said. “It was a CD, secretly made, I think, recording a conversation between Elias and a marine named Hector.”
“Hector Rodriguez? Mark’s friend?”
“I believe that’s who Elias was speaking with, yes.”
“That’s strange,” Jeannine said. “Why would Elias do such a thing?”
“Colonel Wyatt Brody, who heads up Mantis, asked Hector to arrange the meeting. I think that Elias wanted to have a record of the conversation because he knew what they were going to talk about.”
“And what was that?” Jeannine asked.
“Your husband’s controversial position about cutting support to the military and, in particular, to Mantis Company. He wanted to keep slashing funding, and Brody was using Mark’s best friend to get Elias to change his position.”
“I really think you should have told me about this, Dr. Welcome.” For the first time, there was a spark of energy in her voice.
Lou knew that she was right. “I’m sorry I didn’t,” he said. “You were sleeping when I found it behind the backing of Mark’s Medal of Honor. I didn’t know what it was until I listened to it after I had left. It seemed like something the police should have, so I took it to them.”
There was a prolonged silence during which Lou feared Colston’s widow might erupt. Dealing with Sarah had certainly prepared him well should that happen.
Ultimately, though, Jeannine sighed. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Doctor,” she said finally. “I know your mission was to exonerate Gary. But I’d prefer it if you kept me in the loop from now on.”
“I understand. Believe me, Jeannine, all I want is to ensure that the person who is ultimately tried and convicted of Elias’s murder is the one who did it. If that’s Gary, then it’s Gary.”
“In that case, I will tell you that if Wyatt Brody thought he could change Elias in any way, he did not know my husband very well. He may have had his faults, but Elias was a rarity among politicians. He was elected as a Republican, but was truly an Independent—never one to be influenced by lobbyists, his party, or at times even his own constituents. He thrived at the polls and on Capitol Hill by adhering to three very simple principles—honesty, transparency, and doing the right thing.”
“He was a good man,” Lou said.
Jeannine again went silent, clearly regaining her composure. During that time, Diversity finished his meal, left the room, then padded out from the bedroom with one of Lou’s socks and sequestered it someplace behind the cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator.
Gone, forever, Lou thought, wondering about using a chair to check what else might be stashed up there.
“Yes, he was a very good man,” Jeannine was saying. “It was wrong what I did.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think it’s anyone’s place to judge. I’m sure you had your reasons. The human heart is very complex, and as Gary’s longtime friend, I know how exciting and charismatic he can be.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“So, did Elias ever talk to you about Wyatt Brody?”
“No, never, although we didn’t talk politics as much as you might think. So, what do you need now?”
“I need a way to contact Hector.”
“I’ll get it for you. Tell me, how did the police miss all of this?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t think they were looking very hard. They had a theory of what happened, and they just looked for the evidence that fit that theory.”
“And you believe the recording might somehow be connected to Elias’s murder?”
“Anything’s possible. I’ll be able to tell better after I speak with Hector, hopefully in person.”
Jeannine retrieved her address book and read off two numbers. “I don’t know how easy he’ll be to reach. Elias never said so, but I assume Hector’s still on active duty with the marines. If you’d like, I can try to reach him to say you’re going to be calling.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, that would be great.”
“I want the same thing you do, Dr. Welcome—justice for my husband. Now that I think about it, there’s another number you should have. His name is Steve Papavassiliou—Papa Steve, we call him. He’s an ordnance specialist working with Mantis now, but he may have transferred there from another unit.”
“Papa Steve?”
“He is … was Elias’s closest friend, and Mark’s godfather. He and Elias served together in the marines. Elias would brag that Papa Steve could blow the antennae of a fly without killing it. They were like brothers. If Elias spoke about Wyatt Brody with anybody, it would have been with Papa Steve.”
Jeannine gave Lou Papa Steve’s number and promised to call Hector right away.
“One last thing,” Lou said. “Did the congressman ever mention a place called the Pine Forest Clinic?”
“Not that I recall. What’s that?”
“I guess from the logo that it’s a clinic of some sort located in Shockley, Minnesota. I found an empty envelope in the top drawer of Elias’s desk addressed to a James Styles at a P.O. box in Bowie.”
“Bowie, Maryland?”
“Exactly. And the return address was that clinic in Minnesota.”
“No idea. If I make any connections with that one, I’ll let you know.”
After repeating her promise to try to contact Hector Rodriguez, Jeannine ended the call.
Lou left a message for Papa Steve. The man’s gravelly voice mail greeting made Lou think of what Santa Claus might have sounded like if he carried a bazooka and a bag of C-4 explosives in his sleigh. He was on his way back to the kitchen table when Diversity attacked his leg from the side of the couch as if he were being chased by a coyote and Lou was an oak. The encounter lasted only a few seconds before Lou could shake free from his new nemesis, but the pain would endure considerably longer.
Cursing, he rolled up his pants leg, blotted away the blood from three neat rows of gouges, and s
wathed the area with soapy water and Neosporin. Then he added buying Band-Aids to the to-do list taped on the door of the fridge.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.
“Dr. Welcome,” he said, thinking it might be Papa Steve returning his call.
A youthful, somewhat anxious voice, said, “My name is Hector Rodriguez. Mark Colston’s mother called me a little while ago. She said you wanted to speak with me about Congressman Colston’s murder.”
Lou explained his involvement with the case.
“What’s that got to do with me?” Rodriguez asked.
“Elias Colston wrote down some notes regarding a conversation you had with him. Do you recall speaking with him at a bar a few years back? You talked about a bunch of things—Mark Colston, Wyatt Brody, and a group you guys call the Palace Guards.”
Lou thought about telling him the conversation had been recorded, but did not want to risk spooking him even more. He could usually tell when a patient was holding back on him, and Hector was giving off the same vibes.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the marine said after an edgy pause.
“Hector, a good friend of mine is facing life in jail for a crime he might not have committed. I think your conversation with Colston could be the key to sorting things out. Listen, I’ll come all the way out there to speak with you. I won’t need more than an hour of your time.”
Lou held his breath while Hector went quiet again. “One hour,” Hector said. “And not a minute more.”
CHAPTER 21
Lou finished an all-nighter in the ER plus an extra three hours covering for a doc with some sort of GI nastiness. Occupational hazard. Finally, he trudged to the on-call room and dived facedown on the narrow, industrial bed. His nightmare this day, what he remembered of it, anyway, featured cats.
By the time the alarm clock sounded at one in the afternoon, Lou was totally disoriented and probably as distressed in his gut as the doctor he had replaced. The trapezius muscles across his shoulders had developed knots the size of golf balls, and the grit in his eyes refused to wash away. It was the way of the typical late-night ER shift—feelings no less familiar to him than breathing.
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