by John Lutz
A thought came to him that made it easier to temper his joy. It was always like that with Markman; he was a perfectionist, a worrier, a slave to compunction. There was always some cloud on the horizon, some unanswered question to nag at him.
Who was the man he’d seen? That was what Markman wondered.
When the time had come to activate the model car, Markman had driven to the far side of Courthouse Square and parked. He noticed the two men standing in the main doorway. The security chief, Clifford, was familiar to him from his long reconnaissance of the building. But he’d never seen the other man before.
The stranger was tall, with broad, sloping shoulders. His beard was gray, his hair a darker shade. The men were clearly arguing. Old Clifford was even redder in the face than usual, and waving his arms around. But the other man stood there like a rock. He looked calm, steady, determined.
It was a trait that Markman had always prided himself on: when other people got excited, he kept calm. For some reason, it bothered Markman to see this trait in the other man.
He’d picked up his remote control, raised the antenna, and activated the model car immediately.
Now, as he stood by the roadside looking back at Speed Rogers’s smoking edifice, his pleasure in the sight was marred by the knowledge that he hadn’t done it perfectly. Hadn’t followed his plan. He’d intended to blow Rogers up on the air. Let his millions of listeners hear the bang. That would have been perfect.
But instead, a commercial had been playing on Markman’s car radio when be hit the switch. He’d allowed the man on the steps to rush him.
He felt hot with anger at this man whose name he didn’t even know. It was a struggle to control his emotion. Anyone who strove for excellence the way Markman did was bound to have a hatred for imperfection. When a device he’d built at his workbench failed to perform up to expectations, he would destroy it, along with the plans and all of the tools he’d used. He’d never leave anything around to remind him of his error, or possibly lead him into making another one.
But this man had been far away from the explosion. He’d escaped it unharmed. And Markman had a premonition that the man was going to interfere with his plans again. Frowning, he climbed back into the truck, started it, and drove away.
His calendar lay open on the seat beside him. He’d thought of rewarding himself for completing the Rogers mission by X’ing off the day, even though it was only just noon. He could celebrate the fact that his last preparatory strike was completed and now he could concentrate on the last one. The grand one. Only twenty-four squares remained on his calendar.
But he picked up the calendar, folded it one-handed, and stuffed it in his pocket. He was no longer in the mood to grant himself this little triumph. It seeemed to him there was now another obstacle between himself and May 15.
He switched on the radio. It would be necessary to monitor the media carefully for information about the man on the steps. Markman needed to know who he was and what had brought him here. Then he’d decide what to do about him.
Markman had no tolerance for mistakes.
Or the people who caused them.
Harper stood by the window, watching the dusk deepen into night.
He was in Indiana State Police Headquarters, a modern building standing on the Interstate, some fifty miles from Elmhart. As he watched, a trio of patrol cars pulled out of the lot and hit their visibars and sirens as they took the entrance ramp to the highway and headed for the stricken town. A helicopter was approaching the building with a buffeting roar, its landing lights blinking. Directly below Harper were several minicam vans from local TV stations. One was raising its rooftop microwave dish for a live remote. The reporter who was about to do his standup stood in a glare of light, smoothing his hair.
A lot was going on out there, but Harper knew little about it. He’d gone from the scene of the bombing to a hospital thirty miles from Elmhart. The nearer hospitals were overwhelmed with serious casualties from the blast, and Harper wasn’t a serious casualty. In fact, he hadn’t been injured at all. The shock wave had blown out windows not far from where he’d been standing, but the flying glass fragments had missed him. He was lucky, the doctors said, and after his perfunctory examination they released him.
Then he was handed over to the State Police, who brought him to this building and questioned him. For hours. There was a series of interrogators, some sharp, some slow. One was hostile. He kept demanding to know why Harper hadn’t come to them with his information before. The Indiana State Police would have taken him seriously. They wouldn’t have made the mistake that the FBI had, that Speed Rogers had.
It was easy to say that now, of course.
He’d been allowed one five-minute break soon after he arrived, to use the bathroom and call home. The answering machine picked up. Harper didn’t know what the news media were saying about him, so he said haltingly that he was still alive, keeping his voice level to assure Laura that things were well under control.
This was his second break. He’d been shown to a small lounge and given a stale ham sandwich and a soda. He could hear footsteps and voices from the corridor, but he had the lounge to himself.
“Hello! Will!”
Harper got up and turned. Standing in the doorway was Special Agent Frances Wilson of the FBI.
She looked as if she’d just arrived from Washington. Harper realized that she’d probably been the passenger on the helicopter he’d seen landing a few minutes ago. She was wearing gray slacks and a dark-blue jacket over a light-blue blouse. There was a heavy purse slung over her shoulder, a suitbag in her hand. In the other hand she carried a laptop computer. A cell phone was chirping in her jacket pocket, but she was ignoring it.
She came right up to him and bent forward to kiss him on the cheek. It was the same quick peck she’d given Addleman, when they’d met in her office at FBI Headquarters. He supposed it meant she and Harper were old colleagues now. Her appearance had baffled him at first, but now he was beginning to figure out what she was doing here.
“How are you, Will? The reports said you were uninjured, but I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m uninjured.”
“Here, let’s sit down. We have to talk.”
She unburdened herself of her luggage, then took off her jacket, revealing a 9mm automatic holstered on her right hip. They sat down on facing couches.
“Let me tell you why I’m here,” Frances said.
“I think I have an idea. What I have to say to the media could be very embarrassing to the Bureau. Somebody had to come out here and beg me to go easy, and you got stuck with the job.”
Agent Wilson crossed her legs and leaned back. She was smiling. “No.”
“No?” Harper was genuinely surprised. “You don’t mind if I tell the reporters that we came to your office last week and warned you about the bomber?”
“I’m not asking you to take part in a cover-up, Will. The Bureau does learn from its mistakes, contrary to popular belief. Feel free to give the media the facts about your interview with me. And if you want to add any personal comments about my slowness or stupidity—well, I wouldn’t think that was fair, but I can’t stop you.”
Harper studied her for a moment. He said, “You’ve already talked to the reporters, haven’t you? Got out ahead of the curve? Practiced damage control? All that stuff you people in Washington are so good at?”
“There was no reason for me not to talk to the reporters. I have nothing to hide. After our meeting, I followed all the accepted procedures. I promptly reported your concerns to my superiors. I gave them all the information they needed to make a decision.”
“And when they sat on their asses, you didn’t push them.”
“That would have been counterproductive.”
Harper nodded slowly, understanding. “Addleman was right, wasn’t he? You’ve got bureaucratic savvy now. You put letters in all the right files. Sent e-mail to the appropriate desktops. And I bet you chose your words with care. If
Addleman and I turned out to be crackpots, you wouldn’t have been seen as having endorsed us. But when the shit hit the fan this afternoon, your superiors remembered what you’d written and said, Holy Christ, Frances was ahead of us on this one. But not too far ahead, so we can still trust her.” Harper was smiling now in sardonic admiration. “They put you in charge of the case, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Frances Wilson. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. She wasn’t wearing perfume, but she smelled clean and fresh. No one would have guessed this was the end of a long day, that she’d traveled hundreds of miles, spent hour after hour in tense meetings in airless rooms. This was the beginning of the big investigation Agent Wilson had been waiting for, and she was ready.
“Everything you and Addleman wanted the Bureau to do is being done right now. The best forensic experts in the world are going over that courthouse. I’ve got fifteen agents in the area already, with more to come tomorrow. And our analysts at Quantico will be at their computers all night. The Bureau’s putting everything it has into this hunt. We’ll nail this son of a bitch for you. You can count on that. But I need a little cooperation from you.”
Harper said nothing. He waited.
“I told you we won’t try to control what you tell the media, and I mean it. But there is one piece of information I’m asking you to keep back. The Aquila pattern.”
“You know about the Aquila pattern?”
“I talked to Addleman from the plane.”
“I see.”
“I explained that we can’t let the bomber know we’re on to him. Right now we’re one step ahead. We know he’ll be setting up his next attack in Washington. That gives us the edge.”
“And Addleman agreed to cooperate?”
She nodded. “He wants to see this bomber caught. Badly. Don’t you?”
Harper thought of the young people who had died today. Stuart. Courtney. Howard. He thought of Jimmy Fahey. Looking down at his hands, he said quietly, “Yes, I want to see him caught.”
“Then cooperate with me. Because I’m the one who’s going to catch him.”
“All right. I won’t say anything about the Aquila pattern.” Harper felt very tired. He wanted to rest. To go home. He rose to his feet. “I assume I’m free to go.”
She smiled up at him. “You were always free to go, Will. We just wanted you to be ready, because those reporters are going to jump all over you as soon as you step out of the building.”
“Are they?”
“You’ll find out. This case is big, Will. People are going nuts. And you’re right in the middle of it. You’re a hero again.” She stepped closer and dropped her voice. “Let me assure you, by the way, that I’m not going to say anything about the Domenic Fortunato case to any reporter—on or off the record.”
Harper felt a stab of tension. In the last few hectic days he hadn’t thought about the little boy who’d died in the fireworks accident. Was IAD still leaning on the boy’s father, trying to get him to say that it had been Harper who’d sold him the fireworks?
He looked at Agent Wilson’s blandly smiling face. He said evenly, “I appreciate that.”
“Of course, the reporters are going to be asking a lot of questions about you. That’s the downside of fame. So the Fortunato thing may leak. But you’ll know it didn’t come from us.”
She was smooth, Harper thought. Here was the not-too-subtle reminder that the spotlight was a dangerous place for him right now, and he ought to stay out of it as much as possible. Leave the stage to Agent Wilson. He turned away without replying.
Frances Wilson walked with him down the corridor. “When you’ve finished talking to the media, we’ll arrange for a car to take you to the airport.”
“Thanks. But I’ll have to go back to Elmhart. Check out of my motel.”
“That’s been taken care of. So has the return of your rental car. Your luggage is downstairs.”
“I see.”
They’d reached the elevators. Agent Wilson pressed the call button.
“Sounds like you want to get me out of here as quickly as possible,” Harper said.
“Frankly, we do. You’ve done your part. Now it’s our turn. You do understand that?” She was smiling, but looking him hard in the eye.
“Yes,” Harper said. “I understand.”
“Have a good flight home, Will,” said Frances Wilson, and turned away.
She’d forgotten to kiss him this time.
20
Laura was hugging him almost before his suitcase had touched the hall floor. He kissed her and felt her trembling, felt the coolness of tears on her cheek against his and then tasted their salt.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“It’s relief,” she told him, hugging him close again, burrowing her chin hard into his chest. After a few seconds, she stepped back. She stared up at him, her eyes still moist, the tracks of her tears still wet on her face. “Relief that you’re alive.”
“Speed Rogers isn’t,” be said, hearing the bitterness in his voice.
“You did what you could, Will. Rogers was arrogant. Anyone could tell that from his ranting on the radio.”
“The funny thing was, in real life he struck me as a likable guy. And the people who worked for him, I got to like them too. They were bright, full of energy.” He shook his head. “So tuned in, but so unaware. They wouldn’t believe me.”
“They only believe what they want to,” Laura said. “That kind of thing gets to be a habit.”
Harper walked wearily out of the hall and into the living room. He sat down on the sofa and looked around at the rehabbing. There was that small, comma-shaped smear he remembered seeing Laura make when she’d enameled the frame on a stained-glass window. The smell of the recently applied paint and of thinner and sealer hung faintly in the air. Home.
Laura sat down next to him. “What about the FBI? I saw that Frances Wilson you told me about on TV.”
“I talked to her briefly. She has every confidence.”
“But does she have any leads?”
“If and when she does, she won’t be sharing them with me. Or Addleman. She doesn’t want us getting in her way. This case is a career builder for her.”
“She sounds too ambitious.”
“As long as her ambition is driving her to catch the bomber, it’s fine with me.”
They both sat still and listened to what sounded like a street sweeper growling and brushing past outside, taking in the litter that had accumulated at the curb, and then spraying the gutter. It was Laura who spoke when the sound had faded.
“You gave me such a fright, Will.”
“I’m sorry. I should have listened to your warning. Would’ve been better if I’d stayed out of it, for all the good I was able to do.”
“You alerted the authorities. They’ll catch the bomber now.”
Harper said nothing.
“You’re perspiring. Do you want a cold beer?”
“No.”
“Have you had anything to eat since breakfast?”
Harper wasn’t hungry. He shrugged. Laura didn’t usually fuss over him like this. If only he could relax and enjoy it. “I can’t stop thinking about the bomber. How he beat me. I’d be kidding myself if I tried to put all the blame on Rogers and his staff. I was given one last chance to stop the bomber and I failed. He outsmarted me. His method of concealing and delivering the bomb was one I never would have thought of.”
“You had only minutes, Will. You couldn’t be expected to—”
Irritably, be waved off the excuses. “We were running around searching hiding places when the bomb wasn’t hidden at all—just sitting there on the carpet, invisible. And we thought the bomb would be planted, when it was actually mobile. He was able to move it in range just when he needed to. The guy’s a genius.”
“He’ll be caught. They always are, sooner or later. And the Bureau has time. You told me, he plans and prepares so carefully, the intervals between his att
acks are long.”
“They were. But they’ve been getting steadily shorter. I think he’s getting impatient as he nears the end.”
She frowned in puzzlement. “The end?”
Harper hesitated, then said, “There’s something else. Something we know about the bomber that hasn’t been made public.”
He explained about the Aquila pattern, and how it led them to believe that the bomber’s final strike would be on Washington.
Laura sat very still as she listened, her large blue eyes fixed on Harper. When he was finished, she said softly, “Good God—you don’t think this nut’s going to try to blow up the White House?”
“He’s trying to make some kind of statement about fame, but nobody knows enough about how his twisted mind works to tell if the President is going to be his target. There are plenty of famous people in Washington.”
“All of them well-guarded,” Laura said. “And since the security people are forewarned—there’s no way the bomber will be able to get by them.”
“I hope not.”
“It isn’t something you need to think about. You’re retired, and the FBI has taken on the case.” She edged close to him and hugged him again. “It’s their job, their responsibility. You’re completely out of it.”
Hugging her back, kissing her on the lips, he knew she was wrong.
For the next few days Harper tried not to look at the newspapers or television. Stories about the Celebrity Bomber were everywhere, but it was all speculation. If Frances Wilson’s investigation was making any progress, she was keeping quiet about it so far.
So Harper was informed by his own sources in the media, a couple of men on New York papers whom he’d known since his days in the NYPD. They passed information to Harper and he gave them “background.” They were the only reporters he talked to.
Not that other reporters weren’t trying to talk to him. Harper had given up answering the phone or the doorbell. If he walked to the fruit stand or the hardware store, there was sure to be a reporter or photographer tagging along. But Harper had spoken to the press back in Indiana, and he wasn’t going to give any more interviews. He intended to keep his promise to Frances Wilson, not to let slip the Aquila pattern. It was the biggest advantage the investigation had.