“Yes,” said Tom Maloney, answering his cell phone on the first ring. His voice was cold with a touch of anger poorly hidden. Walter had no sympathy for the difficulties of Tom Maloney’s existence. The New York Times was on Maloney’s ass. They continued to talk about him on cable TV, and the liberal press wrote piece after piece, coming this close to saying that he and his gang of co-conspirators deserved to be shot. Leonard Martin, already regarded as America’s most effective and efficient multiple killer since The Terminator, wanted him dead. Maloney’s charmed life had turned to pure shit, but Walter couldn’t care less. He was pissed about a retired NYPD cop and Robert Wilkes, whoever he was. There was no “hello” in his manner or his voice.
“Wilkes,” said Walter. “Robert Wilkes.”
“Sherman? Is that you?”
“Tell me about Wilkes, Tom.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking-”
“If I hang up, Tom, you’ll never hear from me again.” There was only silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me about Wilkes.”
“I don’t understand,” Maloney said. “How do you know about Wilkes? Does Wilkes know about you?” He thought, “What have I gotten myself into.” Could it be that people like Walter Sherman and the FBI Special Agent Wilkes knew each other, traveled in the same circles like business associates or something? Could there be a world out there he knew nothing of? One that posed a new danger to him? Maloney hadn’t said a word to Wilkes about Walter Sherman, and he certainly didn’t tell Walter about hiring Wilkes first. Tom Maloney was, however, quick on his feet. “Nathan made a mistake in judgment, Walter. I didn’t think you needed to know, and that was a mistake I made. I see that now and I’m sorry. But I still don’t understand-”
“Isobel Gitlin,” said Walter. “Just what the hell is that all about?”
“Mother of God!” Maloney thought, “that bitch,” and he almost said as much out loud. “She’s a reporter with-”
“I know who she is. Why did you sic Wilkes on her?”
“I didn’t know-”
“You didn’t know? Is that it? You didn’t know?”
“I still don’t know. What are you talking about?”
Walter shook his head in disgust, in frustration. He heard the shower go on. “Tom?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Detective Jack Allen. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Never heard of him?”
“Never.” Maloney had regained his composure and sensed that Walter had too. “Who is he?”
Walter told him about the encounter with Jack Allen. He left out the part about shoving his 22 magnum up the detective’s ass-and, of course, said nothing about Isobel-but he made it clear he had taken control of the situation with Wilkes’s man. Maloney was still in the dark.
“ What an asshole,” thought Walter. “An amateur, a total fuck-up!”
“You hired Wilkes to kill Leonard, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Nathan-”
“Come on, Tom. Don’t fuck with me. I have no patience for it. We both know Nathan couldn’t hire anybody and get it right. You hired Wilkes.”
Maloney’s first instinct was to soothe his own hurt feelings. After all, he’d been hired by Nathan Stein, but he was scared. Leonard Martin wanted to kill him, and now Walter Sherman was heading in the same direction. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I am. I am.”
“What did you think Wilkes was going to do? How did you expect him to go about his business? Did you give any thought to that at all?”
Maloney said, “No. I hire the best professionals. I pay top dollar. Why should I inquire about details? I don’t ask how, just how soon. I hired you, didn’t I? As I remember it I gave you a million dollars. Did I ask you how?”
“You stupid shit,” Walter said. “Wilkes was going to kill the girl!”
“Bullshit! He was going to kill Leonard Martin! You stupid shit!” Tom Maloney yelled at the top of his voice. He was not used to being talked to that way. His reaction showed Walter everything. Walter realized Maloney, for all his money and power, really didn’t know how people like Wilkes operate. “It must be so easy to kill people when you don’t know how they’re going to die,” he thought.
“Calm down, Tom,” he said. “Let me tell you the facts of life here, fill you in on Wilkes’s plan.” Walter took Tom Maloney through it step by step. The more he disclosed, the more convinced he was that Maloney had no idea what he had started. When he was finished, Walter said, “I want you to know that if anything bad happens to Isobel Gitlin-anything at all-if she gets mugged, hit by a bus, falls down a flight of stairs, has a heart attack, is struck by lightning-anything at all-I’ll hold you responsible, Tom. And if I ever see one of Wilkes’s people again I’ll make them very mad at you. You’ll regret that. You understand what I mean?”
“Look, Walter, I-”
“Just say ‘I understand.’ I need to hear it, Tom.”
Maloney cleared his throat which was very dry now and said, “I understand.”
“Good.”
“I’ll cancel the arrangement with Wilkes as soon as you and I get off the phone. By the way, Walter, how do you know Isobel Gitlin?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Walter replied. “Now listen to me. You’ll like this part. I’m going to tell you about Leonard Martin. I saw him. I talked to him. He’s gone now, but I can find him again, easily. I gave him my number. He might even call me.”
“You found him! That’s great news-just great. When? Where? I knew you could do it. Am I allowed to or supposed to ask you how?”
Walter told Maloney about his trip to the New Mexico wilderness north of Albert. He told him about the empty tract of land Leonard bought, and the small cabin. He didn’t mention Michael DelGrazo or Leonard’s altered physical appearance. He considered that his own proprietary information. He saw no need to tell Tom about Clarksville. Carter Lawrence, Nick Stevenson, and Harvey Daniels were not part of his contract, just as Isobel Gitlin was not part of Wilkes’s deal. When he finished, he asked, “What do you want to do with Leonard Martin? What do you want me to do? I’m just as anxious as you are to get this over, to go home. What’s it going to be?”
“Jesus, Walter, this is fantastic. I can’t tell you how good this makes me feel. I want you to come over to the Waldorf-that’s where I’m pretty much holed up these days. Nathan’s here too. We can go over our plans together. How soon can you be here?”
Walter listened. The shower was off. Isobel was only a closed door away. “Noon,” he said. Maloney told him to call the penthouse from the house phone in the lobby when he got to the Waldorf.
Then Maloney spoke as if addressing one of his sales managers. “Congratulations. Job well done. We’re all proud of you.” For a brief moment Walter considered the possibility that Tom had lost his mind.
He opened the door to the bedroom. Isobel was dressed and brushing her hair. She had sprayed the same perfume she wore last night. The scent excited him. Walter wanted nothing more than to grab her, throw her down on the bed, and make love to her.
“What did you mean if ‘something bad’ happened to me?” She continued, brushing her hair while looking at him in the mirror. “I heard you say that. What did you mean? Who were you talking to?”
He had carried a fresh cup of coffee with him, and he put it down on the dresser in front of Isobel. “Thanks,” she said. He walked over to the window. A faint draft of cold air from the window frame, which had no doubt gone untouched for thirty or forty years, drifted across his face. It felt good.
“Our friend from the New York Police Department worked for a man hired by Tom Maloney, a man named Robert Wilkes. I can’t be certain, but my guess is Wilkes is either FBI or CIA, and, unlike Detective Allen, he’s an active duty agent.”
“W-what about-”
“No, Isobel. Don’t ask me anything. Not yet. When I’m done there will be plenty of time for questions.” She nodded, and
Walter sat on the edge of the bed. He continued, “Wilkes was brought in to kill Leonard. He couldn’t find him, of course. He didn’t even know who he was hired to kill until he read about it in the New York Times. That’s where you come in. Guys like Wilkes assemble a team, and so he got a retired cop, that’s Allen, to follow you, hoping Leonard would contact you again and you would lead Allen to Leonard. If such a meeting happened-once you and Leonard were in the same place together-Allen would show up. He’d kill Leonard with one gun and then kill you with the other. He’d place the gun he used to shoot you in Leonard’s hand. Wilkes then takes over and there could be many possible scenarios, but any way they do it, the official story ends up with Leonard Martin killing you and someone in law enforcement killing Leonard. “Courageous Reporter Murdered by Madman Killer: Hero Cop Kills Murderer.”
Isobel seemed unfazed. “That’s why Allen had two guns?” Walter shook his head yes. “You were talking to Maloney, weren’t you?” Again Walter shook his head yes. “You told him if ‘anything bad’ happened to me you’d kick the shit out of him. Did you tell him you would cut him a new asshole with that little pistol of yours?” Walter shook his head no. A smile spread across his rugged face. “You’re a wonderful man, Walter Sherman. My hero.” Isobel began unbuttoning her blouse. “I can always take another shower,” she said.
Northfield
In his other life, Leonard hated long-distance driving. If Nina hadn’t shared the five-hour trek to Hilton Head, they never would have spent so many weekends there. He recalled those days now, now when things were so different. He had been impatient then. Now he felt safe in his SUV: secure, comfortable, at peace with himself. He enjoyed the hours spent on the interstates, the noise of the tires at high speed, the music on the radio, the truck stops and gas stations along the way. The first trip from Atlanta to New Mexico had not been the drudgery he expected, and the drive two years later to Boston had been downright exhilarating-a feeling Leonard credited to his mission. Justice, at last. Even though the unexpected arrival of Walter Sherman made it necessary to leave New Mexico quickly, Leonard was not upset. His mission was not complete and he had work to do elsewhere. On the road again.
He watched the high desert mountains and stony foothills of New Mexico and west Texas fade in his rearview mirror. He drove across the flatlands of Oklahoma into Missouri and Kansas. Traffic got heavier in the urban midsection of the country: Illinois, Indiana, Ohio. Still, the long, straight stretches of interstate did not conjure up the unpleasant memories of those sleepy, endless miles on I-16 from Macon to Savannah. And yet the sadness in his belly never left him. Nina was not there sitting next to him, reading her book, napping, ready whenever he needed to share the load. And he fought all thoughts of Dahlonaga.
The skies turned gray and the snows returned in Pennsylvania and western New York. Finally, Leonard arrived to find the mountains in Vermont thrilling, spectacular, and not at all like the unattractive jagged peaks of the Southwest. The beauty of New England’s winter-icicles dangling from the branches of snowy forests, streams flowing rapidly, somehow oblivious to the sub-freezing temperatures, and quaint two-lane roads winding their way through small towns-had him thinking about skiing, although he had never even once tried it. The closest he ever came was playing golf on a trip to Aspen that he and Nina made one summer. Three days after abandoning the cabin north of Albert, Leonard was nearly euphoric as he checked into the Centennial House hotel in Northfield, Massachusetts. He was less than five miles from the Vermont State Line, and no more than twenty minutes from Louise Hollingsworth’s new house. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t know-but how could she not? He was a real estate lawyer. Did she think she could buy property and escape his notice?
Dr. Roy’s CD laid it out for him. Louise Hollingsworth, at a time of crisis and impending chaos, had a clear appreciation of the gravity of her situation. She had asked Dr. Roy directly about people dying.
The others were cold, calculating, unfeeling bastards, but Louise Hollingsworth knew exactly what she was doing. She weighed the toll it would take on others and she made a conscious decision to participate when her protest might have stopped it. And then she stage-managed the coverup, a scheme that continued to this day. The murderers at Stein, Gelb persisted in their claim they were nothing more than ignorant servants in the employ of their corporate masters. Little more than hired help. They had done their due diligence, they said. Under Louise Hollingsworth’s direction, assertions were made that experts (including Dr. Ganga Roy-conveniently dead and unable to speak for herself) told them nothing about the possibility of dire consequences. There had been no mention of a newer, different, more vicious strain of E. coli, they said. No talk of anyone dying. Leonard was not fooled. And, insofar as reasonable people might believe that the Gang of Four at Stein, Gelb were without guilt, Louise Hollingsworth was responsible. Her crimes were compounded. She had killed his family, then led the lie. It was all Leonard could do not to start shaking again the way he had during those first months in New Mexico. He drifted off into a troubled sleep on the floor of his hotel room, praying the dreams would not haunt him again, all night. His prayers went unanswered.
In the morning, Leonard found a spot where he could drive his SUV off the two-lane road that wound its way up and around the mountain overlooking Louise Hollingsworth’s house. Unless someone noticed the tire tracks in the snow, there was no way anyone would suspect his vehicle was parked behind the trees in the bushes. There were a few pine trees, their branches fluffy white, but none where they might cause him some concern. The area was heavily wooded, but except for the pines, in December there were no leaves on the trees. His sight lines were clean, undisturbed. He sensed a gentle swirling breeze coming from the northeast. No problem. In only minutes he found a place suitable for the folding chair and the Y-shaped, pointed metal stick he brought with him. The chair was something Leonard had come up with on his own. He took an ordinary metal folding chair, one with a cushioned seat, and carefully filed down each of the legs to a sharp, spiked point. By planting it and pushing down on the crossbars holding the front and back legs to the body of the chair, he could set it firmly into the ground and steady it, stable enough for sitting and shooting. He much preferred that to lying prone. The Y-shaped spear looked like a naked umbrella handle or one of those things rainmakers pretend to use in their act, and he drove it into the ground in front of him and rested the barrel of his rifle on the Y. How many times had he done just that in New Mexico? He’d lost track many months ago. He’d sat in that chair hour upon hour, in the mud, the rain, the snow, the scorching heat of the desert afternoon, and fired what seemed like a million rounds. Now, on a snowy hill in Vermont, he set up his position and watched Louise’s house through the powerful scope sitting atop the gleaming barrel of one of the world’s most spectacular weapons. His calculations told him the elevation was 247 feet 8 inches above the top stone step leading to her front door, and the distance was 1,380.2 yards from the door itself. Although he could have been much closer, he had no need to be. Leonard was dressed perfectly to withstand the weather. He had a thermos of Earl Grey tea and some hard candy. He settled in for the day. The stock nestled in his shoulder. The scope covered his right eye. The smell of gun oil was in the air. Sooner or later she would walk out that door and he would pull the trigger on his Walther WA2000 and watch her die.
Louise Hollingsworth was new to the area. The house was invisible from the main road. She was not missed. After two days of not calling New York-she had been phoning the Waldorf three or four times a day-Tom Maloney reluctantly called the police. They found her body lying in front of the doorway, still ajar behind her. Her contorted face, a Halloween mask frozen in pain, caused the medical examiner to conclude she took a long time to die.
Maloney and Stein were convinced he was headed for New York. They increased security at the Waldorf. When Tom called him, Wesley Pitts was actually relieved, although he made sure not to let on. Vermont was a long way from Mississip
pi. He’d made the right choice going to Mississippi. He felt safe. Had he known Leonard Martin was already in New Orleans, Pitts would have shit in his pants.
New York
Walter’s meeting with Maloney had gone badly. After the morning’s hijinks with Isobel, he fell asleep. The phone woke him. Isobel was gone, but she left a wake-up call for eleven o’clock. He was cranky when he arrived at the Waldorf. He spotted two men in the lobby, near the elevators, trying very hard to be less obvious than they were. When you’re working a hotel lobby you have to be in motion. Walter knew that. How could these guys be so dumb? Move around. Check out the restaurant menu, the gift shop, read a paper, change seats every ten minutes, but always keep your eyes on the elevators. It wasn’t brain surgery. These guys looked like they had been planted in cement. Walter wondered how much they were being paid. Too much. The elevator at the penthouse level opened to reveal a grand foyer, elegantly appointed, subtly lit. Six security agents, weapons at the ready, waited for him. Two stood directly in front of the elevator door as it opened. They frisked him immediately. He expected something like this and came unarmed. Two more were stationed a few feet back on either side. The last two guarded the door to the suite. “Not bad,” thought Walter. He couldn’t see the service elevator, but assumed at least two more men watched it round the clock. No one was going to get through this small army. Certainly not Leonard Martin. Of course, Walter knew Leonard had no intention of coming within a hundred miles of the Waldorf Astoria. One or two men, three if it made you feel better, would have been plenty.
Maloney was fully dressed, the same way he had been on St. John. It was all Walter could do not to smile. Did these guys ever get comfortable? They greeted each other coldly. Walter could not get it out of his head that Tom Maloney had hired someone who meant to kill Isobel Gitlin, and Tom would never forget being called “you stupid shit!” Nathan was here too. Walter knew that much. But the obstreperous little prick never showed himself.
The Knowland Retribution l-1 Page 29