by Lee Child
Including a woman so devastated by grief that she hadn’t truly lived in five years.
He suddenly knew who the “gunman” was.
He had unwittingly created her.
VII.
THE SERGEANT-AT-ARMS, Bob Bush, ran a hand over his mustache, a nervous habit he’d thought he’d broken. In charge of capitol security for the past twenty years, he’d had his share of situations. But never had a shot been fired in the capitol under his watch.
“CHP is on alert,” Jefferson said.
They stood outside Black’s office, which had been immediately evacuated after the gunshot. He’d just debriefed the secretary, who didn’t know anything.
“Where’s the damn security tape?”
A security camera outside the senator’s office would have recorded who’d passed through the door.
“They’re viewing it downstairs right now,” Jefferson said, listening to his earpiece. “They have an I.D. Hannah Stewart, Caucasian female, forty-two.”
“Who the hell is she?”
A commotion outside the door had Bob turning. He saw Senator Elliott trying to bypass the shield they’d set up around the office.
“Senator, you need to evacuate,” Bob said, turning around to talk to Jefferson before he’d finished his sentence.
“I know Hannah.”
Bob stopped, turned to him. “She won’t pick up the phone. We’ve been trying to call in to the office for the last ten minutes.”
“She’ll talk to me. Please, let me go in.”
“I can’t do that, we don’t even know if Senator Black is alive. SWAT is getting into position, a guy is climbing a tree outside on the West Lawn.”
“Don’t shoot her.”
“He’s been ordered to assess the situation and report.”
“Please, Bob. I can defuse this.”
“What’s her story?”
“She testified on one of my bills in Public Safety. It was defeated today.”
“She’s holding Black hostage because a bill got killed?”
“No. She’s holding Black hostage because her son got killed and she doesn’t think anyone cares.”
VIII.
THE SERGEANTS would not let him go in, but that didn’t faze Matt. He had an idea.
He ran upstairs to the third floor to the Republican leader’s office. The floor was oddly deserted. The windows in the gallery were sealed shut, but those in the member offices could be opened. Matt walked in through the leader’s “escape” door—an unmarked entrance directly into his office from the side hallway. Few legislators kept their private door locked.
Matt crossed to the window behind the desk, directly above Black’s office. He opened the window. A portico traversed the west steps of the capitol building, but stopped before reaching the offices.
Matt looked down, swallowed heavily. A three-foot ledge ran under the windows, but if he slipped … the drop was already precarious because of the seventeen-foot-high ceilings. But broken ankles were the least of his concern now. To his left was a spindly palm tree, to his right the top of a tree with long, narrow leaves. It didn’t look sturdy enough to climb down, but if he fell from the ledge, the tree would prevent him from hitting ground.
He knew Black’s little secret—after hours, he often opened that window and leaned out to smoke cigars. Not once had Matt seen him lock it.
Without hesitating, Matt flung open the far window and climbed out, holding on to the ledge, his legs dangling over, and assessing the drop. He hung there only a moment before falling … .
Slam. Right on the ledge. His knees protested, but no broken bones. He teetered a moment, grabbed a thin branch to steady himself. He shook off the pain, shimmied along the ledge to Black’s unlocked window, and pushed it open.
Hannah stood over Black’s desk, a gun aimed at his chest. Black’s face was ashen and he lay awkwardly across his chair.
He was too late.
IX.
“WHAT THE HELL was that?” Bob Bush exclaimed at the faint thump that came from outside the building.
Jefferson listened, then said, “SWAT reports that a man jumped from the third floor onto the balcony and has entered Black’s office.”
Bob bit back expletives. “Who?”
“No confirmation yet. He was wearing gray slacks and a white button-down, rolled up at the sleeves. Dark hair, approximately six foot one inch—”
“Matt Elliott. Ring the office.” Dammit, did the senator want to get both himself and Black killed?
Bob held the phone to his ear as it rang and rang.
X.
“LET ME ANSWER the phone,” Matt told Hannah.
“Why are you here?”
“Hannah, please.”
She didn’t respond, and Matt slowly reached over to Black’s desk, watching Hannah’s eyes the entire time. He pressed line one, picked up the phone. “It’s Matt Elliott.”
“Senator, what are you doing?” Bob Bush exclaimed.
“Black is alive. Give me ten minutes.”
He hung up as Bush protested. “Hannah,” he said, “you don’t want to do this.”
He glanced at the Senate leader. There was no blood; she hadn’t shot him. Something was still wrong. Black’s mouth moved rapidly, but no words came out. He was pale and his left eye seemed to look in a different direction than his right. Heart attack? Didn’t matter, Black needed medical attention immediately.
“You don’t want to kill him.”
Hannah looked at him with blue eyes filled with pain so tangible Matt’s own heart broke.
“No one cares about Timmy,” she whispered.
“You care, Hannah. You’ve done everything you can. I’m not going to let anyone forget about your son.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Today—today he would have been fifteen.”
Matt had forgotten. He’d breathed nothing but the Timothy Stewart homicide for five and a half years, but he hadn’t remembered the child’s birthday.
His mother would never forget.
“I’m so sorry, Hannah. I’ve done everything I could to make sure no other mother suffers like you have.”
She shook her head. “He—” she waved the gun at Black, swallowed. “People like him don’t care. All they see are numbers and statistics. And money. Always the money. Like the life of a child has a price on it! All they had to do was give parents information. Give us a chance to protect our children. I’d have walked Timmy home myself every day if I knew those sex offenders lived in that house. But no one can protect the children if we don’t even know what we’re up against!”
Matt was concerned about Black. His breathing was shallow, his face clammy, and an odd sound emanated from his throat. Maybe it was a stroke, not a heart attack. Hannah seemed not to notice.
If Black died, she’d be charged with murder. Matt didn’t know if he could live with that on his conscience.
“What about Rachel?”
Hannah blinked, really looked at him for the first time. “Rachel?”
“How can you protect your niece if you go to prison? What is Meg going to tell Timmy’s cousin? Rachel needs you. Meg needs you. She’s stood by you from the very beginning. She sat next to you during Coleman’s trial every single day. Think of how she will feel if you go to prison. Or if SWAT shoots you?”
Matt had spied the SWAT team member in the tree across the path, and blocked his direct line of fire. He couldn’t let Hannah die.
He couldn’t let Black die.
“I’m nothing,” she whispered.
“Hannah, you’re living in hell. Let me help bring you back. Please.”
She stared at him. “Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You won’t stop until Timothy’s Law passes.”
“That I can promise you.” Arms outstretched, he took a step toward her. “Please hand me the gun.”
She nodded.
His momentary relief that she was giving up the fight dissipated as
Hannah brought the gun to her head.
“Not!”
He leaped toward her.
The gun went off.
XI.
Three months later
“Matt, Sandra Cullen is here to see you.”
“Thanks, Bonnie.”
Bonnie was the last of his staff. When he announced last month that he wasn’t seeking reelection, his entire staff found other jobs. He didn’t blame them, though there were still six months left in his term. He didn’t care that he was staffless. He had nothing he wanted to accomplish—at least in this building.
He’d already done all the damage he could.
Sandy closed the door behind her. She was a petite woman, skinny through excess energy. She’d been the district attorney of Sacramento County for coming on twelve years, and his former boss. He had complete respect for her. It was Sandy who had tried to stop him from running for state senate. He’d accused her of playing politics—he was taking out a member of her party. But in hindsight, she’d wanted to spare him the pain of failure.
An idealist in government simply tilted at windmills, she’d said.
“I’m not going to try to change your mind,” she said, “because you’re going to make a damn fine DA.”
When Sandy had announced her retirement, Matt had tossed his hat into the ring. She’d endorsed him immediately.
Already, he felt like the world that had crashed down three months ago was rising just enough to allow him to breathe.
“Thought you might like to know that my office just accepted a plea on Hannah Stewart’s case. She’ll continue to stay at Napa State Hospital for twelve months.”
“No jail time?”
Sandy frowned. “I know you think I’m callous, but I couldn’t fight for jail time on this one. I would have got it. But in a trial, I think I would have ended with a hung jury. She wanted—and needed—to go to the mental hospital.”
“Thank you.”
“I read in the paper that Black was released from the hospital yesterday. Is he coming back? It was unclear.”
“He’s still incapacitated from the stroke. He doesn’t have mobility on his left side at all, though he’s regaining his speech.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“No.”
“And Hannah?”
He paused. “Once.” It had been awkward for both of them. He thought originally she’d been too embarrassed and grateful that he’d knocked her hand away before she killed herself. Instead, she’d blamed him for her failed suicide attempt.
“I just don’t want to live anymore.”
“Matt, I always said you were too good for this building.”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t it be better for more people like us to be here? Then maybe we could make a difference.”
“When Hell freezes over,” she said.
Bottom Deal
by Robert Gregory Browne
The author of the exceptional novel Kiss Her Goodbye, Robert Gregory Browne has an artist’s gift for creating other worlds so believable one would swear they exist. And they do—just begin reading “Bottom Deal,” and you’ll be gripped by the gritty, colorful world of Jennings, ex-cop, ex-husband. He’s one of those archetypal figures for whom all of us root while admiring their bold insouciance, feeling the depths of their pain, and waiting breathlessly to see how they’re going to get themselves—and those they’re trying to save—out of the current mess. A short story, when as beautifully executed as this one, is an abbreviated, luminous moment of life. Settle into your favorite chair and enjoy.
—Gayle Lynds,
New York Times bestselling author of The Last Spymaster
Three months after he was kicked out of the Tally-Ho Casino for copping cards, Jennings called in a marker and snagged a matinee gig in their second-floor lounge. The contract, such as it was, had a special stipulation that he never set foot on the casino floor.
That included the private rooms.
Cockney Carl Baldwin, the casino owner, whom Jennings had once helped out of a pretty large jam, warned him that he’d better not go back on his promise.
“As it is,” Carl told him, “you’re lucky to be alive.”
The Tally-Ho was a dump several blocks west of Fremont, populated by locals and a healthy dose of low-income tourists. The gig didn’t pay much, but then the show Jennings gave them in return wasn’t worth a whole helluva lot either. Mostly card tricks, a few coin gags, and a mentalism routine he’d ripped off, patter and all, from Max Maven. He’d go table to table as a couple of cheap ceiling-mounted video cams followed him, projecting his “amazing feats of sleight-of-hand” onto a large-screen TV for all the tourists to see.
They seemed to like it, the tourists, giving him rousing rounds of applause between sips of watery piña coladas. He made cards disappear, dealt perfect hands of poker, and changed a blue deck into red right before their startled Midwestern eyes.
Jennings didn’t really hear the applause. It wasn’t much more than a buzz in his head, a cue for the next bit of canned patter, while his mind retreated into that dark cave it seemed to find so comforting these days. Either that, or he was strapped into his Time Machine, reminiscing about those long-ago days before God, or whoever, decided—as Cockney Carl would say—to take a giant two-bob bit on his head.
It was all pretty pathetic, when you thought about it. But that’s the way it was for Jennings. He was on autopilot, headed nowhere fast.
Until Holly Addison’s murder changed everything.
“I say we go for all three,” Scully said. “Bing-bang-boom, all in one night.”
It was about 7:00 P.M. on a warm Thursday. They were sitting in the snack shop of the Golden Sands Bowling Center, the thunder of league night protecting them from prying ears.
Scully had a printout in front of him, three of the entries highlighted in yellow. The header read, “Stateline Security Systems.”
“Bing-bang-boom, huh?”
Scully nodded. “One right after the other.”
“You realize,” Jennings said, “we take down one, it seems like a random act that maybe nobody but the homeowner cares about. We go for all three, we’ll make Stateline Security and the boys at Metro Patrol Division look pretty bad.”
Scully shrugged. “Boo-friggin’-hoo.”
“Come on, Scully, think. When cops look bad, they work harder. That’s more heat than we can afford.”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Scully asked.
“What?”
“Hardworking cops.”
Jennings looked at him. There was a time when he might have thought this was funny, might even have made the joke himself. There was also a time he would’ve smacked Scully upside the head and told him to watch his mouth.
Instead, he said, “Don’t let greed get in the way of your common sense.”
“You’re one to talk.”
Jennings ignored the comment. “Just pick one and give me the particulars.”
Scully did, choosing the house that he thought offered them the highest return for their labor. They discussed strategy for a moment, then Jennings said, “That’s the one we hit, then. Tomorrow night.”
Scully raised his eyebrows. “What’s your rush?”
“I’m starting to get the itch again.”
The itch.
Everybody knows it—has felt it at one time or another. Whether it’s booze, smack, sex, smokes, coffee, or a late-night snack when you’re already tipping the scale past buffalo butt.
For some, it’s a crawling sensation that starts in the gut and travels up toward the brain. And if it isn’t stopped somewhere along the way, all rational thought is abandoned. The only thing that matters is scratching that itch before it pulls you under.
For Jennings it wasn’t booze or drugs or sex or cigarettes or even steak and eggs at midnight.
It was the game. Texas Hold ’Em, Omaha High, Seven-Card Stud. He’d played them all and played them well.
“Tomo
rrow night,” he said again.
Scully shrugged. “I got nothin’ better to do.”
Jennings decided to drive awhile before heading back to his apartment. The Vegas air was hot and dry and he enjoyed the feel of the warm wind streaming in through his open window. He considered looking for a game, then decided against it. The more you scratch, the more it itches, right? Start now, and he was likely to be at it all night.
He was just turning on Carson when his cell phone rang. Probably Scully, concerned about some overlooked detail. Flipping the phone open, he said, “Yeah?”
“Nick?”
Not Scully. The voice was female. Familiar.
“Nick, it’s me. Holly.”
Talk about your blast from the past.
Jennings hadn’t seen or spoken to Holly Addison in three long years. All at once the Time Machine kicked into high gear and a boatload of memories flooded his brain.
“Nick, you there?”
“I’m here,” he said. “How you been, Holly?”
“Not so good.” Her voice was shaky. She was quiet a moment, except for her breathing, which sounded labored, upset.
Then she said, “I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
Her real name wasn’t Holly.
She was born Rebecca Jane Addison, a corn-fed kid from Nebraska who one day filled a ratty suitcase with clothes, kissed her drunken mother good-bye, and hitched a ride to the nearest Greyhound station.
Ever since Rebecca had watched Showgirls—one of Mom’s DVD rentals—she’d dreamed of going to Vegas to seek her fame and fortune. Her face and body, she had decided, were a heckuva lot easier on the eyes than that Nomi chick from the movie, and there were very few men who were likely to disagree. Especially the ones who paid for the privilege of her company.
It was a familiar story with all the usual props and scenery, and Rebecca, now Holly—short for Hollywood, because she was always blathering on about movie stars—would be the first to admit that she was a walking cliché.