“Nice colors.” Judge Trask materialized from somewhere. “I like the blue blazer with the red turtleneck.”
“I picked the team colors,” said Peter. “I’m also wearing black running shoes. In case I have to chase anybody, or run from anybody.”
“Batter and his boys are coming.”
Peter looked around. “Which direction?”
“From Kenmore Square, from the parking lot—”
Peter looked across Brookline Avenue.
“Don’t worry. They’ll find you.” The judge tapped the cylindrical map case. “Is it in there?”
“It’s in here,” said Peter. “While the rest of us were running around, you dug in the right hole, in the right archive. And Evangeline had the right hunch. Nice work.”
“Can I see it?”
“In a few minutes, if all goes well.”
“You mean you’re not going to swap it for Evangeline?”
“Jack Batter will want it on television.”
“Jack Batter will want it. Period. So will the other boys. Good luck.”
Before Peter could ask him what that meant, the judge was through the door and into the VIP entrance.
AS PETER SAW it, his job was simple:
Get Evangeline. Get her to safety. Convince the boys who’d grabbed her that it was to their benefit to put the Constitution on television.
If they disagreed, he might never see the draft again, because he was beginning to think that those boys from Maine weren’t quite so committed to politics. Snatch the Constitution. Sell it for a fortune. Go to some island country with no extradition. Live large. Why else would they have been so brazen?
Then there was Walter Stanley. Who could be sure what he was up to?
Peter caught his brother’s eye, pointed to his own eyes, then pointed into the parking lot. Keep watching.
That was when Jack Batter came out of nowhere, put a shoulder into Peter’s back to get him to turn, and said, “Do you have it?”
“You’re late,” snapped Peter. “I’ve been standing here for forty-five minutes.”
“Because”—Batter took Fallon by the elbow and pulled him back, against the building—”of this.” He held the GPS tracker in front of Peter’s nose.
Peter laughed. “You followed the tracking device?”
“Whose car is that?”
“His name is Walter Stanley.”
“Shit,” said Batter. “There’s one very nasty guy.”
“You know him?” said Peter.
“By reputation.” Batter gestured to the scar on his face. “Used to be in the same line of work. Overseas security contracting.”
While Peter was trying to process that, Batter looked toward the turnstiles. “They’re using wands on people at every entrance. Big time security. Checking for weapons. That’s good.”
“I warned the FBI.”
Batter whipped his head around, glared at Peter, pulled up the hood of his camo sweatshirt.
“Not on you,” said Peter. “On Stanley.”
“Well, if he has a contract on someone at the game, he might have something hidden inside already. Could have sneaked it in on a ballpark tour or as part of a delivery. He might even be dressed as the popcorn guy.”
“But why?”
“You could be the target.” Batter scanned the crowd again. “He could be watching us right now. I see your brother across the street. I see the black kid under the souvenir sign. But—”
“One thing Stanley said to me—”
“You talked to him?”
On the television screen, Harry Hawkins was interviewing someone else in the Bishop Media Box: Marlon Secourt.
“Secourt? On Bishop Media?” said Peter.
Secourt was saying, “Charles Bishop understands that we’re all believers in this country. We may argue over the truth, but we all come together on a night like this. That’s why we’re here. I’m just glad he sent me a ticket.”
Batter growled, “Forget that windbag. You talked to Walter Stanley? When?”
Peter pulled Shiny’s cell phone from his pocket, punched a few buttons. “That’s Stanley’s number. Want to give him a call?”
Batter looked at the phone for a moment, then said, “Fuck it. We’re here to make an exchange. Let the FBI worry about him.” Then Batter pulled out a cigarette and lit it. A signal. “Look across the street, at the entrance to the parking lot.”
SUVs and limos were pouring in, people were pouring out. Another crowd of fans had disgorged from the train. And Mercer and Scrawny were appearing at the gate. They had Evangeline between them.
“Let’s go,” said Batter. “And tell your brother and the black kid to stay put.”
“No,” said Peter. “We make this switch right here.”
“Mercer’s already going back. He gave you a look. She’s there. Now let’s go.”
Batter started across the street, against the flow of the crowd.
“Batter!” cried Peter. “This Constitution. You want it on television. You want the world to hear this. None of the New England Framers say anything about banning weapons. They barely wonder about it.”
Batter looked over his shoulder. “Come on.”
Peter gave Antoine a jerk of the head. Come on. And Danny, in front of Boston Beer Works. Come on.
“They won’t do you much good,” said Batter. “They’ll just get in the way.”
The driveway sloped down into a huge lot bounded by buildings on two sides, the commuter rail line and Yawkey Station at the back.
Batter kept walking until he’d led them to a corner of the lot near the tracks. The Maine militia had come in early and parked in a section that filled first, so there were few people there now. The latecomers were all driving into the far side of the lot. So this was the perfect spot for whatever was about to go down.
Batter stopped at the back bumper of a black SUV. Mercer was leaning against the passenger door. Scrawny had gotten back into the car with Evangeline.
Mercer opened the back door.
At first Peter thought it was to let Evangeline out.
Instead, Batter said, “Get in.”
“No way,” said Peter.
“I want to look the document over,” said Batter. “Out of sight.”
“Do it out here. The light’s better. Besides, you wouldn’t know an authentic document if it jumped up and bit you in the ass.” Then Peter shouted. “Evangeline. Get out of the car.”
Mercer slammed the door. “Fuck that. Let’s just take it and get out of here, boss.”
Batter looked back at the entrance to the parking lot. “Only one-way traffic, and it’s all comin’ in. We aren’t goin’ anywhere for a while.” Then he turned to Fallon. “You say the words on the draft favor our side?”
“Yes.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Peter told him what truth he could: “Elbridge Gerry writes the amendment word for word. It’s something the world ought to see.”
“Fuck that,” said Mercer.
“Maybe he’s right,” said Jack Batter.
“Maybe, my ass,” said Mercer. “We have a plan.”
And there they were.
Batter and Mercer on one side.
Peter Fallon, Danny Fallon, and Antoine Scarborough on the other, all in the semidarkness of the big parking lot across from Fenway.
Batter said to Peter Fallon, “I want to see it.”
“Let me show it to you on TV,” said Peter. “When Harriet Holden sees it, she’ll shit.”
“Come on,” said Mercer. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I don’t know,” said Batter. “Maybe he’s right.”
“You know I’m right.” Peter waved the map case. “Let’s do what we came here to do. Which is to get the truth out.”
“We came here to get rich,” said Mercer.
Batter ignored him and kept his eyes on Fallon. “If we go back inside, I’m not letting that thing out of my sight.”
“I’ll give you Evangeline’
s ticket,” said Peter. “But she comes with us. I’m not letting her out of mine.”
“How do we all get in?” said Batter.
“I’ll buy a scalped ticket,” said Peter.
“Good,” said Danny. “Get a couple.”
“Shut up,” said Peter. Then he looked at Batter again. “What are we doing here? Just stealing something to run off with it, or have we gone through all this because of a principle?”
And in a flash, Peter found out.
Mercer took three quick steps and drove the heel of his hand into the back of Batter’s head.
Batter dropped to his knees and Mercer bowled over him and came straight at Peter and Danny.
With a quick kick, he drove Danny to the ground, then delivered an elbow right to Peter’s face. Peter heard the sound of his nose crunching, and he landed on the tarmac.
Antoine started to come toward him and Scrawny took him down with a well-placed foot and a quick flip.
Mercer tore the map case from Peter’s neck.
“We’ll never drive out,” said Scrawny. “All the traffic is still coming in.”
“We ain’t drivin’,” said Mercer. “Come on.” And he started to run toward the commuter train that had just pulled in on the platform.
“We don’t even know where that’s goin’,” said Scrawny.
“It don’t matter.”
And the two of them headed for the train.
“That son of a bitch.” Batter was on his feet again. “Mercer!”
“Sorry, boss. It’s worth too much. We dreamed of this from the start.”
“Mercer.”
“You be a good American. I’m lookin’ out for me and Scrawny and our families.” And Mercer kept running.
“Son of a bitch,” said Batter again. Then he reached down to his ankle and pulled out a pistol with a silencer.
He fired twice. One shot hit Mercer in the back of the head, right at the neck, and dropped him into a heap between two parked cars. The other hit Scrawny in the knee and sent him yelping and limping in a big circle.
But nobody streaming up from the train or from the distant reaches of the lot seemed to notice. All the fans were focused on the building excitement and on the brilliant lights illuminating the night ahead of them.
From thirty or forty feet away, this looked like no more than a dust-up among drunks.
Peter tore open the door of the SUV and pulled Evangeline out.
“Jesus!” she said to Batter. “You killed him.”
“He was stealin’ the truth … just to sell it. Fallon is right”—Batter flipped him the map case—”this is about a principle.”
“Shouldn’t we call 911?” asked Evangeline.
“Someone’ll do that soon enough.” Batter shoved the pistol under the car seat. “They won’t let me in the ballpark with that. So now, Miss Carrington, tell your boyfriend how much you love him and how much you missed him, and then let’s go tell America the truth … whatever it is.”
Evangeline looked at Peter. “He’s right. I love you. I missed you. And you look terrible in red.”
“It’s the team color,” he said. “Let’s go.”
IT WAS AFTER eight o’clock. By then, the scalpers were getting panicked. No one wanted to be holding when Steven Tyler started to sing.
So Peter bought a ticket for four hundred dollars. Half an hour earlier, the going rate had been one thousand dollars.
Danny said, “I guess me and Antoine don’t get to go?”
“I don’t have the cash,” said Peter. “Wait here. Tomorrow night, I’ll scalp you two nice seats.” Then Peter’s phone rang. “It’s Sutherland. Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m coming.”
They hurried past the big screens at the turnstiles.
On one of them, Charles Bishop was standing inside, introducing Congresswoman Harriet Holden.
She said, “Thank you, Charles. This is a wonderful opportunity for me to see the big game.”
“You have a big game in Washington tomorrow, don’t you?” asked Bishop.
“Well, I’m not here to mix business and pleasure,” she said. “But there will be a national contest beginning tomorrow in Washington, as we begin hearings on the repeal of the Second Amendment, to clear the way for more rational gun laws.”
“Something that we need, in my humble opinion.” Bishop looked at the camera.
Peter’s phone rang again: Kelly Cutter.
Peter said, “You feel like a stranger in a strange land right about now?”
“Something funny is going on,” she said. “Kate and I went for a walk. I was starting to gag in that roomful of liberals.”
“They might have been wrinkling their noses, too.”
“Yeah, well, we went from the corporate boxes down into the grandstand. We noticed a guy. We thought it was Cottle.”
“Cottle?”
The name caught Jack Batter’s attention. He mouthed the word to Peter: “Cottle?”
“Yeah,” said Kelly. “He had on a Sox cap pulled down. He was walking along with a briefcase.”
“A briefcase at a ball game?” said Peter.
“He went past this young guy, bland looks, dirty blond hair, good build. And he gave him the briefcase. I don’t know what was in it, but when they saw us, they looked like they’d been caught fucking a teenage boy.”
Peter closed the phone. “Don Cottle’s working with Walter Stanley.”
“Cottle?” said Batter. “Don Cottle? Bishop Security?”
“You know him, too?” asked Peter.
“Not personally, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Stanley did.”
Two FBI men had stationed themselves on the step of Gate A and were scanning the crowd.
Evengeline noticed them and tugged on Peter’s hand, which she was holding tight so that they didn’t get separated in the crowd.
“Yeah,” he said. “I see them. Maybe they’re looking for Stanley, too.”
“If they are, they missed,” said Batter. “Stanley’s inside with a briefcase. It probably contains a gun, broken down. A sniper’s rifle. Good scope. Silencer. High muzzle velocity.”
“But Cottle and Stanley? I don’t get it.” Peter leaned close, all but shouting in Batter’s ear to be heard over the din of the crowd.
“Security firms, private muscle, they do each other favors,” said Batter. “Cottle smuggles in a briefcase for Stanley, no questions asked, and someday, Stanley runs a play for Cottle.”
“Does Cottle know that you have the Constitution?” asked Evangeline.
“I called him and told him this morning.”
“Then you better get up and show it,” said Batter. “But keep your eye on it. You just found out that some guys are only in it for the money.”
Peter grabbed Evangeline by the elbow and said, “We go in by the VIP door. Smaller crowd. Less security.”
“Give me Shiny’s telephone,” said Batter. “Keep in touch. I’ll try to find Walter Stanley for you.”
It took Peter five minutes to get past the jam of people around the will-call window. He recognized newscasters, writers, Harvard professors famous for their love of baseball: a who’s who of Boston bigwigs, all in line for their tickets, then in line to get up the stairs that led to the luxury boxes and the big pre-game parties.
As he worked his way through the crowd, people angled themselves so that he couldn’t get by, no matter how many “ ‘scuse me’s” he gave them. Bostonians held places in line they way they drove. Passive aggressive. I’m not going to look at you, but I’m going to screw you. So he pushed Evangeline ahead of him, and she was so scrofulous after three days in the woods that people made room just so they didn’t catch anything.
“Nice work, babe.”
“I need a shower.”
“After rubbing past you, so do they.”
He slid along the hall, then up the stairs that led to the club areas. Then up another ramp on the outside of the ballpark, then they were running alon
g the promenade past the corporate boxes, with the names of the “sponsors” on the doors.
They were stopped twice by polite young men in windbreakers, team “ambassadors,” game security. One of them wanted a look inside the map case and seemed puzzled that there was nothing there but paper.
Two more security guys—older, bigger, more professional—stood outside the door with the Bishop Media logo. Another flash of the tickets and they were in.
It was 8:05.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust. Bright television lights were playing on three people over by the sofas, Charles Bishop, Harry Hawkins, and Harriet Holden, who had moved inside for the serious part of the interview. Josh Sutherland was standing just out of camera range on one side and Kelly Cutter, Kate Morgan, and Sara Wyeth were on the other side. Marlon Secourt and his wife, the judge, and Tommy Farrell were already outside, watching the Dodger introductions.
No other World Series broadcast in history had skipped player introductions, but Charles Bishop owned the network. This announcement, he had already told his director, was more important than watching third-string catchers line up on the baselines to applaud for each other.
Evangeline looked at the blonde with the big jaw and said, “Kelly Cutter?”
Kelly looked her up and down, then offered her hand.
Evangeline took it. “Does lightning strike now?”
“Either that or the earth moves,” said Kate.
Charles Bishop saw Fallon, saw the map case, and stuck out his hand. “And now, ladies, and gentlemen, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Come in here, Mr. Fallon.”
But Peter’s eyes had been drawn to something else. Over by the plate glass window, Don Cottle had trained binoculars toward the right field grandstand.
WALTER STANLEY PULLED his Red Sox hat low and pushed through the crowd on the roof promenade. He was heading for the Sports Pavilion, a big open-air party barn which had been plunked on the right field roof in a recent renovation. It had turned one of the worst spots in the ballpark into one of the most popular. The word Budweiser, written against the night sky in giant neon letters, sat on the flat pavilion roof and cast a red glow over the whole scene. A giant bar was crowded with fans ordering—what else?—Budweiser, the only brew on tap.
Walter Stanley had planned every move. He had gotten in dressed as part of the concession crew. He had ditched the uniform in the men’s room. Then he had made the pickup in the grandstand from Don Cottle. Now, watching for security as he went, he worked his way to the rear of the pavilion building. A little walkway ran behind it, in semidarkness. A few fans were leaning against the railing, gazing off toward the lights of the Back Bay.
The Lost Constitution Page 59