The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

THE SHOT, FROM A DISTANCE OF175YARDS, HAD BEENimmaculate. St. John remained in position for a good fifteen seconds after he’d pulled the trigger, watching through the Swiss-made scope on his rifle, making sure his target was down.

  St. John was sprawled in the snow on a small rise between a pair of massive firs. In a movement that was precise, fluid, and practiced, he folded the small tripod that had balanced the stock of the rifle on the snow, stood, then shouldered the rifle. He stayed in the shadows.

  He was fully camouflaged, dressed in an insulated suit of arctic white from head to toe. Even his weapon was invisible against the snow: the stock, barrel, noise suppressor, scope, strap—all as white as newly fallen powder.

  There were no alarms going off, no sudden flurry of Secret Service agents flooding out into the timber to hunt the assassin. Nobody had a clue. The sound of his bullet penetrating the windowpane had been absorbed by the cold night wind, and the noise suppressor on the end of the barrel had reduced the briskcrack of the rifle’s signature to a tempered cough and eliminated the muzzle flash. The alarm would sound only if the window itself were opened. He would have a wide avenue for a safe escape.

  His night-vision goggles turned the world an odd green. He darted along the trailhead forged on his arrival. Dodging branches and large stones hidden by the blanket of powder, he moved with grace, his breathing steady, his heart rate picking up only slightly.

  A quarter mile ahead he came to a sudden dip in the terrain. It was a streambed draped in velvety white powder. He turned east, heading downwind. The snow was deeper here, but he didn’t have far to go. A massive log had fallen across the old streambed. St. John pulled himself over the trunk of the dead oak, his legs brushing crusted snow and ice from its cold, hard bark.

  On the far side of the natural barrier he stopped.

  In the center of the streambed was a sizable lump in the snow. He lifted one corner of a flap and yanked the tarpaulin away, revealing his mode of departure. The snowmobile fired up as he thumbed the ignition switch. The headlamp spilled light in front of him. He gunned the throttle and continued eastward. In the darkness the forest was full of ominous hazards; gnarled saplings and low-hanging branches appeared from out of the gloom without warning, taking aim at his head and arms; underbrush scratched at his legs and down the fiberglass shell of his gas-burning horse. Freezing drizzle encrusted the lenses of his ski goggles.

  St. John throttled down, slowed to a fraction of his cruising speed, and approached a flatbed farm truck he’d backed against a low embankment. A ramp made of plywood and two-by-four studs slanted from the bed of the truck to the ground at a gentle angle. He bent low, cautiously preparing for impact. The front skids of the snowmobile clapped against the wooden ramp. The machine revved for a moment in a cloud of blue exhaust and then climbed the platform with ease, finally leveling out onto the flat expanse of the bed.

  The truck was at least thirty years old, with balding tires and badly rusted fenders. The front half was draped in white camouflage netting; he tugged at it until it fell slack to the ground. There were several heavy straps for securing the snowmobile; St. John cinched them tight, then flung the white camouflage netting over his load, fastening the edges down along the worn planking of the bed of the old Ford.

  The county road was clear of traffic. He flipped on the high beams as he tugged the insulated hood from his head. Ten minutes down a two-lane road, he merged onto the interstate and pointed the Ford toward the ocean.

  Precisely seventeen minutes after he’d pulled the trigger, St. John stopped the truck on a gravel strip a hundred feet back from a cliff above the Atlantic. He stepped out and unzipped his blizzard suit, revealing a scuba wet suit beneath. He stuffed the blizzard suit behind the seat, cranked the gear column over to neutral, released the emergency brake, and stepped safely out of the way.

  The Ford’s fat tires crept toward the edge of the cliff, the rubber tread popping on gravel as the old truck gained speed. In less than forty-five seconds, it had rolled to the edge of the cliff, listed for the briefest of moments, tilted downward, then fallen freely into the surf.

  St. John turned from the cliff and followed a trail that led around one side of it, down steep, loose, precarious terrain to the edge of the water. There was no beach, just an ultranarrow path that cut in and out through water-blasted boulders. St. John moved carefully but swiftly. He knew the way. The tide crashed against the rocks, sending spray and foam high in the air. The wet suit kept him warm enough.

  Around the next bend he spotted the yellow nylon rope that moored his small rubber craft to the shore. He unfastened the heavy cord and gave the raft a hearty push out to sea. He turned, adjusted the choke on the outboard, and gave the starter cord a strong yank. It took four tries. The twenty-horse sputtered then caught and revved. St. John twisted the throttle and glanced at the small compass attached to the wrist of his wet suit. The prow of the craft thumped across whitecaps as he guided it southwest.

  His watch read 8:42P.M. By his estimation, the vice president had been dead for thirty-seven minutes.

  3

  DEATH DID NOT COME IMMEDIATELY.

  Blood was everywhere. James Ettinger lay facedown on the shag carpeting, trying without much success to simply breathe. He was quickly going into shock.

  Dolly was pawing at the door, ready to be let out. The impact of Ettinger’s body hitting the floor so suddenly had sent her into a frenzy.

  He knew that he was going to die. There was no question. And the helplessness he felt was even greater than his fear. He wouldn’t even get the chance to say good-bye to Miriam or the children; they’d never make it in time.

  Ettinger raised his chin from the floor and tried to look around. Blood covered his face, blurring his vision. Brain matter and bits of skull were on his hands. He struggled to lift himself but simply couldn’t. He had no strength. He tried to speak, to scream something, to alert someone nearby. But his voice failed him.

  Drawing upon a final reserve of strength, he began to crawl toward the door. Dolly eyed him as he turned her way. Music was playing downstairs. His family was enjoying the holiday, unaware that he was dying no more than a few feet above them. He had barely worked his way into facing the proper direction before the muscles in his neck collapsed, the side of his face slamming to the shag. He closed his eyes, and blackness slipped over him.

  Dolly approached with caution, sniffed at the blood on his forehead, then licked at it tentatively with her narrow pink tongue.

  The boat was a fishing vessel he’d purchased with cash from a marina a hundred miles from New Orleans. St. John was on deck, looking out over the horizon with a pair of Leupold field glasses. He was standing barefoot, still wearing the wet suit, his hair slicked back. He lowered the binoculars to his chest. A fish rolled at the surface of the dark water to his left. The night was cold. The sea was choppy at the moment but not unbearable.

  In the galley he cranked up the propane stove and filled a metal pot with beef stew. As the inboard diesel pushed through choppy waters, he stripped off the wet suit, replacing it with jeans, a heavy sweater, knee-high rubber boots, and a billed cap. Coffee was brewing on the rear burner of the stove. He ripped open a package of saltines and consumed a half dozen in a single breath.

  The cabin’s pantry was well stocked with groceries. He didn’t plan on going hungry.

  When the coffee was ready he poured a mugful and drank it black. He needed the caffeine boost. He dined on stew straight from the metal pot, dipping crackers now and then. The stew and the coffee renewed his energy and warmed him from the inside out.

  For the next few nights he planned to sleep less than a half hour at a time. Keeping watch was of vital importance. He didn’t expect any trouble, but he had a schedule to keep. If he kept his wits about him and played by the numbers, he’d slip away clean as a whistle. He had just earned $5.9 million. Now it was time to collect.

  A movie was playing on the big-screen in the family room when Miriam Ettinger a
sked Jude to run upstairs and see if her father wanted to have pie with them.

  The scream could have shattered crystal.

  Everyone jumped to their feet and moved in a frantic mob up the stairs. There was total confusion. The Secret Service kept the family out of the room. Orders were shouted. The body was rushed out the back entrance of the lodge and gently hurried ontoMarine Two, the vice president’s helicopter, which was always ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

  Miriam was in shock. The Secret Service got her on board, and the machine lifted off from the snowy patch of land where it had been perched. The children were in hysterics. Elaine herded them into the lodge and babbled whatever words of comfort she could think of.Marine Two cleared the treetops and was gone.

  Vice President James Ettinger was officially declared dead at 9:53P.M., Monday, December 17.

  9:53P.M. in Maine was almost 2P.M. in Sydney, Australia.

  President Clifton Yates had spent the morning hours at a special performance of a local children’s choir at the Sydney Opera House. President Yates managed to smile and applaud and offer praise for the mob of sopranos. Later he hit the links with the American ambassador to Australia. By eleven-forty-five Yates was shooting well above par and not a bit happy about it. When the call came, he was in a sand trap, eyeing an orange Titleist golf ball that was all but unplayable.

  An aide, still standing back on the fairway, took the call on her digital phone. She pressed it to her ear, facing away from the intrusive sun, bracing her right arm with her left in a very feminine, very professional pose. The aid frowned, then cut her eyes toward the president.

  Yates was hissing under his breath at the orange Titleist. The toes of his brown and white Dexters had inched up into position. The open face of the sand wedge was at the ready. His form was atrocious. His breathing grew awkward as his arms tensed. The head of the club lifted up and away from the sand, swinging sky-ward, then peaked, and began its arc back to earth.

  “Sir—”

  The word cracked the air surrounding the hazard like static electricity. The swing went wide, digging in a good five inches on the far side of the orange sphere, slinging a hearty scoop of wet sand onto the slick, fresh-cut putting surface of the green.

  Everyone within earshot toggled between the red-faced beast in the sand trap and the all-business young aide who’d managed to make her way to the edge of the rough.

  She held the phone out to him.

  “Excuse me, sir. I think you need to take this call.”

  “Tell mehow, tell mewhen, tell mewho!” The president of the United States was sitting in the deep leather chair behind his desk aboardAir Force One. His head was cocked back, eyes pinched tight, his left hand bridging his temples. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d taken the call on the golf course. In that time, they’d boarded the plane and were airborne.

  “Are yousure, Russ?” Yates barked at the phone before he’d gotten answers to his first string of questions.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” his chief of staff answered from his office inside the White House. “The vice president is dead.”

  “Good Lord! How could this happen?”

  “At this point, sir, I just—”

  “Russ!”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “I, uh, Maine, sir. A private hospital.”

  “We’ve got to keep this thing quiet, you understand? At least for a day or two. We’re look’n at a brush fire! This’ll burn up the airwaves like year-old hay. Good Lord!”

  “So far it’s been contained,” the chief of staff managed to say while the president sucked in a breath. “Only a small group of hospital staff know at this point, and they’ve all been told to keep quiet about it for reasons of national security.”

  “When’d it go down?”

  “Less than two hours.”

  “And there’s no way somebody’s just got their lines crossed on this thing?”

  “It’s official, Cliff.”

  The president stared up at the ceiling.Air Force One was abuzz with the news of Ettinger’s demise. A senior staff member was on a couch to Yates’s far left, drumming on the keyboard of a laptop balanced on his knees. He was hammering out a first draft of the speech that the president would give when he addressed the nation at some undetermined point in the days or hours to come.

  “What’s our time frame before this thing gets out of hand, Russ?”

  “Can’t say just yet. Twelve hours, a day, two days.”

  The president unconsciously glanced at his watch. “Twelve hours,” he said to no one but the ceiling. He glanced at a second aide in a chair in the corner, scribbling on a legal pad.

  “Twelve hours. Is that enough for the boys at the Bureau to get a healthy jump on the investigation?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe.” Yates could just see Russ shrugging at his desk in the White House. The president shook his head and took a deep breath, listening to the silence coming from the other end of the line.

  Ignoring the other occupants of the office, President Yates plucked a felt tip marker from a slotted brass tray near the phone and scratched down in block lettering the single word that was now playing over and over in his mind like a digital display. When the word was spelled out, he penciled in a box around it, pressing down on the lead until the markings nearly tore at the paper of his desk pad. The word he had written was “Stott.”

  “Get busy, Russ,” the president sighed, unblinking. “Keep this mess away from the media hounds for as long as you can. Once they get wind of it, our boys won’t have room to work.”

  “Already on it, Mr. President.”

  Clifton Yates slammed the phone in its cradle. Forty-five minutes ago he’d teed off on nine with a Big Bertha driver and watched his Titleist float down the fairway with the grace of a balsa glider. Now he was on his way into the belly of the beast that awaited him in the capital of the free world.

  But in his own private world, he felt both a sense of relief, and a new level of anxiety.

  Husband and wife were alone in a room.

  Miriam Ettinger sat on a chair against a wall in the morgue, knees together, hands together between her thighs. She stared at the floor, then the opposite wall, then the leg of the stainless steel table twelve paces dead ahead, then the gray door that led to an outer corridor. But she saw none of it. Her eyes were glazed over. On the table, under the white sheet, was the corpse of her husband. She had yet to approach and pull back the sheet and comprehend the reality of the moment.

  There was activity beyond the door. Miriam ignored it.

  Tears blurred her vision.

  She rose from the chair and approached the metal table. She took a deep breath, both hands clutching her purse strap.

  The shape beneath the sheet looked reasonably lifelike. James could have simply been asleep there, hidden from the intrusion of light. Miriam extended a hand to fold back the sheet so that she could look at him one last time and say good-bye.

  She held back, resisting the temptation of a final viewing. He surely would not look like the man she’d loved for more than twenty years. Instead, she slid her hand under the nearest edge of the sheet. His left hand was already cool and stiff. His wedding band glistened in the fluorescent light, the gold dulled slightly by smeared dried blood.

  The tears came, coursing down her cheeks, unrestrained. Lifting her late husband’s hand above the stainless steel table she pressed her lips to it.

  The door to the morgue opened, and a uniformed man stuck his head in. Awkwardness filled his face at the sight of the woman at her dead husband’s side.

  “Mrs. Ettinger?” he said with as much politeness in his voice as any human could possibly offer.

  Miriam did not look up. She spoke with a dry throat. “Yes.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, ma’am,” he said, hating himself for having to rush her like this.

  She swallowed slowly, never taking her eyes o
r hand from the cold fingers in her grip. She nodded. “All right.”

  The guard slipped out and eased the door shut.

  Another minute ticked by.

  She slipped the wedding band from his ring finger, then tugged the sheet back over the hand.

  “I love you, James,” she said, and turned to go.

  4

  London, England

  MEGANDURANT ASKED THE CABDRIVER TO KINDLY WAITfor her while she went inside the cathedral.

  “This thing’s running, missy,” he said, plucking a cigarette from his lips with a fingerless glove. “It’s your money.”

  She nodded, then turned to the cathedral. She was there to pay a quick visit to a dear friend. She had many errands to attend to before tomorrow’s departure for New York, but Sister Catina had been too important to her life not to stop for at least a brief hello. When Megan’s parents split up, and her mother essentially abandoned her in London, it was Sister Catina who helped to salve the wounds in her young life.

  A harsh north wind ushered her up the stone steps of the cathedral. She wore a long coat that buttoned up the front. A plaid scarf was twirled around her neck and tucked down the collar. Her dark, shoulder-length hair danced about with the prodding of the wind. Both hands, warmed by wool mittens, were tucked inside the deep pockets.

  She pushed the enormous door shut behind her as she scuttled in out of the cold, rubber soles squeaking on the expansive marble floor. Megan hesitated where she stood, taking in the solemn atmosphere of all that lay around her, then used one hand to brush a few flakes of snow from her hair.

  Megan was slightly startled by the sudden approach of a nun in a white habit.

  “I’m Sister Rosalyn. Can I help you, child?”

  “Yes,” Megan said. “I am here to see Sister Catina.”

  “Ah, yes.” The smile brightened with recognition. “What is your name, please?”

  “Megan Durant.”