Into The Fire jb-4

by David Wiltse

  The shadows had grown very long when Cooper slumped down at the base of a tree. He was exhausted from fighting against the muck all day and very hungry.

  He tried to remember the last time he had eaten and he couldn't. The swelling from his hand had increased and the skin looked so tight he was afraid it would just pop open all by itself. Any motion of his arm burned like fire now and he had to walk with his left hand clamping his right arm against his body as if he were holding himself together. As a result, his balance was bad and he fell often. He was covered with mud and his body itched from head to toe.

  He was miserable now, but he hadn't been happy since he left prison. He missed his punk, who took care of him whenever he hurt himself or didn't feel well. The punk was as good as a nurse, fluttering around and feeling Cooper's forehead for a fever and giving him rubdowns and making sure he was warm enough, and then telling him stories and talking to him for hours, which was something no nurse would ever do. He never had to worry about his meals in prison, either. He knew when they were and they were always there when they were supposed to be. The servers always made sure that Old Coop got an extra-large helping, too. Everybody took care of him in prison, in one way or another, and everybody knew him.

  He hated it on the outside, Cooper realized. It wasn't home, it wasn't anything like home. The only good thing he could remember since he got out was the time in the car with the girl but then she even went and spoiled that the second time by acting like she didn't know what to do.

  The punk always knew what he was supposed to do, and he always did it right or else Cooper kicked his ass.

  People on the outside never seemed to do anything right, whether he kicked their ass or not.

  He thought again of the punk. Swann, that was his name. The punk would be pleased that Cooper remembered. If they sent him back to Springville, he would want to have the punk in his cell again. Those things could be arranged. Cooper knew how to do it. If someone else was living with Swann, Cooper would kick his ass until he gave the punk back to Cooper.

  The punk belonged with Cooper. He would be happy to see Cooper again, there was no doubt about that, and they would have a lot to tell each other after Cooper's visit to the outside.

  He couldn't walk any faster than he was going, but no matter how fast he went, the voices seemed to get closer.

  He thought he could see higher ground in the distance.

  Maybe that meant he would get out of this swamp and onto dry ground again. Then he could steal a car and get away from them that way. He didn't understand how they could all walk so much faster than he could, but he didn't think they could drive any faster.

  As he got closer he could see that it really was a hill and it looked as dry as he could ever hope for. Cooper drove himself even faster until each breath rasped and tore at his lungs. Just at the base of the hill he tripped, his feet unaccustomed to solid ground. Instinctively he threw his arms put to stop his fall and the impact on his bad hand was so painful he could not keep from screaming. He felt bone grate against bone in his knuckle and heard it, too.

  It was the sound of it that made him pass out.

  When he came to, he heard voices closing in on him, then heard one of them, a woman's voice, calling to the others. Her voice was very close, so close he could reach out and touch her. Cooper kept his eyes squeezed shut, thinking maybe he wouldn't be seen if he just lay where he was.

  "Don't move, you sack of shit," the woman's voice said. She sounded really pissed off and scared, too. "I'll blow you fucking away if you move, Cooper."

  He was so surprised to hear his name that he opened his eyes. A young woman with funny red hair was standing over him, pointing a gun at him with both hands. She wore a jacket that said FBI in big letters. A radio on her belt crackled and an anxious voice said, "Just hold him there, Haddad. Don't try anything else, just keep him in place."

  "I want Swann," Cooper said. He started to shift his weight so he could sit up and he realized that the woman had put handcuffs around his ankles.

  The woman kicked his bad hand with her toe and he screamed again and slumped backwards.

  "Don't fuck with me," said Pegeen. "Where's the girl?"

  Cooper didn't know what she meant so he said nothing.

  She nudged his hand again and he yelped like a dog.

  "I asked you where's the girl. Unless you want me to do a dance on that paw of yours, tell me where she is."

  She didn't look mean, Cooper thought. She looked like she was trying to pretend she was bigger than she was, but sure acted mean.

  "I'm going to count to five," Pegeen said, "then I'm going to stand on your hand. You understand me, Cooper?":'Yes," said Cooper.

  'Where's the girl?"

  "What girl?"

  " Sybil Benish. The kid you took into the swamp with you, asshole."

  "She left me," Cooper said.

  "What did you do to her? Did you hurt her?… Answer me! Did you hurt her?"

  Cooper stared at Pegeen, uncomprehending. Had he hurt the girl? He didn't think so; he didn't remember hurting her. He was the one who was hurt.

  "One." 'If I tell you, can I live with Swann?"

  "Two."

  She lifted one foot and held it over his bad hand. Cooper tried to move it away, but it was like a deadweight at the end of his limb and the entire arm seemed to have stopped working. He put his good hand in the air over the injured one to shield it.

  "Where is she?"

  "She fell off, I left her back there where I was," Cooper said.

  "Three," she said.

  I told you," Cooper pleaded, but she stamped her'foot onto his hand anyway.

  When Cooper came to again there was a swarm of men in FBI jackets running over the hill towards him. The girl still hovered over him, looking enraged and ready to hurt him some more.

  As the men converged around him, Cooper was crying, "Get her away from me," and trying to climb up the slope on his ass.

  Hatcher met Quincy Beggs at the Congressman's home, where the politician was hosting an informal dinner — for twelve would-be campaign contributors. Ten florid-faced men and two highly lacquered women greeted Hatcher courteously, all professing delight at meeting such a highly placed FBI agent, and with few exceptions feigning an interest they did not have. Hatcher's arrival was unannounced-indeed his invitation to such an event would have been inappropriate both socially and ethically-and after the social amenities had been observed, Beggs wasted no time in escorting Hatcher to his study.

  "I would have waited until business hours," Hatcher said, "but I felt you would appreciate hearing right away."

  He could in fact have simply told Beggs his news on the telephone, but Hatcher knew the importance of the personal appearance at the right time. Good news delivered over the telephone seems to come from out of the blue. Good news delivered in person comes from the messenger.

  Hatcher would be there to share in the triumph, Hatcher would be there to modestly deny the credit, Hatcher would be recognized as the source of the blessing, not the telephone, not the impersonal machinery of the Bureau.

  "I'm sure you did the right thing," said Beggs. "Just a few of my constituents. Do them good to see that I actually work for a living."

  Beggs laughed. Hatcher managed a limp smile.

  Beggs stuck a cigar the length of a pencil into his mouth and waggled it back and forth with his tongue. He no longer smoked them, but still used them as theatrical props. The Congressman felt they gave him a manly appearance.

  "So? What's up?"

  Hatcher gestured to a chair. "May I?"

  "Good heavens, 'course, man, sit, sit. Don't know where I put my manners."

  Hatcher carefully sat and arranged one leg over the other, tending to the crease in his trousers. There was an art to delivering good news, and it took a bit of time and preparation. Just as one did not do it over the telephone, so one did not blurt it out and have done with it, If one was seated, one became a part of the event. The audi
tors could not dismiss a seated man with a quick handshake and a pat on the back the way they might get rid of a standing courier before rushing off to celebrate with those they cared about. Courtesy demanded that someone seated be treated with deliberation and attention. A standing man was a messenger. A seated man was an equal.

  Beggs rolled the cigar impatiently. He didn't like Hatcher, he didn't know anyone who did, but this was Washington and personal tastes were always subordinate to other considerations. The quid pro quo was observed, no matter how little personal regard was involved in the transaction, compromise being the currency without which the political process would be bankrupt. No matter how clumsy a performer Hatcher might be, nor how transparent his motives, it had to be granted that he handled the proper steps, honored the rituals, played the game according to the universally recognized rules. Advancement was a matter of accruing favors owed and then cashing them in, and grace and subtlety were ultimately nothing more than frills. What mattered was whether or not you could deliver the goods, and an outright enemy with his arms full of gifts was more welcome than an empty-handed friend. Not that Hatcher was Beggs' enemy, of course.

  Beggs didn't care that much about him.

  "You will recall that we had a conversation some while ago concerning a possible lead in a. case that touched you personally?" Hatcher began.

  "I do indeed."

  "And I undertook to make that investigation a matter for my personal-ah-consideration."

  "Which I did appreciate, let me tell you."

  "Only too happy to help where I can," said Hatcher.

  What a phoady, thought Beggs. Obsequious and smug at the same time.

  He'll go far.

  Hatcher continued. "Naturally I couldn't neglect my other duties, but whenever possible I made the case my own. I flew to Nashville to personally debrief the agents, for instance."

  "Certainly appreciate your efforts," said Beggs.

  "One likes to think one played a part, but of course all credit goes to the Bureau itself. Many dedicated men and women, each doing their bit."

  You made your point-I owe you! Beggs wanted to thunder. Get the hell on with it. Instead, he removed the cigar from his mouth and studied the end of it as if it were actually lighted.

  "Fantastic organization," said Beggs.

  "Those of us who are entrusted with the responsibility strive very hard to keep it that way," said Hatcher. He, too, studied Beggs' cigar as if to discern the mystery of the nonexistent ash.

  "We all owe you a debt of gratitude," said Beggs.

  "And I, for one, am a man who honors my debts." There, it's said aloud, let's get on with it.

  Hatcher managed a watery smile, casting his eyes to the floor, too modest to speak. Momentarily.

  Beggs cleared his throat before replacing the cigar in his mouth, signaling that the preliminaries were over.

  "I'm happy to be able to report some good news," Hatcher responded on cue. "Excellent news, most excellent."

  "What!" Beggs said curtly. The man was more longwinded than an Alabama senator.

  "We have apprehended the man who abducted your niece."

  "Good God! You've caught him?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "After all these years, you've actually caught him?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm happy to be able to say that we have him in custody."

  "Christ, that's wonderful! Do you know how many votes that's worth?"

  "I knew you would be gratified."

  "Gratified, shit. I'm a — s good as reelected, man! Can I announce this? I mean, is it all wrapped up?"

  "I thought perhaps a joint announcement. You and I together..

  "Of course, of course-but I mean, is it a done deal?

  You actually have him in custody and you can keep him?

  We're not going to have some civil libertarian lawyer getting him out on a technicality?"

  "Naturally he has to be tried in a court of law..

  "I'm not going to wait three years for a goddamned verdict and have him get off on insanity or some such shit. Hatcher, I'm asking you, is this wrapped up? Can I go public? We… can we go public?"

  "Yes, sir," said Hatcher. "Not only do we have the perpetrator in custody, the man has confessed."

  "Beautiful," said Beggs.

  "Did you wish to contact the girl's parents, or shall we?"

  "The girl's parents?"

  "The parents of the deceased," said Hatcher. "Your niece."

  The dead girl had been the daughter of Beggs' wife's brother, an unemployed mine worker who had deserted the girl and her mother when the girl was six years old.

  Beggs had played up his relationship at the time of her disappearance because it gave him a vehicle of public sympathy and outrage that he rode all the way to elective office. He had not heard from the girl's mother in years.

  His wife's brother continued to apply for handouts on a regular basis.

  "You do that," Beggs said. "You deserve the credit."

  Hatcher launched into another round of modest demurral, but neither man paid much attention to it. Both of them were looking forward to the press conference, and beyond.

  Becker had prepared a cassoulet, a French casserole dish that called for beans, tomatoes, onions, celery, wine, salt pork, duck drippings, lean pork, lamb, garlic or Polish sausage, and either roast duck or canned, preserved goose.

  Improvising to meet the nature of his larder, Becker omitted the salt pork, duck drippings, pork, lamb and duck or goose and substituted hot Italian sausage. He then doubled up on the beans and threw in a package of spinach because it seemed the thing to do. Having brewed the mess for a couple of hours, he sampled it as Jack entered the kitchen.

  "Soccer cleats outside the door, for the hundred thousandth time,"

  Becker said, pulling the wooden spoon gingerly towards him, blowing away the steam.

  "Sorry, I forgot," said Jack. The boy sat and removed his soccer shoes and left them directly in the middle of the kitchen door. It was a talent that Becker had noted before. School bags, shoes, clothing-all sloughed off Jack's body when he entered the house as freely as if it were so much dried skin, but somehow the pattern was not random. Things did not just lie where they fell. With an inevitability that promised design, every item ended up where it would be most surely in the way.

  Shoes were never in the corner, the school bag never behind a chair.

  Everything was placed, or tossed, or shrugged off, squarely in the middle of the busiest pathway. Doorways seemed to be a favorite, but the hallways got their share of detritus, too. When Jack was home, it was impossible to walk a straight route to anywhere else in the house.

  Becker decided the beans were passable if one were just tasting, better if the consumer was hungry. He hoped that Karen was ravenous.

  "What's for dinner? I'm starving," Jack announced.

  "Jack, old pal, you're in luck. I've got just the meal for you."

  "What is it?" Jack asked suspiciously.

  "Ask not what it is. Ask what it is not." Becker made a great show of inhaling the aromas from the pot. He knew that the best he could do was lure Jack into one exploratory taste. If the boy didn't like it at first blush, no amount of cajoling or threatening would make him eat more.

  Becker cooked for himself and Karen. Jack appeared to live on plain spaghetti and peanut butter sandwiches, yet had the energy of ten men and was growing like a patch of kudzu.

  "What it is not?"

  "The recipe called for duck droppings," Becker said.

  "Gab!"

  "Well, it's French."

  "Gross."

  "The problem was, I couldn't find any duck droppings.

  You don't feel like running over to Scribner's park and getting some, do you?"

  "That's disgusting… Where's Scribner's park?"

  "That's the official name of the town pond where you swim all summer."

  Becker and Jack opened their mouths and eyes cartoon wide, stared at each other for a second
, then screamed. It was a well-practiced routine that drove Karen crazy but pleased the two of them.

  "So I had to be creative," Becker continued. "Since I didn't have any duck droppings, I paid a visit to Emily."

  Emily was Jack's rabbit. "Bunny droppings make a pretty good substitute.

  Want to try some, Jack?"

  Becker advanced on the boy with the spoon.

  Karen entered her house with Gold to find Becker and her son screaming at each other.

  "They do that," she explained to Gold.

  "A lot?"

  "Too much," she said. To Becker she said, "Look what I brought you."

  "Ah," said Becker. Karen thought he was suddenly holding the spoon as if it were a weapon.

  "Jack, say hello to Dr. Gold," she said and Jack dutifully held out his hand to be shaken and muttered "hello."

  The boy waited uncomfortably as Gold made a fuss over him, his size, his age, his grand appearance, then, when the adults had turned their attentions from him, he slipped away.

  "You're looking well, John," Gold said.

  Becker regarded Karen questioningly.

  "I just brought him," Karen said. "I have no comment, no further part in this. I'll leave you two to it," Karen said, easing out the door.

  "Oh, no," Becker said. "You brought him, you deal with him."

  "I can't," Karen said. "If you don't want to talk to him, fine, but you'll have to drive him to the train station yourself. I'm tired."

  "I can't really talk in front of Karen," Gold said.

  "Why not? She's with the Bureau, she's got a higher clearance for any classified than I do-if I have any clearance left at all. I don't have any secrets from her."

  "No, but I do," Gold said.

  Bowing elaborately, Karen withdrew.

  "I think it's best that Karen not be involved in this conversation at this point," Gold said. "It's best for her, that is."

  "Are you trying to seduce me with mysteries, Gold? I've got beans to cook."

  "I like beans."

  "Why didn't you just call me if you wanted some advice? "

  "Because there's some material I want you to look at… And it's not a conversation I want anyone to overhear. For that matter, I don't want any mail going back and forth between us that someone might log in. This is just a social visit as far as anyone else is concerned. Including Karen. I just asked her for a ride."