Two Peasants and a President
Page 31
Vietnam had two choices: send more force to protect its convoys or use a southerly route. A southerly route added precious time and expense to shipping each container, which would make it financially impractical. Employing more warships for escort duty could be trumped by China’s more numerous naval assets. The fact that shortly after the attack, China had again sent patrol craft into the area meant that the stand down was over.
******
Li Guo Peng sat comfortably in an overstuffed chair across from Chen Lei, his closest ally in the PLA. The attack had proceeded precisely as planned. Once again a hidden submarine had sunk a foreign ship and made an important point: China intended to control the South China Sea by force, if necessary, but at least for the time being, using stealth.
Sheng Guangzu had been sidelined and Ma Wen’s name would soon be added to the history books. Ma’s doctor had been given two choices, both unpleasant. He had chosen the one which allowed him to live. Now only one man stood in the way of China’s destiny and he would soon be dealt with.
6 1
The Chinese restaurant was Molly’s idea. She and Ping had been sharing the cooking and cleaning and, while Ping ate what Molly cooked with a smile on her face, it seemed a little forced. To most Orientals, American food is a bit on the bland side and, given their choice, would rather eat something from their homeland. After waiting more than a week for Virgil to find an open evening, they had picked a restaurant that everyone assured them served the most authentic Chinese food in the city.
The owners obviously hadn’t blown a lot of dough on décor, but they offered a menu in Chinese as well as English and the look on Ping’s face told them they were off to a good start. In fact, they decided to let her order the meal, which she did with relish. When the steaming plates arrived, the waiter said something in Chinese to Ping and she replied with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. While neither Virgil nor Molly recognized what was on the plates, the aromas were far too inviting to hesitate long enough to ask. At least there were no eyeballs staring up at them.
It was soon apparent that not only had Ping done an excellent job; it was some of the best Chinese they’d ever tasted. When they were finished, Ping asked if she could speak with the owner. A few minutes later a man wearing an apron decorated with what looked to be a bit of everything on the menu and hair resembling a clothes brush, appeared at the table. When he spotted Ping, his overlarge ears seemed to pull the corners of his mouth into a wide, gold-toothed smile. The man looked as though he’d been introduced to a Hollywood star. It quickly became clear to Virgil and Molly that their Chinese lessons were still embryonic as Ping and the restaurant owner commenced an animated conversation in Chinese, scarcely a word of which was intelligible to either of the two Americans.
When at last Ping and her new friend came up for air, he turned to Virgil and in an almost reverent tone thanked him for what he had done to help get the refugees out of China, and especially for taking good care of this one. While the man professed to admire Virgil for his stance on US/China relations, he could only shake his head when asked if he felt optimistic about the prospects for success.
He also mentioned that Ping had asked about some ingredients so that she could make one of the dishes herself when they had their party. He told her to let him know a few days before and he would see to it that she had what she needed. Ping’s smile confirmed that not only the food but the opportunity to speak with one of her countrymen had made her very happy. As they were leaving, the waiter came over from another table and shook their hands.
On the ride back to the house, Ping tried valiantly to describe some of what she and the restaurant owner had talked about, but her still nascent English was so peppered with Chinese as to be indecipherable. Nonetheless, Virgil and Molly listened politely, nodding and interjecting words here and there which they hoped would convey an impression of interest, if not comprehension. Suddenly Ping paused for a moment, looking from one to the other before bursting into laughter as it dawned on her that they hadn’t understood a thing. They were all still laughing several blocks later when they made the turn onto Elm.
In the distance, they could see a Ford Crown Vic, looking like a standard issue plain clothes police car, parked in front of Gladys’ house. Gladys was standing on the porch, engrossed in conversation with what appeared to be two plainclothes police officers. When the big Lincoln was almost even with her door, she glanced up and waived, but only perfunctorily, as though not wishing to be distracted from her duty to the neighborhood. Though clad in a flowered smock and fluffy white slippers, the official guardian of the 300 block of Elm Street firmly stood her ground as though fully prepared to repel the charge of the light brigade in her slippers if it became necessary to protect her flock.
Virgil stifled a grin as he pulled to the curb to let Molly and Ping out. Whatever it was that had again brought the police to the neighborhood, Gladys could be counted on to call and fill him in once the cops had left. In the meantime, the big Sig Sauer .45 rode in the console next to him where it had ever since the tragedy. He and Molly had debated telling Ping about what had happened to Doris since she’d only just escaped a nightmare of her own, but in the end they’d decided she needed to know. They’d gone over household safety precautions and self-defense with her but tried to avoid any unnecessary overt display of firearms around the house so as not to worry her needlessly.
After letting Ping and Molly out in front, Virgil pulled into the driveway and before getting out slipped the Sig into his waste band. Molly and Ping were already in the kitchen putting away leftovers when he came up the steps. As he was closing the front door, he noticed that the police officers had left Gladys’ porch and were crossing the street.
“Senator Baines,” a voice called out. There was no apparent haste in the men’s pace, no hurry up a the sight of someone waiting for them, rather a deliberate speed, as though it might provide an opportunity to check out the surrounding area. But neither man looked sideways even once, their gaze focused solely on the senator and his house.
As they mounted the front steps, Baines noticed that the men looked remarkably alike, not enough to be mistaken for twins, but roughly the same height, similar closed-cropped black hair and even suits that could have come off the same rack. Both held themselves erect, like men who had stood at attention many times in a former life.
“Yes,” replied Baines.
“Detective Chambers, Sir, I wonder if we might have a moment?” He flipped his badge case open perfunctorily and closed it again as though he expected the mere whiff of official leather and shiny metal to communicate sufficient authority. Baines glanced at the other, expecting a similar introduction, but the second man proffered neither badge nor greeting, seeming to prefer a stone-faced countenance to command respect. A man of few words, Baines thought to himself. Ping, for whom the sight of police officers was never an auspicious event, hurried upstairs to her room.
“What can I do for you, officers?”
“There’s been a report of suspicious activity in the neighborhood, Sir. I wonder if we might come in and speak with you about it?” The senator opened the door But rather than express a broad welcome with his left arm outstretched, he allowed it to vaguely describe the floor of the entryway, as if to say that at least for the time being, they were to only be accorded a probationary stay just inside the front door.
Baines noticed that Gladys had turned her lights out, having apparently gone to bed. He would have been less surprised to see her in the window, binoculars in hand, watching the cops or surveying the neighborhood for trouble or standing with hand poised over the phone, ready to share whatever news the officers had brought, along with the usual opinions and instructions for her flock. That she had retired early seemed unusual.
******
Gladys was feeling a bit miffed. One minute she’d been having a nice conversation with the two police detectives and the next they’d rudely turned and headed across the street to the senator’s home.
It was, after all, they who’d decided to pay me a visit, she thought to herself. Then, more charitably: Well, I guess it was the senator’s house where the murder occurred, not mine. I suppose they’ve got more reason to be over there than here. Who’d want to murder an old busybody, anyway? she thought. She locked and bolted the front door and re-armed the alarm system before heading to the kitchen to warm some milk for Cecilia.
“Here Cecilia. Here kitty, kitty; it’s time for your milk,” she said, expecting the cat to awaken from her latest nap in whichever stuffed chair she’d chosen and come bounding into the kitchen. Isn’t that strange, she thought, that cat’s practically got a wristwatch when it comes to meal time and milk. “Here, kitty, kitty.” Gladys scooped the bowl off the floor and set it on the counter. She had just started to open the refrigerator door when she felt herself being jerked backward so roughly that her feet were pulled out of the fluffy white slippers. The next thing that wrenched its way into her consciousness was the sudden terrific pain in her neck. It happened so fast that at first she didn’t associate the pain with the wire digging into her windpipe. When she desperately reached up to loosen it, she was horrified to see blood suddenly spray her hands.
Gladys would live less than a minute longer, just long enough to recognize the reflection of the man behind her in the kitchen window. It was the man who had murdered the senator’s maid.
“You will not warn anyone this time, woman,” the man said in a voice distorted by his effort.
Gladys’ hands dropped to her sides as her still beating heart forced waves of blood through the tear in her neck. When the gurgling sounds had ceased, the man allowed her lifeless body to slump to the kitchen floor. After wiping the garrote clean on the formerly cheery green, flowered smock that Gladys had laundered that very morning, he turned out the lights, disarmed the alarm system and headed to the house across the street.
******
The officers stood in the hallway, shifting from one foot to the other, as though fishing for an invitation into the living room to sit in a comfortable chair. None was forthcoming. Molly emerged from the kitchen but paused in the hall doorway, stopping short of approaching and greeting the detectives. Virgil was at first puzzled by this, but then remembered that like Ping, Molly had not always seen cops as friends and protectors.
Molly, however, was not harkening back to a former life. She sensed an inexplicable tenseness in the officers, as might be expected upon entering a drug house where every room could conceal an armed felon. The possibility that someone had entered the house and hidden himself while they were at dinner briefly crossed her mind, but the alarm system had still been armed when she and Ping turned it off. While the officers could not know that, their demeanor seemed somehow inconsistent with the presumed safety of the living room of a United States senator.
“What sort of suspicious activity?” Baines asked.
“A man was seen in the alley behind your house,” replied Detective Chambers.
“By whom?”
“The lady across the street.”
“Gladys saw someone in my alley?”
“Apparently.”
Baines was puzzled. While Gladys was known to keep a pair of binoculars handy and her vigilance was unquestioned, her view of the alley in this block from across the street would be obstructed at best, especially in the dark. Given Doris’ murder, it was not surprising that Gladys would jump at shadows, but what seemed out of character was that she not only hadn’t called Virgil’s cell phone as she had before, but she had apparently gone to bed earlier than usual, as if seeing a stranger in the alley and calling the police had made her suddenly sleepy. It also seemed a bit odd that Baines had seen no marked cars or uniformed officers since arriving home.
“Are there any patrol cars searching the area now?” he asked. The detective seemed to hesitate, then said:
“There were earlier.”
“Did they see anything?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replied the detective.
“You don’t think so?”
“They would have informed us if they had found anyone in the alley,” his partner said, abruptly deciding to join the conversation.
Something about the interaction was very off. Both detectives seemed inexplicably ill at ease and while both officers held a radio, there had been no audible chatter or static or, for that matter, sound of any kind coming from either. And the eyes of Chambers’ partner repeatedly flicked to and from the bulge under Baines jacket where he had tucked the .45. Baines tried to tell himself that cops are usually a bit nervous around an armed citizen, but in the home of a senator who had every reason to be armed . . . Molly turned slowly around and headed back into the kitchen where she had left her cell phone.
“Well, thanks for checking things out, Detectives,” Baines said, “If we see anything unusual, we’ll give you a call.”
“Oh, by the way, how is Lieutenant Roberts?” he added.
“He’s fine,” replied Chambers, after a brief hesitation.
“Oh, I meant to say his sick daughter,” Virgil corrected himself. “Please tell him we hope she’s getting better.”
Since he’d just invented both Lieutenant Roberts and his sick daughter, Virgil now realized that although his left arm was extended toward the door, as if to usher the men out, they had not budged an inch.
“I’ll pass that along,” said the detective perfunctorily, but the look he gave his partner said they both knew they’d just been had.
Virgil used the extra second that his ruse had provided to reach for the big Sig. Chambers was slower and paid with a bullet in his eye socket. But as Virgil swung the .45 toward the other man, he could already see his gun coming up. The shots were nearly simultaneous but the 9mm hit Virgil in the gut just as his .45 exploded, the heavy 240 grain bullet striking the arm holding the 9mm causing it to release the pistol.
An instant before the mental shock of the 9mm bullet entering his abdomen, Virgil fired three more times in quick succession at the figure before him. The next two shots missed the man’s head, but the third shot entered one side of his neck and exited the other.
Virgil crumpled, clutching his stomach, while the other man’s horrified look said that he well knew that his neck wound would soon be fatal. He sat down hard on the floor, vainly trying to plug both holes. Molly screamed at the first shot and rushed into the hallway, still clutching a cell phone that she had yet to realize was being jammed by a device in the pocket of a man now moving up behind her.
Virgil raised a hand to warn Molly, but he could not coax a sound from his perforated diaphragm. She was totally focused on him and had started to kneel down to help when she was brought up short by the wire around her neck. Gagging, she felt herself lifted away from Virgil and dragged backward so that she could not get her feet under her. She did not have to see the man behind her to know who it was.
Virgil’s gun had tumbled over an armchair and he was crawling toward it when the man launched a kick that hit him in the side of the head. He rolled onto his back, stunned. The man again devoted his full attention to the garrote and Molly heard him say in heavily accented English:
“No second chance for you, bitch!”
Then she heard a guttural sound from behind them that at first she did not recognize. The garrote loosened slightly as the man abruptly twisted his head sideways toward the steps leading up to the bedrooms. Ping was standing on the stairs holding Virgil’s 12 gauge shotgun.
“Let her go or I will kill you,” she said in Chinese.
“Give me the shotgun and I will let you live,” he said and turned to face Ping as Molly slumped to the floor.
“I am not afraid of you,” she said. “Men like you have already taken from me what I valued most. Now I will take from you what you value most,” she said as the barrel of the 12 gauge moved from the man’s chest to his zipper.
The man’s hand had moved slowly behind his back where a pistol was tucked into the waistband.
“I have already been to hell,” she said. “Let me know how you like it.” As the man’s hand pulled the pistol free of his waistband, the muzzle of the shotgun exploded and the crotch of his pants and everything behind it disappeared. The man toppled forward clutching the shredded fabric that had once covered his manhood.
Unable to use the disabled phones to call for help, Ping ran onto the porch, jacked another 12 gauge shell into the chamber and fired it into the front yard. Then another and another until the tube was empty. She dropped the shotgun and raced back into the kitchen to get some towels. Kneeling over Molly she wrapped the towels around her neck and held them tightly to staunch the bleeding.
“Please no die, please no die,” she said over and over as tears streamed down her face. Molly had lapsed into unconsciousness.
6 2
Not since John Kennedy was assassinated in 1963 had the shooting of a American politician caused so much outrage. That the victim was a senator and not a president didn’t seem to matter; the nation had grown to trust Baines and many felt that he was the only man who could pull the country back from the abyss.
Since the shooting occurred late in the evening, most Americans didn’t learn of it until the following morning. Even then, details were sketchy and confusing. Several media outlets, for reasons known only to them, ran with a headline that seemed to insinuate that the senator had shot two detectives before being shot himself. Once again the opportunity to smear the senator, even temporarily, was too great to pass up for some of the denizens of the darker corners of journalism.