“Sí,” Eva agreed. “Mi hija esta muy feliz de que todos es aquí juntos.” Looking at her father, her eyes gave a discreet glance at Pangolin while trying not to reveal that she was equally happy that he, too, was present.
Were it not for the deadly circumstances that brought them together, it would have been the perfect Hallmark moment, a Norman Rockwell illustration in The Saturday Evening Post. It was the moment Eva wanted for her father. And for Teagarden, it was the moment he’d ached to feel since the ordeal began. If he was going to die, he wanted to embrace his granddaughter, one final time.
The perfect moment was short lived.
From the living room where the television was tuned to an all-news station, came a broadcast voice that drew Teagarden’s attention. He shifted Marnie to his left arm and marched to the next room as she ceased being Chopper and tightly clutched his neck along the way. The others followed.
“…and I cannot reveal full details at this time, but I can say there is increasing evidence to that effect. And because of it, we are asking all involved policing agencies to stand down until we can figure out exactly what is going on,” the voice said, though it was not that particular voice that drew Teagarden’s attention.
“Hey, that’s the congressman from Louisiana,” his daughter said. “What’s his name?”
“Alderman,” Pangolin answered. “He’s the Speaker of the House.”
“Right, Alderman. Where is he? That’s not the Capitol Building.”
They had spoken over the set’s volume, so they all missed the question posed by the off-camera reporter.
“…well, we are not prepared to say there’s a connection at this time. Let me just say that our sympathies go out to the family of Congressman Toddman Lee Gaynor. We represented different parties, but he served this nation and his district in Kentucky for longer than any person in any district in the history of this nation. And for that he deserves praise from all Americans.”
The off-camera voice spoke again, “Sheriff, is this a trick by law enforcement to encourage a wanted fugitive to surrender?”
The camera panned to another man standing beside the House Speaker.
“No,” the man said, “I don’t do tricks in my work. After talking with Speaker Alderman, and being summoned to the hospital for this press conference, I see there is reason to believe Teagarden could be innocent. He’s wanted in my district for the murder of an eleven-year-old boy. But that’s not to say he is guilty. Not by any means.”
“And—that—is Sheriff Klumm of Bethel Township, New York State,” said Teagarden, referring to the uniformed officer next to the House Speaker.
“The man who tried to kill you on the lake in New Jersey?” Eva asked.
“Yep. He’s a smart guy. I actually voted for him.”
“But if he surrenders, will you arrest him?” the reporter asked.
“I have agreed to stand down, as long has he goes into the custody of the House Speaker here and the guardianship of the Homeland committee, which is offering temporary amnesty pending full investigation. If he does that, I will not move to arrest him at this time.”
“Isn’t this highly unusual, Sheriff?”
“Yes, it is. But as I said, I’ve seen evidence I did not know existed until this morning. Evidence that shows the case has national security ramifications. So if he goes into protective custody with the federal committee, I will stand aside for the time being, pending resolution that satisfies the laws of my county and the state of New York.”
“Ma’am, did Teagarden participate in any way in the murder of Danford Shackton yesterday at the Watergate?”
The camera panned from Sheriff Klumm, across House Speaker Alderman, to woman lying in the hospital bed.
“No, just the opposite,” she said. “I was there. Shackton was trying to help just as House Speaker Alderman is now trying to help. The sniper was trying to kill Teagarden, but he shot me in the leg and killed Danford instead. Sam is totally innocent. And I would like to add that the evidence the House Speaker is talking about is no longer exclusively in the hands of Teagarden.” She looked at Speaker Alderman, who nodded judicious approval. “It is now in the hands of every member of the House Sub-CIST Committee.”
“And that is Cynthia Blair,” Teagarden said. “She’s the woman who saved my life by helping me escape New York City, and saved it again by helping me escape Sparta.”
He sat down with Marnie still hugging his neck as he watched the television screen. “Oh, Cynthia, I am so happy to see that you’re okay,” he said softly, speaking in the toddler’s ear. She tightened her grip on his neck.
“What is the nature of this evidence?” the reporter asked Cynthia.
“Not to be revealed,” the Speaker interrupted in a stern voice. “At least, not at this time. But I assure you, in very short order the matter will be made public after investigation by the House Sub-CIST Committee and determination that the evidence is valid.”
“How close are you to a determination?”
“Close.”
“There’s been speculation that your evidence proves the existence of domestic black ops, official hit teams with deep cover that can, and—have—killed Americans with covert legal impunity. Is that true?”
“No comment at this time,” the Speaker repeated.
The reporter persisted, “The speculation goes on to say that among the people who’ve been killed are high-ranking men in government and social movements dating to the 1960s.”
“As I said, no comment. Now, we need to wrap this up because attorney Blair needs rest. She’s here at GW Medical Center recovering from a serious gunshot wound. We’re asking Mr. Teagarden to contact my office. Once he does, we’ll work together to figure a way for him to enter protective custody while all evidence is properly investigated.”
The satellite interview concluded as Cynthia gave a nod and vague smile at the camera. Teagarden knew it was directed at him, that she was reassuring him that she was doing well and meeting with success in “working it” from her end as she had promised in the Watergate garage.
The camera panned to the reporter, a middle-aged, good-looking man with a slight paunch, wearing a light gray sports coat and no necktie. He maneuvered to stand in front of the House Speaker, the wounded attorney, and the sheriff, where he thanked the interviewees and handed the news back to New York. The on-set anchor thanked the reporter and noted that it was the same hospital where President Reagan was taken after the 1981 assassination attempt. When the newscast moved on to the next story, Teagarden noted it was about Iran’s threat to destroy Israel and the U.S. in a full-blown preemptive nuclear attack committed in the name of Allah. It was the same news lineup he’d heard on the radio in Madison Park Euro Lodge.
“Oh brother, they’re still putting me ahead of the end of Western civilization,” he said.
Eva turned off the set. The room went silent. The news about Teagarden was good. In fact, it was the first good news they had had all week. Teagarden knew there were two reasons for it. First, the in-hospital interview was Cynthia’s doing. She made it happen to force the hands of others on Capitol Hill, at the FBI, and elsewhere, while letting him know of progress being made. Second, it was because Danford Shackton had e-mailed those pages to every committee member—before—being shot and killed in his own living room. He couldn’t guess at the meaning of the sudden death of elderly Congressman Toddman Gaynor, but he knew the House Speaker was now offering the same bargain that Shackton had tendered. Presumably, though in the hospital, Cynthia was already in protective custody of the House Sub-CIST Committee.
He knew that his daughter was on the verge of discussing how he should go about contacting the House Speaker’s office to initiate the process. Pangolin likely was thinking the same and had ideas of his own.
But no one had time to form words.
Marnie was uncomfortable with the suddenly altered room chemistry and squirmed to be released. Teag
arden complied, letting his granddaughter slide from his arms to a standing position just as the doorbell rang, which instantly sent her back into Chopper-mode. She streaked for the door, arms flailing overhead.
Two seconds later, before anyone could catch her, she had both tiny hands on the brass knob and was vigorously throwing open the front door with impressive strength.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
McCanliss took a carefully controlled breath and focused the crosshairs.
Donnursk had moved his truck to the front of the house on Olivia Street. He left the truck and walked to the door, flyer in hand. At the front door, he rang the bell. It was stupid, but at the same time it was so stupid it could easily work. The setup made him look legit. The lettering on the truck backed him up. He was a harmless local businessman making a cold call. What kind of killer politely rings the doorbell holding a discount coupon for tree trimming? Then, once the door was open, out comes the Glock and blam, blam, blam. Everybody dies.
Simple. No muss, no fuss.
Afterward, he would return to his satellite truck, drive back to D.C., claim mission accomplished and let the P.R. office worry about the media fallout.
Perched in the second floor window of The Poor House Inn, McCanliss considered killing Donnursk as he walked to the door. But he decided to wait. Killing him at that moment would be too easy. And anything too easy takes all the fun out of it.
The DC-3 pilot who’d taken him for a tour of the Keys and Cuban air space appeared in the open doorway. He was rushing to pull the child away. Crowded behind, McCanliss could see the mother, Eva. Behind her was the main target—Teagarden. He closely watched Donnursk’s right hand. As the left hand gestured to present the flyer, underneath it, the right hand moved for the Glock.
Blam-phfft!
McCanliss intentionally put the first shot in the doorframe, which sent splinters flying, but harmed no one. Donnursk fell backward as the door slammed in his face. He dropped his circular and raced back to his truck, trying to get a fix on where the shot came from. Just for fun, McCanliss fired three more times into the sidewalk and yard ahead of Donnursk’s feet.
Blam-phfft! Blam-phfft! Blam-phfft!
Dirt and concrete kicked up with each bullet.
When Donnursk reached the truck, McCanliss had a quick decision to make. Kill him now, or let him go and kill him later. He decided to split the difference.
Blam-phfft!
He put a .338 Lapua Magnum 8.6x70mm bullet squarely through the instep of Donnursk’s right foot, shattering the metatarsal bones. After falling and writhing in pain, Donnursk managed to rise to one leg and reach for the door of the truck.
Blam-phfft!
This time the bullet slammed one inch from the door handle, sending the message that Donnursk would not be allowed to re-enter the truck cab.
He fell again but crawled to safety behind the truck. He was in agony, but it could have been worse. He’d taken two Adderall tablets during the drive and two more while waiting for Eva Ghent to arrive at the airport. The amphetamine induced a surge of strength and focus that should help him push through until he could get medical care. Its use had plenty of history. Berlin fed amphetamines to the Nazis for six years and the Pentagon fed it to soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan for a decade. It was known to help suppress the natural inclination to just lie down and give up from exhaustion or pain.
Behind the protective cover of the truck’s back end, he caught his breath and wiped his face. This was no police officer shooting at him. It was, of course, McCanliss. And it was equally apparent that the old guy was toying with him. Otherwise, he’d be dead already. The shots to his foot and truck door meant McCanliss was using a finely tuned telescopic sight.
Donnursk choked through the pain of the foot wound. At least it was not a bleeder. He couldn’t see the sniper, but guessed he was probably on the roof of one of the houses to the west. He looked for escape routes. The open street behind him was no option. Neither was getting into the truck and driving off. No point in charging the house where Teagarden and his family were hiding. He could wait for the cops, which should be all of two more minutes, maybe three.
Or…
Chapter Eighty-Eight
McCanliss couldn’t believe his eyes. While “Dunno” Donnursk was hiding behind his truck on one side of the cemetery, he caught new movement and retrained the telescopic sight to the other side.
Rose?! Really?
Of course. How could he have missed it? He should have seen it coming. It was the tenth floor’s strategy for ensuring no more screw-ups, which meant everyone on the tenth floor was scared that a full blown meltdown loomed. If Operation Dear John were to blow open to public view, it had the potential to end with the complete emptying of FBI HQ at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue—furniture, wanted posters, people. Everything. They’d bring in a fumigator to spray every cubicle, then rename it the “New FBI Building” and purchase an ad in the Washington Post to re-staff from top to bottom.
But Thomas Rose? Mr. Good Looking straight from Central Casting? The company stud who didn’t know his Glock from his cock?
Yet there he was.
He emerged from Harry’s own truck on the other side of the cemetery and was stumbling through the tombstones, the visual definition of a fish out of water. The man had no idea where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there. But, by God, he was making the effort.
At that moment, Donnursk made his move. It was a gimpy, mostly one-legged hurdle from behind his truck to the cover of the grave markers. He lunged through the south gate and dove behind the nearest stone mausoleum. It was a double-high concrete chamber, tall enough to hold two coffins stacked one atop the other.
The cemetery wasn’t a great choice, but it was his only option. Among the tombstones, Donnursk hoped to take out McCanliss if he could locate his sniper’s perch. Then, he’d survive until the police arrived and claim he was a civilian bystander until the home office intercepted on his behalf.
The two DFC agents made their moves, unaware they were in the same orbit, hurtling toward each other. Watching it play out, McCanliss grinned. They looked like panicked bunny rabbits: one desperately wounded, the other scared shitless.
“Wow,” he said, “this is fun.”
He hadn’t expected to be so wonderfully entertained on his final mission. He departed his guestroom, leaving the sniper rifle mounted on the tabletop. No one challenged him in the downstairs reception area. Two guests stared out the front window, wondering what all the racket was about. On the street, he cranked Chispa’s ancient taxicab. Slowly cruising clockwise just outside the gate, he watched the gladiatorial action play out among the tombstones in the Old Town Key West Cemetery.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
The gunshots did it. They made him snap awake.
From the truck window, Rose saw Donnursk before Donnursk saw him. He ran from the truck to take advantage of his luck. If this went well, he could kill Donnursk and McCanliss before either of them knew he was on the scene.
Rose stalked the tombstones, Glock in hand, making him think he really could do the macho thing after all.
Circling east to flank Donnursk, Rose scurried across a gravel footpath, sending up a small dust storm in the subtropical heat which he thought looked cool, like a movie scene. He darted from one grave marker to another. Within fifty feet of his target, foolishly, he took a shot that missed.
Startled, Donnursk turned. He was bloody and in agonizing pain, his back pressed against the stone mausoleum, the knee of his good leg pulled to his chest, his wounded leg stretched before him on the stone path. The wound looked like a volcanic eruption below the ankle. It oozed with blood, flesh, bone, and shoe leather.
“Jesus, Rose, is that you? Did you just shoot at me?”
“Afraid so,” Rose answered.
“You asshole, why did you do that?” When Rose did not immediately answer, Donnursk said, “Oh—Watergate?”
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“Afraid so,” Rose said, crouching behind an arching gravestone for cover.
“You using Ice Skater’s truck?”
“Yep.”
“Did you see him?” Donnursk asked.
“Nope.”
No way Rose was going to tell Donnursk that he’d fallen asleep in Ice Skater’s truck after a marathon drive and missed whatever happened before the shots roused him. “Where’s Teagarden?” Rose asked.
“Daughter’s house,” Donnursk said. “Over there near my truck, on Olivia Street.” He nodded in the general direction. “Listen, we can work on this. We can get Teagarden together. Trippler and the tenth floor will be okay with it. As long as the job gets done, they won’t care. It’s Teagarden and McCanliss they want, not me.”
“I know,” Rose said.
“So, what do you say?”
Rose poked his head above his protective tombstone. He looked at Donnursk some twenty-five feet away, his back pressed against the stone mausoleum, his face pouring with sweat, blurring his vision. There was no one else around, nor was there any traffic, except a clunky old taxicab cruising outside the cemetery gate. That’s when sound of the first police siren pierced the air.
“C’mon, Rose, what do you say? The local boy scouts are coming. Help me get back to my truck.”
Rose let his nose rest on top of the gravestone. He looked like the old “Kilroy was here” cartoon. Behind the cover of the rectangular grave marker, he cocked the hammer on his Glock, as four Key West Police Officers arrived in three patrol cars. Unaware that the call they were answering was taking place inside the cemetery gate, they surrounded Donnursk’s truck, guns drawn.
Rose raised his Glock, carefully aimed and fired. Again he missed his target. He even missed the mausoleum. The shot blitzed a bouquet of fresh tulip blossoms on a distant grave. The shattered petals fluttered to the ground like feathers.
Flight of the Fox Page 26