Gonzales quietly nodded. “Do you think there’s a reason to worry?”
“Worry?” Bud sat in the chair vacated by the speaker. It was still warm. “No. Concern, yes.”
“It’s a hell of a thought, you know,” Gonzales observed. “You know what kind of mayhem there’d be.”
“That’s why there’s an odd man out,” Bud reminded him.
“Still...” The chief of staff was quiet for a moment. “Do you think that’s what these NALF guys are thinking about?”
Bud half-shrugged before answering. “The Bureau thinks they have more nerve gas. And that car they found in the river puts them in the vicinity. They’re here for a reason. And I guess this is a good place to be if you want to do damage.”
Damage. That was a mild way of putting it. How many were dead in Los Angeles? Gonzales thought. The final body count was one thousand eight hundred and twenty-two. That was damage, all right. But killing just a fourth of that number—the right fourth—in this city could mean more than death. It could mean chaos. Or worse. “You know, they may have been right to bring this to us.”
Bud saw Gonzales’s eyes come up to meet his. “It’s not going to happen, Ellis.”
“Neither was Pearl Harbor,” Gonzales said in response.
TWENTY ONE
Give and Take
Montrose Road skirts the southern limits of Rockville, Maryland, running west-east between Interstate 270 and the Rockville Pike. Dr. John Conrad turned his Chevy Suburban east onto Montrose from the interstate in a driving rain, heading for home. That was a brand-new, five thousand-square-foot tri-level done in western red cedar. It wasn’t cheap, but his practice was good. As good as any orthopedic surgeon’s inside the beltway, the perfect place to do his kind of business. Bad backs and bum knees abounded, as did referrals. Tons of those. Enough that he had two associates working for him. Work weeks were four days long now, with Wednesday as a play day in the middle, and weekends sometimes ate up a Friday or a Monday. Usually a Monday. Sundays were just too short.
Life was good, the family was good. About the only thing not good was the damn road that the county never seemed to fix right. As usual the potholes, hidden under a glaze of rainwater, were assaulting his suspension and wearing the tires long before their time. Two letters already, and golf with a honcho from the roads department obviously hadn’t had the desired result. Well, now they’re going to—
The motion his Suburban made this time wasn’t from a pothole. It lurched forward, pressing Conrad against his seat. He looked to the rearview to see a pair of headlights easing back, and a flashing turn signal as the car pulled to the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch!” Conrad swore, hitting his own signal. “The idiot doesn’t know his following distance!” A rear-ender. A moving rear-ender! At least the insurance company couldn’t lay any of this on him...if the fool had insurance. He stopped on the hard shoulder of the road, the idiot doing the same right behind, as a line of cars zipped by. Conrad popped his door and opened the umbrella through the crack, then walked to the rear of his Suburban to go through the rigmarole.
“Hey man, sorry,” Darian said, gesturing embarrassment as rain cascaded off the brim of his baseball cap.
Conrad gave the guy a look, and one for his buddy still in the car, and checked the bumper. “Oh, wonderful.”
Darian bent a bit to survey the damage, pointing with one hand and keeping the other in his coat pocket. To his rear the passenger door of the Volvo opened. That was the signal—no traffic from behind. “Oh, shit, down on the fender, too.”
“Where?” Conrad asked, following the outstretched finger. “I don’t see—”
The leather sap came down hard at the base of Conrad’s skull, but not too hard. Just enough to stun, as Darian had been taught by the brothers in Soledad. The doctor grunted loud and fell to all fours. By then Moises was up with his leader.
“Down!” Darian commanded, stomping on Conrad’s back with his boot and pushing his chest to the ground. “Get his hands.”
Moises put a knee in the small of the doctor’s back and pulled both arms behind. He wrapped a looped cord around the wrists and drew it tight, then wound the remaining length between the arms and tied it off. Next came the feet, and then the mouth, which was gagged by filling it with a wadded-up sock. “Ready.”
Darian looked back. No cars. To the front the large Suburban blocked the view and shrouded their actions. “Let’s go.”
They dragged the doctor to the rear of the Volvo, lifted him into the trunk, and slammed the lid shut. Darian then went back to the Suburban, to its interior, and took the doctor’s briefcase from the passenger seat, making sure to leave no prints for the cops to find. He was back behind the wheel of the Volvo a few seconds later.
“He’s moving around already,” Moises said.
“Don’t matter none.” Darian started the car and backed away from the Suburban, then pulled out onto Montrose and traveled a quarter-mile before there was space to hang a U-turn. They passed the doctor’s car going the other way and were back on the interstate, heading south, a minute after that.
* * *
“Knock knock,” Lou Hidalgo said as he rapped on the metal top of the cubicle walls that enclosed Art’s and Frankie’s work area. Art was the only occupant at the moment.
“Morning, Lou.” Art turned his chair and faced the A-SAC.
Hidalgo scratched at one ear. “I just thought I’d let you know that LAPD is scaling back their look for Barrish. There’s no sign of him or his family.”
“I wasn’t even sure they were that interested,” Art commented with mock wonder.
“Well, his lawyer and the guy paying his rent did get offed the day he and his family disappeared. I guess that makes one wonder.”
“It’s more than that, Lou.” Art was feeling left out, amputated from the investigation that had moved to the East Coast with the NALF.
Hidalgo nodded. “I just thought I’d update you before you leave.”
“Leave? Leave where?”
“You and Frankie are going to Washington to help find the NALF guys,” Hidalgo explained. “To provide a hometown outlook in case it’s needed.”
“When?”
“Christmas day,” Hidalgo answered with apology in his tone. “Sorry about the timing.”
“No problem,” Art lied. Anne was going to love this... No, she would understand. He knew better than to think otherwise.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from this end, but—”
“Don’t be,” Art interjected. “Gotta go with the smart money, and that’s on the NALF.”
“That it is,” Hidalgo concurred.
Art smiled to himself as the A-SAC walked away. Smart money, eh? Despite having said it, Art knew he wouldn’t take the bet.
* * *
Darian shoved the sock back in the doctor’s mouth and closed the trunk of the Volvo, surveying the empty parking lot and the street beyond. He handed the keys from Conrad’s pants pocket to Moises. “You got it all?”
“Got it,” Moises confirmed. “The key with the blue tab opens the back door. The alarm box is inside the door. I press four-four-four-seven, then ‘off to disarm it.”
“And rearm it when you leave,” Darian reminded him.
“Right. The patient files are in the billing office. Red tab key opens that. I pull the file, flip on the copy machine, and copy the page listing orthopedic implements.”
“Check it first against what he said,” Darian said, hitting the trunk lid with a balled fist and saying loudly, “’CAUSE IF HE WAS LYIN’ WE’RE GONNA FUCK UP HIS FAMILY.”
“Got it. Match it first. Then copy it, turn off the machine, put back the file, lock up, and head out...and rearm the alarm.”
“And wear the gloves,” Darian cautioned. “No prints.”
Moises held up the surgical-type gloves. “Got it.”
“Go.”
Darian watched his young fighter run at a brisk clip to the wall that sep
arated the parking lot from the back of Dr. John Conrad’s suite of medical offices. He checked his watch as the Griggs kid rolled over the fence. Nine minutes later Moises reappeared over the wall with the information they needed.
“He told the truth,” Moises said, handing the paper to Darian.
The NALF leader pocketed the photocopy and opened the trunk. “You did good.” He reached in and pulled Conrad up by the hair, then slammed a fist into the side of his head to stun him. As he fell back Darian swung the edge of his hand hard across the doctor’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He grabbed the neck with a strong hand and pressed as the man struggled in vain for air. In two minutes he had passed out. Two minutes later Darian Brown released his grip.
They drove the body twenty miles west of the city and dumped it in a thicket by the road, then drove straight back to Baltimore. There was still much work ahead and it had been a long day. Sleep was the next order of business.
* * *
“Jim,” the president began, hesitating as the secretary of state waited patiently. “Jim, how would you like to be president?”
Secretary of State Jim Coventry smiled at the offer. “When do I start?”
“There’s one little catch, Jim,” Chief of Staff Ellis Gonzales said as his boss took a seat in one of the Oval Office’s wingbacks. “Everybody at the State of the Union has to end up dead.”
Coventry lost interest in the humorous beginning of the conversation. “Wait. Are you... I thought Raleigh McCaw was doing the deed again.”
“We have to make a change,” Gonzales said. “With all the weak knees over these New Africa nuts there’s some concern about Secretary McCaw’s suitability should something happen.”
“You were elected once, Jim,” the president observed. “You’ll put a lot of people at ease come the State of the Union.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” Coventry said. As if there would be any doubt. “But it’s going to raise some questions itself. The press will probably have me resigning by Monday after the address.”
“Let them talk,” the president said. “Besides, you’ll have the best seat in the house.”
“Lay in a bowl of popcorn and make a night of it at home,” Gonzales suggested with a wink.
“Popcorn and a speech,” Coventry commented. “Marie is going to love it.”
“All you have to do is stay alive and run the country, Jim,” the president said. “No big deal.”
The secretary of state nodded and smiled. “This is a good deal easier than campaigning for the job.”
The president snickered. “Tell me about it.”
TWENTY TWO
The Rat Equation
He had come a long, long way, Anne thought, and in a relatively short time. Darren Griggs was strong, and he wanted to be a survivor. But this afternoon, on a day and at a time when 90 percent of the city was lifting glasses of eggnog and similar spirits the Friday before Christmas, the survival instinct in her patient seemed dulled. Sitting in the temporary office some twelve blocks from her normal practice, Anne couldn’t deny that she harbored some melancholy herself.
“A couple minutes left,” Anne said, closing her notebook. “Do you want to tell me?”
“Darren smiled weakly. “I’m not trying to hide anything, Doctor. I’m just not sure it’s important.”
“Whatever it is it’s affecting you. I sense a touch of melancholy? Hmm?”
Darren pulled a postcard from his pocket and handed it to Anne. “It’s from Moises. Addressed to his mother, you can see.” A touch of anger, but that faded quickly. He was coming to understand not only his own emotions and motivations but also those of his absent son.
Anne flipped it over. The front was a picture of the Washington Monument in winter. The back held a simple message: Mom, I’m all right. Don’t worry. Merry Christmas... Moises
“At least we know he’s alive,” Darren said. “The postmark says it was mailed in Baltimore. All the way across the country.” Damn. That was the anger talking again—the anger cursing, Darren corrected himself.
“How did Felicia react?” Anne asked, handing the card back.
“She cried, then wondered why he’s all the way across country. I guess she was also relieved that he’s okay. Or that he says he’s okay.”
“He’s making his own decisions now, Darren,” Anne told her patient.
Bad decisions, Darren thought. “I know.”
There was a place for therapy, and there was a place for humanity, Anne knew. And for hope. “He wrote; maybe he’ll call.”
“Maybe,” Darren allowed. “His mother would like that.”
“Anyone else?”
Darren didn’t nod, didn’t deny it. He didn’t know if he was ready to talk to his son yet. There was one thing he was ready to do, though. He could easily throw his arms around his son and never let him go.
* * *
A stylized eagle done in dirty blue ink stretched across Chester Hart’s abdomen. Above the snarling bird two words stood out in red: White Power. There were other tattoos on the convict’s body. A cobra twisted around his arm, its bared fangs threatening from his bicep. Two impish demons held a buxom woman over a rock as a larger devil-like creature impaled her from behind. Tricolor flames rose from both shoulder blades, each point of fire ending in a silvery dagger. These were all visible, worn like badges of honor and allegiance by a shirtless Hart as he pressed the two hundred pounds off his chest in the exercise yard of California’s Folsom State Prison.
“You’re a fucking fool, Chet,” a barrel-chested white inmate commented. There were only whites around the weight set at this time of the morning. It was their time. The blacks had it after lunch. The Mexicans and any others just before dinner. It was the way of the yard. The law of the jungle.
“Whaaaaaaaat?” Hart asked as the bar shot up.
“You’re gonna freeze your tits off,” the inmate said, laughing. Two other inmates quietly walked away from the weight set. “It’s hardly forty out here.”
“Soooooo!”
Two more slinked back, leaving just Hart pressing and the inmate jawing. Someone had to keep his attention...for a moment.
“Sehhhhhhh-vun!”
Now a new inmate approached, sliding through the wall of white inmates that had formed a loose circle around the scene. A large paper cup was in his right hand. A glowing cigarette was in his left.
“Eighhhhhht!”
The cup holder stopped two paces short of Hart, on the blind side of tower two. Tower three was temporarily empty because of rats. There were ways to know such things, and inmates often did.
“Hart.”
Chester let the bar rest on his well-developed chest and looked to the right. He saw for the first time that no one stood near him. Shit!
The inmate heaved the contents of the cup on Hart, aiming for the face. His aim was off. Most of the strong-smelling liquid splashed on his target’s chest and ran down to the padded weight bench.
“Rats in the tower,” the inmate said. “Rats in the yard.” He smiled and flicked the burning cigarette at Hart. It tumbled through the air and skidded across his chest, igniting the paint thinner.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Hart screamed as a red hot flash washed over his upper body. It was loud, like a train rolling over him, but not loud enough to drown out the laughter. “HELLLLLLLLLP!”
All he got from his AB brethren was more laughter. As guards rushed to him, Chester Hart knew what was happening. He had been marked for death. A contract was out on him, and not just any. He could have been easily shanked with little fuss and he’d be deader than dead. No, this was a contract with a condition: kill with style. It was a message hit, and Hart knew the message all were supposed to receive—informants die a horrible death. It was his new reality now. He’d tried to live on the fence, and this was where it had gotten him...flesh burning, pinned on his back by a weight bar he could not lift. Yes, he had walked in both worlds, one of which had just told him to get lost.
> But Chester Hart, ninth-grade education and all, was not about to surrender to the reality the Brotherhood had chosen for him. He knew this attack would not kill him. There would be a tomorrow. Not a pleasant one, but a tomorrow still. And there was always the other world, a world he knew he had a ticket to enter.
* * *
“Did you like my gift?” Art asked as Anne’s head rose and fell with his breathing.
‘Which one?” she asked.
“You know which one,” Art said. He could feel the bracelet skim the hair on his chest as Anne ran a finger back and forth through what she called his “fur.”
“It’s beautiful.” And it was. The other presents had been nice, and opening them on Christmas Eve with the man she loved had only made it nicer. No: sweeter. “You spoil me, G-Man. This was expensive.”
“And those skis weren’t?” he responded, ending her uninspired protest. It had been a perfect Christmas Eve, and he was determined to make the most of the following morning before he had to jump back into his work mode and hop an American Airlines flight to Washington National Airport. “We should have saved at least one gift for the morning.”
“We’re both bad,” Anne said.
Art ran a hand up her bare back and massaged her shoulder, listening to her breathe. Listening to the silence. The doctor had something on her mind. Art knew what it was. “I haven’t said anything, but thank you for not asking about Chicago.” Art felt her breathing change, becoming more relaxed.
“I know it’s been on your mind,” Anne admitted. “Have you made any decisions?”
“No. I didn’t really think I’d consider it seriously, but... I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Your old stomping grounds,” Anne observed.
“It gets cold,” Art remembered. Weather isn’t everything, Arthur. “And it’s a long way from here.”
Anne shifted position a bit, bringing her face closer to Art’s cheek. “Chas Ohlmeyer runs the human relations department at the University of Chicago.”
“Your old classmate,” Art said. He was surprised at her lack of subtlety. She was saying so much in a very few words, and he loved her more for it.
Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) Page 25