Trigger Warning

by Allan Leverone

  Hell, he would damned near be within sight of Chilcott’s home the entire time.

  He would get to do something at least moderately more interesting than his current assignment, and none of the patrol officers actually on duty would have to waste their time checking out what was almost certainly a false alarm.

  Everybody wins.

  It was simple human nature, and Jack was confident his plan would work. If not, if his assumptions about the police officer sitting in his car a hundred or so feet away were proven wrong, he would implement a second plan: stage a car accident down the street to draw the officer’s attention, something he couldn’t ignore. Then Jack would slip quietly away in the resulting confusion.

  He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. It was too public for his taste and he also hated involving innocent people—or their property—any more than was absolutely necessary.

  But he would do it if he had to.

  ***

  He didn’t.

  Less than two minutes after Jack disconnected the call to the Annapolis Police, the light bar began flashing atop the cruiser parked across the street from the Chilcott home. The car eased away from the curb, executed a slow U-Turn in the wide, empty road, and then rolled down the block. It turned the corner and moved out of sight in the direction of Jack’s box of rocks sitting under the SUV on Elm Street.

  Jack waited with his left hand resting on the door handle. The moment the cruiser disappeared he was up and moving. He picked his briefcase off the passenger seat and stepped into the driving rain.

  He was dressed in a conservative charcoal-grey suit, with a blue tie over a crisp white Oxford shirt. A long black topcoat and fedora shielded him—more or less—from the elements, not to mention from any security cameras that might stand between his rental car and Bradley Chilcott’s home. He double-timed down the sidewalk, more because he knew the officer he’d lured away from his station would be back soon than because he was bothered by the weather.

  The reality was that he was grateful for the heavy rain. No one who happened to glance out their living room window would think it odd to see a grown man hurrying past in these conditions.

  Water splashed his shoes and soaked his socks as avoiding puddles on the sidewalk proved impossible. He reached Chilcott’s walkway and hurried up to the front door.

  He slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves, then removed his lock-pick gun from the pocket of his overcoat and got to work. Thirty seconds later he had picked both door locks and stood inside the open foyer, dripping water onto a beautifully polished hardwood floor.

  He looked to the right of the entrance and saw nothing. Looked immediately left and found what he had known must be here. Built into the wall was a small electronic control panel with a keypad featuring digits numbered one to ten. A speaker in the panel had begun emitting a series of loud beeps, three at a time followed by a one-second break, then three more beeps followed by another short break. A small red LED had begun flashing next to the keypad.

  Jack reached into his pocket and removed the slip of paper he’d taken from Mike Hargus’s wallet back at the Lake Winnipesaukee cottage. On it was written Chil res, followed by a series of five random-looking numbers.

  Jack had deduced immediately what the slip of paper represented. As Bradley Chilcott’s Chief of Security, Hargus had had access to the Chilcott home in the event of an emergency requiring his assistance. The numbers represented the code to disarm the alarm system, but the security officer had been too lazy to memorize it.

  He’d slipped it into his wallet and forgotten about it.

  And now the laziness of a dead man was going to permit Jack to complete his mission. He punched the series of numbers in sequential order into the keypad. Instantly the audible alarm ceased. The red light stopped flashing and instead a green LED next to it began to glow steadily.

  Jack was in. He dropped the alarm code back into his pocket and stood still, facing the interior of the home, taking in his surroundings. The place felt empty. Abandoned.

  He breathed deeply and moved through the house, familiarizing himself with the layout and confirming he was, in fact, alone inside. Then he rummaged around the kitchen until finding a drawer filled with dishtowels. He grabbed one and sopped up the mess he’d made on the foyer floor, then tossed the towel back into the drawer.

  Housework complete, Jack moved to the living room and glanced out the big picture window to see that the space previously occupied by the police sentry remained empty. This was a bit surprising. He’d expected the officer to have cleared the call regarding the suspicious package by now and returned to his previous location.

  The sound of sirens floated through the walls, relatively far away but closing fast. The responding officer must have been concerned enough about Jack’s cardboard box to call in the bomb squad.

  Odd, considering the complainant would have been nowhere to be found. Irrelevant to Jack’s purposes as well. But once those specialized responders arrived on the scene and were briefed, the officer would presumably return to his spot across the street.

  Not that it mattered now. Jack’s diversion had worked like a charm.

  39

  Jack checked his watch.

  It was straight-up noon.

  He guessed he had an hour, give or take, before Bradley Chilcott’s abbreviated workday came to an end.

  Hopefully the lieutenant governor would come straight home after lunch as he had done each of the previous two days and not pick today to cut the ribbon at the opening of a new shopping mall, or give a talk at a junior high school, or rent a motel room and screw an intern.

  There would be no way to know for sure until the man’s car turned into his driveway. In the meantime, Jack had plenty of prep work with which to occupy himself.

  He moved straight to Chilcott’s study. Presumably this was where the target spent the majority of his time, which meant this was where Jack would concentrate the majority of his preparations.

  It was a beautiful workspace; he could understand why Chilcott would want to come home early every day. A massive working fireplace took up most of one wall, while floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the others. The shelves were filled with mostly non-fiction volumes on virtually every conceivable subject of interest to a political pro.

  The portion of the hardwood floor that Jack could see gleamed with a luster every bit as brilliant as the floor in the foyer, but a plush Persian rug covered most of the room. Its deep wine-colored pattern, set against a rich cream background, contrasted nicely with the room’s dark wood tones to create a sense of warmth.

  Jack wondered absently how much the carpet was worth. Probably more than he made in a year, he decided.

  A maple desk occupied one corner of the room, angled to allow Chilcott an unobstructed view of the doorway. On top of the desk sat a telephone, a computer and a Tiffany lamp. A large-screen HDTV had been placed in the opposite corner of the office.

  Next to the door was a small, overstuffed couch. A pair of throw pillows bearing the official seal of the State of Maryland had been placed on it, one inside each armrest.

  It was impressive. Professional but comfortable. Jack assumed this was where Chilcott and Hargus had hatched their plot to use an innocent young girl as leverage to force a political assassination, and he began to become consumed by the smoldering rage he’d felt intermittently since answering Edie’s panicked phone call five days ago.

  He dragged his thoughts away from the kidnapping and forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand. It was critical he remain clear-headed if he expected to finish this thing and get out alive.

  He seated himself at Chilcott’s desk and rifled through the drawers. There were two on the left side, as well as a single narrow drawer located below the desk’s writing surface. The side drawers were wide and deep and contained personal financial statements and similar legal documents.

  It became quickly apparent there was nothing of interest inside them. It wasn’t surpr
ising. The man would have to be a colossal fool to store potentially incriminating evidence in his home office. And whatever else Jack thought of Bradley Chilcott, he didn’t consider the man a fool.

  He turned his attention to the middle drawer. It was locked, which instantly made it the most interesting. Jack thought he had a pretty good idea what he would find when he picked the lock.

  Seconds later he discovered his guess was right on target.

  He chuckled and stood. Walked to the couch, upon which he’d placed his briefcase. Opened the case and removed one item.

  He returned to the desk and in seconds had made a small adjustment to one of the drawer’s contents. Then he slid the drawer closed and relocked it, and continued his search of Bradley Chilcott’s office.

  By the time he’d finished he rechecked his watch. If Chilcott kept to his schedule of the last couple of days, he should be returning home any time now.

  Jack left the office and descended the stairs to the first floor. Moved to the front window and glanced outside. The Annapolis Police cruiser was back across the street, the officer inside maintaining a vigilant, three hundred sixty degree scan of the area.

  The sentry was being very conscientious.

  Jack decided he’d never felt so safe.

  40

  Bradley Chilcott stepped into the foyer and felt a flash of anger at the silence that accompanied his arrival. His fury was immediate and visceral, and unfortunately not unexpected.

  Kim had fucked up.

  Again.

  Goddammit!

  A series of jarring beeps should have filled the first floor the moment he opened the door. Once that happened, Bradley would have thirty seconds to enter the proper code into the alarm panel before a siren would begin wailing, with automatic notification to the Annapolis Police that a break-in was in progress at the Chilcott home.

  It was a quality alarm system. Bradley had paid a lot of money for the installation a few years ago at Mike Hargus’s suggestion. But the fucking thing was useless if you forgot to set it, and his worthless bitch of a wife had overlooked the damned thing again.

  Jesus Christ. And now of all times, with Jack Sheridan running around, doing who knows what, after killing Hargus and rescuing his girlfriend’s kid.

  Granted, Kim knew nothing about the Tolliver kidnapping/Studds assassination scheme, but still, Bradley had stressed time after time how important it was to set the alarm whenever she left the house, and at least a third of the time she forgot to do it.

  She was as scatterbrained as they came. Bitch.

  Thank God for the Annapolis Police officer stationed outside the house. Even without a functional alarm system he knew he had nothing to worry about.

  This time.

  But Kim would still pay for her error; Bradley would make good and goddamned sure of that. Every once in a while the stupid cow needed to be reminded of her place, and that time had clearly arrived again.

  But wait a second.

  Hadn’t Kim left the house before Bradley today? Or was that yesterday? The day before?

  He thought he remembered her shouting up the stairs as he was getting dressed that she was leaving to bring the kids to school and then heading off to whatever charitable foundation she was wasting time at this week.

  He scratched his chin. Shook his head. That must have been yesterday, because he sure as hell would not have walked into the garage without setting the alarm.

  The aspiring presidential candidate walked into the kitchen, still deep in thought, and hung his topcoat over a chair to drip-dry. The rain had been torrential as he left work and walked to his car. The coat would leave a mess all over the floor but Kim could clean it up later.

  He made a mental note to remind her to do it before the beating. Afterward she wouldn’t be moving too well.

  He’d eaten a sandwich before leaving the state house so he wasn’t hungry. He was thirsty, however. Even though it was barely past noon, Bradley strode to the fully stocked bar in the corner of the living room and dropped three ice cubes into a glass. Added three fingers of Chivas. He was tempted to keep going, to fill the goddamned glass to the brim, but it was only one p.m., so he would be a good boy and limit his intake.

  For now.

  He’d always been a heavy drinker, but lately even he knew he’d begun to go off the rails where alcohol was concerned. But knowing something and being able to control his compulsion to keep doing that something were two completely separate and—in his case at least—mostly unrelated issues.

  He promised himself he would get his drinking under control once things got back to normal. But between the stress of planning the Studds assassination and now the added stress of the plan turning to shit, Bradley really needed the positive reinforcement provided by a fuzzy alcohol buzz.

  It was false reinforcement; he knew that, just as he knew he’d been making the same lame promise to slow his drinking for far too long. But now was not the time to deal with either consideration.

  Bradley lifted the glass to his lips and felt the first sip of liquid heaven burn its way down his throat as the ice cubes tinkled musically in the glass. When he was on the campaign trail and people asked whether he believed in God, his stock answer was, “How else do you explain good scotch?”

  The quip never failed to earn a laugh, but Bradley wondered what people would think if they knew he was mostly serious.

  He treated himself to a second sip and then began wandering upstairs to his study. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day, because most of it would be spent sorting through the short list of candidates he’d identified as potential replacements for Mike Hargus as security chief.

  The work would be dry and boring. But it would also ensure the smooth progression of his career. He had to be careful not to saddle himself with a guy who possessed the wrong temperament. He didn’t want to end up facing the same problem he’d just escaped with Hargus: a man too ambitious for his own good.

  He wandered into his study, contemplating the irony of being saved from his Hargus problem by Jack Sheridan, and crossed the room to his desk.

  Bradley Chilcott wasn’t a gun man. Didn’t like them. Didn’t believe in them, even though he had to feign support for the Second Amendment during the election cycle if he wanted to avoid becoming an ex-politician.

  He only owned a gun to protect himself, because everyone knew how unpopular political figures could be, and every once in a while some unhinged moron tried to act on his hatred. But he did own one. He hadn’t practiced much with it, but he’d used it enough to understand the basics of a semi-automatic handgun’s operation.

  Enough to recognize the ch-chunk of exactly that type of gun’s slide being racked behind him.

  He froze.

  Somewhere in the back of his instantly terrified mind, Bradley was proud of himself. He didn’t spill a single drop of his Chivas.

  41

  “A little early for happy hour, don’t you think?”

  Jack held his gun loosely, aimed in the general direction of Bradley Chilcott. He didn’t need the weapon to keep Chilcott in line but wanted to ensure the man’s attention didn’t wander. Jack had faced the business end of a pistol enough times to know the menacing sight would accomplish that goal quite nicely.

  The lieutenant governor looked like a statue. He stood stiffly at his desk facing away from Jack, who was seated on the overstuffed couch next to the door. One State of Maryland pillow flanked him on each side.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Come on, Brad, you must have a pretty good idea. You’re supposed to be a smart guy, who do you think I am?”

  “I prefer to be addressed as Bradley,” he said curtly, as if the pronunciation of his name was his biggest problem. “And I have no clue who you are. What I do know is this: you’re in big trouble. The police are literally right outside my door.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Brad, and I’m very grateful for their presence. That officer park
ed outside should ensure that you and I have the privacy and the uninterrupted time together we need.”

  “We need no time together. Why don’t you just tell me what you want so you can be on your way?”

  “That’s not very hospitable, considering I came all the way from New Hampshire to see you.” Jack smiled as Chilcott’s shoulders slumped.

  “That’s right,” he continued. “New Hampshire. I thought since you and your recently deceased chief of security went to all the trouble of kidnapping an innocent child and threatening her murder just to get my attention, the least I could do is give you some of it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’d better—”

  “Knock it off, Brad. Right now. I mean it.”

  Chilcott’s voice cracked and his jaw snapped shut. The back of his neck flushed brightly, either out of anger or fear. Jack couldn’t tell which and didn’t care.

  Silence fell over the room and Jack allowed it to linger before continuing to speak.

  When he did, his voice was almost a whisper. “We’re far beyond lame denials and claims of innocence. A ‘not guilty’ plea might work in a criminal trial, but you may have noticed there’s no jury here today. I know exactly what you did, and I’m here because of what you did.”

  Chilcott huffed but said nothing.

  “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” Jack said, “so let’s start over. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jack Sheridan.”

  The man’s entire body tensed at the words, although by now they couldn’t have come as any surprise. Even an idiot would have known who was pointing a gun at him from the moment he heard the slide rack.