by Caleb Carr
“It’s not just amateurs who use them, though, is it, Mitch?” I said, trying to focus harder. “You know as well as I do that a lot of snipers love ballistic tips. The bigger the mess they make of a suicide bomber or a guy laying an IED, so much the better, and I have no problem with that. What I don’t like is this: you’ve got somebody on the loose and apparently unpursued, until now, and he’s at least proficient, maybe even good, with a police-issue suppressed weapon.” Mitch’s face grew pained as we reached the soccer pitch and he struggled with the idea: it was one thing to concede the hasty error of a fellow officer, such as had (supposedly) occurred at Fraser; it was entirely another to admit that someone in law enforcement might have been responsible for the calculated stalking and shooting of an FIC tech. “Come on, Mitch,” I insisted fervently, as we moved back through the now eerily innocent halls of the school to lay Curtis’ body out in, of all places, a science lab, until Ernest Weaver arrived. “Gracie Chang visits us, and she gets run off the road. Curtis Kolmback is seen doing nothing more than talking to us, and he ends up dead—how long before somebody decides that even a troop commander in the Staties is expendable?”
I’d finally succeeded in stunning my old friend, and he plainly wanted to answer me quickly—but the burden (and chance) of doing so was suddenly taken from him: “Just what in the fuck happened up there?” It was a new voice; and as we turned around, a figure slid off of one of the laboratory countertops farthest from us, where he’d been seated: Frank Mangold. He strolled over to Curtis’ body, actually looking somewhat remorseful. “So,” he said quietly. “I guess you two doctors got a better idea, now, of what it’s like when you try to play on too many sides.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Frank?” Mitch said.
“Come on, McCarron—these two haven’t been dealing with us straight from the start. I don’t know just what it is, but there’s something going on here that I don’t know about. And after this?” He indicated Curtis’ body. “You can be damned sure I’m going to figure it out.”
It was bizarre, even more bizarre than Mangold’s behavior in Albany had been. “Mitch,” I eventually said, shaking my head to clear it of Mangold’s insanity, “this isn’t serving any purpose. We’ve told you all we can about Curtis’ disappearance: that he was God damned scared because Frank, here, was looking for him—I assume you don’t deny that, Frank?”
“No, I don’t deny it,” Mangold answered, those piercing eyes going wide. “I was looking for him to confirm that you people were working to cover up what was actually happening in this case.”
“Yeah, fine,” I said. “You take that statement for what it’s worth, Mitch—but the fact is, you two need to have a serious conversation with the ADA, and Dr. Li and I shouldn’t be part of it. What you needed from us, you’ve got: a professional sniper using ballistic-tipped .308 bullets killed Kolmback, after it became apparent that he was having a hard time toeing the party line.”
“And what line was that?” Yet again, Mangold’s confusion seemed utterly genuine.
Nevertheless, it made Mike explode impatiently: “That’s your fucking job, Frank! How should we know what the party line is! We were brought in by Steve and Pete, to give some advice; and then we were hired by the Kurtzes to represent them in the Franco boy’s disappearance—and that’s it.”
Mangold was about to answer, but Mitch stepped in. “Frank,” he warned simply; and the sincerity of his tone—combined, of course, with his size—was enough to make Mangold show his palms and back off. “Okay, boys,” Mitch went on. “If you’re telling me that all you heard Curtis say was that he was afraid of getting questioned by Frank, then we’ll leave it at that. I’ve never had reason to doubt you before. Come on—I’ll make sure you get out okay.”
We didn’t really need Mitch’s escort on our way out of the school, but it was a chance to discuss one more thing with him out of Mangold’s hearing: the fact that Curtis had been the tech present at all five of the throwaway death scenes.
“You think you’re surprising me, there?” Mitch said. “I’d noticed it; and also noticed, for a while, that the guy was carrying something heavier than he could handle, which only started with the fact that he was on all five scenes. But I think it was more than that—way more…”
“Yes, it was,” I replied. “And trust me, Mitch, when he broke for the woods, we were doing our best to try to get him to at least tell you the truth, and protect himself. But he’d gone too far down whatever road he was on, and his inner conflict was simply too severe.”
“Goddamn it,” Mitch said quietly. “I hoped we might get out of this year with nothing more than that scandal at the FIC lab. But this…this is something much bigger. Obviously.”
“I’m afraid so.” We reached the front doors of the school and pushed on out into the night. “But it’s this insane talk of Mangold’s that bothers me the most,” I went on. “You must know, Mitch, that Mike and I aren’t involved in any secret plot to lead the investigation in the wrong direction.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mitch answered quickly, with a certain nod. “And Frank’s probably just talking out of his ass—he’s frustrated, not that we all aren’t.”
“And his little rat’s cage of a brain naturally turns to the kinds of things he’s done,” Mike tossed in. “When he was down in the city, along with up here. But what amazes me—what I guess amazes us both—is that he really doesn’t seem to be involved in this bizarre scheme he’s imagining.”
“Don’t be so quick to believe that,” Mitch answered. “I’ve known Frank a long time: the guy could perfectly well be faking, just to cover his tracks and make sure that you two don’t suspect—oh, shit, here they come…”
Emerging from a nearby, unmarked sedan with state plates were Cathy Donovan and Nancy Grimes. They moved toward us, creating their usual impressions: Donovan the handsome, well-dressed hit-woman of county government, Grimes in a lab coat and, on this night, holding up an outstretched hand that was apparently intended as a serious warning to us to halt our progress, but which came off, characteristically, as more comical than intimidating. But we couldn’t afford to be dismissive: Donovan was striding with an even greater air of deadly earnest and inscrutability than usual, in the face of which even Mitch halted and, after removing his Stetson, inclined his head.
“Director,” he said. “Ms. Donovan. I’m assuming you know everything, by now.”
“Indeed,” Cathy Donovan said, smiling just perceptibly. “And were these two of any help?”
“They were,” Mitch answered. “And put themselves in harm’s way to do it. But they’ve confirmed what you must have heard: a long-distance .308 round with a ballistic tip. A kill shot. Curtis had been marked down in somebody’s book, and probably a long time before he ran off.”
Grimes appeared ready to launch into one of her bumptious indictments of Mike’s and my participation in the case, but Cathy Donovan anticipated her colleague’s intention and laid a slow, silencing hand on Grimes’ wrist. “All right, Mitch,” she said, with a slight smile that might even have passed for alluring, under other circumstances. “If you say that the good doctors had nothing to do with the cause of Curtis’ breakdown, that’s good enough for me—and that is what you’re saying?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mitch answered, with another inclination of his head. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“And you’d stake your reputation on that?” Nancy Grimes added, gratuitously.
“I don’t know that anybody’s asking me to do that,” Mitch said to her, with a good deal less deference. “But yeah, if asked, I’d stake my reputation on it—Director.”
Cathy Donovan’s smile only got wider, which was not a good sign. “Nobody’s asking you to stake anything on anybody,” she said, still with that brilliant self-control and impenetrability. “We know Curtis was murdered, and we thank the good doctors for telling us a little more about how.”
Mitch replaced his Stetson, while Mike and I eac
h mumbled, “Good night, then,” vaguely; and we all started back toward the Empress. But I knew that it had all been far too simple, and was therefore unsurprised to hear Donovan’s voice call to me again:
“By the way, Dr. Jones—I understand things are going well with your protection of the Kurtz family. Or rather, what’s left of them.”
We stopped, half-turning back toward them, each of us surprised at the topic; but in Donovan’s eyes, I already detected far too much awareness. “They are,” I said, trying to sound sure of myself. “Far better than if we’d left them to that pack of media jackals at their house.”
Donovan’s head tilted judiciously. “Oh, of course. No one questions the—nobility of the move…” Then the coyness suddenly became tinged with an air of threat: “And if your protection bleeds over into something a bit more romantic in nature, well, who could blame either of you? She’s a very pretty girl, after all, and you’ve both faced—challenges. There must be a great deal of mutual understanding between you.”
Every drop of blood in me began to boil; and for the first time since I’d known Cathy Donovan, I could see by the expression on her face that she realized she might have gone too far. Whatever expression was on mine as I involuntarily began to move toward them, even Nancy Grimes lost her stupid, smug smile, as she took a half-step backward. “I’m sure I misunderstand you, Assistant District Attorney,” I said, with quiet viciousness. “Otherwise, it could sound like you’d sent someone to trespass on Shiloh without a warrant—a serious offense, one that I’m sure your boss would be interested in.”
But Donovan regained her composure in a quick, even remarkable, instant: “There’s been no trespassing. Only gossip. People do gossip, you know, Dr. Jones. How does it get started? Who ever knows. But it’s out there. So just consider this a gentle reminder about the kind of ethics that, I’m sure, your bosses at SUNY would be interested in hearing about.”
She had me checkmated; and all I could do was very quickly ask, “Are we done here?”
“By all means, Doctor,” she answered. “You gentlemen have a good night, now.”
Mike and I turned to make straight for the car, while Mitch exchanged a few more words with the two women before joining us. By the time he did, Mike had the car started and I was lowering myself into my seat. “What the hell was that all about?” Mitch asked in a hushed voice.
“You heard her, Mitch,” I said evasively. “Gossip. She’s trying to make us believe that she’s put the squeeze on one of the hands up at the farm, or some such crap. If she had anything else, trust me, she would have used it.”
“Come on, Trajan,” Mitch said urgently. “Gossip? I thought we were done hiding things. If it’s none of my business, fine, but if I need to know about it, if only to protect you—”
“It’s nothing, Mitch,” I said, finally in the car and speaking out the window. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. And, just to prove my point—Mike and I are going to be leaving soon, to collect some information downstate that may help lead us all to whoever’s at the root of this case. If I was enjoying some high romance on Shiloh, would I take off like that?”
Mitch pondered the question. “The girl’s not going with you?”
“Absolutely not. The kid, Lucas, is; and that should give you a hint about our plans. But I really can’t go into it any further, and I have to ask you to keep even that much to yourself. Though you’d be doing me a favor if you’d occasionally drop in on Clarissa and Ambyr while we’re gone. Maybe assign their cousin Caitlin to patrol in Surrender, too.”
That got a dubious smile from the head of Troop G. “Pete Steinbrecher’s not the only one who knows just what your aunt thinks of cops, Trajan.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be asking Pete and Steve to perform the same duty,” I answered, as Mike began to back the car away from the collection of official vehicles. “And I’ll get Clarissa on board with the idea—somehow.”
“Okay, but—” Mitch walked with us a few steps as we moved forward toward the exit lane of the school’s parking lot. “Just as long as you know that I know you’re not telling me everything…”
I simply smiled and shrugged back at him. We rolled slowly to the parking lot’s exit lane, soon passing the Special Operations Response officer who was posted there. All done up in his black riot gear, the man could barely give us a small salute as we passed, while also being sure to keep his AR-15 at the ready. Mike lost no time in putting the school several miles behind us, then let out a burst of air that sounded as though he’d been holding it in since our departure.
“Holy fucking shit, Trajan. I don’t even know where to start with all that.”
“We can’t,” I answered, trying to get my own feelings under control. “Not yet…” As we pulled into Surrender, I looked up at the statue of Colonel Jones with a new sense of dread. “We have to consolidate all we now know, and that’s going to take particular single-mindedness.”
“But who is this sniper working for?” Mike almost shrieked, as we pulled onto Death’s Head Hollow. “All we know for sure, now, is that this shit is even more tangled than we thought—I mean, fuck the scorecard, we can’t even tell which players are wearing what uniforms. I hate to say it, but—what you told Mitch back there, about the trip to New York. Right now, it really is the only way we’re even going to begin to clear any of this mess up.”
“Yes,” I said, mulling it. “And we’re not even fully prepared for that. Not yet. We have a couple of days to try to gain some clarity, before the Augustines get back. We need to put that time to use. We need a fresh perspective—but from where? Damn it, there must be—wait a minute.” I considered one aspect of the ordeal we’d just been through, one which my rage had prevented me from seeing: “What Donovan just insinuated, about Ambyr and me. Mangold—he didn’t know about it. If he had, he certainly would have been the first to try to get a rise out of me.”
“True,” Mike answered. “But remember what Mitch said about him being a consummate bullshitter. Anyway, so he wasn’t the first to score points, so what?”
“So what? Mike—we’ve got a fucking sniper wandering these hills, one we’ve been speculating works for the BCI; yet Frank Mangold may know nothing about it? Or about the information that that agent has been collecting by maintaining surveillance over Shiloh, even over Ambyr and me?”
Mike nodded once or twice; then, as he got my meaning, his mouth fell open. “Hang on. You do realize what you’re talking about, right? About senior members of the BCI maybe being kept in the dark, while junior officers are made use of. And the only way that happens—”
“The only way that happens,” I finished for him, “is with very senior authorization. This is no plot hatched by Donovan and Grimes—that’s why they’ve never looked even a little worried, it’s not on them. It can only come from someplace higher, and no, not from the DA, before you suggest that. The BCI is a state organization, Mike; you want to screw around with that chain of command, you have to have serious weight behind you. The kind of weight that—”
“The kind of weight that Indian Bill was talking about. That savage son of a bitch was right—this is bigger than we ever have known. Fuck…L.T., I’m not so sure we can get into bringing down a governor, much less tangling with—”
“Easy, easy…” I let silence return inside the car for a moment, hoping it might bring calm, as well. “It’s not going to come to that. Our concern is this case, that’s all; so we stay on course. Our planning has been thorough: everything that we’ve proposed so far fits the context of the Augustine couple, and the possibility that they may in turn lead us to others like them is also sound. We just have to execute our next moves correctly, and fill in a few details. Right now, like I say, it’s just our perspective that’s hazy; we’ve reached that point in every case where we need something, something to provide us with another viewpoint, maybe a little distance—” And then, all in a rush, a feeling so terrible that I could feel it draining the blood from my face cons
umed me.
Mike saw it right away, and quickly asked: “L.T.? What happened, your hip again? You wanna finally hit the damned hospital, like I’ve been telling you to do?”
I had felt a wave of pain, all right, but I dared not explain its nature or extent, not even to Mike; not yet. “No,” I soon whispered, trying to master the storm inside me before my partner could guess the true nature of what had happened. The image of the house at Shiloh had finally come into view, and it betrayed no signs of alarm or tragedy; and there was both reassurance and awful confirmation in that fact. “No, I’m okay, Mike. Just—a twinge, there, for a minute. It’s fading. Let’s get back; there are things that I—that we need to do…”
I was lying to him, of course, something that broke the investigator’s code and for which I despised myself; yet I knew that I would have to dissemble even more blatantly, in the hours before we left for New York City—in the hours, that is, that it would take to make me absolutely sure of the notions that had finally caused me such pain in the car…
{iii.}
Upon making sure that all was well within the house—that everyone was sleeping soundly and had not met with the kind of ugly fate that had befallen Curtis Kolmback—I made my way not to my room but to Marcianna’s enclosure, consumed all the while by the thought that at any point the phantom who had been behind first the bloodshed and near-tragedy up on the mountain the night we visited the charcoal kilns, then Gracie Chang’s wreck, and finally Curtis’ murder, might now be stalking my alter ego. This fear largely faded when I saw Marcianna come bounding to the gate after I called her; and I realized that, if the creature roaming our stretch of the Taconic range had intended to kill her as a way of warning us (and specifically me) off the throwaways case, he likely would have done so already; and so I considered her, at least for now, safe.