Walk on the Wild Side

by Bob Mayer

  Thao spoke up. “You said Yazzie wants you to call the number when you get to Escalante but that he won’t be answering it. I do not believe he will meet you in town. Crawford will want to avoid, what is it you call it in your westerns, a showdown?, in the middle of town. I suspect Crawford and Yazzie will want to meet you either at the site of the accident or Hole in the Rock. More likely the former.”

  “Why?” Kane asked.

  “It would be symbolic,” Thao said. “It is where his first son died.”

  “Damn Thao,” Merrick said, “I wish I had you on my team. I need someone who can think.”

  Kinsman made an observation. “It would be completing a circle. That is a theme in the People’s lore.”

  “This line of cliffs is huge,” Kane noted. “What’s the story on that?”

  Everyone turned as the Gansevoort Street door opened and Truvey came in, her large purse over her shoulder. She paused seeing the men gathered round the table.

  “Am I interrupting something?” she asked.

  “Come on in,” Kane said. He introduced her to Plaikos, Merrick and Kinsman. She excused herself and headed to the rear to take the ladder to the roof. The only sound after she left for a few seconds was Pope looking through his notes.

  “Those cliffs are part of the Grand Escalante Staircase,” Pope finally said. “Some geologist viewed this escarpment, the cliffs, as the last part of a massive staircase that starts in the Grand Canyon and flows northeast from there.”

  “He wants me on his turf,” Kane said, “out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “My turf, too,” Kinsman said. He tapped the open page of the atlas. “The Four Corners are Navajo land. It looks empty to outsiders but there is much there for those who know its way. We’ve lived there for generations.”

  Thao spoke: “They’ll be waiting for you, Dai Yu.”

  “No shit,” Merrick said. “The fields of fire are against you in that desert. Little vegetation. You can see for miles.”

  “The terrain is deceptive,” Kinsman disagreed. “It’s very broken. Difficult to move across, but one can stay hidden if they are careful.”

  “They won’t shoot,” Kane said. “It will be knife on knife. Plus, he wants the ledger.”

  Merrick rolled his eyes. “You’ve offed three of these fuckers, Will. They might be putting aside the honor thing and going for terminal effect.”

  “As I mentioned,” Kinsman said. “That code is artificial. Something Crawford installed.”

  “Don’t go.”

  Kane turned to Merrick in surprise. “What?”

  “Why do you have to go?” Merrick asked. “Toni got herself into this. You told me your connection with her brother when we first met in ‘Nam. I’ve never met her. If she was so freaking important, how come? Hell, Will, you took off for five years and no one knew where you were. She didn’t know where you were, did she?”

  “Hey!” Kane snapped. “I had to—” but he couldn’t find words because the reason was amorphous now when it had seemed so clear right after Joe died. “No. She didn’t.”

  “If you don’t go out there,” Merrick said, “what is this Yazzie guy going to do? Kill her? If he wants this ledger so badly, he’ll eventually have to come to you.”

  “They’ll hurt her,” Kane said. “I’ve got to go.” He held up a hand. “Hold on, everyone, okay? Here’s the deal. I wasn’t there when Toni needed me. It cost her.” He jerked his thumb indicating the way to the back and the ladder to the roof. “Then there’s Truvey. They attempted to kill her and they’ll try again.”

  “All right, then,” Merrick said. “We all go together. We can take these guys.”

  “No,” Kane said.

  Merrick slammed a palm on the table. “It’s their game. Their code. Don’t play it.”

  “I’m not playing,” Kane said.

  “Is this some bullshit honor thing?” Merrick asked.

  Kane looked at his old friend. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “You will need a guide,” Kinsman said. “I will show you the way.” As Kane opened his mouth to object, Kinsman held up a hand to forestall his words. “I am dying. Stomach cancer. They’ve given me only a few months. I want to die in the People’s land.” He smiled sadly. “The most alive I ever felt was in combat. I would like to experience that again before the end.”

  14

  Friday Night,

  12 August 1977

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY,

  FORT MEADE MARYLAND

  The old woman sitting behind the desk didn’t man a typewriter or take steno. She had a Thompson submachinegun in an umbrella bucket to her right, not visible to visitors, and a Colt .45, government issue, in the top right drawer which was open. Kane would have approved because there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off. A paperback pulp romance was on the desk; Kane wouldn’t have approved because it was face down, spine bent.

  Mrs. Rodier was open for business. The corridor was narrow and long and the only doors were the one behind her and the doors thirty feet in front of her. She could empty the stack magazine (the drums tended to jam and were for amateurs and movies) before anyone made it eight feet off the elevator. Then it would be a question of whether to reload the sub or use the forty-five; if anyone were still left to shoot at after that initial barrage. The walls, painted drab gray like many government buildings, were, unlike most government buildings, composed of one-inch steel plating, scavenged from a decommissioned World War II warship which Mrs. Rodier thought appropriate. She believed, given the angles, that any rounds she fired wide would ricochet off and add to the carnage, except she very much doubted she would fire wide.

  She’d never fired wide in the past when shooting Nazis.

  The far doors were actually an elevator and to get on it one had to first get onto Fort Meade, then into the Headquarters Building for the National Security Agency. Both of those tasks were sequentially higher security bars. Mrs. Rodier was the highest.

  Technically, this lowest level of the Headquarters Building didn’t exist and it wasn’t part of the NSA. The location was convenient though, because this floor had access to everything that went through all the floors above, which meant all signals intelligence the United States of America collected.

  As a red light blinked above the far door, she retrieved the Thompson, made sure it was ready to fire, put it to her shoulder, and aimed. Her finger curled over the trigger. The guest had been announced and cleared by security, four floors above, at ground level, but she didn’t trust the security four floors above. She didn’t trust anyone, except the man behind the door to her rear, whose life she had sworn to defend with her own.

  The doors opened and the woman she’d been told was coming, and whom she’d met several times before, was the sole occupant. Mrs. Rodier did not remove her finger from the trigger.

  “Step out of the elevator, please,” she called out, her French accent softening the command.

  Caitlyn did so. The doors shut behind her. Mrs. Rodier waited until the red light went out, indicating the elevator was back at ground level. She dared take a glance at a small black and white TV face up on the floor next to the umbrella stand. The harshly lit elevator shaft was empty; no one hiding in it. The muzzle of the Thompson never wavered. Her eyes aligned along the barrel. “Walk on the white line, stop at the red.”

  Caitlyn toed the line and halted halfway to the desk.

  “Your pistol and any electronic devices and your purse in the alcove to your right.” Security had already informed her that Caitlyn had gone through the metal detectors and what weapon she carried.

  Caitlyn deposited her purse and a pistol from inside a hidden pocket in her knee length dress on the narrow shelf.

  “Come forward along the white line and stop at the green,” Mrs. Rodier said.

  Caitlyn did so and Mrs. Rodier took her finger off the trigger and returned the Thompson to its makeshift scabbard behind the desk.

  “The MP-5 is ge
tting high marks with the Secret Service,” Caitlyn said. “It’s lighter and—”

  Mrs. Rodier would have none of it. “The Secret Service are the last I would go to for advice about weapons. The Secret Service killed Kennedy.”

  “He did die under their watch—” Caitlyn began.

  Mrs. Rodier cut her off again with a nod toward the door behind her. “Ask Nero about it. Perhaps he’ll tell you what really happened and why I will not trust their judgment regarding firearms.” Her demeanor completely changed though and she smiled. “It is good to see you again, my darling. You are, as always, too thin. You need to eat more. Come, give me a kiss.”

  Caitlyn walked around the desk. Mrs. Rodier did not get up because she couldn’t. Both legs were gone just above the knees and she was strapped to a wheelchair. She wore a colorful dress that hung over the front edge of the chair. Her lips were bright red and her cheeks lightly rouged. Not many women could pull off the look and appear classy but Mrs. Rodier was the personification of class. Caitlyn leaned over and kissed the older woman on one cheek, then the other.

  “Oh, cheri, mon Dieu!” Mrs. Rodier exclaimed, taking one of Caitlyn’s hand in hers. “Your nails are abysmal! One must take care of the hands.” She held up hers as an example. The nails glittered and were perfectly manicured. While she admired the nails, Caitlyn couldn’t help but notice the deep, badly healed scars carved into the flesh on the palm side.

  “I like the perfume,” Caitlyn said.

  “I have it brought over in a diplomatic pouch from Paris,” Mrs. Rodier admitted. “Nero allows me that luxury.”

  “Kind of him.”

  “Besides,” Mrs. Rodier said, going back to the topic, “I’m used to the Thompson. There is something to be said for familiarity. He’s waiting for you.” She pressed a button under her desk, the red one, not the green one, because the green one would set off Claymores secreted in the ceiling along the entire corridor and turn everyone, including Mrs. Rodier, into shredded meat and Caitlyn had zero doubt that if she needed to, Mrs. Rodier would hit that button.

  The large metal door slowly swung open on hydraulic hinges, indicating it was worthy of a bank vault. Darkness beckoned.

  Mrs. Rodier opened a drawer and took out a small green chem light. She snapped it and gave it a shake to activate the illumination. “Here you are, cheri.”

  Caitlyn held it in front of her as she entered Nero’s office. The door swung behind her and shut with a solid thud. She could hear the bolts sliding into place. She stood in a small sphere of green light emanating from the glow stick. There were no other lights visible.

  A wood match scratched and light flickered on the far side of a large desk. A pale face was illuminated in that brief moment. The empty and scarred eye sockets explained the darkness. A cigarette was lit, the match was snuffed out and a red dot indicated the man’s position.

  “Do you smoke?” Nero asked.

  “When necessary for cover,” Caitlyn said.

  “But not for its own sake?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is your vice, then?”

  “I’m sure you know it, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Nero inhaled, the glow brighter, then exhaled. “Have a seat. Your eyes are adjusting, are they not?”

  He was correct. There was a chair facing his desk. She sat down, the glowstick in her lap. She cupped it so that it was mostly dimmed, so her eyes could adapt further.

  “Mrs. Rodier always enjoys seeing you,” Nero said.

  “Her perfume is wonderful.”

  “I remember it from the war,” Nero said. “We almost died because of it. We were crammed together in a hide spot on a farm truck. I could smell it and am amazed the Germans searching the truck didn’t.” He gave a rasping chuckle. “Of course, we were buried beneath a pile of manure, so perhaps that masked it.”

  “I made a suggestion about switching out the Thompson for something more modern that the Secret Service has brought into action and she told me to ask you about the Secret Service and Kennedy. She said they killed Kennedy.”

  “She did?” A long silence ensued as if Nero were contemplating something. “I have always trusted Mrs. Rodier’s instincts with people. They are better than my own. There are three levels to what she told you. Naturally, the Secret Service was responsible for his security and failed. That is obvious to all. But the second is that she told you this because you mentioned weapons. In 1963 the Secret Service began fielding the AR-15, even before the Army.

  “In Dallas, an agent in the trail car, inexperienced, and who should not have been there, but they were shorthanded after excessive partying the previous evening by more senior agents, at a strip club owned by Jack Ruby--” He paused. “Who is to say there is not some sort of demonic connection between things? But Jack Ruby is another story. Regardless, this young agent was pressed into a position that was not his normal slot and handed a weapon with which he was not familiar. I believe his actual job to that point had been cleaning and polishing the limousines. The sort of thing always assigned to the man lowest on the totem pole.”

  A red glow. Exhale. Sigh. “So many conspiracy theories about a second shooter. And there was. The third round, the head shot, came from that weapon at the hands of the Secret Service in the form of this young, inexperienced agent. In the larger scheme of things, it made no difference. Kennedy was already fatally wounded by the first shot which hit him in the upper back, went through his neck and spine and exited his throat. Do you know he was wearing a metal brace that prohibited him from ducking? If he hadn’t had that brace on, he would have been knocked forward and that ugly head shot would have never occurred although he would still have died. Blowing a bit of his head off was rather unnecessary, don’t you think?”

  “The Secret Service shot him?”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple, my dear girl. The first shot was fired by Oswald. The Secret Service in the trail car react hearing that. The driver accelerates just as our poor agent stands with his finger on the trigger of a firearm he isn’t used to. Safety off. Round in the chamber. Accidental discharge. Terrible, tragic luck the bullet finds such a small target of all the places it could have gone.

  “Highly classified, all that, known only by a handful. Jackie insisted on secrecy in order to not diminish the death of her husband with a terrible scandal that would serve no purpose. Afterwards, Johnson insisted the Secret Service never get behind him, which was rather silly. All references to that footnote to history were erased so thoroughly to the point of the official autopsy being altered. The Secret Service made sure they got the body out of Texas fast and back to DC where damage control was easier.” The red dot glowed.

  “The world will never know after the handful who do know pass on from this world since all documentation was destroyed. Theorists will always try to logically solve what cannot be solved with a coherent theory unless one looks at the obvious and accepts it. Any decent crime scene investigator could solve it, but the evidence has been buried so it will remain an enigma. Even the papers that can be released after fifty years and we are all dispersed to dust, will have no record of what really happened.”

  Nero fell silent. Caitlyn was aware of the sound of air being forced out of the vents and circulating in the room.

  “The third level?” she asked.

  “Tell me,” Nero ordered.

  Caitlyn picked her words carefully. “Mrs. Rodier did not make that comment idly. She did not tell me to ask you idly. She does nothing by chance or off the cuff.”

  “That is true. A most serious woman.” He chuckled once more, perhaps remembering a time when she wasn’t so serious and he experienced another side of her.

  “It’s a test of trust to give me this information,” Caitlyn surmised. “Because now I know.”

  “Ah, my dear girl. You passed all your tests long ago or else you would not be in this room with me. Despite Mrs. Rodier’s precautions, certainly, if you desired, you can kill me with your bare hands before she co
uld open that large door and get in here.”

  “It’s a statement of trust,” Caitlyn amended.

  “Very good,” Nero said. “An affirmation. Besides, there’s nothing you could do with that tidbit of history anyway, nor would anyone believe you. Nevertheless, you have a truth of history known only to a handful. How does that make you feel?”

  “It makes me wonder why you gave it to me,” Caitlyn said. “Beyond the affirmation.”

  Nero rasped a chuckle once more. “I am so glad we found you.” He coughed for several seconds.

  “Chaos,” Caitlyn decided, when he was done. “No matter how much we plan, how well trained and prepared we are, there is always an element of chaos.”

  “Indeed,” Nero said. “Chaos. Chance. Coincidence. The head shot. Jack Ruby. The back brace. I’ve had to accept over the years how much random chance influences our world.”

  His scarred face was visible in a red glow as he inhaled, then disappeared. There was a two-inch wide strip of paper on his desk, coming from one side and disappearing to the other. Like an old stock market ticker, except this was clear of printed writing. The surface was beveled with Braille. It was an unending stream from analysts above who had no idea who was getting what they distilled into the computer system. On the receiving side of the desk, it was spooled in a waiting pile. A larger pile he’d already processed with his fingers was accumulated in a burn bin on the other side.

  He was sliding it through his fingers, not as fast as normal, but still ‘reading’ while he talked with Caitlyn. He paused his hands and indicated a thick brown folder. It was stuffed with Braille copies of the printed material of the original. “This man. William Kane. He seems to be chaos personified. As if Pandora opened her box and he sprang forth, fully formed. Like Kennedy’s assassination there are a number of remarkable coincidences involved.” He slid the strip of paper through his fingers.