The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  Still holding the pistol, she clambered over into the rear seat, rolling down the back window on the driver’s side.

  “Let him come up next time!” she shouted.

  “Are you going to shoot?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you know how?”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t kill him.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  The road was following the course of a small stream, the curves frequent. He was driving right at the edge of control.

  There were two more shots. Showers prayed Bonning wasn’t firing into the trailer. There was another shot, the bullet smacking into a front fender. Then the driver of the pickup gunned it into top speed.

  “He’s coming!” Showers shouted.

  May held the pistol with both hands, aiming the barrel slightly down. He was overwhelmed by her. Lenore would be down on the floor, cowering, where May should be right now.

  He’d put his army automatic under the seat, but there was no way of reaching it now without slowing.

  Showers caught a glimpse of the pickup’s dark fender in the corner of his eye. Then May fired; the noise, just behind his ears, nearly deafened him. She fired two times more, aiming at the pickup’s right front wheel. Showers saw sparks, and then the hubcap spun off.

  Another shot. There was a puff of dust and a loud bang. The tire exploded in tatters, and the pickup swerved violently, its side smashing against the back of the Blazer. The driver over-corrected, and suddenly the pickup went into a spin, sliding backward off the road. Showers saw a fencepost flying into the air. He fought to keep the Blazer under control.

  In the side mirror, he saw the Mercedes skid around the pickup, sway back and forth a moment, then come on straight and true. It was very fast.

  They flew over a small rise, then into a right-hand curve. At its end, the road switched to the left. Ahead was a narrow bridge. Just beyond it, a dirt side road cut off to the right. It was a turn he would have wanted to make from a near stop.

  Showers had driven army Jeeps and Hummers at speed over open country enough to know the feel of what he was attempting. As they thumped over the rattling bridge, he hit the brakes sharply once, making the trailer shift out to the side, letting the skid make the turn for him. As soon as the front wheels hit the bumpy surface of the dirt road, he jerked the wheel to the left to get out of the skid, then straightened and gunned the engine, regaining stability. As they roared toward a sudden curve, he pulled on the Blazer’s four-wheel drive.

  There was a scraping sound, but the gears caught, the tires digging. The Mercedes was at a disadvantage now. He saw it bouncing wildly through his dust trail. The road began to climb. It hadn’t been graded recently, and there were large potholes everywhere ahead, shallow gullies running among them, cutting across the rocky, dusty surface.

  He was running between thirty and forty miles an hour over this roughness, bouncing crazily, but pulling ahead. At this rate, the Mercedes might break an axle, but the trouble was that Showers didn’t know where the road went. It might just abruptly end in some hollow, or at a cliff.

  The Blazer bounded from a pothole, skittering left and bouncing again. He saw May hit her head on the door frame. Through the dust cloud behind him, he also saw a glint of sunlight on metal. The Mercedes’ driver was very good. Another gunshot sounded, but it went wild.

  The road ahead seemed to disappear, but it was just another turning—a sharp switchback to the right. The trailer almost toppled over as Showers churned around it, but righted itself with the pull of his forward motion. The road led upward now in a long, straight incline. He got the Blazer up to near fifty before he saw the next curve ahead.

  Something had happened to the Mercedes on the switchback. The cloud of following dust remained empty all the way up to the approaching turn. It was another sharp one, to the left, worse than the first. Showers jammed the Blazer back into second. It lurched, careening sideways uncontrollably. The steering wheel had no effect. Like some great beast, the rig shuddered and banged around the turn, then jackknifed, van and trailer folding into a V and digging into the dirt bank opposite. The engine abruptly died. He could hear the bay screaming.

  Showers hurt in several places, but ignored the pain, snatching up his pistol. “May, get out! Get out!”

  She all but fell from the Blazer. Catching her balance, she stood looking down the road. He jumped down beside her.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, not badly.” She held up her pistol, her eyes wild and frantic, some blood on her forehead.

  “The horse!”

  Showers’ leg injury from the steeplechase had come back with a vengeance. Limping, he went to the back of the trailer. One back door opened easily but the other was caught fast. He pulled on it with all his strength, May at his side, helping. They could hear a car engine.

  With a sudden wrench, the door gave way, and the bay came suddenly backward, kicking. May leapt out of the way, but Showers caught a glancing blow to his shoulder.

  The stallion backed all the way out, snorting and tossing his head. Showers had left its halter on and was able to snatch at it as it went by. May grabbed at it, too. The bay reared, pawing, almost pulling the lead out of their hands, but they kept their grip. The animal settled, trembling all over. There was blood on his foreleg, a wide scrape, perhaps worse.

  “Up the bank!” Showers shouted. “We’ve got to get into the trees!”

  Clambering, sliding, finally letting the bay go up ahead of them, they made it up over the lip of the bank, into old leaves, brush, and brambles.

  Another shot, just above them. Twigs came ticking down around them. The ground was more level here. The bay plunged on ahead of them. They caught up with it when it stopped uncertainly before a large fallen tree. A fusillade of shots rang out behind them, but all went high.

  Showers got the horse around the obstacle, then quickly handed the lead to May.

  “Take him up to the top of the ridge! I’ll catch up with you!”

  “David!”

  “Please, just go! I know what I’m doing!”

  He loved her at that moment like life itself. More. He gave her a gentle pat and shove, then turned and dropped behind the fallen tree trunk, sliding a round into the automatic’s chamber. He listened to May and the bay moving away through the brush, rejoicing in every second of the sound.

  There was noise from below. The Blazer and trailer had blocked the road and their pursuers were coming on foot, climbing the slope with much clumsiness, shouting and swearing.

  He caught sight of one man, and then another a few feet to the side. They were wearing ties and jackets and held pistols, awkwardly, striking with their arms against the branches. Whoever they were, they weren’t used to rugged country.

  Showers calmed himself, slowing his breathing. Holding the pistol with both hands, he rested it carefully on the log, moving his head slightly for a better view. An automatic like this was a nearly useless weapon in combat. Showers was one of the best shots in his battalion, and the best he had ever done was hit a small soft-drink bottle at twenty-five yards—in three shots. But these men, crashing along the way they were, couldn’t have hit a truck.

  One of them, pushing through the branches of a small tree, was heading his way. In a few seconds, he would have to make a horrible decision. In all his years with the military—on active duty, in the reserves, and the National Guard—he had never once fired a weapon loaded with killing rounds at a human being. He had thought about it often, hard and painfully, especially when his unit had gone on the list for duty in the Persian Gulf. It was a decision, he had realized, that he could only make when the time came.

  The time had come. The man made it easier for him. Reaching a spot where he could see farther forward, the fellow raised his gun, aiming up the hill, toward May and the horse. Showers took a deep breath, let it out halfway, then held it, as he gently evened the sights. Remembering his training, he aimed low.

&nbs
p; The shot hit the man in the groin. Showers saw splashes of blood on his shirt as he flew backward, screaming, landing on his back in a coil of brambles. The man to his left froze, then fired several shots in Showers’ direction. One thudded into the log.

  Showers swiveled the automatic carefully, then squeezed off another round. The bullet missed the second man, but came close enough to send him running back for cover. The first man was howling.

  Now. Move now. He couldn’t wait a second longer. Backing up into a crouch, pistol to the fore, he slipped behind a tree, and then another. Finally, he turned and began a rapid climb up the hill. He was near collapse from exhaustion when he finally reached the top of the ridge. May and the horse were standing as still as statues. Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open. Then, seeing it was Showers, she sank to the ground.

  “You should have kept going,” he said, helping her up.

  “No, no,” she said, clinging to him.

  “I shot one of them.”

  “Good.”

  He squeezed her hard, then eased away, looking around them. A narrow trail ran along the ridge, heading northwest, away from the road.

  “They’ll be coming soon,” he said. “They’ll really mean business now.”

  May was looking at the bay. “His leg’s cut, but he’s not limping. He’s standing hard on it.”

  “Pray he holds up.”

  Showers pulled the animal around until it was sideways to a large rock. Holding the halter lead tightly, he swung his leg up. This first attempt failed, but with an extra lunge the second time, he managed to get up on the stallion’s bare back. He pulled May up after him, then turned the horse onto the trail.

  Eighteen

  There were thundershowers over the Washington area as Moody’s plane, a government 707 formerly used as Air Force One, approached Andrews. The veteran pilot maneuvered around them, taking a vector out over Chesapeake Bay and then, in a long slow turn, coming at the air base from the southeast.

  A limousine and a Secret Service chase car were waiting on the ramp—as Moody discovered, sent by the president. He’d earned this nicety. He’d earned a lot more.

  Deena insisted that they drop her first at the Watergate, ignoring Moody’s protest that it was out of the way and that the president was waiting for him. As he had feared, she’d hated every minute of the Asian trip. Her good behavior had given out the second day in China.

  “Robert, I’m about to lose my mind!”

  Acting Secretary Richmond was seated in the jump seat in front of them. He looked quickly out the window, as though there was something fascinating about the sheets of water cascading down the glass.

  Moody relented. It would be a relief to be rid of her.

  The State Department was just a few blocks from the Watergate complex. Moody let Richmond out at the C Street entrance. The diplomat had wanted to join him in making a report to the president, but Moody had strongly suggested he not, saying he intended just to have a few private words with the boss and that Richmond’s comments could wait for the next cabinet meeting. Richmond had reluctantly accepted this. It was almost as though he realized Moody would shortly become his immediate superior.

  If and when the president did say the magic words that would make Moody’s wish come true, he figured it would be wise to keep Richmond as number two. There would be resentment enough from the rank and file over the appointment, and keeping Richmond on his side would defuse a lot of that.

  There were a number of ways to encourage Richmond’s friendship—among them, dangling the possibility of eventual promotion to secretary of state should Moody ascend the next step to vice president. Professional diplomats were in their game for the long run. They had a special talent for waiting out people.

  The president received him in a formal sitting room up in the second floor family quarters. He stood up to offer his hand and a warm greeting. “I read all the communiqués, Bob. Looks like you accomplished quite a lot.”

  “If I can believe the Japanese prime minister, ratification is a certainty. Maybe in a week. They want to get it on the record quickly. Get the world off their back.”

  “Celerity is not always a Japanese trait. Did you extend my invitation to the prime minister for a state visit in the fall?”

  “Did indeed—making it clear it’s contingent on ratification. He’s quite eager. Wants to talk trade.”

  “They always want to talk trade, unless we’re angry with them.”

  “If they ratify, they’ll expect some generosity.”

  “An exchange of gifts. Very oriental. We shall see.” He sat, inviting Moody to do the same.

  “Would you like some coffee?” One of the white-jacketed waiters was hovering nearby.

  “Thank you.” Moody’s mind was logy from jet lag and the long hours in the plane.

  “So, Bob. There’s still the matter of our own ratification of the treaty.”

  “Yes sir. I plan to get back to work on that immediately.”

  “Won’t most of the members be off on vacation? The Congress is in recess.”

  “There are telephones, sir. And I thought it might be helpful if we had Wally Sadinauskas and some of the other cabinet secretaries hit some key states and districts. Point out pollution problems. Make assurances about jobs. The benefits of energy conservation. The full press.”

  “Good idea. If they wouldn’t mind.”

  “They won’t mind if you want it.”

  The president leaned back, crossing his legs, folding his hands on his knee.

  “Before you get back to work, Bob, there’s something I’m delighted to tell you.”

  Moody felt as his daughter must have the year she’d been nominated for an Oscar. He remembered her, sitting in the audience, a mercilessly prying television camera showing the nation her tense, beautiful, expectant face. He could only hope his dreams were not about to be crushed the way hers had been that night. With the president, you never knew. He waited. The president seemed to enjoy making him do it.

  “If it’s acceptable to you,” the president said, “if you think it best, I’d like to send your name to the Senate as the next secretary of state.”

  An inexpressible happiness swept over Moody, like the night he’d been elected governor—only a thousand times better. Loginess had become giddiness.

  “I’m honored, sir. And very, very grateful.”

  “Mr. Bush’s Jim Baker, I daresay, established a most acceptable precedent.”

  “Yes he did, sir. A very able man, for a Republican.”

  “I intend to do it this fall, Bob. Just as soon as we achieve a favorable Senate vote on the treaty.”

  Moody’s blood suddenly chilled. The fall seemed a century away.

  He caught himself. “That’s fine with me, sir. But I … I wonder if sooner might be better than later.”

  “How so, Bob? As secretary of state, you’d be subject to all manner of distractions. I need you right here, getting those votes.”

  “The confirmation process will likely take quite some time, Mr. President. I could be working on votes in the meantime. But if you made the nomination now, it would give me some extra muscle. Extra leverage.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes sir. Show your full confidence. If I’m not being presumptuous.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “I’d move as soon as the Japanese ratify.” Moody wondered if this was beginning to sound as though he was begging.

  “Who do you recommend to take over your job?”

  “Wolfenson, sir. He’s first rate. Went to Columbia.”

  Not Harvard, Yale, or Princeton, but Ivy League.

  “Does he know the Hill?”

  “As well as I do, sir.” It was a lie. What counted was that Wolfenson was one hundred percent Moody’s man. Maybe he was asking too much. The whole pie.

  “I’ll think a bit on that one, Bob. But if you think it best that we send the nomination through now, that’s fine with me. Your adv
ice has been quite sound thus far.”

  “I’m really very honored, sir.”

  The president smiled, in his Waspy way. He was preparing to be witty.

  “One gathers you have great faith,” he said, “that the Japanese were telling you the truth.”

  If there was anything that would improve Deena’s mood, it was this news. Moody all but bounded into his office, snatching up the phone before he was quite in his chair.

  The Watergate line was busy. He waited—not very long; he was very impatient—then tried again. Still busy. She was probably calling all her friends, catching up on gossip, venting her spleen about the horrors of the trip. He summoned his secretary.

  “Anne. I need Mrs. Moody. Keep trying till you get her. Every five minutes.”

  “Yes sir.” She handed him a computer printout—names and phone numbers. “Your messages, sir. I put them in order of priority. Do you want to start on them?”

  He glanced over them quickly. What he wanted to do most was get the word out about his appointment, but he couldn’t do that until the president made it official—probably with a press conference in the briefing room.

  He could tell a few friends. Sadinauskas had called while he was up with the president. Moody could tell him.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Who’s this Lieutenant Anderson? From the Pentagon?”

  “No sir. He’s a police lieutenant out in Maryland.”

  “Why the hell did you put him on the top of the list? What does he want, a tour of the White House?”

  “He said it was urgent, Mr. Moody. He called three times. He said it was about your daughter.”

  Moody stared down at his desk. “Okay. Keep trying Mrs. Moody.”

  The lieutenant was in his car, but the dispatcher contacted him over the radio and he went to a land line.

  “Mr. Moody!” There was a strong country accent in his voice. “Thank you for calling, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you—in the White House and everything.”

  “Get to the point! You said this was urgent.”

  “Yes sir. Mr. Moody, we recovered an abandoned vehicle out here registered to your daughter. May Moody? California tags. A 1979 Volkswagen. Yellow.”