by David Shobin
In their cages, although the rats still weren’t using their hindquarters, they looked particularly robust. Jon carefully immobilized one of the rodents in lab restraints and proceeded to hook up his equipment. When he made his recording, a gratified smile spread over his face. Small but measurable electrical impulses were returning to the legs, indicating neural regeneration. Three out of four rats tested showed the same results. Soon, if his nerves held out, he could start to work on Tommie.
When Jon finished work at six the next day, he left the building for the tiered parking lot. Moments later, he drove out of the lot and wound his way along the campus roads toward the Pike. Ordinarily, he was not the kind of driver who lived in his rearview mirror, but there was something about the car behind him that caught his eye. He’d seen it before, just a few days ago. The vehicle had unusually bright orange fog lamps.
In the darkness, he couldn’t tell the make of the car, or indeed if it was a car, rather than a van or SUV. When he accelerated onto the main highway, the orange lights followed him. Sometimes they were several car lengths away, and they would fall back a hundred yards or so. But every time Jon turned, the fog lamps stayed with him. There was no question he was being followed.
Why would someone follow him? In the big scheme of things, he wasn’t all that important. The vehicle always stayed a prudent distance behind, seemingly uninterested in following him or cutting him off. Did it just want to see where he was going? That didn’t seem very logical, for his life was an open book. He didn’t go many places other than to and from work and the White House. Maybe the driver just wanted to scare him.
If that was the case, it was working. Jon wasn’t as scared for himself as he was for Tommie. As a handicapped person, his daughter was already so vulnerable that she didn’t need any more threats to her health or welfare. But the more he thought about it, the more he doubted Tommie was the focal point. It made little sense to follow him if his daughter was some sort of target.
Throughout the drive home, the vehicle remained behind him. Rather than pull into his driveway, Jon slowed and stopped at its entrance. His pursuer likewise pulled to the curb a hundred feet behind. Jon waited to see what would happen, but nothing did. No ski-masked stranger came up to his window or even got out of the vehicle. Jon waited several minutes. As he did, his pulse rate and his annoyance gradually increased. Finally, he got out of his car and stormed toward the other car in a fury.
When its driver saw him coming, the vehicle made a quick U-tum and drove in the other direction. Jon saw that it wasn’t a car, but an SUV like a Chevy Tahoe, or maybe a Ford Expedition. The vehicle’s squealing tires kicked grit in his face. Although he couldn’t make out the license plates, Jon noted that there were two men inside. Their faces were indistinct, and he couldn’t make out either of them.
He felt a growing rage. How dare these men try to intimidate him like that! Yet he did feel threatened, and more than a little worried. He had no idea what they wanted, and that ignorance scared the hell out of him. Even if he had caught up with them, what would he have done?
Although he acted decisively in his line of work, the idea of physical confrontation frightened Jon. Ever since Vietnam, the idea of going mono a mano with another man was profoundly intimidating. It was more a mental than a physical thing. Before going overseas, he’d gotten into his share of fights, and he’d emerged victorious more often than not. Yet his experience in Quang Nam Province crippled him emotionally. Where it came to fighting, he now wore a coward’s mantle he didn’t think he’d ever shake loose.
The phone rang as soon as Jon entered his house. It was Mitchell Forbes.
“Sorry to disturb you, Jon. You have a few minutes?”
His first thought was of Bob Meredith. “Did something happen to the president?”
“No, he’s fine. But he is whom I’m calling about. I heard that all his test results are in. Can you share them with me?”
“I’d like to, Mitch, but I promised Bob I’d let him know first.”
“And did you?”
“No,” Jon said, “not yet. There’s no hurry because—”
“No hurry? Excuse me, but this is a reelection campaign!”
“What I’m saying, Mitch, is that everything’s pointing in a certain direction, but some of the data’s a little confusing. I want to sit on it a while and mull it over.”
“Sit on it? Did I hear you right? We’re talking about the President of the United States here!”
“My hearing’s fine, Mitch. You don’t have to shout.”
“But he does have a medical problem, did I hear that right?”
“Let’s just say that all the data seems to indicate something in particular, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. Until I am, the president’s got other things on his mind.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “For God’s sake, man, while you’re thinking it over, don’t forget that the president’s got a primary coming up next month, not to mention a country to run! It’s very considerate not to bother him, but we’re not talking about any ordinary patient, are we? So, I’d appreciate it, and I think the country would, too, if you got off your ass and told the man what he needs to know!”
“Is that all, Mitch?”
Forbes abruptly hung up. After staring at the receiver a moment, Jon replaced it in the cradle. Forbes was known for his single-minded intensity, and he was now nothing if not intense. But lately the man had a coarse veneer or roughness. The curtness with which Forbes addressed Jon was downright rude. Surely the man had a job to do, but Jon was beginning to wonder if there was more motive to the chief of staff’s actions than was initially apparent.
Jon always worried that things that impacted him might somehow harm his daughter. After calling Victoria’s house to verify that Tommie was okay, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He supposed he could call the Bethesda police and tell them he thought he’d been followed, but he doubted they’d be interested, much less do anything. Instead he decided to talk to Dave Saunders. He knew the agent was quite busy in the wake of the first lady’s shooting, but Jon was desperate. He entered his callback number on Dave’s beeper and awaited a return call. Saunders called back twenty minutes later.
“What’s up, Jon?”
“I hate calling you, Dave, but I really need some advice.”
“Name it.”
Jon related the earlier incident and his suspicion that the same car had tailed him once before. He didn’t know what, if anything, to do. He just knew he was worried.
“How should I handle this?”
“First of all, definitely call the cops. There’s not much they can do, but at least your complaint will go on record.”
“Do you think I should be concerned?”
“Oh yeah,” Dave said. “Two guys following you to your house? Doesn’t sound like UPS to me. But it also doesn’t sound like they’re out to rob you. Most burglars make an effort not to be seen.”
“What does it look like?”
“When people don’t mind being spotted, it’s like Western Union. They’re trying to send you a message. I’d say they’re out to frighten you.”
“They’ve done a great job, because they frightened the hell out of me. What I don’t understand is why. I haven’t messed up with the president, I’m not sleeping with anyone’s wife, and none of my patients has died recently.”
“Mireille’s not married, huh?”
“Don’t go there, Dave. I’m serious.”
“Sorry. The fact is, I don’t know why someone wants to frighten you. There are all kinds of possibilities. When people are trying to scare someone, they usually want him to change his behavior. To do something, or to stop doing something. Does that ring any bells?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then for the meantime, just be very careful. Do you have a gun?”
“No,” Jon said. “Should I?”
“Can’t hurt. How late are you going to be up tonight?”
A lit
tle after ten p.m., Dave showed up with a shotgun he’d brought from home. The twelve-gauge Mitchell Arms pump was a high-tech, all business, defensive shotgun. The all-black firearm had a synthetic stock, an eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel, and a six round extended magazine. In a serious social encounter, it would be a manstopper. Dave reviewed shotgun functioning with Jon, who remembered the basics from his time in the marines.
“You’re all set,” Dave said. “You’ve got six rounds of double-ought buckshot.
Just rack the slide and shoot. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
The icy fingers of the past clawed at whatever was left of Jon’s courage. He silently shook his head.
“Good. Carry it with you. Put it in your car when you leave for work, and bring it in at night. When this is all over, you can buy one for yourself.”
“Okay. I appreciate it, Dave.”
“Any time. Now, as far as repayment goes, are you up for a little fishing this weekend? Maybe you can drag Tommie and Mireille along.”
Saturday was overcast but reasonably mild, with temperatures in the mid-forties. They planned to fly fish the Chesapeake. Temperatures were usually slightly colder on the bay, where a strong wind could defeat the most determined fisherman. But the marine forecast was favorable, with winds nearly calm.
Saltwater fly-fishing differed from its freshwater counterpart in tackle more than technique. Rods, reels, and lines were stronger and heavier. The flies were more robust. As a lifelong fly fisherman, Saunders had the best equipment, and he’d brought enough for everyone. He’d easily invested ten thousand dollars in the sport. Today he’d brought along eight- and nine-weight Loomis and St. Croix rods with which to try their luck.
At that time of year, rental boats were plentiful in their starting point of Annapolis. Just south of town were numerous western-shore tributaries where submerged aquatic vegetation provided good cover for pickerel and yellow perch. But these were backup fish. Their main quarry was striped bass, which the locals called rockfish.
November and December were transition times for Chesapeake Bay anglers and the fish they sought. Baitfish and predators moved into the bay from river mouths, and many fish left the Chesapeake entirely for warmer waters to the south. As water temperatures dropped even lower, warm water shore discharges appealed to the fish that stayed home. A good deal of the stripers and bluefish followed the bunker as far south as the Outer Banks. But plenty remained.
Striped bass were a saltwater angler’s prize because of their size and fight. Keepers ran twenty-eight inches and over, and trophy fish weighed over forty pounds.
But the younger fish, called snappers, were a pleasure to catch and release. There were often so many of the aggressive young fish that it could be hard to get a fly down to the trophies that lurked deeper. The fly-fisherman had to know his craft.
Everyone dressed warmly, in layers. It was glove and parka weather, and Jon made sure Tommie had a ski hat, a heavy scarf, and a thick woolen blanket that could wrap around her wheel chair. When everyone was ready, Dave cast off from the dock. “All set?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, Cap’n Dave,” Jon replied. “Open ’er up.”
In the back of the boat, Mireille and Tommie were already too engrossed in chitchat to say anything. Jon took the wheel while Dave prepared the rigs. Traffic on the bay was light, which was better for fishing. The water was like glass. They headed for a spot fifteen minutes south of town, where Dave had previously had success.
“Roxanne’s shooting must be a nightmare for you guys,” Jon said. “They must be busting your butts. I’m surprised you got some time off.”
“The first lady’s detail is getting hammered. They’re still going twenty-four seven. They gave my guys a little more breathing room, but this is still my first day off since Mrs. Meredith got shot. Believe me, there are a lot of agents with their tails between their legs.”
“What’s the latest? I’m sure you’re following the local news, which says there aren’t any good leads.”
Dave looked at his friend askance. “Officially, as you know, I can’t tell you a thing. Unofficially, we haven’t got a clue. I mean, we know who did it, but we don’t know why.”
“Do you think it was an Oswald, that he was working alone?”
“That would make it easy, wouldn’t it? But the truth is, what the assassin accomplished was too damn complicated for one person. Not to mention that whoever killed brother Mahmoud was in on it. For one thing, you’d have to know the first lady’s schedule. Then there’s the shooter’s location, lines of fire, and the weapon. That’s all big-time planning. Besides the shooter, there had to be at least one additional person, probably more.
“You’re talking an organized plot.”
“Looks that way. Now, were these two guys part of a larger plot to kill the wife of the President of the United States? According to the Mossad, they’re just a couple of well-trained Palestinian crazies. Maybe there is no Islamic conspiracy. Maybe some rich old redneck hired these boys to pop her.”
“But what about the California gun dealer?”
“Don’t worry, nobody forgot about him. He’s still missing, just like his cousin.”
“What cousin?”
Dave looked at him. “Forgot to tell you that part, huh? His cousin is our old friend Marcel Al-Hakeem.”
After a moment, Jon recalled the name. “The last-minute chef who disappeared after the White House state dinner?”
“None other. It turns out that the chef was raised in Algeria, but he was born near Hebron.”
Jon whistled softly. “Do you think the chef was up to something then? Like, did the food have something to do with the president choking?”
“We thought of that, but the food had been discarded. We’re looking at a thousand possibilities. The point is, we certainly don’t have the answers. But we’re working under the assumption that this is a well-organized plot, not some harebrained last-minute scheme. Finding out precisely what may take some time.”
Soon, just north of Bay Ridge, Dave had Jon kill the engine. As they drifted along with the tide, the current carried the boat lazily offshore. Saunders was an avid fly tier, and he’d brought along an assortment of his own colorful epoxy-heads flies. Their straight, three-inch hairs streamed backward and outward, a bristly funnel shape. Dave wanted them to try the white and chartreuse colors first.
After a few last-minute tips, they started fishing, casting at precise spots, trying to tease larger stripers up from the depths. Action was slow for the first half-hour. But when the boat came abreast of a rocky outcropping, the fish lurking in the boulders went for their bait. Fly color didn’t matter, for the stripers were insatiable. Over the next hour, the foursome caught three dozen stripers. Most were shorts and had to be thrown back, but they landed two good-size keepers that could feed them for days.
They took a break at midmorning. Tommie was tired, and they decided not to stay out much longer. It had already been a good day’s fishing and there was little reason to linger. Before they left, they made a picnic feast of another of Mireille’s culinary creations.
“By the way,” Dave said to Jon, “I suppose you would’ve told me if that SUV was still following you?”
“I haven’t seen them, but it hasn’t been that long. Maybe it was just a prank.”
“I doubt it. Did you call the police?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Hey, it’s your life. I just don’t want to say I told you so in front of your casket.”
Canton, North Carolina
In the Ford van, the three of them drove east on U.S. Route 40, just outside of Canton, on the way to Asheville. They left the bingo halls and tepees and tomahawks of Cherokee town far behind. O’Brien had the other two men pick him up en route to a well-known eatery on Asheville’s outskirts, some twenty miles away. They were in the valley now, with the striking ridges of the Great Smoky Mountains to the north and behind them.
“Turn righ
t on the dirt road up ahead,” said Sean.
Smith’s eyebrows raised. “Ain’t gonna get to Asheville this way.”
“There’s something I’ve got to show you.”
“Your call, Sean,” said C.J. “You’re the man with the plan.”
He was also the man with the money. Just two days before, O’Brien had wired them each five thousand dollars. It was an advance, he said, against further plans. They would discuss what he had in mind over ribs in Asheville.
The rutted, beat-up dirt road was bordered by a barbed-wire fence, beyond which an overgrown field of clover and fescue glistened with dew. The new road was rough. As they put distance between themselves and the highway, the only sounds were the groans and creaks of the vehicle’s shocks and springs. The area had the look of abandoned farmland. Eventually they came to a large clearing in a grove of shady oaks. A new white rental car was at the far end of the clearing.
“What the hell?” said Smith, eyeing the other vehicle as he crawled to a stop.
“Drive on up to it,” Sean said. “I had it dropped off.”
C.J. looked around. “Ain’t nobody else in sight.”
“Good thing for that,” said O’Brien. “What I’ve got in the trunk is for your eyes only.”
The way he said it, with a slightly upward inflection, was too much for Walker’s diminished mentality. He felt as if he’d been given permission to open his Christmas gifts early. Brimming with enthusiasm, he jumped from the van and ambled over to the parked sedan.
“Damn, Sean, whatcha got in there?” he asked excitedly.
O’Brien waited until Smith reached them and then flipped the trunk keys to Walker. “Open her up, C.J.”
Growing curious, Smith edged closer to the rear bumper. C.J. inserted the key and had just popped the lock when Sean pulled the snub-nose revolver from under his windbreaker. Walker’s last conscious recognition was that, except for a can of gas, the trunk was empty. But then his world went dark as a .38 special hollow point exploded inside his skull.