Cold Frame (36 page)

Back to the treetop camera. The assault team, for that's what it looked like, were all in position, but, for some reason they weren't moving. He searched the scene for a command vehicle, and thought he saw one back up the lane.

What were they waiting for? Orders? Or did they want to debrief their intrusion team first to see what the shooting had been all about.

He was relieved when Thomas came back into the room.

*   *   *

Once clear of the boathouse and the Virginia bank of the Potomac, Av pointed his little boat on a diagonal across the big river, already feeling the strength of the current. The engine was small but it sounded like it was happy. He was glad for the raingear. His jeans and T-shirt outfit weren't meant for a fall night on the big river.

Av's knowledge of the Potomac was limited to MPD barbecue outings down on Haines Point, where the river was a silvery lake, with no hint of violence. If someone fell in at Haines Point, the immediate worry was what he might be covered in when they got him back on the bank. This was very different and he could feel the current's strength. It made him wonder what would happen if he tried to go back upstream and if the little engine was big enough.

Av knew that several miles upstream at Harper's Ferry, the entire Shenandoah River added its stream to what was coming down from the eastern slopes of the Alleghenys. As it approached the palisades along Great Falls, that huge volume of water was funneled into rocky gorges some sixty to eighty feet high. Moving water confined becomes fast water, and, with the bottom made of slate, shattered over the eons into rows of underwater crevasses, the river there was no place for swimmers or, for that matter, small boats.

AV could sense that his boat seemed to be going faster, if the lights along the Virginia shore were any indication. He pointed the bow of the boat to the left to compensate for what felt like an out-of-control surge in the current. Then he heard the low rumble of the Great Falls cataracts to his right. He recalled taking a young lady out to Great Falls Park for a picnic date. He remembered the sign on the rocks above the booming cataract: if you go into the water, you will die. He'd never seen such a stark sign at any park, but one look at the rocky gorge confirmed the message.

He pointed the bow of the little motorboat farther to the left to make sure he wasn't being swept into the deceptively calm open channel above the cataract. Then he remembered his instructions: get left of the center channel, kill the engine, let the river take you through the fast-moving channels until that menacing rumble was
behind
you. Then, light the engine back off and run for the Maryland shore.

Okay, he thought. He reached over and switched off the outboard. The first thing he realized was that the rumble of water going down the Great Falls gorge was louder than he'd thought. Too soon? he wondered. But no, it was to his right and sliding behind him. Loud, powerful, threatening, but passing behind him. Ahead was a wide expanse of river, spattered with small white ripples as the current ran over rock snags. He grabbed the pole and prepared to fend off obstacles, but then realized he couldn't see anything that resembled obstacles. Then he learned that the obstacles had a purpose of their own as the boat banged off a rock, and then another one, swerving in the current and jinking in different directions as if totally out of control. He felt ridiculous holding the pole. What good was it if he couldn't see the rock coming?

Then the boat stopped suddenly, pinned by the muscular current against a rock ledge. The water began to rise up on the upstream side of the boat, certain to swamp it. He lunged with the pole and, when it hit solid rock, he pushed. The boat swirled in place, dropping him into the middle of the boat, and then it whirled again and swept downstream. He got back on the single gunwale, trying to get his bearings, and then the boat hit the next snag, again dumping him onto the aluminum bottom. The pole sailed out of his grip with the impact. He tried to regain his footing, but the boat was nothing but a cork now as the big river's current flung it downstream, banking from snag to snag, sometimes hard enough to make him wonder if the small craft could take much more.

Little Falls Dam. In his effort to stay upright, he'd forgotten all about the Little Falls Dam.

He scrambled to the back of the boat and set the ignition switch. The boat hit something really solid and almost backed up in the current for a moment before shooting through a chute of white water. He felt a swirl of icy water on his feet. The hull was punctured; he was sure of it. Regaining his footing, he started pulling on the rope as hard as he could.

Choke. You have to choke it.

He set the choke and tried again. He smelled gasoline. Dammit! Flooded it.

The boat went sideways and stopped suddenly, heeling over at an alarming angle. Water began to sweep in as he kept yanking on the cord. Then the engine caught. He grabbed the handle and gunned the engine. More water came in, so he turned the handle, urging the boat across the current and out of the narrow chute of white water. It made it, but he felt that the boat was getting logy and unresponsive. Too much water onboard.

Where was Maryland? Which way? He had no idea.

Then the sky above him exploded into white light as a helicopter swooped down over his position, its rotors punishing the air over his head and blowing huge clouds of spray everywhere. Blinded by the spray, he pushed the handle hard over, trying to get out from under the roaring machine that seemed to be right over his head. He could smell the acrid stink of JP-5 from the turbine exhaust. Then a rope or wire slapped him in the chest before flying off to one side of the boat.

Rope? He realized the situation was totally out of control. He had no idea of what to do next. The downwash from the hovering helicopter continued to blind him and he was still going downriver. How far was that dam?

Then a man dropped into the boat, almost capsizing it in the rushing current. He was wearing a dark jumpsuit and a compact helmet with a wraparound face shield. The weight of two large men in the boat began to sink it. A second man appeared, still on the rope, dangling just above the boat and pointing some kind of weapon at Av's face. A second wire appeared, with a horseshoe-shaped collar dangling from the end. The man in the boat braced himself and slipped the collar over Av's head and under his armpits, and then made a signal. Before Av had a moment to realize what was happening, the wire tightened and he was dangling over the boat and the river, and then being hauled up toward a black, rectangular hole in the side of the hovering helicopter. He felt himself slipping out of the wet horseshoe collar and quickly grabbed the sides.

He looked down through all the downwash spray blowing in the harsh white light and thought he saw the rolling curl of the Little Falls Dam just fifty feet from the now twirling boat. The water going over the low dam was deceptively calm as it dropped over the eighteenth-century rock abutment into a dark coil of white water. The man who had dropped into the boat was beneath him, riding a second wire back up.

He looked up. The wire was being stabilized by another man who was leaning out of a side hatch in the aircraft. In the clouds of downdraft spray under the helo he saw the little boat pop over the falls, drop straight down into that roiling black water, and then disappear without a trace. He bumped up against the side of the aircraft, and then someone pulled him in, removed the horse collar, dropped a cloth hood over his face, and pushed him away from the hatch until he bumped up against a bulkhead. The helicopter continued to hover for a few more seconds until the man below him was hauled in. Then it lifted urgently away from the river's surface, banked hard, dipped its nose, and accelerated.

*   *   *

Hiram watched the crowd of menacing vehicles converging at the front gates, their strobe lights flashing a whole spectrum of color. Nobody was moving, yet.

“Thomas,” he said. “I think we should go ahead and open the gates. Not sure we could find any more like those.”

Thomas flicked on the main entrance lights and then commanded the gates to open. Hiram reached over to a side table and picked up a telephone.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Home invasion,” Hiram stated, matter-of-factly. He gave the address for Whitestone Hall, and then added: “Shots fired.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Always wanted to say that,” Hiram said, his hand over the telephone's microphone. The operator wanted to know how many people were in the house and where they were located. Hiram told them two and that they were in the library. She asked how many intruders were at the scene. “About thirty,” Hiram said, and then hung up. “Now get me the news-tip hotline number at WTOP,” he told Thomas, who punched the station's name into a computer.

“877-222-1035,” Thomas said. Hiram dialed the number as he watched the screen. The crowd at the front gate didn't seem to know what to do now that the big gates were open and they were all standing under floodlights.

“WTOP: news hotline,” a young woman's voice announced.

Hiram told her that one of the mansions out in Great Falls was being assaulted by a government SWAT team, and gave her the address. “There are reports of gunfire,” he concluded and then hung up.

Out front a line of armed men in bulky defensive gear had started through the gates and were spreading out on either side of the driveway.

“Not too far, boys,” Hiram muttered. “Stay on the road.”

Then one of the unarmed vehicles turned in and headed for the house. The rest of the vehicles remained clustered around the front gates, while one SUV, bristling with antennae, crawled slowly down the lane toward where the intrusion team had first climbed the wall. The tank had backed out of the scene when the gates opened.

“Showtime,” Hiram said, getting out of his chair. Thomas got up as well but Hiram waved him back down. “Stay on the consoles, watch the walls. They may try again.”

Thomas reached under his cable-knit sweater and produced a handgun.

Hiram smiled and shook his head. “That would be all they'd need,” he said. “No, I'm going to do a little monster Kabuki. See how they like that. Unlock the front doors.”

The screen showed the SUV had reached the area of the front portico. Three men were getting out of the vehicle, two in defensive tactical gear with weapons, and one in just a suit, a small portable radio visible in one hand. Hiram walked through the library and down the main hall of the house, pausing only to pick a pretty pink flower from a vase. He squeezed the flower and then applied the resulting fluid to his closed eyes. He felt a mild stinging sensation, and then the surface of his eyes went numb. He glanced in a mirror as he walked toward the front doors. His eyes were now bright red.

He stopped halfway to the door and waited. There was a tentative knock on the front doors, and then, after a long minute, someone tried the right-hand door and swung it open. The three men stepped into the darkened hallway, and that's when Hiram drew himself to his full height and began to walk toward them, affecting just the slightest limp.

“Holy shit!” one of the armed men said when he saw Hiram approaching. All three of them stopped in their tracks. The two armed men adjusted their grips on their weapons and moved away from the man in the suit. Hiram focused on that man: he had to be the boss. He walked up to within three feet of the suit, leaned forward, and opened his eyes wide.

The suit made a noise and stepped back away from this glaring, red-eyed apparition leaning over him.

“What do you want?” Hiram asked in his best imitation of a sepulchral voice. He resisted the temptation to put a Boris Karloff accent in play, something he had mastered a long time ago.

“We—um—we want Detective Sergeant Kenneth Smith of the Metro Washington Police Department,” the suit said. He was about forty, pasty-faced, and incongruously out of shape considering the company he was keeping.

“Where is he?” the man asked.

One of the armed men pressed a hand to his head and listened to a message from the front gate. Then he spoke up. “Fairfax County cops are on scene?” he announced.

The suit hesitated, and then asked Hiram again: where was the detective sergeant?

“He was here and now he is not,” Hiram said, inching closer to this obviously frightened civil servant. “He came by boat, he left by boat. He's on the river. How is your intrusion team?”

“Wha-a-t?” the man answered. “What intrusion team?”

“The ones who fired automatic weapons in my gardens,” Hiram said, leaning forward. The man practically quailed. “They are lucky to be alive. Did you know that? That is a
venom
garden. The plants out there can eat and
digest
humans. I suggest you leave now.”

“I must search this house,” the man said in a weak voice.

“Show me your search warrant,” Hiram replied.

“I don't have one,” the man said. “Actually, I don't need one. This is a matter of national security. The FISA court can backdate—”

At that moment the sounds of a helicopter could be heard coming through the open front doors. It made a waspish sound, not military at all. The guard who'd received the first radio message again pressed the side of his helmet to his ear.

“News chopper,” he said, looking worried for the first time.

Hiram chose this moment to step forward and get so close to the suit that the man had to literally bend his neck back to look into Hiram's massive face. “Do you wish to become immortal?” Hiram whispered, baring his huge teeth just a little.

“Wha-a-t?” the man squeaked.

“Whoever sent you would want you to leave now, before all of you become national news. Think of
me
appearing on national television and telling the world what your people did tonight. Without a warrant. Without informing the local police forces. Climbing a wall and invading a private residence. Firing automatic weapons—against plants.” Hiram straightened up. “Go now, while you still can.”