Cold Frame (38 page)

Out front was what they called the Batmobile—a specially configured Class B recreational vehicle made by Mercedes that could accommodate Hiram's extra-tall frame just behind the two captain's chairs in front. The roof was raised and there was an electric sliding door on the side that he could use to enter the vehicle, as well as handrails so he could position himself in the oversized middle seat without too much discomfort. All the windows except the front windshield were tinted. The living quarters furnishings in the back of the vehicle had been removed; that area now contained communications equipment that fed a small television screen set, facing aft, between the two captain's chairs up front. The vehicle was painted a shiny black, hence its nickname. Two finlike communications antennae on the back of the roof added to the image.

Hiram carefully pulled himself into the center of the vehicle and then Thomas closed the electric sliding doors. He got into the driver's chair and punched some data into the navigation device on the console.

“Drive the indicated route,” the robot finally said.

“How long?” Hiram asked.

“Thirty minutes,” Thomas said. “Assuming the Beltway is moving.”

“Very well,” Hiram said. “Let's go.”

They drove down the big front drive out the gates past the two cop cars, and headed out onto Deepstep Creek Road toward the Georgetown Pike.

“Your meds are in the cup holder on the console.”

“And thank God for that,” Hiram said.

“Thank Thomas, too.”

*   *   *

Av had started to fall asleep when suddenly he heard another vehicle approaching. The cigarette smoke seemed to disappear, and he now could hear people around him, gathering themselves.

Showtime, he thought.

Someone approached and removed his hood. He took a deep breath and looked around. He was indeed sitting on a wooden park bench. It wasn't any kind of large park, but more of a scenic overlook pull-off. The helicopter was sitting quietly to his left, its blades drooping over the grassy spot where it had landed. There were three crewmen in flight suits and helmets standing under it, looking at him. The vehicle he'd heard approaching was a black Expedition, stopped now in the small parking lot. All of its doors were open and there were armed men getting out. A hundred feet beyond, another vehicle was coming down the lane with only its parking lights on.

The approaching vehicle appeared to be an armored sedan, if the heavy crunching noise of the gravel was any indication. It pulled into the spot next to the Expedition and shut down. A man jumped out of the driver's seat, hurried around to the right rear door, and opened it respectfully. The imposing figure of Carl Mandeville materialized and then headed toward the bench. He stopped about three feet away, looking down at Av like an eagle looks at a fat rabbit.

Av resisted an impulse to shout out a, Hey, Carl, what's shakin', dude. Instead, he cleared his throat, hawked up a presentable goober and spat it at Mandeville's shoes. All the men around him looked at him as if he was insane. Somehow Av found that satisfying.

Carl Mandeville did not. He came closer, leaned down, and slapped Av in the face.

“Big, brave man,” Av said through stinging lips. “Pretty good when your target is handcuffed to a bench. They call that Chicago style up there at the White House?”

Mandeville straightened up. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trousers pocket and wiped his hand, as if to remove any contamination. “I hear they call you ‘average' Smith,” he said. “Average asshole would be more like it, I think.”

“Better than average murderer,” Av said.

Mandeville stared down at him for a moment. “Well,” he said quietly, “in for a penny, in for a pound.” He turned to the operators standing near the Expedition. “Where did they pick him up?” he asked.

“Out on the river,” one of them replied. “Just above Little Falls Dam.”

“Good,” Mandeville said. “I don't want him anymore. Tell the pilots to go put him back, right where they found him.” Then he turned to Av. “You know about the Little Falls Dam of the Potomac?” he asked.

Av shrugged. “Great Falls, Little Falls, all waterfalls look alike to me,” he said. Some of the men behind Mandeville seemed to have disappeared. Didn't want to watch this? Or hear it?

“Well, this one's different. It's called Little Falls Dam because it only drops about five feet. Man-made, a long time ago, to divert water to the Washington city reservoirs. But here's the thing, Detective. There's a rotor on the downstream side. That means that anything, or any
one
who goes over those little falls ends up underneath them, rolling and rolling for just about forever. The rotor never lets go once it takes somebody, and there have been dozens of people lost there. Dozens. You're going to be next.”

Av didn't say anything. What could he say to this lunatic? Please?

Mandeville stepped back and looked at Av with a satisfied smile. “My specialty, Detective. Loose ends.”

Then Av saw one of the pilots walking toward them. He called out to Mandeville by name.

“What do you want?” Mandeville said, obviously annoyed. “My instructions should have been perfectly clear.”

“Not going to do that, Mister Mandeville,” the pilot said.

“
What
did you say?”

The second pilot walked up. “He said we're not gonna drop a guy into the river just above Little Falls Dam,” he announced. He was older than the first pilot and had the air of command about him. “In fact, we're leaving now. You want us, you can find us over at Bolling. Good night.” A pause. “Sir.”

Mandeville was obviously stunned by this development. Then he realized that the people who had come with him were also leaving. The Expedition was backing up as the helicopter's turbines began to turn. The man who had driven Mandeville here was walking toward the Expedition, which was now waiting for him, the right rear door held open.

Hey, what about me, Av wanted to shout out, but the only one who could hear him now was Carl Mandeville, who was becoming almost apoplectic. The Expedition made a wide turn and then went up the lane toward the parkway, its taillights flickering through the shrubbery that lined the lane. The helicopter spooled up to full power, lifted off, turned in place, blowing a whirlwind of leaves everywhere, and then dipped down into the river gorge.

Then it was just Av and his tormentor.

“What's going on, big shot?” Av asked. “Rats abandoning the sinking ship?”

Mandeville glared at him, then looked around again to make sure that everyone had indeed left. The armored sedan was still there.

“Do you know where
you
are, Detective?” he asked, seeming to get himself under control.

Av lifted his tethered arm, yanking gently on the cord that held him to the bench. “Right here on this bench,” he said.

“This is Fort Marcy Park,” Mandeville said. “This is where the Clintons' lawyer killed himself. Right on that bench, in fact. Shot himself in the head. Right side, as I recall, even though he was supposedly left-handed. I think he was also a man who knew too much.”

“So I'm going to be a suicide?” Av asked.

“An ‘apparent' suicide,” Mandeville said. “Know the difference?”

“No.”

“An apparent suicide is one which doesn't get investigated too closely. If it looks like a suicide, then, well, it probably was. Lots of cops eat their guns. You were suspended, accused of all sorts of strange behavior, detained in a federal penitentiary, from which you managed to escape. But then the authorities tracked you down, went to your home again, but you did a runner. And now here you are, alone, in the dark, obviously distraught at how your life has gone right off the tracks.”

“Is this what's called spin?”

“Oh, yes, Detective. That's exactly what it's called. And people who work at the White House are masters of it. Trust me on that.”

“You really kill those guys, those two assistant secretaries?”

“Me?” Mandeville said. “Absolutely not. They were terminated by a professional, for the crime of treason. I simply lit the fuse, so to speak.”

“Treason? For what, disagreeing with you?”

“
Hell,
no,” Mandeville said, vehemently. “I am a servant of the state. I am the keeper of the DMX, which is one of the few remaining
sharp
arrows in the quiver of national security that can actually do some good. Those men were determined to take it all apart. Two of them have been dealt with, and the third, I am told, has gone, let me see, on
vacation.
As if that will make any difference.”

“You're going to get him, too?”

“I am going to purify the DMX,” Mandeville said, the gleam of certain madness in his eyes. “The whole DMX, if necessary. Whatever that takes. But first, I need to take care of the insolent loose end sitting in front of me.”

Mandeville took a deep breath and looked around again. The park was quiet and dark. The river made its eternal rushing sounds down below in the gorge. The hum of traffic up on the parkway competed with the night breeze lifting up the rock walls of the Potomac gorge, annoying the trees.

“Good-bye, Detective,” Mandeville said. Then he pulled out a pistol from his suit coat pocket, approached Av from the right side, and lifted the gun to point at Av's temple.

Av took a deep breath, tried to think of something really clever to say, and drew a panicked blank.

Then there was a loud snap, followed by a yelp from Mandeville as the gun went flying out of his hand, which was now spurting blood. The big man whirled away, clutching his bleeding hand, but looking for the gun. He saw it and bent down to pick it up with his other hand. He raised it, weaving a little from the pain in his right hand, and turned back toward Av.

Snap!

This time the gun itself was hit, along with one of Mandeville's fingers. He screamed this time, trying to hold one bleeding hand with the other. He bent over at the waist, grunting in pain. Av watched in amazement as the big man finally sat down on the ground, almost weeping, his two bloodied hands held tight to his stomach, his breath getting ragged. The gun and one finger were on the ground right in front of him.

Then Av heard a wonderful sound, an earsplitting kiyai as Wong Daddy stepped out of the woods, stamping his feet on the asphalt and shaking the trees as he walked up to the huddled bleeding figure of Carl Mandeville and smacked him on the head so hard that Mandeville's head almost came off. His body rolled to the right and out into the parking lot, where it lay very still.

Wong came over to the bench, took a deep breath, and then hand-chopped the board to which Av's arm was tethered. The board shattered and Av was free. He looked up into the big and very pleased moon face above him.

“Took you long enough,” Av said, rubbing his wrist. “Who's your sniper?”

“Miz Brown,” said a familiar voice. Mau-Mau and Ellen Whiting were approaching. “Told you he had
two
special talents. Uses an old, single-shot Remington model 513T with a sling. Sucker can shoot the eye out of a fly.”

As Av absorbed this revelation, two more federal-looking vehicles came down the narrow lane leading in from the parkway. Av eyed them warily, but Ellen was already talking to one of the SUVs on a small radio.

“Them's the white hats,” Mau-Mau explained. “Your old buddy Tyree Miller is in one of them.”

“Somebody going to explain all this weirdness?” Av asked. His left cheek was a bit swollen after Mandeville's love tap, and a part of him was still ready and willing to take off into the bushes if people became sufficiently distracted. He saw Miz Brown coming down to the parking lot with a stainless-steel scoped rifle held casually across his chest. For once he wasn't talking, but he did wave.

Several FBI agents got out of the two SUVs, including Miller, who walked over to where Mau-Mau and Av were standing. He offered his hand to Av with an apologetic smile. “No hard feelings, I hope,” he said. “Anyone told you what's going down here?”

Av took the proffered hand warily. “Not yet,” he said.

“Ever heard the term ‘stalking horse'?” Miller asked.

“Nope,” he said.

Two of the agents had roused Mandeville and had him standing up while a third was opening a first-aid kit. His bloody hands were clenched into quivering fists and his face was one big glare. Not at all like in the movies, Av thought, seeing a flash of exposed bone. Hands do bleed.

Ellen Whiting had been on her radio but now approached. “He's actually coming,” she announced. Miller nodded and then walked over to where Mandeville was standing unsteadily, trying not to cry.

“Carl Mandeville, you are under arrest for the murders of Francis McGavin and Hilary Logan. You have the right to remain silent. You—”

“In your dreams,” Mandeville spat, wincing as the agent bandaged his ruined hand. “You can't touch me. I am special—”

“We know who you
were,
Mister Mandeville,” Miller interrupted. “Right now, however, you are the prime suspect in two murders of senior federal officials. We're still looking for your hatchet man and anyone else he used, but for the first catch, you'll do just fine.”

“Never happen,” Mandeville said. “No matter what you
think
you know, you have no case. Nor do you have a venue, because everything to do with my job is classified way beyond even the almighty Bureau.”

“We can get around all that, Mandeville,” Miller said. “We have two people right here who can make a pretty good case that you were the mastermind here. And why.”

Mandeville's face contracted as a spasm of pain went up his arms. But then the glare reappeared. “A
good
case?” He snorted. “Bullshit. You have nothing but hearsay. You have no evidence because there is no evidence.”