“You saw the body,” she said halfway through her second cup of coffee.
“Let it go for a while, little lady.”
But she couldn’t. “You saw the body.”
He nodded.
“H-h-how, how was he killed?”
“I’m no expert.”
“How?”
Farlowe sighed and leaned his chair closer to hers. “Looks to me like he was shot.”
“What happened to … his head?”
Farlowe turned away slightly. “Could’ve been after they dropped him in the river. Fish could’ve got to him.”
“No.”
He looked her way again. “Little lady, I—”
“Don’t hold back. Don’t hold anything back. I’ve got to know. Do you hear me?
I’ve got to know!”
Farlowe sighed deeply. “I think he was scalped.”
Kristen felt faint. “Oh, my God …”
The cup dropped from her hand and burst on the floor. Coffee splashed upward. Farlowe stopped her from falling, enveloped her in his embrace.
“Easy now, easy.”
But the pain had taken hold and wouldn’t let go, everything hitting her at once. Her brother was dead. She would never see him again. He had been murdered; no, more than murdered—violated. How could anyone have done this to him?
How?
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Farlowe said softly. “I was wrong.”
Kristen pulled back from his grasp, rage and resolve battling sorrow over her features. “No, you were right.”
Farlowe’s eyes filled with concern. “Leave it be, little lady. Let the professionals sort everything out.”
“I am a professional, Sheriff,” Kristen told him, “by
Washington standards, anyway. My brother saw something at Miravo that got him killed. Miravo is Washington’s business.” She paused and held his stare. “And I’m making David’s murder mine.”
The limousine deposited Samuel Jackson Dodd in front of the Grand Hyatt on H Street for his hastily called press conference Saturday afternoon. The press was getting used to these precision fits of fancy; every time there was something on Dodd’s mind, he’d summon them together. Originally only a few reporters had shown up, with no representatives from television among them. Now an hour’s notice was enough to pack a room, with all major networks represented.
Dodd had thrown the limousine’s door open before it had come to a complete halt. He lunged out and approached the Hyatt entrance, leaving his private security detail to catch up. He glided through the door, a tall, elegant figure in a medium gray suit. He moved like a wide receiver in the open field, slipping by gawking onlookers with a handshake fast enough to make them wonder if they’d felt it. His face was an amazingly close likeness to the one pictured on brochure covers and picket signs all over the country. The ever-present smile exuded warmth and confidence. This man could do
anything,
in point of fact
had
done pretty much everything already.
His security detail caught up in time to usher him down the first of three escalators, past a bubbling indoor fountain pool where a piano player worked the keys on an islet built into the center. Dodd hurried down the final two escalators to the Hyatt’s lowest level, where the press had squeezed itself inside the Franklin Square Room. Some of the participants from television were still setting up and turned their
pace frantic when Dodd entered. Camera lights blazed. Video cameras whirled. Samuel Jackson Dodd strode to the front of the room, where a large-screen television and VCR were waiting.
“There’s something I want you all to see,” he announced by way of introduction.
Without further explanation, Dodd switched the VCR and television on and signaled for the room’s lights to be dimmed. Instantly a picture of screaming protesters filled the screen. They thrust picket signs high into the air, as they surged forward toward a closed gate fortified with riot police on the other side. The camera focused on one of the signs. It read simply LIFE!
Dodd froze the VCR there and spoke again, his figure silhouetted eerily by the glow off the screen. “You know where this is, ladies and gentlemen? San Quentin Prison, where Billy Ray Polk is scheduled to be put to death at dawn tomorrow. The crowd you see here doesn’t want Billy Ray Polk to die. They say death by lethal injection is cruel and unusual punishment.”
Dodd’s tall figure moved a bit away from the screen’s glare.
“Cruel and unusual punishment? Did you notice that no one was there to protest what he had done to those two boys? How he tortured them before he killed them, how they begged for their lives and then begged for him to kill them? And there are those in America who don’t want to see him killed. There are those in America who don’t care if no one speaks for those two boys and their rights.”
Dodd drummed a fist before him in cadence with his words. “Well, I speak for them, and I speak for all the other victims of crimes that go unpunished because our judicial system can’t handle the backlog and police are too hamstrung to even guarantee the case will get that far. The system’s out of control. The system stinks.”
A soft murmur moved through the crowd of reporters.
“We’ve got the highest per capita crime rate in the world.
Know why? Because somehow, somewhere along the way things got all twisted around in this country. We ended up caring more for the rights of the criminals than the rights of the victims. We’re losing the fight because we’re playing on the wrong side. Things have to change. We’ve got to make crime punishable. We’ve got to make it safe for people to go out of their houses again. The police can’t do it alone. We need a national militia to work alongside them, a federally charged and authorized force to break down the crack houses and break up the gangs.”
“Mr. Dodd?” came a call from the near darkness of the press gallery.
“Yes. Over there.”
“It would seem, sir, that what you’re advocating runs counter to several amendments to the Constitution.”
“Is that a question, son?”
“Only if you choose to respond.”
“I do,” Dodd said, coming forward toward the questioner.
“I know all about what the Constitution says and guarantees. I know all about the freedoms on which this country was founded. Like the freedom to be able to walk the street at night without being afraid. The freedom to send a child to school without a pusher on every other corner with his wares carried in a knapsack. Over ninety percent of the laws we live by are over a hundred years old. Laws for a different time, a different age. We need laws for this time, for this age, for today.”
“Could you give us an example?” a female reporter asked him.
Dodd moved her way. “We’ve got schools in this country where more guns are carried than lunches. I say a kid who gets caught with a gun should be sent away to a juvenile detention center for a year. No warnings. No second chances.”
“What about the individual child’s rights?”
“What about the rights of the other kids in the school?” Dodd shot back at his questioner.
“Do you think this country has sufficient facilities to incarcerate the number of resulting offenders?”
“My feeling, son, is that if these kids knew about the punishment in advance, they wouldn’t
become
offenders.”
“All the same,” the reporter continued, “many of your platforms seem to advocate wholesale change.”
“I’m advocating change where it’s needed. I’m advocating change before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” chimed in a new voice.
“Too late for us who don’t want our society being dominated by the Billy Ray Polks. When are we gonna learn? When are we gonna stop fooling ourselves? This nation’s approaching free-fall and none of the people here in Washington seem to give enough of a damn to do anything about it.”
“Why are you here?” from a young female reporter.
“Ma’am?”
“In Washington, I mean, Mr. Dodd. What brings you to the capital?”
“I’m still trying to find somebody on either end of Pennsylvania Avenue to listen to what I’ve got to say.”
The female reporter was still standing. “Are you preparing to run for president?”
“The next election’s over two years away. I’m not sure the country can wait that long.”
“What’s the alternative?” raised a network Washington correspondent.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Dodd shot back, striding about the front of the room with fist pumping. “Better yet, let’s work it out together.” He stopped back at the television screen frozen with the picket sign reading LIFE. “We’ve got everything all screwed up and turned around in this country. For every person who’d hold this sign, there’s another hundred thousand who’d pull the switch on Billy Ray Polk. But where are they? Why do we never hear from them? Lots of them have even given up voting because they don’t believe
it makes a difference anymore. People are frustrated. People are angry.”
“What makes the picketers in front of San Quentin different from the ones who marched on the Capitol yesterday in support of you?” chimed in the voice of a male reporter.
Dodd turned his way and stopped. The room became dead quiet, except for the whir of camera motor drives.
“Plenty. The people who support me want to see this country built back up. These,” he said, thrusting an angry hand toward the frozen screen, “want to see it broken down even more than it is. And there’s lots of them out there, more than we can possibly realize. I’m talking about people who’ve just been looking for an excuse to bring this country down, son. I’ve seen them and I’ve felt them. A seamy underbelly that hates everything America is and stands for. They’re just waiting for their chance to do what they’ve always wanted to. And unless we shape up fast, we’re gonna give it to them.”
A collective murmur slid through the crowd, the reporters wondering if the impenetrable Sam Jack Dodd had at last been caught committing a Perotism.
“Are you talking about a
revolution
, sir?”
“No, I’m talking about random violence,” said Dodd, recovering nicely. “I’m talking about the Los Angeles riots of ’92 on a national scale. Do you think the country is equipped to respond to that? Of course not. So what choice do we have other than to take steps to avoid it?”
“By steps, you mean—”
“I mean setting things right and setting them right now. We need a system that works. We need a country that works. No more gridlock. No more compromising principles in favor of politics.”
“Spoken like a candidate for president, Mr. Dodd.”
At that, Sam Jack Dodd flashed the famous boyish grin that had become his trademark. “Too bad this isn’t an election year, son, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I remember him,” the Gainesville, Texas deputy told Johnny Wareagle late Saturday afternoon.
Johnny took the picture of Will Shortfeather back from his outstretched hand.
“He was here about two weeks ago, stirring up a nest of unpleasant memories,” the deputy continued, the tone of his voice indicating he was in no mood to rehash them either. “Was another deputy who talked to him.”
“He came to ask about a man named Traggeo.”
The deputy nodded.
“What happened in your town? What did Traggeo do here?”
“Was a little over a year ago. Got into a fight with four men in our local bar,” the deputy explained. “It didn’t last long. One of them’s dead. Two are still in the hospital. One of ’em be lucky if he keeps one of his eyes. The other can’t talk anymore on account of something happened to his throat. And the thing is they were tough guys, toughest this town had to offer anyway. It was almost like your friend knew that, like he went looking for them.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“But you know him.”
“I … know him.”
“And what he did don’t surprise you.”
“No.”
The deputy looked angry. “Your friend picked the fight. Four on one and he started it. Witnesses claim he was drunk.”
“That was probably the only thing that kept him from killing all of them.”
The deputy eyed Johnny briefly before resuming. “Somebody cracked him over the head with a bottle. Me and two other deputies get there and he’s still doing damage. Bar was closed for over a week to handle the repairs. We walk in and he’s got his hands on the head of the guy he almost blinded and is tearing at his hair, like he’s trying to rip off his scalp. Whooping it up the whole time. I think he was smiling.” The deputy’s gaze became one of suspicion. “He’s one of you, isn’t he, an Indian?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Looked it.”
“What happened next?”
“We drew our guns, told him to get his hands up. When he didn’t, I shot him in the shoulder. Slowed him down enough for us to get the cuffs on him. Son of a bitch pleabargained the charges down to manslaughter two or something, self-defense. Accepted the five years. He smiled through that, too.”
“You mean he’s in jail?”
“Huntsville State Penitentiary, far as I know, with four more years left on his sentence.”
McCracken shifted uneasily in his seat. Just over a day had passed since he had left Miami, and now, thanks to the files found in Bill Carlisle’s locker and information uncovered by Sal Belamo, he was on his way back.
“Any luck finding Johnny?” Blaine had asked Sal at the outset of that conversation.
“Nothing, boss. Seems to have made himself scarce, and that’s no easy trick for the big fella. You ask me, boss, what you’re after down there, be a good idea I come along in his place.”
“Love to have you, Sal, but I need you to track down H. William Carlisle again, and my feeling is that he won’t be as easy to find this time.”
“Why’s it so important we find him?”
“Because some of the files marked with yellow roses stretch up to 1980, even though Carlisle supposedly dropped out in 1978. Makes me think he may have decided to stick around for a while, after all, at least on the periphery. That means Carlisle might know a hell of a lot more than he told me about who’s going after the government.”
“Got something here that might help in that regard,” Belamo followed. “I just got a make on two sets of those prints you faxed me from Miami of the shooters at Cocowalk. Belonged to a couple of big old bad dudes who were part of a group called the Midnight Riders way back in the sixties. Ever hear of them?”
“I wasn’t around much in the sixties, Sal.”
“You didn’t miss much, let me tell you. Anyway, the Midnight Riders were made up of nuts even the Weather Underground and Students for a Democratic Society couldn’t control, what became known as the lunatic fringe. The Riders advocated a full-scale revolution. Enough people listened to keep gas in their engines. Their leader was one very mean bastard named Arlo Cleese.”
“Cleese … His file was one of those inside the locker, Sal, yellow rose and all.”
“Just the kind of dude Carlisle’s committee and the Trilat would have loved to see out of the way.”
“Only they couldn’t pull Yellow Rose off, and now maybe Cleese is back with a vengeance. Fits right into what Daniels hinted at and Bill Carlisle alluded to.”
“Say Cleese has been buying his gear from the Alvarezes, boss,” Belamo picked up. “Sounds like you showed up at the Coconut Grove when he was trying to cover his trail.”
“But he left me with a trail to follow in the process, didn’t he? Tap into Alvarez’s line and maybe I can trace the arms shipments that went Cleese’s way. Follow them all the way to the top.”
To accomplish that Blaine was returning to Miami to retrace the steps that had led him first to Vincente Ventanna
and then to Carlos Alvarez at Cocowalk in the minutes prior to the battle that had virtually destroyed the mall.
“Can I get you something to drink, sir?”
“Club soda,” McCracken said to the stewardess in the A-300 Airbus’s first-class section. “With a twist.”
She smiled and moved back toward the galley.
Blaine hadn’t had even a sip of alcohol since Vietnam over twenty years before. There were times over there when booze was the only thing that helped him get through, so much so that he swore off it entirely as soon as his service was finished. Maybe he was afraid drinking would bring the feeling of the war back to him. Maybe he was afraid of expanding the down-time dependence he had developed.
At last the big plane began to back away from the gate and start its taxi toward the runway. The flight had been delayed for nearly an hour, first by an anomalous on-board count apparently caused by a passenger who’d checked in and failed to get on the plane. Then a new cart of meals arrived to replace one that contained the wrong entrées. McCracken tried to relax through it all, but his thoughts wouldn’t let him.
He gazed down and saw his club soda resting in the proper slot on the center armrest. He didn’t even remember the stewardess bringing it. The seat next to him was empty, as were most in the first-class section. The captain came over the PA to report that they were rapidly climbing toward their cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. A flight attendant’s voice replaced the captain’s to announce that the meal would be served shortly.
An uneasy chill slid up McCracken’s spine. A passenger had checked in but not boarded. The new meal cart had been loaded
after
this anomaly had shown up.
The chill deepened.
Blaine’s thoughts tumbled through his brain. It was possible, even probable, that by now those he was pursuing had placed him with Tom Daniels in Rock Creek Park last night. And if they presumably knew that Daniels had uncovered
Operation Yellow Rose, and by association Arlo Cleese, the Miami connection would be obvious. But if Blaine was simply being watched, his tail should have been on board right now. Unless the tail’s failure to board indicated a different strategy had been opted for, the meals replaced in order for the opposition to place something else on the plane.
Blaine got up from his seat and moved through the curtain into the coach section of the plane. A pair of meal carts were being wheeled down either aisle, just behind the drink wagons. Flight attendants were politely asking the passengers for their choice of entrée and beverage. McCracken angled toward the meal cart in the left-hand aisle. He pretended to be patiently waiting to slide past it, uncertain at this point what his inspection could realistically entail, under the circumstances.
He might have remained uncertain if he hadn’t heard the voice of the flight attendant from the other aisle: “There’s one wedged in there. If you’ll just be patient, I’ll …”
McCracken slid sideways across a center row of four seats. He shoved the lowered tray tables upward, spilling two plastic cups of soda and jostling against the knees of the dismayed passengers.
In the neighboring aisle, the flight attendant was still struggling to free the jammed food tray. She seemed to have located the problem and was about to yank when Blaine snapped a hand down to hold her forearm in place.
“Sir?”
“Take your hand off the tray and remove it slowly.”
“What seems to be the problem here?” another flight attendant was asking.
McCracken ignored her. His eyes remained fixed on the blue-clad young woman whose hand was still resting on the stuck tray.
“Do as I told you.” And he squeezed her forearm just enough to force her to comply. The stewardess removed her arm slowly. A slightly older flight attendant who seemed to be in charge approached from the rear of the coach cabin.
“I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seat, sir.”
McCracken closed to within a foot of her and leaned forward. “I think there’s a bomb in the cart,” he said softly.
Fear and uncertainty mingled in the head flight attendant’s eyes. She looked back and forth from Blaine to the meal cart.
“You’re really going to have to return to your seat,” she repeated. “Please, sir.”
“Fine, as long as this cart comes with me.”
McCracken started to wheel the cart forward. The head flight attendant thought about trying to stop him, then simply helped steer the cart to avoid a commotion.
The captain was waiting back in the first-class cabin when Blaine slid the cart through the curtain. “I’m going to have to insist that you take your seat, sir. The alterna—”
“He says he thinks there’s a bomb in the meal cart,” the head flight attendant whispered.
“What?”
“Not thinks,” Blaine corrected, his hand feeling for the tray the younger stewardess thought was stuck. “It’s here, all right.” His face squinted as he struggled to reach in deeper. “And I … think … I’ve … found it.”
Several of the first-class passengers had turned toward him. The captain took a step closer to the meal cart to block their view of what McCracken was doing.
“Who
are
you?” the captain demanded.
“The man this bomb was placed here to kill. Also the man who might be able to disarm it.”
“
Disarm
it? If you’re right, I’m declaring an emergency and turning this plane around.”
“Probably not a good idea.”
“Get your hand out of there!”
McCracken removed it slowly, his cursory inspection completed. “Listen, Captain, unless I miss my guess this bomb was activated at a certain altitude and is rigged to explode when our descent eventually takes us to that same altitude again.”
The captain’s expression wavered. “How can we be sure?”
“I remove it for closer inspection.”
McCracken set up shop in the cramped confines of the first-class galley. A set of tools pulled from an emergency chest were at his disposal, along with steak knives and other utensils from the galley. With the help of the head flight attendant, whose name was Judy, and Captain Hollis, he removed all the trays in the cart except the ones in the immediate vicinity of the bomb. Then he angled himself backwards and with the help of a flashlight peered in at what remained.
The bomb was there, all right: sophisticated, a kind he had seen several times before. The wiring was all internal, connecting the microcircuits to four inlaid layers of C-4 plastic explosives. A pair of computer chips acted as the bomb’s brain and controlled its intricate sensor system. It was wedged against the back wall of the cart, built to the specifications of a food tray and attached to the ones immediately above and beneath it. The bomb was not rigged to timer detonation. It could be triggered either by the removal of one of the attached trays or, on the chance neither tray was withdrawn, by the change in pressure that accompanies descent to a certain altitude.
“Well?” the captain inquired when McCracken eased himself out.
“Hand me a steak knife and a screwdriver,” Blaine said to Judy before responding. Then he turned to Hollis. “Five minutes, Captain.”
Actually it was closer to ten. The sophisticated guts of the bomb were enclosed in a black steel casing, custom-drilled to allow the proper number of wires to be snaked out from it. It was affixed to the back of the cart with simple adhesive which Blaine was easily able to slice through. In fact, he felt the explosive slide free before he was ready.
“Captain,” he called.
“Right here.”
“I want you to reach into the cart and slide the two remaining trays outward when I tell you. I can’t take a chance on severing the wires connecting them to the bomb’s housing until I’ve had a closer look.”
Sweat dropped into McCracken’s eyes and he paused to blink it away.
“Okay, Captain. Reach inside and tell me when you’ve got the trays.”