“So you definitely had the goods on Evan McCloskey. Only instead of busting him, you went to him with a deal: Your silence for a healthy piece of the proceeds.”
Again, that pained smile. “I figured, what the hell, there was nothin’ for me back in DC. And I hated my damn job. Paperwork. Bureaucracy. All that bullshit. So me and McCloskey came to an understanding…”
“What kind of understanding?”
He looked down at the drink in his hand. “Well, I guess I was plain greedy. I told him I was gonna go public with the evidence about his firm’s illegal practices. Then I said I wanted ten million dollars to keep what I knew to myself. And, by God, I got it.”
“Pretty dangerous game to play, wasn’t it?”
“Not really. I’ve investigated guys like McCloskey all my life. White collar criminals, they call ’em. And for good reason. They’ll happily rob widows and orphans of their pensions, or steal intellectual property from their rivals. But they ain’t gonna kill nobody. They don’t got the stomach for it. Or the knack. Truth is, when things finally go belly-up, ain’t unusual for a lot of ’em to put a gun in their mouths. Or jump out the window of their fancy corner office.”
“Still, ten million’s a lot of money.”
Stubbs laughed bitterly. “Not for McCloskey. Based on what I uncovered, his firm’s paid more’n that in bribes to government officials. Or to get a competitor’s top guy to give ’em some inside info. Hell, afterwards, I realized I shoulda hit him up for more.”
He grimaced suddenly, holding his stomach.
“Not that I give a shit anymore about the money,” he went on, with difficulty. “Soon as I got it, I set up anonymous trust funds for my kids—they think it’s from some distant rich relative. So, to answer your question, that’s where the money went. My ex-wife died soon after I settled here, so there was nothin’ much I could do for her. But I wanted to provide for my sons. Bums, like I said, but I figured they got a bum father first.”
He finished the rest of his drink. Then, slumping, he fell silent, haggard face half-hidden beneath his cap.
“But why stay in Harville?” I asked. “You could’ve taken the money and gone anywhere.”
He turned his head, glanced out at the sloping hills fading behind lengthening afternoon shadows.
“I liked it here,” he said. “It’s quiet.”
“So why not settle down and live a life of leisure? Why run for sheriff?”
“Tell ya the truth, after a while I got kinda bored. Even with this nice house and all. Plus I was shackin’ up with this beautician at the time. Big red-head. Tits out to here. Life was good. But I was goin’ nuts.”
Stubbs drained his glass. “I figured McCloskey’d be only too happy to have the local law in his pocket, so I went to him and suggested he stake me for a run during the next election. I guess he saw some merit to the idea, ’cause he went along with it and helped elect me sheriff of Harville.” He pointed his glass at me. “And, listen, I was a damn good sheriff. I always liked catching the bad guys.”
“Except for the one you were blackmailing.”
Stubbs gave a short, angry laugh. “See, it’s that kinda remark that makes me wanna get out my rifle again.”
He reached for the pitcher of spiked lemonade and refilled his glass, while I silently cursed myself. I’d counted on a kind of brash, “no bullshit” directness as being the best way to keep Stubbs talking. But I’d overplayed it.
Stubbs was the one who’d used the word “confession,” because as his days grew short he
wanted
to confess. But I had to be smart enough to let him disclose his sins in his own time, and in his own self-satisfied fashion.
“But this was all many years ago, right?” I went on carefully. “What’s the connection with Sinclair? With the campaign going on now?”
He sipped his drink, wincing as it sluiced down his gullet. “I’m gonna be needing my pain medicine soon. Can’t go too many hours without it nowadays.”
I took a step toward him. Insistent, but not crowding him. “Are you still keeping tabs on McCloskey somehow?”
“Maybe. Maybe I got someone on the inside at the firm. Over in Harrisburg. Just in case I’m not as good a judge of character as I think.”
This took me by surprise, but I didn’t let it show.
Tried not to, anyway.
“Sam Weiss said you’d heard something incriminating. Something McCloskey said about buying Sinclair.”
“You bet I did. Heard a couple interesting conversations. On a real nifty digital recording.”
“Made by someone in the firm? Someone close to Evan McCloskey?”
He stroked his mustache. “What do they call those guys in all the spy movies? ‘Moles.’ You might say I have a mole inside McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz.”
“Who is it? One of the other partners? Some junior associate?”
“Now I can’t tell you that, and you don’t need to know. The important thing is the recording, which I got. Or which I
had
, before I destroyed it.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I transferred it to a CD first. Easier to hide.” He paused. “I made a copy, too. Got it stashed somewhere far away from here. Just in case.”
“Okay. But what’s on it, exactly?”
“Enough. McCloskey’s firm represents some of the biggest companies in the country. Financial groups. Manufacturers. Software giants. People who have a vested interest in how tax laws are being written. How employment practices are overseen. People who’d like a governor in their pocket, to make sure they have a path cleared for expanding their businesses in that state.”
A mocking smile. “I sure hope I’m not shocking you with all this, son.”
“No. To quote a friend of mine, politics is a dirty business.”
“It sure as hell is—
if
you’re doin’ it right. I spent enough years in DC to learn that. Anyway, on one part of the CD, McCloskey tells some corporate client of his that Sinclair is in the bag. That once he became governor, the state was going to be very accommodating. Very partial to this particular client’s interests.”
I didn’t risk glancing at my watch, but I could tell from the spreading shadows that it must’ve been close to six by now. Where the hell was Sam?
“This mole of yours,” I said casually. “Why is he helping you? What’s in it for him? Or her, I guess.”
“Money, that’s what. It’s why most people do most things, son. Thought a professional man like yourself would’ve figured that out by now. He’s doing it for the money. A
lot
of money, I admit. But I can afford it.”
I took a last swallow of my drink, which he noticed. But I waved away his offer to refill it.
“But what about
you
, Stubbs? Why contact Sam Weiss? Surely you don’t care whether or not Sinclair wins.”
“I told you, I don’t give a damn about some bullshit election. I just want the truth about McCloskey to come out. I want to die with my conscience clean. Or as clean as I can make it.”
My voice hardened. “Then we’ll need to hear what’s on that CD. Sam won’t run the story without hard evidence.”
“I know that. And I’m gonna give it to him. When he gets here.
Him
, not you.”
Stubbs and I exchanged wary looks. I knew better than to push him, but I was suddenly having trouble figuring out what to say next. My thoughts seemed scattered. Unfocused.
I took a long breath, to steady myself. Put out my hand and gripped the porch railing.
A hawk circled overhead, shadow flitting against the light vanishing over the hills.
Stubbs was reaching for the bottle again, but I stopped him. He looked at me for a moment, as though about to argue, when another spasm of pain bent him over.
“Look,” I said, “where do you keep your medication?”
“Bedroom,” he gasped, as I helped him to one of the two cedar chairs. “On the bureau.”
His head lolled a bit, as if he too were having a hard time concentrating. Unless it was just the pain, growing in intensity. Spreading its tendrils.
My own head spinning, I pressed my thumbs to my temples. Tried to collect myself.
Taking quick, shallow breaths, I went into the house. Fumbling in the dark, it took me half a minute to find a light switch. Then, another thirty seconds to make my way to the nearest bedroom, to find the right medicine among a dozen similar prescription bottles.
The print on the bottle was small and fine. Blurring now, as I stared at it. What the hell was wrong with me?
Suddenly, I heard a loud thump come from the direction of the porch.
Shit.
I knew I had to hurry back. Stubbs must have passed out, fallen from the chair.
I turned from the bureau, prescription bottle in hand. Heading for the door. Trying to. But my feet wouldn’t move. My legs were wobbling, suddenly. Folding under me.
Too late, I realized what was happening. That I’d been drugged. That Stubbs and I had both—
And then the whole world seemed to spin in a whirl of dark, formless images. Turning, dissolving.
And then was gone.
I was vaguely conscious of a sound. High-pitched, rhythmic. A steady creaking. Like a rocking chair on a hardwood floor.
Dust swirled in front of my eyes as I forced them open. At first all I saw were dim, blurred shapes. Then, slowly, definition. The dull edge of a weed scythe, propped against a wall. The curve of a bucket. Hay bales.
I was in the barn.
I raised my head, blinked into wakefulness. My eyes burned in the harsh white glare of two flood-lights clamped to a nearby saw-horse.
The creaking sound seemed louder now, closer. It was in front of me, and just above. I looked up.
Henry Stubbs was hanging by the neck from the topmost rafter. Swaying gently. The thick noose knotted at his throat distorted one side of his face, compressed it, while the rest of his body hung limply, almost languidly. He looked oddly, hideously, at peace.
No,
I thought.
Pretty bullshit. Solace for the living. He just looked dead.
It was then that I realized I was sitting down. On the hard, sawdust-covered floor. With my hands tied firmly behind my back. Just as I had been before, in the OR at Pittsburgh Memorial. Only this time, I was held by some kind of thick rope. And my feet had been left unbound.
I squeezed my eyes shut, as if I could somehow will away the dulling effects of the drug in my brain.
Then, drawing a deep breath, I tried to move, to wriggle free of the rope. But got nowhere.
“One thing they teach you at Blackwater,” a voice behind me said, “is how to tie a knot. You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Doc.”
I recognized his voice before he stepped in front of me, back-lit by the floods. Tall, broad-shouldered, he eclipsed the light with his bulk.
Wheeler Roarke.
He took a step toward me, raising his good right arm. A .357 Magnum gripped in his hand. Which didn’t make sense. I couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten hold of one.
Then, favoring the bandaged arm curled at his side, he bent down, peered at me with a kind of dull curiosity.
“Life’s funny, ain’t it?” He scratched his nose with the gun barrel. “I mean, imagine my surprise when I see you in town earlier today. Just as I’m on my way to pay ol’ Sheriff Henry here a visit myself.”
He smiled coolly and straightened up. Rolled his shoulders. No longer wearing the torn and bloodied security guard’s shirt, he’d changed into an extra-large work shirt. Probably to give his injured arm better mobility. Smart.
Which Roarke obviously was. Able to improvise in the field. Think on his feet.
But, as I’d learned at the hospital, also easy to dope out. He liked to think of himself as imposing. Needed to see the fear in his captive’s eyes.
And I’d be damned if I’d give him any.
Roarke side-stepped a little, gestured toward the body of Henry Stubbs. Its remorseless swaying sent sharp-angled shadows scurrying around the interior of the barn.
“Now the key to rigging a hanging,” he said, “is to make sure the guy’s unconscious first, before you string him up. Otherwise, it’s a bitch gettin’ his head into the noose, what with him clawin’ and fightin’ you the whole time. Not to mention all the forensics that leaves behind.”
I squinted up at him. “Any decent M.E. will spot the residue of drugs in his system.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Stubbs was takin’ so many meds, it’d be a bitch sortin’ ’em all out. Especially given what we used. Great stuff. Tasteless, odorless. Barely detectable. One of my favorite souvenirs from Iraq.”
“How’d you do it? Slipped it into the lemonade? It’s been sitting out on the porch since noon, Stubbs told me. Maybe when he was away from the house…”
Roarke smiled. “Outstanding, Doc. While Sheriff Henry was takin’ pot shots at you out on the north forty or whatever the fuck you call it, I was here spikin’ the lemonade. I just waited till the housekeeper left and went up on the porch. Easy as pie.”