Gundown (17 page)

Joe exchanged glances with Sally and then nodded. “See you around.”

Hank got up and, to the strains of
Swan Lake
filtering through pine trees, left them. They were good people.

He hoped they wouldn’t get in his way.

• • •

It was late in the evening when Jewel rose with the rest of the audience in the Oregon Cabaret Theater to give the singers a standing ovation. She flashed a smile at Earl and got one in return. The performance of “My Way,” a musical tribute to Frank Sinatra, had been one rush of delight after another. “That Old Black Magic” was so good, it had given her shivers.

When the applause died out and the audience began leaving, Earl said, “Want to meet the cast?”

“Oh, yes!” What a treat—the perfect dessert since she sure didn’t have any room left in her belly for more food. She’d never eaten anything as good as her coconut cashew chicken, although a taste of Earl’s pan-fried catfish had run a close second.

On the way down from the tier that held their table for two, she once again marveled at how an old church had been transformed into a theater. Even the stained-glass windows somehow blended perfectly with the huge crystal chandelier that Earl said came from an old movie palace.

As they approached the stage, a long-haired man with a swishy way of walking rushed at Earl. With a big smile, he shook Earl’s hand and said, “Your set is great! The actors love working it.”

Jewel turned to Earl. “You didn’t tell me you did the set.”

He shrugged. “It’s in the program.”

The long-haired man eyed Jewel and said, “Please tell me that you dance, sing, or act.”

Jewel laughed. “Nope, not a stitch of talent.”

With an exaggerated sigh he said, “Too bad.”

Earl said, “Wesley, don’t you ever stop being a director? Meet my friend Jewel. We’re on our way backstage.”

Wesley shook her hand. “Please come again.”

After meeting the cast and wondering how such regular-seeming people could do such amazing things, Jewel stepped from the theater into a cool evening. Even though it was ten o’clock, trickles of conversations and sprinkles of laughter came from other theatergoers sauntering down the sidewalk. A sense of belonging settled on her.

Partly because of the wine they had shared at dinner, but mostly because of the show and Earl’s company, Jewel’s spirits were high, relaxed, and easy. A breeze caressed her face, and they walked in silence.

A pretty blond woman came up to Earl. She hit Jewel with a chilly glance, then lavished a warm smile on him. “Earl! Haven’t seen you for a while.”

Resenting the invasion, Jewel edged closer to Earl. It pleased her when he didn’t stop to talk. He said, “Been real busy, Stephanie. See you around.”

As they strolled, Earl reached for her hand, and she welcomed the feeling of his skin on hers.

“Thank you, Earl, for everything. It was a wonderful evening.”

“My pleasure.”

A black SUV drove past as they waited to cross Main Street. Hank Soldado was at the wheel. Jewel shivered.

Earl said, “You cold?”

She shook off a dark feeling. “No. I’m fine.”

“You might want to bring a sweatshirt or something to the Alliance meeting tomorrow. It gets cool in the park when the breeze comes down off the mountain.”

“I will. I saw Noah speak in Chicago. He’s good.”

“Yeah?” A streetlight put a gleam in his eyes. “Should be interesting.”

Time to Beard the Lion

Marion’s intercom buzzed. “There’s a Mr. Cy Ligon here to see you. He didn’t have an appointment, but—”

“Send him in.”

The FBI agent hurried in and plopped his briefcase on her desk. “Sorry to drop in on you, but I just got urgent marching orders, gotta help identify some assault rifles down in Alabama, a KKK rally got out of hand and some good ol’ boys shot up a kindergarten in a black community.” Ligon took out the red stopper she had given him and said, “I wanted to give you my results on this before I left.”

He opened the stopper and took out a nap cartridge. “Notice any difference?”

She examined it. “Looks the same.”

He slipped it back into the weapon and pointed to the three-round chamber. “I loaded these first two nap rounds with the liquid form of VX gas. It’s a lethal nerve agent Saddam Hussein used on the Iranians. Hit somebody with this, they’re dead real fast.”

“You actually did it.”

“Yeah.” He snapped the weapon shut. “This little gadget can be deadly, but you have to get close.”

She said, “Thanks, Cy.”

“My pleasure.” He handed the stopper to her. “See you.” He rushed away.

So Noah Stone’s little world wasn’t so perfect after all. The little gun felt good in her hand, though. It did seem like it would be good to have handy for protection. She decided she’d reload the gun with the real ammo and keep it in her apartment. She slipped the stopper and the little case of cartridges into her purse.

She buzzed her secretary. “Samantha, get me on a flight to Ashland, Oregon. Today.”

It was time she saw the Constitution-killer in person.

Death in a Park

On the evening of Noah’s speech in the park, Hank drove to the Alliance campus to take him to the meeting. Light illuminated Noah’s tower room. From the parking lot he could see Noah at his desk, and so could a gunman. If he were really doing a security job, he’d have to introduce the man to the concept of window coverings. That Earl guy he’d met at Hatch’s place could be creeping around with a rifle . . . No, the militia boys said they wanted Noah’s killing to be public.

Like at tonight’s event.

He parked, and jogged inside. He climbed the spiral staircase unimpeded. Why wasn’t there an electronic lock on the front door for after-hours?

Noah was shaking something granular from a jar onto a small piece of paper. Hank caught the distinctive aroma of high-resin marijuana.

Noah glanced up and smiled. “Hey, Hank. Just a minute.” Hank watched as he crafted an expert joint. Hank read heavy tension in the man’s eyes and a tightness in his face.

Noah lifted the joint. “For after the meeting. I never do this stuff when I have to use my brain for anything more complicated than walking. But you’re driving, and a toke after a night like tonight takes the edge off.” He smiled. “It’s nice living in a civilized state with legal weed.” He slipped the joint into a wooden case.

“Tell me about it,” Hank said. “Where I live we have medical marijuana, but it’s not approved to treat PTSD yet.” When Noah raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “Ah, I get it from friends there, and I visited a dispensary here.”

Noah nodded. “Well, if I can help, let me know.” He stood and took a deep breath. “I hate this.”

“You hate what?”

Noah waved a hand toward the town lights.

“Meetings?”

“Speeches. Sometimes it makes my guts cramp up for hours before. And it’s worse now.” He looked to Hank. “That attack in Chicago and then having a pistol pointed at my head here, where I live . . .” Noah gazed out a window, then turned back to Hank. “Tonight is a test. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“You do what you have to do.”

Noah took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

Yeah, you do what you have to do. Hank wondered if he would have to do anything to Noah Stone. The man had courage.

Clusters of pedestrians strolled in the street that led to the band shell, slowing the drive to the parking area closest to the stage. Hank spotted the barefoot receptionist, Becky, waving from a parking place he’d sent her to hold. She carried a hand-printed sign that read, “Noah’s Spot.”

When Noah saw her, he frowned at Hank. “I don’t want any privileges.”

“Security. The shorter the walk, the less the exposure.” He had to do something to make Stone think he had a new security man.

Noah sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

As soon as Noah stepped out, a dozen people swarmed around him with greetings and questions. Instinctively, Hank put his hand on the pistol inside his Windbreaker and moved toward Noah.

Noah lifted his hands high. The voices silenced. He smiled widely. “I’d love to talk with each of you, but as you can see, there may be one or two too many.”

The crowd chuckled. Hank relaxed and let go of the gun butt.

“If you have questions, ask them during my talk. If you want to visit, come see me during office hours. Okay?”

Hank braced himself to force a way through the throng, but the people surprised him by dispersing and hurrying to find places on the lawn in front of the band shell.

As he led Noah toward the stage, a cop approached. Noah said, “Hey, Tom.”

Tom nodded and said, “Hey, Mr. Stone. Crowd seems okay.” His gaze shifted to Hank, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you.”

Noah said, “Tom Stevens, meet Hank Soldado. He’s helping me with security.”

Tom put his hand out for a shake, and Hank took it. “Glad to have you, Mr. Soldado.” The officer smiled at Noah and then strolled away, his gaze sweeping the crowd. Hank liked his alert manner.

Noah mounted the stage and accepted a cordless microphone from the bearded guy Hank had seen running sound for the ballet. At the stage’s rear, two young men and two young women wielded guitars, a keyboard, and drums to make the happy music Hank had heard at the Alliance rally in Chicago.

Hank surveyed the crowd—maybe sixty or seventy people filled the sloping lawn in front of the stage in orderly rows and talky clumps, clustered on blankets or sitting in low folding chairs. They were young and old, white and yellow and brown and black. Clean and upbeat, they reminded him of the people he had seen at the Alliance rally in Chicago. And they were too close to the stage for decent security.

But Noah’s security wasn’t really Hank’s problem, was it? On the other hand, he had taken the job, hadn’t he? He was on alert and couldn’t have shut down even if he’d wanted to. Duty was duty.

• • •

At the fringe of the crowd, Marion sat on her jacket and leaned back on her hands. Even though she was on a mission, it was hard to avoid feeling at ease when you sat on soft green grass surrounded by trees, blue sky overhead, and people having a good time.

Despite her feelings about Noah Stone’s policies, she found herself wanting to hear more from him. That could come soon—he had left a sharp-eyed, sturdy-looking guy who had to be security and strolled onto the stage.

One thing marred the peaceful scene, though—little guns in holsters on belts, the stoppers she’d had Cy Ligon look into. They were supposed to be nonlethal, but Cy had put the lie to that. She studied Stone’s security guy. She focused and spotted the telltale bulge of a shoulder holster under his jacket, a lump far too big to be a stopper. So even though Stone advocated against real guns, his staff carried them. Sorta hypocritical.

Whatever. She shifted her gaze to a young woman helping her baby stand. No one paid Marion any attention, and she felt like a regular person. It was nice.

• • •

Hank did the swift, look-for-inconsistencies scan that had become second nature to him. About a third of the audience wore stoppers in plain sight. He didn’t see the little weapons as dangerous. Or particularly useful. Hank liked the reassuring weight of his .45, snug in its shoulder holster, loaded with good old lead slugs.

At the top of the slope, Joe Donovan and Sally Arnold stood on each side. Good to see them there. He caught Joe’s eye and got the faintest of nods. Guy was sharp. Interesting that pros like him and Sally were in Stone’s camp.

He glimpsed a beauty he recognized; Jewel Washington sat on a blanket, gazing with a frown of concentration at Noah. Next to her, sitting with his legs crossed Indian-style, was Earl Emerson. Hank couldn’t see a weapon, but Emerson wore a denim shirt open over a T-shirt, tail out.

He seemed as absorbed as Jewel. But Hank had seen the rage behind Earl’s pleasant facade at Rick Hatch’s house. Was he here to take his shot? Scouting for a future attempt? Or just courting Jewel?

• • •

Jewel couldn’t remember feeling this relaxed in years. The crowd’s mood was part of it—she’d been greeted with smiles when she’d spread a blanket borrowed from Franklin on the grass. All of it—the surrounding green of trees and the cool, clean air laced with the scent of pine—felt like the way people ought to live.