Mortal Dilemma (20 page)

I was backing off, my gun still pointed at him. The whole action had taken no more than a minute or so. The front entrance was only three or four feet from where I was standing, separated from the bar by a permanently affixed narrow high-top table and four stools. I sensed the front door opening, and then J.D.'s voice, controlled and menacing. “What's going on, Matt?” She'd taken in the scene as she entered, processed it, and was ready to take action if needed.

“Not much,” I said. “This man is just leaving, but I want you to take a good look at him. He says he's going to rape you.”

“I didn't say ‘rape,' asshole. She'll be begging for it.”

I had to give it to him. He still had some fight left. J.D. came up beside me, held out her badge and said, “I'm Detective Duncan. Let me see some identification.”

“I don't have any on me and I'm not required by the United States Constitution to carry any.”

“Then I'll have to arrest you.”

Again, the laugh/growl. “On what grounds?”

“Public brawling.”

“Look at this situation. I've been hit in the face, choked and kneed in the balls by a man with a gun. How long do you think it'll take my lawyer to get me out and sue the shit out of your department?”

The man did have a point. “Let it go, J.D.,” I said. “But next time you see him, plug him. Call it self-defense.”

“Get out of here,” she said to the man. “Stay off my island.”

He grinned. “I'll leave, but you can't make me stay off the island. I'm a United States citizen. I got lots of rights you don't want to fuck with.”

I backed up and he walked out, bent a little as he favored his testicles. Just as he pushed open the door to the outside, he said, “We're not done, Royal.” He winked at J.D., grinned, said, “Later, babe,” and was gone.

“Nobody touch the beer bottle,” J.D. said. “I'll be right back.” She walked out the door.

“You might have underreacted there, buddy,” Logan said. “Probably should have shot him.”

“You're probably right,” I said. “I get the feeling that I'll have to deal with him again.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, “and you know what Jock always says: ‘Preventive maintenance.'”

Susie was standing behind the bar, pouring me a cold draft. She laughed. “I think you mean ‘preemptive strike.'”

“Well, it was something like that.”

J.D. returned with an evidence bag and latex gloves from the supply she always kept in her car. She pulled the gloves on, picked up the shards of the bottle, and put them in the bag. “I'll have the techs run his prints first thing in the morning,” she said.

“You were very ferocious, Matt,” Cracker said, his voice slurring some. He'd been here awhile, too. He and Logan always found a way to spend an otherwise boring afternoon. Cracker maintained that the more he drank, the less boring his day became. A sentiment to which Logan happily subscribed.

J.D. hugged him. “Cracker, you're a hoot, but if you think you saw ferocious just now, you should see Matt when his bacon isn't crisp enough.”

“A terrible sight, I'm sure,” Cracker said. “Why do you put up with him?”

“Probably the same reason you put up with Logan,” she said. “He responds on short notice.”

“Logan responds to offers of good whiskey. But you're not talking about scotch, are you?”

J.D. grinned and turned to me. “Are you okay, Matt?”

“Yeah. This has been a pisser of a day. Let's go home and I'll tell you all about it.”

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

T
HE DAY WAS
winding down. Night was approaching, and twilight enveloped the island. J.D. and I were snuggling on the sofa, the house lights dim. A commercial mullet boat, its running lights glowing in the dusk, ran north on the Intracoastal, headed for Cortez and home. A gibbous moon was poking its head above the eastern horizon, its beams casting a glow on the darkening surface of the bay.

“Do you know a lawyer in Orlando named D. Wesley Gilbert?” J.D. asked.

“Old D. Wesley. I know of him. I've never actually met him. We didn't exactly run in the same circles. Why?”

“What do you think of him?”

“He's a supercilious ass. Why are you asking about that idiot?”

“He's turned up in the Fortson case. Could he be dirty?”

“I've never heard anything like that, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was.”

“Why do you say that? That you wouldn't be surprised.”

“I never knew D. Wesley's dad or grandfather. They were both dead by the time I began practicing in Orlando. Everything I heard about them was good. They were first-rate lawyers and between them, over a period of fifty years, they built one of the largest firms in Florida. D. Wesley's dad was a decorated infantry officer in Europe during
World War II, and he came home and went to work with his father's firm. D. Wesley was born shortly after the war, went to law school and came back to the firm.”

“Sounds like quite a family. Why are you so down on D. Wesley?”

“He's an ass,” I said.

“You said that. Give me something more. Why do you think he's an ass?”

“He's one of those guys you meet every now and then who is the apple that fell a long way from the tree. He's pretty much the antithesis of his father and grandfather. He has a place in the firm, but he's just there. They don't let him do any legal work because he doesn't know how. The firm has continued to grow, but that's because of the other partners.”

“Doesn't he own the firm?”

“No. The firm grew so much and has so many partners, that no one owns even as much as 1 percent. He inherited a lot of money from his dad, but I doubt he gets paid much by the firm. He has an office there, but I don't think he even shows up much. He's rich and he's lazy, and that's a dangerous combination. I've heard from some of the partners in the firm that they pay him a salary with the stipulation that he stays out of their hair.”

“So, what does he do?”

“Plays a lot of golf and marries a new trophy wife every few years. He shows up at big social functions and likes to get his picture in the papers.”

“Is he rich on the same level that Fortson was?”

“I doubt it. I've heard rumors a few years ago that he might be headed for financial trouble. The law firm wasn't paying him anywhere near enough to finance his lifestyle. But then the rumors stopped. Maybe he'd come into some money. His grandfather had owned a lot of property in different parts of the country. People figured some of that sold and D. Wesley got the money.”

“He probably would have known Fortson,” J.D. said.

“Probably. Fortson was old-line Orlando, so more than likely they knew each other.”

“You didn't know anything about Peter Fortson?”

“I'd never heard of him. Some of Orlando's richest people, especially those who didn't earn their money, keep a low profile, spend a lot of time in other parts of the world traveling and living in third, or fourth or fifth homes. It's a tough life.”

“Enough of that,” she said. “You told me you'd had a bad day. Want to talk about it?”

I told her about my day, the killings, the information I'd gleaned from the people I'd talked to, Jock's condition, and the beginning of the confrontation in Tiny's. When I finished, she put her arm around me and pulled my head down to her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Matt.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know. I'm just sorry you had to go through all that. How do you feel about killing those three?”

“It's funny, J.D. I had to do it. I didn't have a choice. If I hadn't killed them, they would have killed me. But I've been in that situation before, and it always bothered me that I killed somebody. Not this time. I think the fact that all three of the men today were cold-blooded killers who would think nothing of taking out a nursery full of small children if it somehow fit into their worldview had a lot to do with my lack of remorse. Innocents will live because they died. Maybe it's more complicated than that. Maybe I should feel guilt or regret or something. But I don't. How about you and the guy you killed up in Gainesville? How did you square that?”

She sighed and leaned back on the sofa. “I don't know. I've mostly felt guilt at not feeling remorse, if that makes any sense. I think I should feel bad about killing that guy, even though he was trying to
kill me, but I don't. And that makes me feel guilty. Not for the killing, but for the lack of emotion.”

I shifted on the sofa and drew her close, wrapping my arms around her. She laid her head on my shoulder and said, “Are we losing our humanity, Matt? Are we becoming one of those people who can kill with impunity? If so, we're no better than the bad guys.”

“That's not us. Don't even think like that. In our own way, each of us, Jock, you, and me, are part of the thin line that separates us from barbarity, from those who would take us back to the dark ages of Europe. We're in a war for our very survival, and people die in battle. They're fanatics, and we'd probably have to kill every last one of them to win this one. Maybe we'll have to do that in the end. Or maybe this war will never see an end. It's a sobering thought.”

She sat up and looked at me. “Boy, you're a real cynic. Let's talk about something else. Tell me about Jock.”

“That's a puzzle. You know how he was last night, sort of resigned to his fate, not willing to do anything to protect himself, weird. He wasn't much different this morning when he got up, but when I brought him lunch, it was like he was a different person, detached from the world. It was like he'd gone deeper into a hole since I'd left him a few hours before. But when I brought Tariq, or Shaheed, out to Paul's place, I saw sparks of the old Jock. Then he just sort of collapsed and went in to take a nap.”

“Did you tell him about killing those men?”

“Yes and no. I didn't get a chance. At lunch, I asked if he wanted to hear about my morning and he put me off. Went right back to the silent TV. This afternoon, I told him about killing the sniper, and he seemed to be most interested in whether I'd killed the guy in cold blood. He said that would eat my soul. His words. ‘Eat my soul.'”

“Did you talk to Jock's boss about an in-house shrink at the agency?”

“I did. He said he'd send one down, but I suggested he wait until we get this mess taken care of and get Jock back to Longboat.”

“Do you really think he's safer down there with Paul Galis?”

“Nobody has any reason to suspect he'd be at Paul's place. I don't think Jock's in any danger, but he would be if he were staying here with me. He's such an easy mark for the terrorists. He won't defend himself or even try to avoid his assassins. I think he'd welcome death at their hands. In his mind, it would put the universe back in balance, establish a karmic equilibrium, or something like that.”

“What are we going to do?”

I looked at her for a long moment, holding her eyes. “You know I'm going to have to kill Youssef. His buddies, too. In cold blood, if necessary.”

She looked down, held it for a beat, and said, “I know.” Her voice was infinitely sad.

“Are you okay with that?” I asked.

“No, but I understand why you have to do it. You and Jock are caught in a mortal dilemma. You leave them alone and eventually they'll kill you and a lot of other innocents in the future. You have to kill the terrorists in order to save yourself and their potential victims. It's really a Hobson's choice. You actually only have one option. You have to kill them.

“I've about come to the conclusion,” she continued, “that killing those people would be the moral equivalent of stomping on a couple of roaches. But I'm worried more about how it will affect you. Will it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I worry about the same thing. We won't know until it's done. How will my killing those roaches affect you?”

“I'll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“What about us?”

“Nothing you do will change how much I love you, Matt.”

“That works for the Matt Royal you know now, but if I have to execute these bastards, I'll be a different person. I've watched Jock over the years and I know the killing is corrosive. You can't do that and walk away. The killings are like acid. They eat away at you until there's nothing left. I think that's where Jock is right now.”

“That hasn't changed your feelings for Jock,” she said. “Why do you think it might change my feelings about you?”

“Because, if it did, I wouldn't want to live.”

“And if you, or we, don't take them out, they'll get us.”

“And what about the justice system? Do we ignore the law and just kill these guys?”

“Matt, I'm coming to the very reluctant conclusion that maybe our legal system isn't geared to take on terrorism.”

“You might be right. That's where Jock and people like him come in.”

“I worry that we as a society may be sinking into the muck, and that we might never get out.”

That cold reflection from my girl, the cop whose life was wrapped up in the law and the system, who believed deeply that justice worked only when left to the judicial system, made me sad. She was beginning to make exceptions to her understanding of the rule of law. It was a bit like watching a beautiful butterfly regress into an ugly caterpillar.

“Let's talk about something else,” I said. “Tell me what's going on with the Fortson investigation.”

J.D. told me about her day, the frustrations, the dead ends in the investigation, her concern about the man who tried to break into her condo. “I wonder if the man at Tiny's might be the same guy that Sue and Marylou saw running from the property.”