He knelt down in the water behind the car to try to figure a way out. He had to come up with something quickly, he knew, because the cops would be on him any second. As he crouched there, considering his options, his left hand brushed against something soft and silky as it dangled in the water. He looked down and saw the girl’s head, and suddenly he had hope.
He reached down and grabbed her hair, pulling her head up out of the water. She hacked out a mouthful of water, and he thanked God she was still alive. He put the gun to her temple and his finger to his lips, ordering her to be silent. Then he pulled her around to the other side of the fountain so they were concealed from the police.
He held her there for a few moments, listening as the two cops searched the submerged car. Then when it was clear that he was out of time, he stood, grabbing the girl around the throat, and stepped out from behind the statue.
The two cops saw him instantly and raised their guns. He pulled the girl up so that she provided a shield for as much of his body as possible. “Drop your guns,” he ordered.
Neither of them moved, and he pressed his pistol harder into the girl’s temple. “I said drop your guns,” he repeated. “Otherwise the girl dies.”
It was the white cop who spoke first. “It’s not gonna happen. Where do you think you can go? Give it up, now!” he yelled.
Salvage moved around the statue at the center of the fountain, keeping the girl in front of him. “I said drop your guns!” he demanded again.
“Amanda, are you okay?” the black cop called to the girl.
She nodded, pulling against Salvage’s arm. “I’m okay,” she responded.
“She won’t be for long, if you don’t drop your guns,” Salvage said. “As I’ve already explained to her, I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Sure you do,” the younger cop said. “You can cut a deal, and put Venable in jail forever. That should be worth living for.
For all we know, everyone back at the house is all right,” he lied. “You might get out of this with a few years in a cushy minimum-security pen.”
Salvage laughed. “You missed your calling, Detective. You should’ve been an actor. I’m not buying it; I’m walking out of here right now, and I’m taking the girl with me. Either that or we both die.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Amanda.” The enormous older detective was trying to reassure her.
“No it’s not,” the girl responded. “I don’t care anymore. Just make sure of one thing, okay?”
“What is it, sweetheart?” The younger cop tried to make his voice calm, but he was clearly scared. “Tell me.”
She shifted her head against Salvage just slightly to the left as she stared at the white detective. “Don’t miss him,” she said.
And then, without warning, she was in motion.
“No!” Salvage heard both of the other men scream, but it was too late. She ducked as she swung her elbow in back of her, connecting with the soft spot at the bottom of Salvage’s rib cage. The gun went off, and Salvage saw her head snap back as she dropped into the water, motionless at his feet.
Salvage hardly knew what was happening. He looked down and saw the dark red spreading out from the small figure in the water below him. Then he looked up and saw the two cops, their guns still pointed at him. He stumbled back toward the statue, raising his gun as his feet slipped from beneath him. He thought he might get off one good shot at least. He was wrong.
The hail of bullets took him instantly as the smoke rose from the two detectives’ guns. Salvage felt his body lifted off the ground and thrown back into the statue.
He lay there for a moment, looking up at the sky as the life drained out of him, mixing with the water as it swirled in the fountain. The two detectives appeared above him, hovering. They were shouting at him as they pulled the girl from the water, holding her to their chests, applying pressure to her wound as they worked furiously to keep the life in her. But he was beyond hearing. Sound went first, and then his sight began narrowing, until the only thing he could see was the white cop’s face. He was yelling at him, and, stripped of distractions, Salvage could read his lips clearly. “Give us Venable!” he was shouting over and over.
If he’d had the strength, Salvage would have laughed, but as it was, all he could do was smile wanly as the blood belched up in his throat and out through his teeth. It was nice, he thought, at least to have the last laugh.
C
ASSIAN SAT ON THE COUCH
next to Train in Amanda’s hospital room. He kept a watchful eye on Sydney, who hadn’t left her niece’s side since they’d wheeled her out of surgery. Sydney’s head was down, and her eyes had the glazed look of someone whose system was shutting down bit by bit, but she refused to budge.
Captain Reynolds walked in and motioned to both detec
tives. Train got up and left the room; Cassian walked over behind Sydney and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Go,” she said. “You still have work to do. And you know where I’ll be.”
He walked out and found his partner in a conference room down the hall. Reynolds was there, too, sitting grim-faced as Chief Torbert stormed back and forth across the room. “Do you know how many calls my office has gotten about this mess?” he was shouting.
“How many?” Train asked dryly. Reynolds shook his head, clearly of the opinion that sarcasm wouldn’t improve anyone’s situation.
“A lot!”
Reynolds looked at Cassian. “How’s the girl?” he asked.
Cassian shrugged. “In a way, she was lucky. The bullet missed her head and hit her in the neck. A little higher and there wouldn’t have been any point. It severed an artery, though, and she lost a lot of blood. It’s gonna be touch and go for a while.”
Reynolds nodded. Then he turned back to Torbert. “I understand your frustration, Chief,” he said. “But there’s nothing else that could’ve been done, and any suggestion you have to the contrary is pure fantasy.”
Torbert stopped pacing. He seemed to consider this, and then said, “Okay, I suppose you’re right. But I want this thing wrapped up by the end of tomorrow.”
“What?” Cassian moved toward Torbert menacingly. “You want it wrapped up by when?”
Torbert shrunk back, but held to his edict. “To—mor—row! That make it clear enough for you?”
“And how do you expect us to conclude our investigation by then, Chief?” Train asked.
“What’s to investigate, Detective?” Torbert asked, ignoring Train’s tone. “All your goddamned suspects are dead. From what you’ve told me, it looks like Elizabeth Creay’s ex had her killed to blackmail Mrs. Chapin over custody of the granddaughter. Mrs. Chapin took it on herself to off the ex, and then this private detective killed her. Who’s left?”
“We still need to figure out who Salvage was working for,” Cassian seethed.
“Who the fuck cares?” Torbert yelled. “What does it matter whether he was working for Creay or for Chapin? They’re both dead!”
“Beg your pardon, Chief,” Train interrupted, “but if he was working for Creay, why would he hang around after he was killed? And if he was working for Chapin, why would he kill her?”
“Same answer: who—the—fuck—cares? Maybe he was working for Creay, and he was pissed that Mrs. Chapin had killed his meal ticket. Or maybe he was working for Mrs. Chapin and he killed her by accident when he was trying to kill the daughter. We’ll never know now, will we?”
Cassian shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “He might have been working for someone else. We need to at least check it out.”
Torbert’s sights lasered in on Cassian. “Who else could he possibly have been working for?”
“I’m thinking Venable,” Train offered, taking the bullet for his partner.
Torbert turned on him. “And I’m thinking, Detectives, that if I hear anyone suggest that again, I’ll have them up on charges.”
“Charges of what?” Cassian demanded.
“Don’t fuck with me. You’re talking about one of the most powerful men in the country—quite likely our next president—and you want to tar him with this shit?”
“His father ran the Institute for years. Willie Murphy was killed up there, Elizabeth Creay visited there, and Sydney Chapin was attacked up there. He’s the only person who connects the dots.”
“There are no goddamned dots! All you’ve got is rank speculation and your own suspicions. Do you have anything that qualifies as evidence of Venable’s involvement?” Train was silent. “I didn’t think so.” Torbert looked back and forth between Train and Reynolds. “Willie Murphy is not our problem; the Virginia State Police are handling that. And without any evidence, this department is not going to investigate Senator Venable. Am I making myself clear?” No one answered. “Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. After that, this case is closed.” Torbert looked briefly
at Reynolds and then walked out of the office.
“That went well, I think,” Reynolds said.
“It’s fun to watch his tail twitch, at least,” Cassian said.
“As unfortunate as it may seem, if he aims that little rat tail at you, you will feel the sting,” Reynolds said.
“You telling us to drop this, Cap?” Train asked directly.
Reynolds shook his head. “No, I’m saying that if you want to find something on Venable, find it quickly.”
z
“Let’s think this through,” Train was saying.
Cassian had too much on his mind to think anything through effectively. First and foremost, he was concerned about Sydney. She was leaning her elbows on the chair by the side of Amanda’s bed, barely able to keep her head up. The tear tracks seemed permanently etched into her cheeks, though she’d managed to stanch the grief over her mother’s death and seemed to be de
voting all her strength and focus to Amanda. She had said almost nothing since the violence at the Chapin mansion. Cassian had wanted to take her home, but she insisted on staying until they knew more about Amanda’s condition.
“Your mother killed Leighton because he was blackmailing her and she thought he’d killed your sister; but once she found out that Liz was investigating the Institute, she seemed pretty sure that Liz’s death was somehow connected to that investigation. This scumbag private detective—Salvage—he was clearly involved in all this, but probably just as a hired hand; that seems to be his reputation, anyway. He followed Sydney out to the Institute, though, so that ties him in to the Willie Murphy murder in all likelihood. But how do we prove Venable’s involved?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Sydney said, fresh tears running down her face. “All I want is for Amanda to be all right. She’s the only family I have left in the world; I’d be willing to forget all this if only she’d wake up.”
Jack touched her shoulder, saying nothing.
Train cleared his throat. “I understand how you feel. But we can’t do anything to help her now. All we can do—all I can do—is to make sure the bastard pays for this.”
Jack put a hand to his forehead. “His father ran the Institute for years, and he stood to lose the most if anyone went public with anything really bad about the place.”
“That’s motive, not proof,” Train pointed out. “How do we nail him?”
“Follow the money,” Sydney said quietly, her tears having subsided for the moment.
“What?” Train sounded startled.
“We’re in Washington, after all,” she said. “Might as well take Deep Throat’s advice and follow the money. If Salvage was a hired hand, someone must’ve been paying him.”
Train shook his head. “We issued subpoenas a few days ago for his bank records, after you found his wallet, but we’ve been getting the runaround from the lawyers. ‘Right of privacy’ . . . ‘due process’ . . . bullshit like that.”
“He’s dead now,” Sydney said, her voice cracking. “I’m not sure the dead have any due process rights—or at least none that he’s likely to assert. Call them again, and there’s probably nothing they can do anymore.”
Train rubbed his chin. “I hadn’t had time to think about that, but you’re probably right. Now that he’s dead, we shouldn’t have any problems getting the bastards to cooperate. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours,” he speculated.
“It’s worth a shot,” Cassian agreed. He was just happy to have Sydney pulling out of her despair. “If you concentrate on
that, I’ll go back to the Institute to take another look around.”
“You have anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Not really. Liz’s notes suggested that she thought there were new experiments going on up there. I think I’ll just do some poking around. Maybe I’ll talk to Mayer, too; if there’s anything going on, I’d bet my paycheck he’s involved. He seemed a little too eager to chalk Willie Murphy’s death up to an overdose. There may be more that he’s not telling us.”
“Sounds good,” Train said. “I’ll probably have the financial records before you get down there, so call us from the Institute and I’ll let you know what we’ve found.”
Cassian looked at Sydney, who still had the glazed-over look of a Holocaust survivor as she hovered over her niece’s bed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re going to find out who’s responsible for all this.”
C
ASSIAN WALKED THROUGH
the front door of the Institute with his badge already out. “I need to see Dr. Mayer,” he said to the or
derly working at the desk. The man looked at him suspiciously, but picked up the phone and dialed a two-digit extension. He turned his back when he spoke so that Cassian couldn’t hear him. After a moment he hung up and turned back to the detective.
“He’s with a patient, but he should be with you in fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Fine,” Cassian said. “I need to use the phone in the meantime. Is there someplace with some privacy?”
The orderly pointed down the hall opposite the one that led to Mayer’s office. “Second door on the right. Is it local?”
“I’ll make it collect.” Cassian headed down the hall and ducked into a small room with a chair and telephone. He dialed the station house in D.C. and waited for the charges to clear. After a moment, Train’s voice came over the line.