The Plot (25 page)

He laid the file on the table beside him and reached for the telephone, but his hand froze in mid-air as he turned to see the reason for the sudden commotion in the foyer.

Max parked in front of the small concrete block house and climbed from the car. As he closed the door, he saw May Lee step onto the darkened porch. Squaring his shoulders against the news he was about to impart, he walked up the stairs and took her by the hands. “Let's sit down,” he suggested, leading her to the old, wicker rocking chairs on the right.

"What is it, Detective Henshaw?” Her voice was soft, her dark eyes mere shadows against her skin.

"Is your husband at home?” He hadn't seen his car.

"No. He is working late tonight."

"Have you told him about Philip being your son?” Max had hoped her husband would be able to help her deal with the news.

"No. I could not. My husband is very proud. He wouldn't understand."

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No. Only me. Please, Detective. Whatever you have come here for, just tell me...” Her voice trailed off into the fog that hung over the yard.

Max cleared his throat. “May Lee,” he began, watching her as closely as he could in the dim light spilling through the window. “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"I can't appeal my deportation,” she guessed.

He shook his head. “It isn't that. I'm afraid it is much worse-and I wanted you to hear it from a friend-from me, first."

She sat forward, listening.

"I just learned that Philip has killed himself,” he said, bracing for her reaction, but none came. She just seemed to begin shrinking into herself. “I'm so sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to touch her thin shoulder, his big hand covering it almost entirely.

She looked at him as if he were not there, blinked, then blinked again, and finally let out a long, deep breath that smelled of chocolate.

Max imagined her sitting in front of the television watching a game show, her feet propped on a hassock after a long day's work, nibbling on candy while she waited for him to arrive. She couldn't have known from his brief telephone call that he was about to bring her the worst news of her life. Remembering her reaction a few days ago when she'd learned that Philip's car and a dead Asian man were found in a lake, he was stunned by her sudden stoicism.

"May Lee? Did you hear what I said?” He knew she had, but her silence was more unnerving than any show of emotion could have been.

She nodded. “He was born of my foolishness,” she whispered, “and he has now died because of his own."

Max stood and walked to the edge of the porch, looking out over the small yard that was surrounded by houses identical to this one. Life had been hard for May Lee, but she'd made the best of it. He wondered what would become of her now.

"Max?"

It was the only time she had called him by his given name. He turned toward her. “Yes, May Lee."

"What happened?"

"Apparently he had been complaining to the man in the next bunk that he couldn't bear spending the rest of his life in a prison. He said he could never stand being cooped up inside for very long, and after just two days in jail, he was already going crazy. He was crying and mumbling something about it all being a big lie. Then he went into the showers and that was the last anyone saw of him until they found him hanging from the shower head."

"Yes,” she responded as if from very far away. “But, I mean, what happened?"

Max felt confused. “I don't understand,” he finally said.

She folded her hands into one another and began rocking slowly. “I mean, about the deportation order."

He went back to stand in front of her. She looked up at him solemnly, rocking faster now.

"It can't be appealed. The only hope would have been if you were to remain here as a material witness in Philip's trial. Now that he's..."

"Dead.” She finished the sentence for him, a hard edge around her voice. “So they win after all,” she added, a deep sigh escaping her lips.

"What do you mean, May Lee?"

She stopped rocking and stood up, her back straight, her head held high. “I have already told you all that I dare, Detective. Now, if you'll excuse me...” She walked to the front door. “I have to pack.” Her face was unreadable as she looked up at him, thanked him for coming, then left him to stand alone in the increasing fog.

The cell phone rang as Max turned the car around in front of May Lee's house. It was Sims.

"Hi, Max. It's me. We've found Philip Sinclair's father."

"Good. Have you told him?"

There was a long pause, and Sims took a deep breath. “Didn't need to. It turns out he'd gone to the jail to visit his son, and some stupid guard at the front desk told him."

Max gave a short whistle at the news. “Oh, man. How's he doin'?"

"Not so good, Max. In fact, not good at all."

"Where is he?"

"You're not gonna like this, pal, but he's broken into Hamilton Bates’ house and is holding him and the staff at gun point."

Swell.
“What's he want?"

"Says he can prove his boy was innocent. Won't come out until he talks to you. Says you're the only one he trusts."

"Dammit, Ricky. That's not even in our jurisdiction. Can't some of those hostage experts at the Bureau handle it?"

"He's actin’ crazy, Max. Says he's gonna blow everyone away if he doesn't get to talk to you. And
soon
.” Sims gave him the address.

"I'm on my way,” Max said, pulling the blue light from the floor of his car and turning it on as he placed it on the dashboard. “Good God. What more can happen in one day?” he muttered, pulling onto the highway and heading toward Bethesda.

The broad lawn of Bates’ mansion was littered with police cars and emergency vehicles of every description-fourteen marked units from Bethesda P.D., two unmarked units with Federal license tags, four ambulances standing by, and what looked like five personal vehicles-when Max pulled up and climbed from his car. He shielded his eyes from the sweeping blue and red lights that cast eerie circles across the lawn and echoed against the fog. He spotted Sims loping over to greet him.

"Hi, Ricky. Goddam, it looks like a friggin’ law enforcement convention out here. Good night for bank robbers, huh?"

Sims nodded. “Man, am I glad to see you. Sinclair has already fired off two shots, and he's been rantin’ and ravin’ like a lunatic. Somethin’ about Bates killin’ his son an’ about some kind of evil plot Bates is hatchin’ ... Everybody here is really on edge. The FBI has given their sniper the green light, but he can't get a clear shot. Max, that's Hamilton
Bates
in there. If anything happens, heads are gonna
roll.
"

"Has anyone been hurt?” Max asked, falling into step beside him.

"No, not yet. Says he fired just so we'd know that he means business,” Sims replied and, approaching a man in a dark suit, stopped and introduced Max to Agent Adams of the FBI. They didn't bother to shake hands.

"Find out what's goin’ on, will ya?” Adams handed Max the cell phone. And the responsibility.

Max nodded and stood away from the car where Jonathon would be able to see him clearly. “Jonathon,” he said into the phone. “It's Max Henshaw."

Jonathon's face appeared at the window momentarily then disappeared again.

A moment passed with Max still standing in the open-vulnerable, tense, waiting for an answer.

"Henshaw.” Jonathon's voice sounded hoarse over the cell phone. “I gotta talk to you."

"Jonathon. This ain't the way, man,” he said, eager to coax him out. “If ya wanted to talk to me, you shoulda just called me."

"Naw. Wouldna worked. You'd have thought I was crazy. I had to prove it to you-to everyone. An’ I need this sumbitch Bates to make that happen."

"Jonathon, what do you want to tell me? Just put down your weapon and come on out. I promise to listen to you."

"Yeah, sure. I'd be stupid to do that. No, sir. You come on in. I promise I won't shoot ya. There's somethin’ here ya gotta
see
. Then you'll believe me, and it won't be
me,
but
Bates
you'll be arrestin'."

Max looked at Adams and Sims. Adams raised his eyebrows. Sims shrugged. He looked back up at the house and saw Jonathon's head reappear briefly at the window.
God, if he keeps that up, he's gonna get himself killed. Hasn't he ever heard of snipers?
He glanced around at the dozens of police cars and thought of Cassie's affection for the old handyman. If I'm the only one who can help him, then so be it, he thought. “Jonathon. Are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"Will you guarantee the safety of everyone in the house if I come in?"

He didn't answer immediately, but finally agreed. “Yeah, sure. It ain't
me
that's hurt anyone. Why should I start now? Come on in."

Max handed the phone back to Adams, took the holstered pistol the agent held out to him and secured it in place at the middle of his back, checking to make sure it was hidden by his shirttail. Then, with a deep breath and his hands up, he started across the broad lawn toward the ornate door behind which an armed-and apparently drunk-Jonathon awaited.

He opened the door slowly, called out to Jonathon, and crossed the threshold into the dimly lit foyer.

"Close the door behind you,” came Jonathon's voice from the room on the left, “and come in here."

Max did as he was told, keeping his hands above his head, unwilling to give a nervous Jonathon reason to shoot, but as he neared the wide, arched doorway, he heard a shout, followed by a gunshot and loud crash. Yanking the pistol from his holster but keeping it hidden behind his back, he peered around the corner. Bates was standing in the far corner, the butler beside him. On the floor to the right, Busby was sitting atop Jonathon, his beefy fingers wrapped around the old man's neck.

"Get up!” Max ordered, aiming his weapon, but the chauffeur didn't budge from the man writhing beneath his bulk. “I said, get up!"

Seeing Max's pistol, Busby released his grip slowly and stood, edging backwards.

Max inched toward Jonathon, his eyes and pistol still trained on the chauffeur. “Jonathon,” he said his voice tense. “You okay?"

"Look out!” the butler shouted.

Startled, Max shifted his eyes toward Jonathon, saw him pointing his pistol at Hamilton Bates, and without thinking, fired. The bullet struck the handyman in the heart.

The old man turned his pale eyes up at Max, and, mouthing the word “why,” let the 9 mm. pistol fall from his grip. It thudded against the floor.

The butler ran to the front door, shouting for an ambulance as Max knelt beside Jonathon. There was no pulse. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. Somewhere in the background he heard footsteps, hollering, and, from nowhere, felt a pair of hands pull him to his feet. Stricken, he looked into his partner's face, then turned to see Hamilton Bates coming toward him, Busby and the butler not far behind.

"That was fast thinking, Detective,” Bates said, reaching to shake Max's hand.

The memory of a fragile glass globe made Max's scalp crawl as he looked down at the long hand with the white scars on its tapered fingers. Scowling, he pushed Bates’ hand away and strode past him to the door and out into the oppressive night air. When he reached the car, he slumped onto the seat and looked up at Sims, who had followed close behind.

"Ricky?” he said, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I think I just shot the wrong man."

Cassie awoke to the sound of muffled voices filtering toward her from somewhere down the hall and looked at the clock by the bed. It was almost midnight. Her muscles ached. She'd sat at the computer for hours reviewing the DVD's Joshua had stolen. Rousing herself, she put on her robe and walked barefoot from the bedroom where her father had once slept and worked. Light spilled into the long hallway from the front room. Curious, she padded noiselessly toward the light and the voices. As she drew closer, she heard Joshua talking about her. She stopped to listen.

"No, she's not too young. In fact, she seems to have the same kind o’ grit Moses did. But we'll keep copies of everything, just in case."

Cassie stepped into the living room. “Just in case
what
?” she interrupted, looking first at Joshua, then at Selena, and, one by one, the others gathered there. All but Joshua wore gloves. She had left hers in the bedroom.

Selena was the first to recover from the surprise of Cassie's entrance and walked over to put her arm around her waist. “
Querida
, I'm so sorry we awakened you. I know how exhausted you are...” She paused. “But since you're up, please join us.” After brief introductions all around, there were seven people in the room, eight now that Cassie was there, Selena led her to the couch and sat beside her.

The thin, almost skeletal, woman sitting on a chair in the corner, who'd been introduced as Cricket, spoke up. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, well...” She looked around at the others. “How do we know she can be trusted? I mean, it's one thing to have her help get the word out, but I'm not so sure she oughta know
us
."

"Cricket's right. Cluster members aren't supposed to be known by outsiders,” interrupted a balding, baby-faced man near the side window.

Their words brought an instant response from Selena. “In the first place, Godiva is not an ‘outsider.’ In the second place, she is as devoted to this project as her father was and will
never
do anything to jeopardize it.” She looked at Cassie, seeking confirmation. Cassie just concentrated on putting on the gloves Joshua had tossed across to her.

"Cat got your tongue, girlie?” asked the bespectacled man beside Cricket.

Cassie raised her eyes from her hands and looked straight across the room at Four-Eyes. “No. I'm just still waiting for the answer to
my
question."

"Yep. Reckon Godiva deserves an answer,” Joshua said, his deep voice soft and level. “So, let me fill you in. Earlier tonight, whilst you were in yer room reviewing the stuff I gave ya, I hacked into the FBI's computer. What I found out was a little, uh, disturbin'. In fact, that's why we're meetin’ tonight."