by Mackey, Jay
I nod again.
“Sometime last night, probably about the time we were locking you up here in Newport, there was a gun battle over in a little restaurant on the other side of Covington. Near Mainstrasse, if you know where that is.”
I shake my head, so he says, “It’s a little dining and entertainment district a mile or so west of the Marriott where you did the shooting.
“So, during this gun battle there was a fire, probably a spark from the gunfire, or a lantern or candle. The result was that the suspect in the assassination of the president was killed, and his body badly burned. The suspect, one Brady Gruen, well-known resident of the Republic of North America. One of Governor General Wayne’s people, honored by him for acting to thwart a gang from assaulting and taking over a small town in Indiana.” He looks at me and smiles. “Sound like anyone you know?”
“How . . .” I say, not sure even what question to ask.
“My guess is that they had planned to haul your ass over to the restaurant and shoot you, and they’d say you were killed trying to get away. But something didn’t smell right to me from the get-go. So I snuck you off to a small interview room without telling anyone where you were. Then I snuck you out the back door. Sometime in there they decided to use some other poor soul’s body and burn it up so it wasn’t identifiable. Now, of course, they’re looking for you, and for me, too, because it was my courthouse and I was theoretically in charge over there last night.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck is right.” He sits down again and leans over so he’s right in my face. “You gonna tell me what really happened out there yesterday?”
I close my eyes. Take a couple breaths. I don’t know whether to keep my mouth shut or not. No. “Who is ‘they’? You keep referring to ‘they,’ like ‘they’ decided to take me out and shoot me, ‘they’ found somebody else to kill, ‘they’ are looking for both of us now.”
“‘They’ are the Russians. They’re thick with Bowers, have been ever since the pulse. Always a bunch of Russians around wherever Bowers goes. They were crawling all over the courthouse yesterday. I think this is all their operation. Bowers didn’t plan his own assassination. Who did? Who recruited you for the job?”
“Well, first off, I didn’t shoot anybody.”
“Bullshit. President Bowers was shot and killed by a sniper. We have the gun. It has your fingerprints. And I know they’re your fingerprints, because my guys did the printing and the matching. You got any more lies you want to tell me?”
“No. I was never there to shoot Bowers. I was recruited by some of the people in the resistance against Pounds. I was supposed to shoot Pounds!”
“Oh, what, you changed your mind when you were up there? Is that what happened?”
“Yes, sorta. I decided not to shoot anybody.”
“You said you fired a shot.”
“I did. At a stadium seat. If you go look, I hit a seat with number 15 on it. Up in the middle of the first section in the end zone. It was weird, though, because I was aiming at seat 14 in the row below that. And I set the sights myself. I should never have been that far off.”
He stares at me some more. I think he’s trying to decide whether to believe me or not. I decide to keep talking.
“You keep mentioning the Marriott. I wasn’t in the Marriott when I fired that shot.”
“Yes, you were. On the roof. The little patch of roof where the A/C equipment is. That’s where we found your rifle.”
“That wasn’t my rifle.”
“It had your fingerprints on it.”
Now I stand too. I can’t sit still any longer. It’s a tight squeeze in the cell for both of us to be moving around. Our voices are getting louder and louder, competing for space. I say, “I didn’t put any fingerprints on the rifle you have. At least, not yesterday.”
“What the fuck?”
“I was in the condos, next door to the Marriott. I went in the front door of the hotel, and then crossed over to the condos and went up to the top. That’s where my gun is.”
“Your gun is still in the condo?”
“Yes.”
“I can check that, you know.”
“Go ahead.”
He pulls a walkie-talkie off his belt. I hadn’t even noticed it was there. He smiles at me and says, “What’s the number of the condo?”
“I don’t know. Top floor, to the right.”
He twists a little knob at pushes a button. There’s a little squelch sound. “Hey, Parsons. You there? Come in.” He points at the walkie-talkie and says, “Russian. Piece of shit, but better than nothing.”
After a few long seconds, there’s another squelch. “This is Parsons. What you got? Over.”
They go back and forth like that, and he tells Parsons to go check the condo for the rifle.
I say, “Wait, I stashed the rifle. Tell him to look in the suitcases in the closet. Bottom one. The biggest.”
He frowns at me and tells Parsons. Then he tells Parsons to get Mitchell to go over to the stadium and look at the seats behind where Bowers was shot. Part way up the lower deck. Look for a seat number 15 that’s been hit with a high-powered bullet.
When he’s done, he asks me, “Why’d you stash the rifle?”
“I don’t know. It just didn’t seem right to leave it to be found like that.”
He shakes his head. “Look, kid. I still think you’re giving me a load of shit here. And even if you didn’t fire the shot that killed the president, you were there. You fired a shot. You’re part of a conspiracy of some kind, and you’re just as guilty as if you fired the fatal shot yourself.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “My conscience is clear.”
He shakes his head again, and opens the cell door to leave. “I’ll be back when I have some answers.”
47
The day after the Pulse Anniversary
I sit in the dark for what has to be at least an hour, and probably two, before I see anybody. Then the captain comes back, clearly in a hurry. His buddy, who I assume is Parsons, the guy he talked to on the walkie talkie, is with him. Parsons holds a flashlight while the captain unlocks the door, muttering something.
“Did you find it?” I ask.
He ignores me and says to Parsons, “Got cuffs? Hood?” Then to me, “Turn around. Hands behind your back.”
I comply. I guess we’re going someplace. “What’s up?” I say, with much more cheer than I actually feel.
“Come on, let’s go,” he says, pushing me through the door. “We haven’t got much time.”
I nearly fall, as I can’t see a thing with the hood on. “Why?” I mumble, but I get no answer.
The two of them hustle me through the halls, unlocking and locking doors, and up some steps, and I stumble along, getting more and more concerned with every step. What’s going on? Where are we going now? I try to ask them when we stop for a second, but all I get is a “Shh. Keep quiet.”
We stand quietly for a minute, and I hear some voices, not too far away. They die down a bit, and the captain says to Parsons, “You go and occupy them for a couple minutes, and I’ll take the kid out to the car.”
Clearly someone is looking for us, and by us, I mean mostly me.
Parsons walks away, to the right, toward the sounds of the voices. I stand as quietly as I can next to the captain, waiting for him to take me to the car. I hope. My level of trust is now pretty high; if I’m reading the situation correctly, he’s helping me get away. I think those voices are probably bad news. I get some confirmation when I hear someone off toward the right say, “Wait. What are you doing here?” He’s got a pretty thick accent, so I’m guessing he’s one of the Russians.
Parsons answers, “Well, this is a prison. I’m a cop. It’s kind of what we do. What are you doing here?”
Another voice, “Are you coming up from the lower cell block? Are there any prisoners down there?”
Parsons says, “Just the drunk and disorderly from last night.” I wonder if
there really is somebody. Maybe the moaning I heard was the drunk and disorderly.
“Not the Gruen kid?”
“The Gruen kid is definitely not down in the cell block. Didn’t he get killed last night? I think I heard that.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Sergeant. Kronki, go check the cell block. Sergeant, you wait here with us.”
“Sure thing. If you want a tour, I’d be glad to show you around.”
I can hear heavy steps coming our way. There’s a jerk on my arm, nearly pulling me over, as the captain propels me the other way. We take just a few steps before I’m jerked to a stop. I can hear the steps, getting closer. There’s a scratching noise close by, and a very low curse that only I can hear, I hope, because I’m pretty sure it came from the captain. Then a click, and I’m pushed through a door. A soft click as the door is closed behind us. I can no longer hear the steps.
Now we go just a little way, down some stairs, out a door, and I can tell by the feel of the air that we’re outside. I try to hold my hands out to the side to protect me as he pulls me behind him, but with my hands cuffed behind me, I’m not effective. I hit a couple of cars, and therefore assume we’re in a parking lot. Finally, I’m shoved into the backseat.
As we pull away, the captain says, “Fucking Russians. They want you, and they want me almost as bad.”
“Sorry,” I say. I’m not sure why. I’m sorry that I’m in this predicament, for sure. Maybe I’m sensing that the captain has joined me in hot soup.
“Did you get the rifle?” I ask.
“Someone had been in that condo. It was torn up. Somebody looking for something, I’m guessing.”
“Shit. But—” Before I can ask the obvious question, his walkie-talkie squelches.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Cap, got in the stadium.”
“And?”
“Seat 15 destroyed.”
“Okay. Did you do the other thing?”
“Roger. Here now.”
“Tell him about the view.”
“Got it.”
There’s a silence for a minute or two. We’re still moving. Slowly, it seems to me.
Another squelch. “Give us an hour.”
“Will do. Out.”
We keep moving. I’m waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I ask, “He found the seat in the stadium, right?”
It takes a minute for him to answer, but he finally says, “Oh, right. Yeah, he found it.”
We ride along in silence, taking a few turns as we go. I ask him, “Why are you doing this?” I’m not even sure what “this” is, but it seems like it’s way off what would normally be done with someone suspected of assassinating the president of a country. I know I’m not guilty, but still. That’s assuming he’s not driving me to some hanging tree or firing squad.
Again, he takes a minute to answer. “It’s what I do. I’m a cop. I try to get it right.”
Now we get on a twisty road, going uphill, and I’m being tossed all over in the back seat, even though I don’t think we’re going fast.
“You know I’m innocent, right?” I’m thinking more about that firing squad, and hoping that’s just my imagination acting up.
This time he answers quickly. “You’re not innocent. I said that before. But there’s more important things at stake here.”
Okay. I get that I’m not innocent of everything, just of shooting somebody. But I wonder what things that are at stake are more important, and what it means for me.
He can probably tell that I’m pretty stressed out right now, and am practically begging him to tell me what’s going on. Maybe my heavy breathing is giving me away. I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate under this hood. Or maybe he can hear my heart pounding away. I’m not sure, but he says, “Hang in there, kid. Let me get where we’re going, and then we can talk.”
“Okay,” I mumble between deep breaths.
We stop after a few more minutes, and he reaches into the back seat and pulls the hood off. I blink at the bright sunlight, the first real light I’ve seen since yesterday.
“I’m going to take your cuffs off, just so we don’t draw any attention, in case someone comes by. But don’t try anything, or I might have to kill you for real.”
I’m not sure if he’s making a joke or a threat, but I nod. I won’t be trying to make a run for it.
After he gets me out of the car and takes the cuffs off, he points and says, “Let’s take a walk.”
We’re in a park, one with an amazing view of the Cincinnati skyline. We’re on the Kentucky side of the river, looking northeast at the city. The bridges are very prominent, and the river. I’ve never seen the city from this angle.
“Nice, huh?” the captain says. “This is my city, down in front of us. Yours across the river. It used to be all one, but now, shit, now you’re looking at two different countries. About to go to war.”
48
The day after the Pulse Anniversary
Sitting on a park bench, looking out on a spectacular view, I tell the captain the whole story. About Jerry and Steph bringing me here, pumping me up so I wouldn’t back out. Finding the rifle already set up in the condo, shooting the seat in the stadium when I couldn’t bring myself to do what I’d come to do. He doesn’t interrupt as I talk. He gives me a very skeptical look when I say we didn’t have any alternative for stopping the war, the war that many people said wasn’t really going to happen, but which we, I, were convinced was imminent.
After I finish with the rifle butt to my face, I say, “So I guess I was set up.”
“Sounds like it.”
“But who?”
“Your buddies Jerry and Steph, would be my guess.”
“But Jerry’s been with us the whole time. Through a lot of . . . stuff.” I don’t want to tell him about the raid on the camp, or the train fiasco.
“My guess is they’re Russians, and they had a plan, and you fell right into it.”
“Russians? But why? Why would they build up this elaborate story about a fake war instead of just having me shoot Bowers?”
He doesn’t answer.
I’m puzzling through it. “There was a second shooter.”
“Almost certainly, if you’re telling the truth now.”
“So the other shooter kills Bowers, and I’m supposed to shoot Pounds? It’s not making sense to me.” I think for a second about my failure to shoot Pounds. Did I mess up their plan? It still doesn’t make sense. But there was the—
“Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to shoot Pounds. The sights on that rifle were way off. I could never hit a target with sights like that.”
The captain looks at me and smiles, like maybe he’s already put this all together.
I say, “If you found the rifle I stashed, we can check the sights. That would be proof that I wasn’t going to be able to shoot anyone. Right?”
He doesn’t answer, but looks over his shoulder. I look back and see a car, a cop car, pulling in next to ours. Fuck. I’m sure I’m screwed, but the cop who gets out is Parsons, who I remember from the few glimpses I’ve had of him when I wasn’t wearing a hood.
And out of the other side, shit! It’s Colonel Williams! No red hat, but there’s no mistaking his bulky body. Is this a good thing? My stomach drops. Could be bad. I was going to shoot President Pounds, after all, and I can’t imagine he’d be all that pleased with that.
The two come down the walkway. The captain stands to greet them.
“Good to see you, Ben,” says the captain. “Colonel now, I see.” He extends his hand.
“Hello, Miles,” replies Colonel Williams. “Nice to see you too. Long time since Afghanistan.” They shake and smile at each other warmly.
The captain says, “Parsons, why don’t you go up and watch the cars? Make sure no one comes down here.”
“Yes, sir,” says Parsons, who goes back up the walkway.
The captain now turns to Colonel Williams, motions to me, and says, “He’s got quite a stor
y to tell.”
“I’m sure he does,” says Colonel Williams. “How you doing, Brady? Looks like you lost whatever fight you were in.”
I’d forgotten about my face. I reach up and touch my still tender nose, and hope I don’t still have blood all over my face.
“Why don’t you tell me this story of yours?” says Colonel Williams.
I’m about to start in, wondering where I should begin, when the captain says, “It’s a long story, and I’d rather he told it to you in private. I’m not sure how long we’re secure up here.”
“You going to let me take him across the river? I’d like to get him to District 2, and talk to him there.”
“He’ll be safer there than here. Lots of people trying to find him here.”
“Especially since he’s supposed to be dead.” Williams looks over at me, like he’s checking to make sure I’m actually alive.
“Exactly. It’d be pretty embarrassing for some people if it becomes known he’s alive.”
“What people?” I ask.
Williams holds his hand up to silence me, and says, “I’ll drive him. Can I use one of your cars?”
The captain looks up the hill to where the two cars are parked. Parsons is standing between them, looking back at us. “Sure. I’d drive you over, but I’m afraid that our friends are looking for me as well as Brady. Maybe Parsons can drive you.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“The kid is guilty of about fifteen things, including conspiracy, assassination, attempted assassination, smuggling, several gun charges, and I don’t know what else. But given what’s going on down there, I think you might be able to use him for something more important than sitting in jail. Hell, here, he’s already dead, so I guess you can do what you want with his body.” The captain smiles. Not a happy smile, but a smile.
