The Burning Season

by Jeff Mariotte

  Troy Kirkland turned his head back toward the Empire construction, and that was the only warning Catherine had. She braced herself for almost anything—but when it came, the explosion caught her off-guard. A blinding fireball shot up through the center of the building, and the roar and the concussive wave hit at about the same time. Moving by instinct, but helped along by the sudden rush of nearly physical force, she flattened herself on the ground.

  At the same instant, Troy Kirkland fired, and Steven Kirkland stomped on the accelerator. Troy’s round sailed above Catherine. She didn’t lose her grip on her weapon, and as the Mercedes started pulling away, she went up on her elbows, steadied the gun, and fired. With five shots, she took out three tires. The SUV lurched and skidded as its tires shredded against the blacktop and its rims kicked up sparks.

  Heat billowed across Catherine. She couldn’t allow herself to wonder about Lou and Brass and the others, didn’t dare rip her focus away from the SUV.

  The vehicle’s doors swung open. One of the people in the backseat jumped out first. He pointed his gun in Catherine’s general vicinity and squeezed off a shot, even as he started running in the other direction. Catherine rolled to her left and the round struck the pavement a few feet away.

  The Kirklands bailed out of the front seats. Catherine caught only the briefest glimpse of them; the SUV had stopped at an angle that prevented her from drawing a bead on either one. She went up on one knee, then stood, aiming over the vehicle’s hood.

  “Freeze!” a voice called from behind her. Greg? She risked a quick look back. Greg was running toward her, but it wasn’t him. It was Vartann, another twenty paces back but gaining fast. Behind him came Jim Brass and several SWAT officers. Catherine allowed herself a moment’s rush of relief, but then the Free Citizens were firing at the cops, and the police were shooting back. The man who had shot at her went down first. Another one from the backseat was hit and spun in an awkward pirouette, spraying blood. When Steven Kirkland’s right knee erupted in a fountain of blood and tissue, Troy threw himself down at his father’s side.

  The shooting stopped. The remaining Free Citizens put their weapons on the pavement and raised their hands. Troy Kirkland held his father’s head and shoulders on his lap, his legs crossed to support the old man. The first rays of the rising sun glistened on his tear-damp cheeks.

  “It’s over, Kirkland,” Brass announced. His gravelly voice had never sounded so sweet to Catherine’s ears. “You’re under arrest, and so are your friends.”

  “You can’t . . .” Troy said, his voice cracking so that he could barely force the words out. “You won’t . . .”

  “Won’t what? Arrest you? Too late.”

  Troy raised the revolver he had pointed at Catherine. She tensed, ready to fire. She knew Greg and Brass and Vartann were doing the same, and no doubt the SWAT officers were as well.

  As if he knew he was beaten, Troy lowered the gun again.

  But when the barrel was in line with his father’s skull, his hand stopped. Catherine attributed it, for an instant, to disorientation and grief. By the time she realized what he was doing and her finger started to tighten on her trigger, it was too late.

  Troy Kirkland’s gun boomed.

  His father’s head exploded, skull fragments and brain matter spraying the parking lot, mixed with a fine, bloody mist. The old man’s feet drummed against the pavement for a long, ghastly moment, and then went still. Troy continued to clutch his father, holding him close, sobbing loudly. He released the revolver, which clattered to the ground beside him. When Brass grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back, he didn’t resist. His father’s corpse slid from his lap onto the ground as Brass forced him to his feet.

  “I don’t get you,” Brass said. “That was your father.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Troy said. “I loved him—loved him too much to see him surrender to you. That’s one indignity he’ll never suffer. I had to spare him from that. He’ll be a martyr for the cause. He hated you—hated everything you stand for—and I just couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  His voice gave out, and whatever composure he had managed fled. He bent forward, almost double, the sobs coming furiously, only Jim’s strong arms holding him up.

  “At least his convictions seem to be real,” Greg said softly. He had come to a stop beside Catherine. “He really believes that his father’s better off dead than under arrest.”

  “Because he doesn’t accept the authority of those arresting him,” Catherine suggested. “The thing is . . .”

  “What?”

  “For the old man, I don’t think it was ever so much about the politics or the principles as it was about scamming his followers. The movement was just a front for his criminal activity. And the son? He bought into it, just like the rest of the so-called Free Citizens. He believed it down to the depths of his soul. Now he’ll have a lifetime in prison to think it over. I wouldn’t want to be around when he figures out the mistake he made.”

  33

  STEPPING THROUGH THE hospital’s sliding front doors, Garrett Kovash knew the day would be another scorcher. He donned his sunglasses before he left the overhang, and stood there for a moment, at the edge of the shade, scanning the driveway and the nearby parking area. A thousand daggers of sunlight reflected off windshields and chrome, and the heat radiating off cars and pavement shimmered the air. It was not yet nine in the morning. A scorcher, and then some.

  He saw nothing out of the ordinary, so he nodded toward Bryan Donavan, sitting a hundred feet away in his Nissan, and Bryan rolled slowly forward. Kovash beckoned to Dennis Daniels and Maureen Cunningham, waiting in the air conditioning just beyond the doors. Maureen was on her feet, but Dennis sat in a hospital-provided wheelchair. Just through the door, he had insisted; he would walk after that. Kovash didn’t see any press around—they had intentionally leaked word that Daniels would be released later in the afternoon, just to throw them off. But Dennis didn’t take chances. He didn’t want to be photographed sitting in a chair, and in case one of those vehicles in the lot hid a photographer with a telephoto lens, Dennis planned to be on his feet.

  Dennis looked pale and unsteady when he got out of the chair, but he didn’t have far to travel. By the time he got to the curb, Bryan had pulled to an easy stop. Kovash opened the front door and Dennis got in, sweat filming his face. He wore jeans and a polo shirt with a light windbreaker over it. Kovash thought the windbreaker was a bit much, but Dennis had been in the hospital, and he was a guy who got cold easy at the best of times.

  “Where’s your ride, Ms. Cunningham?” Kovash asked. “There’s room in the car.”

  “I talked to my husband a few minutes ago,” she said. “He’s on his way. It’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Go, get Dennis home. I know Joanna is anxious to see him.”

  “I’m certain you’re right.” He opened the back door of Donavan’s Maxima, paused again. “You want us to wait?”

  “Brett’s only a few minutes away. Go on, don’t worry about me. I’ll see you there in a little while.”

  “I’m glad to see you on your feet, ma’am.” Kovash slid into the backseat and shut the door. Blessedly cool air embraced him.

  As they pulled away from the hospital grounds, Kovash put a hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “Are you feeling all right, sir? You look a little wiped.”

  “I’m fine,” Dennis said. “Better than fine. I mean, you know, a little weak, I guess, but I’m ready to go. We’ve got a business to run.”

  “According to the overnights, the publicity has been drawing a lot of eyeballs,” Donavan said. “People are tuning in and staying tuned.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, but I wouldn’t want to go through that experience again to keep them coming,” Dennis said. “I hope I never see an explosion again, at least, unless it’s on a movie screen.”

  Kovash realized that Dennis probably hadn’t heard about the Free Citizens’ incident
earlier that morning. He was about to say something when Donavan made an unexpected turn, and he remembered something Maureen had said back at the hospital. “Maureen said something about seeing us there. Is she coming to your place?”

  “We’re making a stop at the office first,” Dennis said.

  “I thought we were taking you home.”

  “Soon enough. I wanted to make sure everyone sees that I’m alive and well. I’m sure the employees will appreciate a couple of words from me.”

  “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  Dennis laughed. “Garrett, I’m still not sure it was a good idea to get into the TV business in the first place, and every year I’ve become even more convinced it was the stupidest thing I ever did. You can’t ask me if anything is a good idea, because clearly I haven’t got a clue.”

  “The troops will appreciate it,” Donavan confirmed. “We don’t need to stay long.”

  “So this is something you discussed with Maureen?”

  “Just now, while we were waiting inside. She wants to swing by on her way home.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “I called Bryan, so he knows. I thought we’d surprise the gang at the office.”

  “What about the police?”

  “I’ve been assured that the protests have ended, since I’ve been in the hospital. They might start up again, now that I’m out, but not today—they’ll have no way of knowing we’re headed there.”

  Kovash didn’t like being left out of the loop. He had expected them to go straight to Dennis’s home. Joanna was waiting for them. She would worry if they were late. More important still, he had driven the route to the Daniels home, but not the route to the DCN building. He hadn’t had a chance to check for any surprises planted along the way.

  As it turned out, that concern was misplaced. Traffic was light, and no one in the other cars spared a second glance for the metallic green Maxima. The gate guards gave Dennis the thumbs-up as the car passed through. There were only a handful of vehicles in the front lot, and Donavan was able to park close by.

  “You wait here,” Kovash said when the car came to a stop. “I’ll go in, make sure the coast is clear, then wave you in.”

  “Fine,” Dennis said. “I can’t wait ‘til I can fire you, you know.”

  “I’m looking forward to that myself.” When that day came, it would be because whoever had been threatening Dennis had been dealt with. Kovash didn’t mind the work and he liked the paycheck, but there was always work for someone like him in Las Vegas. Most of it was more interesting than sitting around hospital rooms and business offices.

  He got out of the car and crossed to the front door. When he opened it, one of the employees he had met before spotted him. She was short and a little on the pudgy side, but pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair and delightful green eyes. “Garrett!” she called. “If you’re here, does that mean . . . ?”

  “He’s right outside, coming in now,” Kovash said. “Everything copacetic in here?”

  “You know it. I can’t wait to see him.”

  Kovash tore his gaze away from her and gave the big lobby area a once-over. It was quiet, except for the soft music and the murmuring voices coming from the banks of TV monitors.

  He was taking too long. Dennis Daniels was not a patient guy. Kovash turned and pushed open the front door. Dennis was already out of the car, walking toward the door. Donavan stood at his car door, watching.

  And another car, big and black, was racing from the front lot, its engine giving off a furious growl. Kovash noted it but didn’t pay it much attention until it swerved. Then he pawed at the Colt he wore under his left arm, and screamed toward Dennis.

  Too late. The car slammed into Daniels. He rolled up onto the hood, smacked the windshield with one outflung arm, then sailed off, landing in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk. Kovash got his gun out and fired two shots after the black car, and one of the gate guards got off a single shot but it was already darting between the closing gates, leaving burned rubber in its wake.

  * * *

  Catherine and Greg had still been in the lab, answering questions about the events at the Empire, when the call came in. Catherine took it, then explained what had happened. “I can’t ask you to work the scene, Greg,” she said. “We both should have been home for hours at this point. But I’m going out there. If we missed something before, I want to find out what. Somebody’s still got it in for Daniels, and we need to figure out who.”

  “You couldn’t keep me away,” Greg told her.

  “Even if I told you Ecklie won’t authorize any overtime, because he’d just as soon let day shift handle it?”

  Greg’s hesitation was only momentary. “Even if.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Daniels had already returned to the hospital, once again traveling by ambulance, so Catherine sent Greg there to collect his clothing. The initial diagnosis was a broken hip and miscellaneous cuts and bruises—injuries that, compounding his previous set, would keep him off his feet for weeks, if not longer.

  At the scene, she found day shift criminalists already at work, though there wasn’t much to work with. One CSI was measuring and photographing tire marks in the road where the vehicle that had struck Daniels had escaped, the scuffing at their edges consistent with a car making a fast turn. The guards reported that the car was black or dark blue, though Kovash insisted it was black and American-made, a midsized Detroit sedan. He had fired two shots at it, but his rounds were found in the side of an adobe building on the next block. One guard’s slug was buried in a power pole a quarter-mile away. The reporters had left when the demonstrations ended, so there was nobody videotaping the scene, and the cameras at the gates angled out toward the street. They showed only the briefest glimpse of the car as it rocketed away.

  Satisfied that the day shift team would share any pertinent information, Catherine returned to the lab. Greg was in a layout room with Daniels’s clothes: blue jeans shredded at the thighs and rubbed at the hip, and a windbreaker that showed the effects of him being thrown to the ground. Only his shirt was more or less intact, though spattered with blood.

  “I took paint chips off the jeans,” Greg told her. He looked tired, but not ready to fall down yet. “Black. Hodges is gone, but I gave them to Kennan, a day shift trace tech.”

  Catherine studied the rubbed places on the jeans while Greg examined the windbreaker with a high-powered magnifying glass. “My guess is that when we do find the car, we’ll find fibers from these jeans embedded in the paint.”

  “You think he was hit that hard?”

  “Pretty hard,” she said. “When he rolled up and onto the hood, the friction would have literally softened the paint, causing it to grip and hold onto those fibers.”

  “Well, that’ll help confirm. That and the paint chips.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, look at this.” Greg lifted something off the windbreaker with tweezers.

  “What is it?”

  He held up three blond hairs for Catherine to see.

  “Where were those?”

  “Right under the collar.”

  “Daniels doesn’t have blond hair. Or hair that long.”

  “That other woman who was in the hospital with him does. His administrative assistant.”

  “Maureen Cunningham. She was released today, too.”

  “Maybe she hugged him before they left.”

  “Maybe.” She took out her phone and dialed campaign headquarters. In a minute, she was talking to Bryan Donavan. “You picked Daniels up this morning, right?”

  “That’s right. Him and Kovash. I waited down the way while Kovash scoped the scene, and when he waved me in, I pulled up in front of the doors.”

  “And Daniels?”

  “He waited inside until Kovash gave him the high sign. Then Maureen wheeled him out.”

  “In a chair?”

  “Right. Once he was over the threshold, he stopped and got out
and walked to the car. If anyone was watching, he wanted to be seen making the trip under his own power.”

  “Did Maureen or anyone else embrace him, that you saw?”

  “No,” Donavan said quickly. “She just stood behind the chair. Kovash talked to her for a minute, trying to make sure she had a ride coming.”

  “Her ride wasn’t there?”

  “She was going home with Brett, her husband. But he hadn’t shown up yet.”

  “Mr. Donavan, I’m going to ask you a difficult question. Before I do, I’ll remind you that I have no particular interest in the answer one way or another—the only thing I want is to find out who’s been after Daniels. Do you understand that?”

  He was silent for a moment. She heard him swallow. “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Mr. Donavan, do you have any knowledge of anything internal at the company that I should know about? Any personal issues regarding Mr. Daniels?”

  “Do you have a reason to think there might be any?”

  When Catherine heard his answer, she recognized his value to his employer. It was a nearly perfect political evasion.

  She, however, was no politician.

  “Mr. Donavan, if he’s screwing around with someone, I need to know about it. We should have been told already. If the withholding of that information further endangers his life, I’ll have to make that known.”

  Another long moment of silence from the other end. Then she heard the smack of his lips coming apart. “We all agreed to keep it quiet,” he said. “We don’t even talk about it amongst ourselves, very much. Just enough to do whatever damage control is necessary.”

  “Tell me. It’s very important.”

  “It sounds like you already know. Dennis and Maureen. They’ve been at it hot and heavy for months now. It’s terrifying. This kind of thing almost never ends well. Especially when one of the parties has a lot of money, and possible political ambitions.”