This calculation took Libby Chastain slightly less than one second, and it came along with the realization that she had only seconds left, if that.
One of the things Libby had prepared the night before had been an All-Purpose Voice Spell, which would allow her to do a number of interesting vocal tricks, if she had to. Knowing she was going to be in a crowd, outdoors, she'd thought the spell might conceivably come in handy.
It is also worth mentioning that Libby had never made a study of the procedures or jargon of the U.S. Secret Service. However, although she might not admit this to some of her feminist friends, she was a big Clint Eastwood fan. She had seen all of his movies, many more than once. This included the 1993 film In the Line of Fire, in which Eastwood had portrayed an aging Secret Service agent. If the movie had been correct, there was one word that would galvanize Secret Service agents like no other.
Libby muttered a few words in Latin under her breath to invoke the spell, then she did three things. She deepened and coarsened her voice so that it sounded like a man's. She projected her voice toward the stage, meaning it would be heard as if she had been speaking from up there. And then, in that male voice, she yelled a single word.
Bat Masterson didn't listen to Stark's oratory, either. Even if he had been interested in yet another political speech - which he wasn't - the job dictated that his focus be elsewhere.
Each agent in the detail had his assigned spot. Some were on the ground in front of the stage, others stood at the back of the structure, facing outward, still others were in positions near the speaker's podium. Masterson had positioned himself at the front, about thirty feet to Stark's left. He scanned the crowd restlessly from behind his Oakley sunglasses, looking for flashes of metal, for sudden unexplainable movement, for the one face that was not smiling or intent on the speaker's words.
Then a male voice from close by, one that Masterson didn't recognize, yelled "Gun!"
The result was immediate, as each member of the security team began moving, very fast indeed, in a pattern he had practiced many times.
Masterson's pattern took him straight at Stark, like a defensive lineman in football who's just found an open path to the other team's quarterback. He gave no consideration to the effect his tackle would have on Stark's body - as they'd drummed into him at the Secret Service Academy, "Better a couple of cracked ribs than a bullet in the brain."
It took Masterson a long time to reach Stark - at least two, maybe three seconds. He kept his eyes open the whole way, even at the moment of impact, just as he'd been trained to do. One of the last thoughts that Masterson had was to wonder why Stark's left hand, hidden from public view behind the podium, seemed to be making a cryptic sign of some kind in the air, while Stark said several words in a language that Masterson didn't recognize. Then there came the shock of the collision as he hit Stark, followed a bare instant later by an even greater shock, as the .300 magnum rifle bullet penetrated Masterson's rib cage and kept going, all the way through his body to exit on the other side.
Most of the agents, well-trained professionals that they were, got their own bodies between Stark and any potential follow-up shot, then hustled him off the stage, into their nearby car, and away. But Jerry Arkasian, second in command of the detail, had ordered two agents to stay with Masterson.
Like all Secret Service agents, the two who stayed behind were well-trained in emergency medical procedures. But despite their best efforts, Hugh 'Bat' Masterson bled out and died right there, five minutes before the paramedics could reach him.
Chapter 34
The killer some people called The Grocer's Boy knew that the best way to catch up with somebody was to get ahead of him. The news sources said that all the Republican candidates were concentrating on Virginia this week. The killer had read a great deal about how these things worked. The night of the primary, each candidate would throw a party for supporters at a hotel. Once the votes had been tallied, the politico would address the faithful - either basking in victory or vowing to do better next week.
The Leffingwell campaign's web site had the Senator's speaking schedule for the week, and all his engagements on Saturday were in Virginia Beach, the state's largest city. That meant he would almost certainly be staying in Virginia Beach Saturday night. Now the question was - where? The campaign website was not quite that helpful.
Fortunately, the Devil helps those who help themselves. It seemed that each state had its own Leffingwell campaign headquarters, staffed mostly by volunteers. The Senator's Virginia HQ was in Roanoke.
"Leffingwell for President, may I help you?"
"Yeah, hi. This is Harry Mason at Mason's Fine Wines and Spirits in Virginia Beach. We got a big order for Senator Leffingwell's party Saturday night, but whoever took the information didn't write down what hotel we're delivering to. Can you guys help me out? Like I said, it's a real big order, and we don't want to screw it up."
"Uh, sure, hold on a sec."
There was a soft thud as the phone was put down. The killer got to eavesdrop on the closest volunteer who was making calls encouraging Virginians to vote for Bob Leffingwell, the Man Who Can Make a Difference for America.
A couple of minutes went by before the campaign worker, a guy who sounded like he might be the age of a college student, came back on.
"Hi, sorry to keep you waiting. I had to find somebody who knew where it was."
"No problem at all, man. I appreciate it."
"Looks like you make your delivery to the Hilton."
"Which one?"
"It's the Hilton Virginia Beach Oceanfront, on Atlantic Ave."
"That's great - thanks!"
"Show your gratitude this Saturday - vote for Bob Leffingwell."
"I aim to."
The Hilton Oceanfront's web site said the place had 21 floors, the top three of which were devoted to something called the Empyrean Club, apparently reserved for those with serious money to spend on accommodations. It was a sure bet that Leffingwell would be on one of those three floors come Saturday. The killer decided he would be there, too. Maybe he and the Senator could be neighbors.
The killer turned off the disposable phone he'd bought that morning and went to look at his fake IDs and credit cards.
"What the fuck happened, Peters?"
The two of them had put the window back in place and were, not quite frantically, replacing the sixteen screws that had held it in the frame. Peters had possessed the foresight to buy two screwdrivers, so they could work on that task simultaneously, standing back-to-back on the wide window ledge.
"What fucking happened," Peters said grimly as he turned the screwdriver, "was that I was putting slow pressure on the trigger, just like you're supposed to. You can't jerk the gun if you don't know exactly when it's gonna fire. I guess I was almost there - another second, and Stark's head would be splattered all over the stage. But the Secret Service guy came out of fucking nowhere - I didn't even know he was there, until he was in my sight. I guess I was so startled that my finger moved that last fraction of an inch, and the weapon fired, even though Stark wasn't in the crosshairs anymore. But the Secret Service dude was. And that," he said tiredly, "is all she fucking wrote."
"I don't mean that," Ashley said. "What the fuck happened on the stage? Why was everybody going crazy, just before you fired? Did one of the Secret Service goons spot you? Give me another screw."
Peters didn't even notice her unintentional double entendre. Neither one of them was feeling very sexy at the moment. He passed one of the long screws to Ashley and said, "Uh-uh, no fucking way somebody saw me. The silencer wasn't sticking out the window, you know that. Everything was completely inside the room. And there's no building as high as we are across the way with a line of sight into here. Nobody spotted me, unless the Feds have got fucking pigeons working for them, now."
"Fuck," Ashley said.
"My thoughts exactly. Although if you won't hit me for saying it, this particular cloud's got something of a silver lining."
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"I could use some good news. Let's hear it."
"We can be pretty sure that Astaroth won't be showing up to take us back to Hell with him in the next five minutes. He wants the job done, that's all he cares about. 'Stark must not take the oath of office.' That's what he told me."
There was a pause, then Ashley said, "As silver linings go, that one's not too bad. Unless, of course, Astaroth gets so disgusted with the way we fucked up, he sends somebody to replace us."
"I don't think so. If he had anybody better than us, he'd have sent them already. We're a good team, Ashley."
"Tell that to the Secret Service guy."
Peters sighed deeply. "Yeah, I know. You done on your side?"
"Just finished. You?"
"Wait one second... okay, that's the last one. I'm done."
"Then let's get down from this fucking windowsill before somebody notices us."
Once they were standing on the floor, Peters said, "I hate to mention this, but the chest of drawers has to go back too."
"Yeah, I know." She blew hair out of her eyes. "Thought I forgot, didn't you? Relax, Peters, I've already had my tantrum on that subject today. And as long as we're talking about silver innings, I've got one for you - and it doesn't even involve sex."
Peters looked across the faux-mahogany furniture at her. "Okay, I'm braced. Lay it on me."
"We're smart enough to learn from our mistakes, right? There was a lot of trial and error involved in bringing this fucking thing over here. But now we know which angles work, and which don't. Getting it back is going to be easier. Not easy, but at least easier."
"Pretty good," Peters said, and took a grip on his end of the chest of drawers. "You're one smart demon."
Nobody had heard a shot, but it was immediately clear to most in the crowd that something was very wrong. The controlled chaos on the stage, followed by the candidate's abrupt departure surrounded by guys in suits and sunglasses, was a pretty clear indication.
And if more evidence was needed, there was always the guy in a suit lying on the stage in the center of a rapidly growing pool of blood, while two other guys in suits tried, with controlled desperation, to keep him alive. One was doing rhythmic chest compressions on the downed man, while the other tried to improvise a couple of pressure bandages from folded handkerchiefs. There was a well-equipped First Aid kit in the main Secret Service car, but that had departed with Stark before anyone had thought to say something. It is doubtful that it would have made a difference, anyway.
As soon as he saw what had happened, Quincey Morris said to Libby Chastain, "Come on!" and stepped over the rope line. Everyone else was heading for one of the Plaza's exits, but Morris and Libby fought against the tide and made their slow way to the stage.
Two uniformed Richmond police officers, looking grim, stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the stage. They watched Quincey and Libby approach, and did not seem to like what they beheld.
"Sorry, folks. You can't go up there. It's a crime scene now." This cop was an African-American in his forties whose name tag read 'Monroe.'
"Yeah, you'll have to get your thrills someplace else," the other cop said. He was white and young, and his tag said 'Russell.'
"We're not here for that," Morris said. "The guy who was shot is a friend of mine. We want to see if we can help."
The cops looked at each other, then Monroe said calmly, "Do tell. Well, it's good to have friends." He did not appear impressed.
"His name's Hugh Masterson," Morris said through clenched teeth. "Everybody called him 'Bat,' including him. He was head of Stark's protection detail."
Monroe looked at his partner again. "You catch that Secret Service fella's name?"
"No, but I'm pretty sure I heard one of the other agents call him 'Bat.' I thought at first he was calling him 'Bad', or somethin'. Could be these folks are tellin' the truth. Not that it matters."
Monroe nodded, "Yeah." To Morris and Libby he said, "If that fella up there's your friend, Mr., I'm sorry for your trouble." He turned to Libby for a moment, saying, "You, too, ma'am." Libby nodded her thanks.
"But we got explicit orders," the black cop told Morris. "Unless you or this lady is a doctor, and I don't see either one of you carrying a medical bag, we are not authorized to let you through. Sorry."
Morris looked at Libby. She knew him well enough to understand that he was asking, "Have you got any magic ready that will get us past these guys, and is it worth it to Bat if we do?"
Libby gave her answer to both questions with a slow, sad shake of her head. She did not have any healing magic prepared, and even white magic cannot work miracles. She was fairly certain that Masterson, even if he were still alive, would need a miracle.
Morris nodded glumly. To the two cops he said politely, "All right, officers. Sorry to bother you."
Then he and Libby Chastain turned and walked slowly away. They both knew with sour certainty that they would not be seeing Hugh 'Bat' Masterson again, - not unless they attended his funeral.
To their surprise, the hotel bar wasn't crowded. Most of the spectators at the rally had apparently left for home, there to tell rapt family members and friends about their brief moment of melodrama.
They gave the waitress their drink order, then Morris sat back in his chair. He stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, a finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'm so sorry, Quincey," Libby said.
"He was a pretty good guy," Morris said, without changing his posture. "I'm gonna miss him."
"Yes, I know, but what I meant was, I'm sorry for the role I played in his death."
Morris dropped his hand from his face. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, staring at Libby. "The part you played? Are you serious?"
"I'm the one who did the ventriloquist act," she said. "I'm the one who yelled, "Gun!"
"I know that," Morris said. "And it seems like you were right, too."
"Yes, but if I hadn't been so fucking clever..."
The waitress brought Morris's bourbon and water, and Libby's double vodka. They tacitly agreed that a toast wasn't appropriate, so they just picked up their drinks and each took a swallow.
Libby put down her glass and said, "I think I needed that almost as badly as I needed the Ladies Room when we first got here."
"I wasn't exactly sad to see the Men's Room, either," Morris said. "But you were in the process of beating yourself up. If you feel you have to, go on ahead. I'll listen. Not that I agree with you."
"But, if I hadn't used the voice spell -"
"Then Stark would probably be dead, which might or might not be a good thing. We don't know enough to say."
"Oh, that's right, I forgot to -"
"Let me finish, okay? I'm saying something profound here - or at least it sounded that way in my head a minute ago. Libby, I figure two people, and two people alone, are responsible for what happened to Bat. One is the shooter - and I hope to meet that sumbitch one day. And the other one is Bat himself. He put himself in the line of fire, just like he was supposed to. He gave his life in the performance of his duty, as they say." Morris stared at the amber liquid in his glass. "There's worse epitaphs a man can have, I guess."
"Amen to that," Libby said. "You know, maybe a toast is in order, after all." She picked up her glass. "To Hugh 'Bat' Masterson, lawman, who died with his boots on, while performing his sworn duty to God and country." She extended her glass toward Morris. He raised his, and the two clinked softly. Then each of them took another drink, in honor of the fallen.
"You said there was something you were going to tell me," Morris said.
"Yes, and it's a doozy, even if I did forget it amidst all the other excitement." She put an arm on the table and leaned toward Morris. "In the second before Bat cannoned into him, I saw Stark make some kind of gesture in the air - with his left hand."
Morris's eyes widened a bit. "Really?"
"Uh-huh, and there's more. Remember how I saw the - miasma, for lack of a
better word - the miasma of black magic coming out of Room 1408? Well I saw the same thing form above Stark, just before Masterson put him on the floor."
Morris whistled softly. "I won't ask you if you're sure -"
"Pretend that you did. Yes, I'm sure."
"Black magic from the killer and his victim? Intended victim, I mean."
"I know. It boggles the mind. Did we wander into the middle of a war between two sorcerers?"
"We don't have enough information to say. But I think I've got an idea about where we might find some."
Libby looked a question at him.
"After we finish our drinks, and maybe have a second round, I suggest we pay us a visit to Room 1408."
Libby frowned at him. "The killer's long gone, Quincey. He'd have to be. Or she."
"Of course. But I'm thinking that he - or she - probably took off in a big hurry. Let's see if anything interesting got left behind."
"Not a bad idea," Libby said. "But if we're going back up there, I think one drink had better be enough - at least for me."
"Yeah, good point," Morris said. He checked his glass and looked to see how much bourbon was left. "I think just one of these will probably do it for me, as well."
The elevator brought them to the 14th floor; after that, they were on their own. As they walked the hall toward Room 1408, Morris said, "Can you get us in there?"
"It should be simple enough," Libby said, "assuming it's the standard hotel lock, and nobody has added any... refinements."
"You're thinking booby traps?"
"Could be. It's one solution to the problem of leaving stuff behind, isn't it? The first person to open the door after our black magician leaves gets blown to bits - and the contents of the room along with him."
"Lot of collateral damage that way."
"Uh-huh. But those Left Hand Path people aren't exactly characterized by their reverence for human life, are they?"
"Guess we'd better be extra careful, then."
Sympathy for the Devil Page 28
