"Yeah. Where's the coffee?"
I pointed to the large thermos sitting on the sideboard. "It's probably mostly mud by now"
"If it's got caffeine, I can use it."
The FBI agent came in. I introduced him to jock. "Mr. Algren is the overall commander of this effort," I said. "He's the one I report to."
The agent took stock ofJock. "What agency are you with?"
"That's not important," Jock said. "But I talk directly to the president."
"I guess that's important," the agent said. "Maybe you can get the Marshals Service off its duff. They won't give me anything on the Witness Security Program. I've alerted my supervisor and he's working up the chain of command to see if our director can talk to the Marshals director."
Jock gave the agent that cold stare that I knew had intimidated stronger men than the FBI man. "You called your fucking supervisor?" he said, his voice rising. "Why didn't you go straight to the top?"
The agent wilted a little. "We have to follow protocol on these things," he said. "We do have a chain of command, you know."
Jock exploded, the hours of frustration bursting out of him like a Roman candle. "You bureaucratic pissant," he said, his voice low. "Don't you realize that people are about to die?"
"Protocol is important, Mr. Algren," the agent said.
"Fuck protocol," Jock said. His voice was low and strident. "And fuck your chain of command."
Jock pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit one button. In a moment he said, "Mr. President, this is jock Algren." Silence. "Not yet, sir, but we're making progress." Silence. "Yes, sir. I need you to call die director of the U.S. Marshals Service and have him get somebody to talk to me about die Witness Security Program." Silence. "As soon as possible, sir. I need names, addresses, and a lot of information on some of the protected witnesses." Silence. "Thank you, sir. I'll keep you posted."
Jock closed his phone and turned to the agent, who looked as if lie wanted to cower in the corner of the small room. "That's done. Now get the hell out of my sight."
The agent turned for the door. "Wait," I said. "Did you find out anything from the folks in Troy?"
"Yes, sir," he said. "The high school principal is retired, but it was a small school, and lie remembers most of the kids. He never heard of a student named Simmermon, but he does remember Edinfield. Says he was a troubled boy, and thinks he ended up in a mental institution."
"What about records?"
"There is no record of a student named Simmermon."
"Thank you, Agent. I appreciate your help," I said.
"Agent,"Jock said. "I apologize for my behavior. Chalk it up to a lack of sleep."
"Apology accepted, sir," the agent said as he left the room.
"Shit," said Jock. "The guy was just doing his job."
I told Jock about the connection I saw to the churches in Atlanta and Key West. "I wonder if we ought to concentrate our assets on similar churches in Orlando."
"If we do that, and the bomber takes out an unprotected church, we're going to look like the world's biggest idiots. Plus, I'd have to live with the slaughter of a lot of innocent people because I got stupid."
"You're probably right. At least we can put a little protection around all the churches. Maybe we'll get lucky."
Jock was pacing now, his face a mask of pain. "We're going to lose them, podner. I'm about to get a lot of good people killed."
"Calm down, buddy. We're making progress."
"Yeah," said Jock, "but is it enough?"
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
It was four thirty when Debbie called. "Matt," she said, "I couldn't sleep. I went into the newspaper archives for northern Alabama, and came up with something that I thought you might be interested in."
"Shoot."
"A couple of years ago, when Simmermon was really getting his revivals into the big time, he got into a pissing match with a Methodist minister in Birmingham."
"What about?"
"Mostly theological issues. The minister didn't think Simmermon was staying true to the Bible. Said he was preaching hate wrapped up in Christian principles. The preacher took the position that Christian principles are about forgiveness, and Simmermon said that they were about exclusiveness. In other words, if you want to go to heaven, you need to listen to Simmermon."
"How does that fit into the problems we're facing?"
"Well, you haven't exactly told me what problems you are facing. I know you're in Orlando, and you're there because of Simmermon."
"Sorry, babe. That's all I can tell you."
"Well, anyway, the connection I see is that the minister from Birmingham is now the pastor of the Lakeside Methodist Church in downtown Orlando."
"Uh-oh. What's the minister's name?"
"Carlton Tarlington."
"I'll be damned. Thanks Deb. Get some sleep."
"Yeah, right." She hung up.
I turned to Jock and Logan. "Jock," I said, "when you had Simmermon drugged up, could he have been saying `Tarlington' instead of `Arlington'?"
"Maybe. Why?"
I relayed Deb's findings.
"That could be it. Do you know the church?"
"Yeah. It's a big one. The sanctuary probably seats a thousand people."
"That's got to be his target," said Logan. "Can't we warn Tarlington and get his people out of harm's way?"
Jock shook his head. "We can't take that chance. The bomber would just hit another target. We've got to take him out."
Jock's phone rang, and he stepped outside to take it. When he came back, he was smiling. "That was the director of the Witness Security Program. He was at home and plugged into his agency computers. Amazing what wonders a little juice will work in bureaucracies."
"What did he find out?" I asked.
"Not enough. He's going to dig a little deeper and call me back. But, Edinfield and Thomas were in the program. So was Clyde Varn. They set Edinfield up with a new name, Robert William Simmermon, and tried to manufacture a past for him. It was pretty good, and would have been enough if Debbie hadn't gotten curious."
"What about Varn and Thomas?" Logan asked.
"Varn was sent to Topeka and became Jake Yardley. About a year ago, he disappeared. The Marshals say it isn't that unusual. The witnesses get bored or miss their old life and just leave the program. The government doesn't spend a lot of manpower looking for them."
"That's about when he showed up in Bradenton," I said. "Is there any evidence that he knew Edinfield in the program?"
"Some. While Edinfield was in Key West he was working for some pretty bad folks. He was crazy, but he somehow got tied in with the same drug-running group that Varn was associated with. Edinfield worked on some fishing boats, and apparently he was bringing drugs into Key West.
"The Marshals think he might have met Varn there. Varn was muscle for the drug importers that Edinfield worked for. When the whole thing fell apart, Varn and Thomas testified, but Edinfield was too crazy to be a witness. They put him in the program anyway, and manufactured the Simmermon persona. The three of them spent some time together in a safe house the marshals maintain in Miami."
"That's probably the connection," I said.
Jock nodded his head. "Probably. The Marshals didn't expect their man to find the Lord and become an evangelist. There wasn't anything they could do about it though. He dropped out of the program and became a little bit famous."
"What about Fats?" I asked.
"He was the accountant for the drug mob. He went into the program too, but the director is going to have to get back to me on him. There was some sort of computer glitch. They're working on it."
My phone rang.
"I'm sorry to wake you, Matt." It was Jeff Timmons.
"No problem, Jeff. I wasn't asleep."
"There's no other way to say this," he said. "Laura wanted me to tell you how much she appreciated your finding Peggy. She said to tell you she loved you. She died about ten minutes ago."
I was expec
ting it. When I heard Jeff's voice on the phone, I knew it had happened. But nothing really prepares you for the death of a loved one. Tears welled in my eyes. I choked down a sob. "Shit, Jeff," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm sorry too, Matt. She loved both of us, you know. I always knew that, and I've always been okay with it. You gave me back my daughter. Peggy was with Laura at the end. I'll never be able to thank you enough for that. Please stay in touch." He hung up.
I put the phone in my pocket. Tears were running down my cheeks. I knew it, and didn't care. The radioman was out of the room, so it was just my two best friends and me. They'd understand.
"Laura's dead," I said, and walked out of the room.
I left the building and stood on the front steps. The city lights partially obscured the night sky, but I could see stars shining through the glare. Maybe Laura was one of them.
An elevated highway, Interstate 4, ran in front of the police headquarters. Traffic was light, a few late-night revelers headed home. I heard a dog bark nearby, a lonely sound in the wee hours. Soon, another dog took up the conversation. In the far distance, I could hear a siren, its faint wail gently caressing my ears.
My mind was flooded with memories of Laura. The day I met her, our wedding day, the day she left me. Mostly, I saw her that morning ten days earlier on the deck of the Longboat Hilton, staring at the Gulf, her face squeezed by worry. Her smile, her embrace, her teasing banter. I'd give the rest of my life to go back to those minutes beside a placid sea, drinking in the essence of my life's love.
I wiped my eyes. I didn't have time for grief. There were a lot of people in Orlando who were about to be grief stricken. We had to stop the bomber. There was enough pain in the world brought about by events beyond human control. We didn't need to add to that by letting the crazies loose on an unsuspecting nation.
I said good-bye to Laura, and walked back into the building.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Jock looked up as I walked into the room. "You okay, podner?"
"I will be," I said.
"I'm sorry," said Logan. "She must have been special."
"She was. Anything else on the bomber?"
"Maybe," said Jock. "The Witness Security Program director called back. It seems that Mr. Thomas lived in Orlando under an assumed name while he was in the program. He disappeared three years ago."
"Was Monahan the name given him by the feds?"
"No. He was Jared Buckhorn then."
"Where did he live?"
"He had a house on Primrose Street. He sold it when he moved. That's all the Marshals have on him. He dropped out of sight completely."
"Who did he sell the house to?"
"No information on that."
"Do you have an address?"
"Sure do," said Jock, and gave it to me.
I called Debbie again. She wasn't going to like this, but it was quicker than getting the county property appraiser out of bed.
"Babe?" I said. She had obviously been asleep.
"Oh, great, Royal. What time is it? Oh, five thirty. Forty-five minutes sleep is all I need. What now?"
"One more search. I think I know the answer, but I need you to confirm it."
"All right. What's the question?"
I gave her the address and told her I needed the ownership of the house.
"You want to take a bet on it being Circle Ltd?" she said.
"Nope. I'm guessing that's what you'll find."
"Don't hang up."
I heard her tapping on a computer keyboard. Then, "It's Circle Ltd."
"Does the corporation still own it?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, dear. Sleep tight."
"Go to hell, Royal," she said and hung up.
I returned the phone to my pocket. "That address is owned by the same corporation that owns the whorehouses and Blood Island. Fats may be there."
"Let's round up the troops and find out," Jock said.
Thirty minutes later Jock, Logan, and I were sitting in a government sedan in front of the Primrose Street house. The FBI agent was with us. An Orlando police SWAT team, dressed in combat gear, was about to enter the house. ATF agents with explosive sniffing dogs would follow them in. An Orlando fire department ambulance was parked down the street.
We waited. The night was easing into day. It was six a.m., and dawn had replaced the darkness. A light showed in the window of the house next door. The smell of brewing coffee wafted across to us. A cat ambled across the lawn, paying no attention to the strangers encroaching into its territory. Newspapers, thick with the Sunday ads, were lying on front sidewalks. People were sleeping in, but soon they would be up and coming outside for their papers. We needed to be finished before then. Nosey neighbors could easily get hurt if there was a shootout, or worse, an explosion.
The SWAT team moved with an unexpected suddenness. The front door was battered open by a ram held by two officers. The men crowded into the house, yelling "clear" as they went from room to room. Two ATF agents and their dogs went through the door at a fast walk. The whole operation took about a minute.
The SWAT commander came out of the house, looking relaxed, and walked over to our car. "The house is clear," he said. "The ATF guys say there're no explosives in the house. We found a fat guy asleep in the master bedroom."
Jock smiled coldly. "That's good news, Captain. We'll talk to him in the house. Restrain the fat man, and clear all your guys out."
"I'm the team commander," the officer said. "I can stay if you like."
Jock shook his head. "That might not be good for your career. Get your men out."
The captain went back to the house, and soon the entire group was huddled on the sidewalk across the street. Lights had come on in more of the houses, and uniformed Orlando police officers were going door to door, reassuring the residents that everything was under control.
Jock, Logan, and I went into the house. Fats Monahan was sitting on a sofa in the small living room, his hands cuffed behind his back, head down, staring at his lap.
"Morning, Fats," I said.
He looked up, surprise written on his features.
"Matt," he said. "Thank God. These officers have me mixed up with somebody else."
I laughed. "I want you to listen to me very closely, Albert Thomas," I said.
He blanched at the sound of his name. Blood drained from his face. He knew at that moment that his life was finished. He'd spend the rest of it in jail.
I knelt down in front of him, my face even with his. "We're not cops," I said. "We don't care if you live to walk out of here or die where you sit. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Tell me who and where the bomber is."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I pulled my dive knife from its scabbard at my ankle and stabbed him in the shoulder. He screamed. I heard boots hitting the sidewalk at a run. One of the cops on his way.
Jock moved to the door to intercept the officer. He crossed his hands, plains down, like a baseball umpire signaling safe. "We've got everything under control," he said.
Fats was groaning, looking at me, his face wrinkled in terror and pain.
"Fats," I said, "I'm going to butcher you alive right in this room if you don't start talking."
"Okay," he said, his voice strained. "I don't know where Joshua is."
"Is Joshua the bomber?"
"Yes."
"When did you see him last?"
"At midnight. He came here to get his vest."
"What's his target?"
Fats stared at me, his eyes a bit glazed. "Listen, don't stop this. We're going to save Western Civilization."
"By killing Christians?"
"They'll be martyrs. They'll go to heaven immediately. It's God's way."
"I don't get it," Logan said. "Why kill your own people?"
"We're just going to kill enough to get the government off its ass and start killing Muslims. We need to root out the heathens."
"You're as crazy as the rest of them," said Logan.
"Fats," I said, "I'm going to stab you again. You can pick the spot."
"No, Matt. Don't you see? This is for us, for America."
I pulled back on the knife. "Where do you want it?"
"No, don't stab me again. I'll tell you."
"Martyrdom's not for you, huh?" I said.
"It's not my time."
"What's the target?"
"Lakeside Methodist Church."
"When?"
"Nine o'clock. The early service."
"Describe Joshua to me."
"He's about twenty years old, blond hair, six feet tall."
"What's he wearing?"
"Beige suit and blue tie."
"Where are the explosives?"
"A vest. Under his suit coat. My shoulder hurts like hell."
"Fats," I said, holding the bloody knife under his nose, "if you aren't giving me the right description of this idiot, I'm coming back for you. Your martyrdom is going to be preceded by more pain than you can imagine."
"I'm telling you the truth. Can I get something for this shoulder?"
Jock said, "Fats, did you kill the man Matt found at Pelican Man's?"
"I had to. He was some kind of government agent."
"How did you know that?" Jock asked.
"I didn't for sure, but we had to be careful. It's better to sacrifice one of our own than to take a chance on the whole thing going down the drain."
"Why did you leave him in the vulture pit?" I asked.
"That was Bartel. He liked to make a statement."
"Where did you find Bartel?" I asked.
"I didn't. The Rev sent him to me. Said he'd do whatever I needed done."
"That day in your bar? What the hell was that all about?"
"I knew you were going to talk to Wayne Lee. I tried to stop him before you found him, but he got by me somehow. I saw you and Logan go into the bar with him, and I saw you two leave. I waited until Wayne left to take him out. I didn't know what he'd told you, so I had to get you too.
"The next morning, I called Cracker and told him to get you to my place. Bartel was supposed to kill you in the bar downstairs, and then get out of there. He was late."
"And it cost him his sorry life," I said.
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