The Pawn pbf-1

by Steven James

  The governor swung the door open, eyed me. “Agent Bowers,” he said, “how’s the fishing been?”

  “No time for all that.” I rushed past him to search the room. “Has anyone been in here, Governor? The kid remembers. The kid from Jonestown. Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid. We have to stop him-”

  “That’s far enough,” said a voice, but it wasn’t the governor’s. Wait a minute, I knew that voice. Whiny. Repulsive. Annoying. I turned and saw Reginald Trembley aiming a. 40 caliber Glock at my face.

  Tessa snatched her knapsack from Officer Muncey. “All right, I’ll wait. Whatever! But keep your hands off my stuff!” She began to jam her clothes back into her bag when she heard the front door open.

  “Jason,” called Officer Muncey. “Tessa was planning on leaving us.”

  Footsteps from the hall leading to the living room.

  Tessa glanced out the window. Something wasn’t right.

  “Wait a minute,” she whispered. “No car.”

  “What?” said Officer Muncey.

  Tessa pointed outside. “He left in a car. It’s not here. Besides, we would have heard the engine, the car door slam.” Officer Muncey looked at her curiously. Tessa shook her head. “It’s not him.” She began backing down the hallway toward her bedroom. All she could think of was that treadmill. Those legs.

  Footsteps.

  “That’s not Officer Stilton,” she whispered.

  “What’s going on?” Officer Patricia Muncey had a bewildered look on her face. It was the last expression she would ever have.

  “Listen to me,” I said to Governor Taylor and Reginald Trembley. “Both of you. We need to search this suite. Governor, there’s someone who wants to kill you.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Oh yes,” said the governor smoothly. He closed the door and slammed the deadbolt into place. “I’ve been doing a little trolling myself.”

  I noticed a tray of half-eaten hors d’oeuvres. “Did you eat those? Governor, please. Listen to me-”

  “Shut up,” Trembley sneered. “How does it feel to have a gun pointed at you this time, Mr. Federal-Agent-With-The-Bad-Day-And-The-Wicked-Gun?”

  “Gun, huh?” said the governor. He reached into my holster and retrieved my SIG. “Hmm. Very nice.”

  OK. This was not playing out exactly like I’d envisioned it.

  I needed to forget about Kincaid for a minute and just keep from being shot.

  Keep them talking. You have to keep them talking.

  So that’s what it’s come down to: die or give a briefing.

  Wonderful.

  “So, you were playing both sides, weren’t you, Trembley?” I was stalling, of course, trying to think of a plan. “Started off investigating Kincaid for Bethanie’s parents, but then Kincaid found out, didn’t he? He offered you a better deal if only you’d find out some information for him about the crimes. How am I doing?”

  He smiled a wet, slimy grin.

  “Enough,” said Governor Taylor.

  “Kincaid needed details, though, right?” I continued quickly. “In order to stage the murders. So that was you? You used your contacts at the police department to get access to the ME reports and crime scene photos. It all makes sense now.”

  “Jason Stilton has always been a good friend,” he said smugly. “Do anything for a buck.”

  What? Stilton?

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  Stilton’s name was one of the sixty-two. He had access to the case files.

  “Enough!” repeated the governor.

  OK, deal with Stilton later. Right now, stay alive.

  I pointed at Sebastian Taylor but kept talking to Trembley. “Then you found Sebastian too, didn’t you? Through Kincaid, maybe? Did you threaten to expose the governor’s role in Jonestown unless he-”

  “Let’s just say that Mr. Trembley and I have reached an agreement.” Governor Taylor turned to Trembley. “Haven’t we?”

  Grinning that moist grin. “Oh yeah.”

  “Blackmail,” I said.

  “A business transaction,” said the governor. “Now, Dr. Bowers, it’s time for you to die.”

  Tessa’s back found the wall as Officer Muncey turned to look down the hallway to the front door.

  And what happened next happened so fast it seemed like it was all one action and that all the movements were connected through space and time by a deadly, invisible cord.

  The sound of a gunshot ripped through the house. Officer Muncey jerked backward, glanced down at her chest, brushed her hand against her sweater, sighed softly, crumpled to the ground anticlimactically, and sprawled onto the carpet. Alive one moment, dead the next. Just like that. Tessa watched it all happen. Felt the tug of the cord on her soul.

  Then she heard a man calling from the other side of the house. “Do you know how many people are born each day, Tessa?”

  All the time that I was blabbing I was desperately trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. I looked around. We were in the multi-room presidential suite. To my right, a veranda overlooked the fountains and gardens of the atrium. The doors to it were closed. I couldn’t jump, anyway. We were on the sixth floor.

  “Mr. Trembley,” said the governor. “You may shoot him in the head now. Aim carefully, please.”

  Trembley leveled his gun at me. It was all happening too fast. I didn’t even have my escape plan figured out yet. This was not-

  Blam.

  I jolted. Expected to feel the bullet tear into me. Felt at my face, scanned my chest. What? Nothing.

  Then I looked up.

  Trembley lay dying on the carpet.

  “Nice shot, Dr. Bowers,” said the governor, holding my gun. The barrel was smoking. “It looks like you killed him.”

  And in that moment I realized I might have underestimated Sebastian Taylor.

  Tessa ran down the hallway, locked the bathroom door, then slipped into the master bedroom instead and left its door unlocked.

  “387,834 people, Tessa,” called the man who’d shot the woman cop. “And every day 153,288 die. Where are you, Tessa? Today is your day.”

  She heard the killer coming down the hall, trying the doors. Heard him open the door to the room she’d slept in last night.

  “I know you’re down here, Tessa.” He moved to the next door in the hall. The bathroom. Found it locked. “Aha. There you are.”

  She crouched in the corner of the bedroom, next to the dresser, trembled, pulled out her phone, dialed 911.

  “Hello,” said a bored-sounding voice, “please state the nature-”

  Her heartbeat was going through the roof. Her words came out in spurts as she tried to breathe. “There’s a man… in the hall… has a gun.”

  “Where are you calling from, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m in a house, a FBI house. Call the FBI office. Ask for Patrick Bowers.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t-”

  He was bashing on the bathroom door, hollering her name. “Tessa, open the door.”

  “He’s coming,” Tessa whispered urgently. “He killed the cop who was supposed to be protecting me.”

  Then she heard a car pull into the driveway and a car door slam.

  Officer Stilton.

  “Well,” said the governor. “I guess I won’t have to pay Mr. Trembley after all. Shame.” He set down my gun, picked up Trembley’s Glock, and aimed it at me. “And now it’s your turn, Agent Bowers.”

  No, no, no. This was not good.

  My heart began to jackhammer in my chest. “So you’re going to shoot me? Is that it?”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t do that. No need. Trembley already did, right before he died.”

  Not good at all.

  Tessa heard the bathroom door burst open. The clatter of splintered wood. Cursing.

  Then the killer stopped. He must have looked out the window in the bathroom and seen the car there.

  Oh no.

  She gl
anced out the window. Officer Stilton was walking up the driveway.

  She had to warn him. If she didn’t, the man in the hall would kill him too. She pulled the window shade back and tried signaling to the cop, but he was fumbling with his pack of cigarettes and didn’t see her.

  She tried opening the window, but it was either jammed or sealed shut. Oh duh, she was in an FBI house! The windows were probably bulletproof and sealed shut for her protection.

  Great.

  She looked back at the phone. The screen read “Call Ended.” Either she’d lost the signal or they’d hung up on her when she stopped talking. Either way it meant she was dead meat.

  Wait. If you can’t get out, how did the killer get in? Did he pick the lock? Was the door left unlocked on purpose? Why would someone have left it unlocked?

  Officer Stilton paused and then turned back to his car. He must have forgotten something.

  78

  “Someone definitely heard that shot,” I said to the governor. “They’ll be coming for you.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think so.” He let his gaze wander around the suite. “Presidential suite, remember? Bulletproof glass. Soundproof rooms. Welcome to the waters where the big fish swim.” Then he tapped the Glock’s barrel against his palm. “Let’s see… So, how does this sound? Stressed-out FBI agent who lost his wife and got stuck behind a desk for six months finally gets back into the field but hasn’t quite recovered from his bouts with depression. Everyone in the office has noticed his erratic behavior and angry flare-ups. He concocts a wild conspiracy theory about the governor of North Carolina being involved in the Jonestown tragedy some thirty years earlier and despite being warned off the wild goose chase by his superiors, he takes things into his own hands and tries to assassinate the governor in his hotel room just one day after threatening him at his private residence. But thankfully, the private investigator who Governor Taylor had hired to investigate the rogue agent killed him before he could carry out his deadly plans.” Sebastian Taylor looked down at Trembley’s body. “Unfortunately for the PI, Dr. Bowers was able to squeeze off one final round, killing him, before expiring.”

  OK, that actually sounded kind of believable to me.

  “It’ll never fly,” I said.

  “Oh, you seem to be forgetting, I’m very good at what I do.”

  “Gunshot residue,” I said. “It’s all over your clothes, your face, your hands.”

  “I was in the room when you shot him. It would be natural for some residue to be on me.”

  That was actually a good point. How ironic. Location and timing of a crime were going to be the death of me. Literally.

  Keep him talking.

  “I still can’t believe that even you would be willing to sacrifice nine hundred innocent people,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Never part of the plan. You should have figured that out by now. Ryan was the target. We knew we could pin the assassination on Peoples Temple, shut Jones down, show the world how crazy and unstable communists are. His followers were just collateral damage.” He smirked. “We weren’t sure exactly how Jones would react, but we figured he’d self-destruct-which he did. In the end it just went further than we thought it would.”

  “That’s what you call the death of all those people? Going further than you thought it would? Collateral damage?” I felt anger pacing back and forth inside me, ready to pounce. “You used him. You used them all.”

  “We did what we had to do. Ryan was a threat to our country, always fighting to limit the way the CIA did its work. We did it to protect freedom, not to limit it. We just created the perfect storm and waited to see how it would play out. I wasn’t sent in to make sense of it, just to help recast the story.”

  “Remove the evidence, leave the rumors.”

  “Eloquently put.”

  “So what about the truth?” I said. “That doesn’t matter?”

  He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Rumors, Dr. Bowers, not truth, are what matter in the end. Rumors start wars, topple regimes, ruin marriages, end careers. The driving force behind world commerce is innuendo, not truth. Everything from the stock market to the futures market to the price of oil is determined by guesswork and gossip. Control the rumors, Dr. Bowers, and you control the world.”

  “And in the case of Jonestown, you controlled the rumors.”

  A smile writhed across his face. “We influenced them. After all, those people really did kill themselves off; we had nothing to do with that. All we did was shape the way their story was told.” He raised the Glock, pointed it at my chest. “Just as I’m going to shape the way your story will be told.”

  Think fast… think fast…

  “But then why’d you leave the tape behind? At least tell me that much.”

  “I was interrupted before I could finish editing it.” He shook his head. “It’s that simple. Someone just showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gotta hate those interruptions.” He took aim. Faster. Faster.

  “Ralph and Lien-hua know.”

  The governor scoffed. “They can’t prove anything.”

  “No,” said a voice from behind me. “But I can.”

  Governor Taylor and I turned to see a gentle-looking man in his early forties step into the room from where he’d apparently been hiding on the balcony.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid. And I have something to give you.”

  Tessa faced the door, her heart ready to explode. It was the last door in the hall. The killer would try it next.

  911 hadn’t helped. Who? Who could she call?

  She saw a cell phone recharging on the dresser. The phone Patrick had been using. It would have the phone numbers of the other FBI agents! She grabbed it.

  It was turned off.

  Pressed power.

  Waited.

  Heard the killer moving through the hallway.

  Waited.

  There.

  She scrolled to the recent calls. The first name listed was Brent Tucker.

  79

  The governor swiveled on smoothly oiled joints and fired the Glock at Kincaid, hitting him square in the shoulder, sending him reeling toward the balcony where he smacked into the railing and flipped over backward. A moment later I heard the splash as he landed in the river six stories below. A series of screams echoed through the courtyard from the delegates who saw what happened.

  “I should have done that thirty years ago,” said the governor, gazing toward the balcony.

  While he was momentarily distracted I scrambled over, grabbed my gun, rolled across the carpet.

  “That, Dr. Bowers,” said Sebastian Taylor from somewhere behind me, “is how you handle a shark.”

  I positioned myself behind the couch. Flattened my back against it.

  “Sebastian,” I yelled. “Put down the gun.” I peered around the edge of the couch and then ducked back. He was scanning the room looking for me, trying to conserve bullets now that the balcony doors were open and the room was no longer soundproof. He’d need to choose his shot wisely; security would be here any moment. “You ate the hors d’oeuvres,” I called. “You’re infected. We need to treat you.”

  “Wasn’t me, I’m afraid,” he said. “I gave those to Anita before sending her to her room. I suppose I’ll have to find a new personal assistant. Ah well, she was getting a little old for me anyhow.”

  I couldn’t see him; he was on the other side of the room. “Governor,” I said. “It’s over. I recorded everything you said. I’m wired.” I touched the mic patch to make sure it was still in place beneath my ear. I’d put it on after grabbing it from my desk before leaving the federal building. No one was monitoring the other end at the moment, but everything the governor had said was automatically recorded.

  Every word.

  Despite the interruptions.

  That is how you handle a shark.

  Brent Tucker… Brent Tucker… Tessa had overheard Patrick talking
to him on the phone earlier this morning. What had Patrick said again? Something about him helping with the case, being a good man.

  So he was a friend of Patrick’s. He could help. She punched the number. Waited while it rang. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  She heard the catch of the lock as the cop who liked to smoke opened the front door of the house.

  I heard the door bang open and ventured a glance. Governor Taylor had fled.

  Shouts and screams rose from the courtyard. I ran to the balcony.

  Kincaid had landed in the foaming water near the base of the waterfall. It must have cushioned his landing enough for him to survive the fall. He was hobbling to his feet. “It’s a cruel world,” he was shouting. “But our love will unite us forever!” And one by one, his people, the caterers for today’s luncheon, were taking capsules out of their pockets and popping them into their mouths.

  Endgame.

  Tessa couldn’t believe that the killer didn’t open the door in front of her, the last door in the hall. Instead, she heard him run back toward the center of the house.

  Officer Stilton, no! He was going to kill him too.

  The cell phone in her hand was ringing, still ringing.

  Answer, Agent Tucker. Answer!

  Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid looked around the courtyard. The world was spinning. People screaming.

  He was standing in water. Swirling water. Blood weeping from his shoulder.

  Blood and water. Curling together.

  The river.

  The whirlpool.

  Jessica and the days of true love.

  “His vision, our vision!” he yelled. “His future, our future!”

  I watched as the hotel security guards raced into the lobby and then fumbled around trying to figure out what to do: arrest the people who were killing themselves or try to calm down the panicking guests who were paying $1,200 a night?

  “Arrest them!” I shouted. The room was erupting in confusion. People were trying to leave, stampeding everywhere. “Stop them,” I yelled. “It’s a suicide mission! We need them alive to identify the virus!”

  You have to get down there.

  I knew the elevators would be jammed with people, so I ran to the stairs, descended to the main floor, and bolted into the courtyard of hanging gardens and pools.