by Steve Berry
I dove at Valdez.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
At the same instant our bodies made contact, my right hand grabbed for the gun. Valdez reacted to my assault with a moment of awkwardness, enough for me to take him down. I wondered if anyone heard the shot and, if they had, if it would raise any alarm. Loud noises were the norm at an amusement park, and this one had come from an obvious construction site.
We hit the pavement.
I lifted, then slammed the hand with the gun several times into the concrete, which caused it to clatter away. Valdez shoved his way off me and scrambled for a pile of rebar, gripping one of the remnant pieces and coming my way. I caught sight of Foster struggling to crawl toward Coleen, who still had not moved or made a sound. Valdez swung the piece of iron at me, trying to make contact. I dodged the swishes, retreating, eventually running out of real estate and hitting one of the walls. Valdez lifted the iron bar and tried a vertical blow, which I managed to avoid.
I kicked him in the chest.
Which sent him staggering back, but he found his balance and decided to just whirl the rebar at me. The projectile spun through the air and caught me hard in the thigh, thankfully not with one of the sharp ends, which could have done some damage. Instead it was a horizontal smack.
Which hurt like hell.
I dropped to the ground.
Valdez fled.
I made myself stand.
Adrenaline surged through me. The pain that had been there a moment ago went numb. I knew that was an illusion, but I embraced it. I rushed over to Foster and freed his hands, bound by duct tape.
“Deal with her,” I said.
My eyes probed the shadows and I spotted the gun near another rubble pile, which I grabbed before racing after Valdez.
I heard the wooden door through which we’d entered open, then bang shut. I approached and passed through, back into the park, catching sight of Valdez weaving through the crowd. The storm had blown itself out, but the warm air felt as if it were filled with invisible steam. People seemed to be enjoying the wet summer evening, the rain nothing more than a minor nuisance.
Valdez was headed toward a carousel where the choice of routes varied. He could go left or right. No way could I take a shot. He passed the carousel and banked left toward Cinderella Castle, lit to the night in all its glory. A breezeway bisected the towering structure. I realized that on the other side was the central hub and Walt Disney’s statue where all this had started. Nate’s body would still be there, as would be police, and security. Valdez seemed to sense that, too, as he angled right and stayed on this side of the castle, far away from any commotion on the other.
We kept moving, passing more attractions.
It’s a Small World. The Haunted Mansion. The Hall of Presidents. We came back into Frontierland and he suddenly disappeared into one of the breezeways I’d seen earlier that connected over to Adventureland.
I kept running, about thirty yards behind him.
I passed through the breezeway and caught sight of Valdez as he zeroed in on the Jungle Cruise, entering a wooden pavilion that looked like some kind of African outpost, where a line had formed for folks waiting their turn at the ride. I could see lights and water on the other side of the olden-looking structure and heard the rev of engines as boats arrived and departed.
I kept up my pursuit, rushing inside and watching as he vaulted a wooden railing. He’d avoided the queues to the left and negotiated a part of the interior that had been roped off, not being utilized at the moment for crowd control. I ducked under one of the black nylon straps and dodged the décor of tools and gear, heading to where I had last seen Valdez. At the railing I saw him on one of the canopied boats cruising “upriver,” deeper into the attraction. The banner atop the boat’s canopy identified it as the Nile Nellie. Another boat was being loaded with visitors to my left. More people waited to be off-loaded in boats behind it. I doubted any of these craft were built for speed, so overtaking Valdez did not seem an option. I rushed over to one of the safari-suited attendants.
“That boat that just left,” I said to him. “How can I cut it off and get to it?” He tossed me a puzzled look so I decided to make myself clear. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get to that boat. Now.”
On the run over I’d tucked the gun beneath my shirttail and considered using it to make my point clearer. But my stern tone seemed to grab the young man’s attention. He pointed across the narrow waterway.
“The river winds in a big circle back to here. Through those woods and you’ll get to the boats anywhere they may be along the track.”
“Is there a way out of the park through this ride?”
He nodded. “Beyond the fake jungle is a service road, near the railroad tracks, that leads out. But you’d have to get off the boat.”
Valdez surely wouldn’t know that, but he might discover that fact once he fled the boat anywhere along the way.
I couldn’t allow him to escape.
A narrow wharf cordoned off the boats as they arrived at the pavilion. A wooden walkway, about two planks wide, stretched across the water to the “jungle” on the far side. I sidestepped the visitors, hopped onto one of the boats that had just emptied, balanced myself on the benches, then leaped off on the other side, finding the walkway and rushing toward the foliage. I pushed my way into the ferns and shrubs, heading up a short incline among tall trees, and realized this was a berm that shielded one side of the ride from the other, offering privacy during the experience. I could hear boats churning along beyond the greenery, their engines alternating between bursts of speed and slow cruising.
I crested the berm and pushed through more ferns and shrubs. The foliage was thicker along the edges, which made sense as that would be the most noticeable part to the people on the boats. Here, on the other side of the sight line, concealed trails led in all directions, service routes like the corridors back in the Pirate ride. I could hear water falling and the guides as they entertained people in their boats over PA systems.
I spotted the Nile Nellie.
A man was tossed over the side near the bow. He hit the water with a splash and I saw that Valdez was now driving the boat, revving its engine and picking up speed. But, as I’d assumed, there were limits on the boat’s abilities. He seemed to be trying to steer the craft closer to shore, but it stayed out in the center of the “river,” surely tracked like those in the Pirate ride.
I heard a commotion behind me.
Men yelling and others saying, “He went up that way.”
Apparently security had arrived. Perhaps even the police, too, given what had happened earlier.
In just a few moments they would find me.
Valdez seemed to realize that the boat’s maneuverability was limited. He fled the craft, hopping into the chest-deep water and wading his way toward the far shore and an animatronic display of animals. The bank beyond was clear and open, angled upward to another berm lined with vegetation. On the other side might be that service road the attendant had mentioned. There he could find a way out of here with nobody the wiser. I was hemmed in among the trees and the darkness.
Valdez had no idea I was there.
I heard thrashing behind me.
Whoever was coming would be here in a moment.
Valdez exited the water, walking up among the mechanical lions, giraffes, and zebras.
About a hundred feet away.
I reached for my gun.
To that point I’d never once, in my entire life, had the urge to kill someone. But I desperately wanted to end Juan Lopez Valdez’s life. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that he was a critical witness in a diabolical conspiracy. One part of me wanted him dead, the other screamed that justice demanded he be taken alive.
“Fan out and find him,” I heard a voice call out from the plants behind me.
And not all that far away.
I stood just off one of the trails, at the water’s edge. Warm beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. Valdez
shook the moisture from his clothes and turned to head up and out of the attraction.
I aimed the gun, steadying it with both hands.
The navy had taught me how to shoot. My proficiency with a firearm was rated above average. If I called out to tell him to stop, the pursuers behind me would be on me. They’d take my gun and Valdez would get away. He might also ignore the command and use the many robotic animals that dotted the far rocky shoreline for cover, easing his escape.
But if I said nothing—
I couldn’t allow him to just slip back to Cuba and pay no price for all that he’d done.
Not only for King.
But for Coleen and Nate.
He was moving away.
Farther into the gloom.
I had to make a decision.
“There, I see him,” I heard a man call out.
Do it.
I pulled the trigger.
The round smacked into Valdez’s spine, jerking him forward. He turned around toward me, searching for the source of the attack.
I fired again.
Then again.
Both slugs found flesh.
Valdez collapsed.
I lowered my weapon.
“On the ground,” an excited male voice yelled behind me. “Now. I won’t tell you again.”
I assumed the man was armed, so I dropped the gun and raised my hands, allowing my knees to fold to the dirt. There I lay as he pounced, cuffing my hands behind my back.
Just like when all this had started.
Forty-eight hours ago.
What seemed like an eternity.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
I was led back to the construction site in handcuffs, uniformed policemen holding on to each arm. Thank God this was in a time before cell phone cameras or I’d probably have become an instant Internet sensation. DANGEROUS CRIMINAL NABBED AT MAGIC KINGDOM. As it was, all I had to endure were the stares and parents huddling their children close. I wondered why I wasn’t being taken away from the park. After all, I’d just shot a man dead.
Juan Lopez Valdez was no more.
Good riddance.
I would not shed a tear over his demise. But it was the first time I’d ever actually killed someone in cold blood, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. Sure, Oliver and Jansen both died. But those were self-defense, heat of the moment. With Valdez I’d simply pulled the trigger. I’d heard guys in the navy talk about killing. It wasn’t as easy as people thought. It bothered them, too. As it should. Yes, sometimes it had to be done. But that didn’t mean it was ever easy. I would think about what I’d done for many months, never regretting the decision but always mindful of its consequences. Later on I would kill again. More than I’d ever thought possible. It came with the job. And each time I’d reflect on the pros and cons, convincing myself that it had to be done.
We reentered the construction site.
Coleen’s body still lay on the concrete only now covered with a plastic tarp. Her father stood off to the side with an Orange County deputy. Surely they now knew that one of their own had died. To the end she’d been a good cop, doing what cops were trained to do.
Make things happen.
Take charge.
I stood there with my hands cuffed behind my back. The blank sheets of paper I’d used as a decoy were scattered everywhere. The piece of rebar that had bruised my thigh was still there, too. Foster was saying nothing. He just looked dazed, staring down at the ground.
“Valdez is dead,” I said to him.
The older man looked up and nodded.
I wanted him to know that justice had been done. An eye for an eye and all that crap. But Coleen was still gone. I wondered if the sorrow etched deep into his face would ever lessen. It already seemed permanent, the enormity of what had been set in motion thirty-two years ago had come to fruition here, amid the laughter and gaiety of what some called the happiest place on earth.
But only sorrow filled the night air.
Stephanie Nelle appeared with an older man in uniform, a bunch of gold stars on his collar. A pin at his left breast identified him as the Orange County sheriff.
“Uncuff him,” Stephanie said.
The sheriff nodded to one of his deputies and my restraints were freed. She motioned for us to walk off to the far side.
“You okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard. Just follow the bodies. The FBI is not happy. The attorney general is not happy. Tell me something that can change all that.”
I actually had a mouthful, but I needed to speak with Foster first.
I walked over to him.
Stephanie came with me. The sheriff stayed with his people.
“Reverend Foster,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The older man said nothing.
Deputies scurried about working the crime scene.
“She was a good police officer,” Foster said.
“I’ve explained all that I can to the sheriff,” she said, “and invoked federal jurisdiction. I told him the three of you were working with the Justice Department on a special assignment.”
“I would rather you not say that,” Foster muttered. “I prefer to have nothing to do with the government.”
“Would you rather go to jail?” she asked. “Five people died here tonight.”
He glared at her. “I only care about two of those deaths. My daughter and her husband are gone.”
I heard what he hadn’t said.
That he was to blame.
“What’s all the blank paper scattered around?” she asked.
“A bluff that didn’t work,” I said.
“Do you still have the files?” she asked.
This was the moment. Did I tell her the truth? Yes, I knew enough to set history on its head, but Foster had just suffered a horrific personal loss. Did I compound that by implicating him in the murder of Martin Luther King Jr.? No statute of limitations existed on that crime. He could still be prosecuted and face jail. Between the files and the cassette tape, the proof of his involvement was beyond a reasonable doubt. Ultimately, my career in the intelligence business would show that I had a great ability to hold things close. Secrets became second nature for me. People trusted me. And I never let one of them down. But here, amid the surreal gaiety of the Magic Kingdom and the horror of Coleen and Nate’s death, I was confronted for the first time with that dilemma.
Talk?
Or not?
“Valdez didn’t fall for it,” I said. “I had to hand the files over. One of his men took them away just before he shot Coleen.”
Foster did not react to my lie, but something told me he appreciated the temporary deflection. I wanted the opportunity to talk with him privately before I leveled with Stephanie.
“And the coin?” she asked.
I reached into my front pocket and produced it. The small reel of tape was in my back pocket, out of sight to her, and there it would remain.
“Do you plan to explain what happened here?” she asked me, taking the coin.
I nodded. “But not tonight. Let’s do this tomorrow or the next day.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Cotton.”
“It does for me.”
Foster seemed near tears.
Deputies were finishing photographing Coleen’s now uncovered body. No father should have to watch that. He should leave, but I realized that wasn’t going to happen. This man had helped kill Martin Luther King Jr. What it had taken for him to live with that wrong for the past three decades I could only imagine. Now he would have to live with the fact that his daughter and son-in-law were dead, too.
And he was certainly at least partially responsible.
“Reverend Foster, one of the deputies will take you home,” Stephanie said. “I’ll be by to see you in a few days.”
“Don’t waste your time,” he said, the voice filled with sorrow. “I’ll have nothing to say.”
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His gaze met mine and I could read his thoughts, as clear as if he’d spoken the words out loud.
He and I were a different story.
We did need to speak.
“Do you need a ride?” Stephanie asked me.
I shook my head and found the keys in my pocket.
“I have a truck.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Coleen and Nate were buried three days later, a little before noon on an endless, dragging, dreadful day. The funerals were held at her father’s modest church in Orlando, a small, bricked, single-nave building with a pointed bell tower. Every pew was filled with mourners, the sheriff’s department honoring one of their own with a color guard and a uniformed escort to the cemetery. The sheriff himself spoke. Foster did not officiate. Instead, he sat on the front pew, silent and solemn, a prone figure communing with himself.
I’d returned home from Disneyland in Lael’s truck. Its presence raised questions with Pam, and I explained that I inherited it from someone who no longer had any use for it. She asked about what I’d been doing, but I deflected the questions, telling her I wish I could tell her but I couldn’t. Official Navy business. She actually seemed okay with the explanation, and a lovely dinner at a local seafood restaurant helped ease any of her lingering fears.
I would give anything not to have hurt her.
Thoughts of Coleen and Nate stayed in my mind. Along with the fact that three other men had died. Two I helped, the other I killed myself. Of course, not a word of any of that could be uttered to anyone. I was only beginning to understand that being an intelligence officer was a lonely profession. Little to no recognition ever came from anything you did, good or bad. The job was only about results.
Nothing else mattered.
I returned to work at Naval Station Mayport and, amazingly, my CO acted like nothing had ever happened. Perhaps it was the fact that the Justice Department had specifically recruited my services. That had the smell of some captain’s or admiral’s touch, and the one thing my CO could sniff out at five hundred yards in the middle of a hurricane was the sweet waft of command. All my past transgressions seemed to have been forgiven. I resumed my job as a staff attorney and it didn’t take long for me to realize that there was no comparison between that and what I’d done for the past few days.
