by Bob Mayer
“Yes. And you were correct about the killer going to the wrong grave. She was at the Monument.”
“What happened?” Evie asked.
“I hit her twice, head shots, but it didn’t seem to have much effect,” Ducharme said. “She was wearing a cloak with a hood. Had to be made from L.A.—Liquid Armor.”
Kincannon whistled, finally impressed by something.
Evie looked confused. “Never heard of it.”
“Something you don’t know,” Ducharme said. “They take a shear thickening fluid and soak thin layers of Kevlar with it, then stitch them together to make a thicker garment. It stays flexible until there’s an impact, where it instantly becomes rigid. Cutting edge technology. So cutting edge, even the FBI and the Army—except Delta Force—don’t have it yet. That, combined with my rounds being subsonic, saved her life.”
“Lucky her,” Evie said.
“She won’t stay lucky,” Ducharme said.
“Should have double-tapped her right between the eyes,” Evie said.
“I was about to when I got shot,” Ducharme said. “Sorry to let you down.”
“Now kids,” Kincannon said from the back seat. “Play nice.”
There was a short silence before Evie spoke. “Sorry.”
“About?” Ducharme was stretching his back. “My bullets?”
“That you didn’t get her. And that you were shot.”
“I’ll get her. We’ll meet again.”
Evie accelerated, glancing at the GPS display. “What did you find?”
“First thing is those guys weren’t FBI.” He pulled out the patch. “TriOps—an elite security contracting company.”
“Fucking merks,” Kincannon took the patch and crumpled it.
“And I’m not sure whether they were there to stop the killer or help her,” Ducharme added. “They never made a move on her, even though they had the place surrounded.”
“This is not good,” Kincannon said. “Wheels within wheels.”
“What about disks?” Evie asked.
Ducharme reached back to the vest and pulled out the packet. He cut open the plastic wrapping. “Six disks. Numbered two through seven.”
Evie nodded. “That means McBride had seven all together. LaGrange probably had seven. That leaves twelve of the original twenty-six. Probably broken in half. Six each to two more people. Where would General LaGrange have put his other six?”
“How did you figure all that?” Ducharme asked.
“It’s logical.”
“It’s an assumption.”
“While you were running around, I’ve been thinking. If it were just McBride and LaGrange, there would have been twelve disks at Poe’s grave. There were six. Project it. With a little bit of logic. Don’t hurt yourself while doing so.”
Ducharme considered it, trying to ignore the light sarcasm. “Then there’re probably two more bodies somewhere and two more idiots like us running around blind with a single disk.”
“They might not be dead yet,” Evie argued, which earned a snort from Kincannon.
“If not, they will be soon,” Ducharme said.
“Unless we save them,” Evie argued.
“How?” Ducharme asked. “We don’t know who they are. I think that’s the reason the killer tortured McBride and LaGrange—besides trying to find out where the disks were. I also got this off the killer.” Ducharme showed her the medallion. He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes, but she said nothing. Which poked the beast inside of him, but he brought it under control. With difficulty.
They drove in silence for a while.
Evie turned onto the ramp for I-95. “Where are we going?”
“You figured out where McBride’s disks were,” Ducharme said. “I’ve got an idea where LaGrange’s are.”
“Where?”
“How many points?” Ducharme asked Kincannon.
“Depends if you’re right or not,” Kincannon warned. “If you are, it pretty much evens out the Poe grave thing.”
“Smart asses,” Evie said. “What about the owners of the other disks?”
“If you can figure out who they are,” Ducharme said, “we’ll give them a call and warn them. Otherwise, we go after what we can. The killer came after the disks first, so maybe they have a chance.” Not much of one, Ducharme thought as he stretched his sore back out.
“So where are we going?” Evie asked.
“Another grave.”
13 April 1865
Abraham Lincoln was tired to his core and had told his secretary he would not be seeing any more visitors today. He sat in his office, eyes closed, hoping the headache that had troubled him all day would go away. He should be rejoicing, partaking in the fruits of a bitterly won victory.
Just ten days previously Richmond had fallen. Then four days ago, Lee had surrendered his Army of Northern Virginia. The whereabouts of Jeff Davis and the remnants of the Confederate government were unknown, but there was no doubt they were in full flight.
The Civil War was over.
At a cost Lincoln could hardly bear to contemplate. Ever since the rebels had fired on Fort Sumter, four years and one day ago, the telegraph wires had brought the grim numbers. Over a quarter million Union soldiers dead. No one knew how many Southerners, but given Grant and Sherman’s ruthlessness the past year, Lincoln had no doubt the Confederate losses were about the same.
What scared him, kept him awake at nights and caused his current headache, was realizing that a larger job loomed-- mending a broken country. One could win a war of arms but it was the hearts and minds that concerned Lincoln. There was much bitterness and anger on both sides and he knew he would have to walk a narrow and treacherous path to bring the country together.
He’d laid the groundwork years ago when he assembled his first cabinet: what some had dubbed ‘the cabinet of rivals’. He’d tapped three men, opponents for the Republican nomination and bitter enemies: William Seward, Salmon Chase and Edward Bates to fill positions in his administration as Secretary of State, Secretary of the Treasury and Attorney General respectively. The move had shocked everyone in Washington, including the three men. They’d demurred initially, and Lincoln recognized in them the same disdain others in the Capitol had for his rustic background and lack of political experience, especially since he’d been sent packing from Washington after only one term in Congress. Lincoln knew, though, that bringing the country together after four years of war was going to take much more than bringing respect and cooperation from three such strong egos. He also knew a few of the men were Cincinnatians, a price he had been willing to pay to keep the country together.
Lincoln heard the private door to the Oval Office open. There were only five people who were allowed to come through that door. He hoped it was Mary, but the heavy clump of boots, informed him the hope was in vain. More problems.
He opened his eyes and relaxed slightly. The mighty Ulysses. Still glowing from the surrender at Appomattox. As always, Grant held out a cigar as he settled into the seat across the desk from Lincoln.
“No, thank you, General,” Lincoln said; as always.
“The city is alive, President,” Grant said. “You should go out and pick up some of the energy. Bask in the glow of victory.”
Lincoln grimaced. “Basking is not my forte.” Grant had two modes: in battle and energized, or morose and drunk. The drinking had been a large issue, but Lincoln took results wherever he could find them. However, it was hard to tell which mode the General was in this evening. Lincoln could smell the alcohol, but Grant appeared strangely animated. Victory could do that, Lincoln supposed.
Grant fiddled with his cigar, seemingly uncertain, something Lincoln had never seen in the man. His decisiveness had been his greatest attribute. “Is there something amiss?” Lincoln asked.
“Sir—“ Grant began, then halted.
“Go on,” Lincoln said, feeling his heart sink, knowing this was to be another burden of some sort.
“There was a m
eeting earlier today,” Grant said. “I met with the Chair and the Philosophers.”
Lincoln stiffened. “And?”
“They are very concerned.” Grant had his eyes downcast. “The war is over. Of that there is no doubt.” Grant lifted his dark gaze, meeting Lincoln’s eyes. “I told them to wait. To let things settle down. But they wanted me to talk to you.”
Lincoln knew what Grant was talking about, but he still felt a surge of anger. So soon. He had not expected this so soon. “I did not seek power for glory or riches. You know that better than most. I took the steps I did for the Union. And I didn’t hide them.”
Lincoln knew he had done many things in violation of his oath of office and the Constitution. He’d unilaterally expanded the military; suspended habeus corpus; proclaimed martial law; had citizens arrested; seized property; censored newspapers; and, perhaps most galling to many, issued the Emancipation Proclamation. All without consulting Congress. He imagined old Polk would be laughing heartily if he could have seen the events of the last four years.
“I understand that, Mister President,” Grant said. “That’s why I have gotten the Chair to keep the Allegiance in hiding. I told him it would not be needed. Now nor in the future. Once peace has taken hold, I am sure we will be back to where we were before the war.”
It will never be the same, Lincoln thought, but did not say. He pressed a long finger against his temple, trying to calm the pounding in his head. “You are quite correct. The Allegiance will not be needed. I will relinquish all those extra powers I have assumed in the name of the emergency as soon as the country returns to normalcy.”
“And the Cincinnatians?”
“They too will be in check. I needed their support for the war, but not any longer.”
Grant heaved a sigh of relief. “Very good, sir. I will tell the Chair.” Grant stood to depart.
“General.”
Grant turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Remember this meeting. I once walked into this room with the Allegiance years ago. You just walked in with the threat of the Allegiance. Some day if you sit in this room, remember what happened and remember the dangers of the power of this office and of the Cincinnatians.”
Grant removed the cigar from his mouth and nodded. “I will, Mister President.”
“Very good.” Lincoln remembered something. “Mary wants to go to the theater tomorrow night. Would you and Mrs. Grant like to join us?”
“I will consult with her, but I see no reason why we would not.” Grant turned for the door.
“Very good,” Lincoln said.
Grant paused as he opened the door. “What theater, sir?”
“The Ford Theater.”
Chapter Nine
Burns stared at the Poe Monument. Someone had chipped away at the front of the Monument trying to remove the metal plaque of the poet’s image. He could sense Turnbull behind him and, every once in a while, hear the senior agent whisper something into his phone. The two wounded personnel had given brief statements and then been carted away in un-marked ambulances that never turned on their lights or sirens. The cemetery had been quickly swept and it was clear. One thing was clear to Burns—the men surrounding the cemetery were not FBI. He’d worn the badge long enough to tell his own.
“Well?” Turnbull said, putting away his satphone. “What have you got, Mister Profiler?”
“Not much to profile on,” Burns said, “but I’ve been on the job long enough to read a crime scene.”
“And?” Turnbull glanced at his watch.
“The killer was here, trying to get this plaque off. Ducharme came from around the back, after incapacitating your number Three. By the way, we can assume he found the bullet-transmitter and left it in the Blazer. He and the killer got in a gun battle. Ducharme shot your number Two in the body armor—he meant to disable not kill. Then he escaped the same way he came in. He ran into your number Seven. His back-up—I’m assuming that would be Sergeant Major Kincannon—hit Seven twice in the back with non-fatal shots. That didn’t incapacitate Seven so Ducharme took out his knee. Pretty effective. Pretty brutal. But non-lethal.”
“And?”
Burns walked toward the rear of the cemetery rather than answer, Turnbull reluctantly following. “Whatever they were looking for, I think Ducharme found it back here.” He pointed at the disturbed dirt in front of the Poe marker. “While you were getting the area cleared, I called the curator of the Poe Museum. Woke him out of his deep slumber. Curiously enough, he says there’s a slight possibility Poe is actually buried here, not under the monument out front. I could tell by the way he said it, that slight actually meant strong possibility and he was covering the Museum’s ass.”
“So how did Ducharme know that?” Turnbull mused.
Burns was surprised Turnbull even asked the obvious. “Evie Tolliver.” He kicked the dug up dirt with the tip of his shoe. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what he dug up?”
“No.”
“You don’t give a shit about catching this killer.” Burns said it as a statement, not a question.
“The killer is your responsibility,” Turnbull replied. “I have others.”
Burns spread his hands. “How can I catch her if you keep me sitting in a truck while she—“
Turnbull cut him off. “You can have her when the time is right.”
“She’s your operative, isn’t she?”
“Then I would be part of a murder conspiracy,” Turnbull said.
“You didn’t answer.”
“Of course she’s not my operative,” Turnbull said.
Burns detected not the slightest bit of sincerity. “How many people have to die before—“
Turnbull cut him off again. “There are much higher priorities right now than a few bodies.” Turnbull stepped closer, getting inside Burns’ personal space. “Do you believe in defending your country, Agent Burns? Do you believe in defending it by any means necessary?”
“I believe in the law.”
“The law only goes so far. Even the Founding Fathers knew that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it,” Turnbull said.
“I don’t know about the killer,” Burns said, realizing what he was up against and getting back on task, “but this tells me something about Ducharme.”
“And that is?”
“He—and his sidekick, Kincannon-- deliberately shot your men—“
“Our men,” Turnbull cut in.
“—your men in their vests even though all their Special Operations training focuses on killing with two head shots. Double-tapping. He doesn’t want to kill.”
“That means he’s weak.”
Burns shook his head. “You’re underestimating him. Both of them—Tolliver and Ducharme. He’s more than capable of killing when he has to. He took out that man’s knee because he was acting on instinct, not thinking. The issue is whether he wants to kill. Before it’s always been under the auspices of being a soldier. He’s operating outside the normal parameters of what he’s used to. He stays out there long enough, he’ll adapt. It’s what people do.”
“It’ll be too late,” Turnbull said, walking away and punching a number into his satphone.
“Will it?” Burns whispered to himself. “For who?”
************
Lily felt her satphone buzz and checked the screen.
***YOU FAILED***
She went rigid at the words. She stopped checking where the rounds had hit the hood of her Liquid Armor cloak. She quickly texted her reply.
>>>I STOPPED THEM FROM GETTING THE DISKS<<<
***THEY GOT THE DISKS. YOU WERE AT THE WRONG MONUMENT***
She shifted in the van’s seat. >>>I WAS AT POE’S GRAVE<<<
***HE IS BURIED IN THE BACK. DUCHARME IS MOVING NORTH ON I95 WHY?***
>>>NO IDEA<<< She rubbed the side of her skull. The skin was tender and there would be bruises where the bullets had hit the hood. But the bone was intact and there was no b
lood. She had a bit of headache, but she could deal with that.
***DO YOU HAVE LOCATION LAST PHILOSOPHER?***
>>>YES<<<
***WHERE?***
>>>PHILOSOPHICAL HALL PHILADELPHIA<<<
***THEIR INNER SANCTUM***
Lily was pissed about the lack of intelligence support. If Turnbull knew about Poe’s grave, why hadn’t he told her? Most likely he hadn’t known either until after the fact. Fucking desk jockey.
>>>YES<<<
***FIRST. MAKE MEET BWI LONG TERM PARKING SPACE DELTA 42***
Lily frowned. >>>MEET WHO?<<<
***CONTRACTORS. PAY THEM***
>>>PAY THEM WHAT?<<<
***WHAT YOU VALUE. DO IT. DUCHARME IS MINE***
The screen went blank.
She pulled up her left sleeve. There were three cuts there, all as badly healed as the ones on her left arm, but longer, almost encircling the entire arm like a bad tattoo. She drew her sword.
The wakishashi was a weapon her grandfather had brought home from World War II as a prize. He’d received a samurai sword and the shorter wakishashi blade as a token of surrender from the Japanese Army General who was part of the delegation that flew to Manila to negotiate the original surrender with MacArthur, which actually ended World War II, two weeks before the more formal ceremony on board the USS Missouri in Tokyo Bay.
Naturally, the samurai sword had gone to Lily’s younger brother, even though he had shown little interest in things military. Her father had dealt her the wakishashi very reluctantly as an heirloom upon her graduation from the Air Force Academy. She imaged the samurai sword was gathering dust somewhere in her banker brother’s attic. She planned on visiting her brother soon and claiming the sword. As soon as this mission was over. It would be an enjoyable visit. For her. Not him.
She pressed the blade against her skin, just below the last cut, slicing in. She rotated the blade as far as she could around the arm. Blood flowed, but she ignored it. She lowered the sleeve and went to the computer set on the bench against one wall, taking the seat bolted to the floor in front of it.
