“Bialzac, don’t. It’s over. Think of the paintings, what they mean to you. You told me.…”
“No,” Bialzac shouted, “they must be destroyed. The structure of a corrupt government must be attacked at its roots…betrayal.…” He paused and more quietly added, “He never intended to do this, he lied.…”
As spoke, his left foot missed the next rung on the ladder. In his agitated state, distracted by the thought of imminent failure and, Ike guessed, the shooting earlier, and off balance, his other foot slipped and his one arm, the one not grasping the jerry can, could not hold the sudden weight of his falling body. He hung for a split second and then fell, arms outstretched to break his fall. The jerry can, released from his grip, fell into the other three a split second before Bialzac landed on all of them. His weight on the cans caused them to rupture, and their contents geysered up and over him.
Bialzac, stunned, sat like a small Buddha in the wreckage of cans. He shook his head like a wet dog. Droplets haloed his head and beard. He snorted in anger, frustration, and pain. Ike took a step forward and then stopped in horror.
“Don’t do it, for God’s sake.…Freeze!” he screamed, with all the authority he could muster.
Bialzac struggled to free something from his belt and Ike recognized a cheap, nickel-plated revolver. Ike’s next words were lost in the report as the hammer, caught in a fold of cloth, released and fired. Ike saw bright little sparks from the ricocheting bullet and then heard the whoomp as the gasoline fumes ignited. In that frozen moment, Ike saw the look of puzzled amazement on Bialzac’s face, and then the little professor disappeared into a pillar of fire.
In the next few seconds, whatever passed for a soul in Sergei Bialzac made its transit into the next world. The heat from Bialzac’s pyre was too intense to permit Ike to get within eight feet. He could only watch in horror. Ruth grabbed his arm and choked, “Oh my God,” and buried her head in his shoulder as the remains of Bialzac toppled over in a shower of sparks.
Sirens screamed at them from every direction. State police, firemen, and Ike’s deputies seemed everywhere.
He put his arm around Ruth and walked her back to the car. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Bells ringing.
He must be late for class. He held Ruth by the hand, urging her to hurry, not to be late. But she hesitated, afraid, and kept repeating something—how she could never pass the course anyway so why bother. Ike said she could, but she would have to try harder. He failed once himself, but knew he could pass this time. How hard could it be?
Other students scampered by. “Ikey’s got a girlfriend, Ikey’s got a girlfriend, nyah, nyah,” they sing-songed at him. Margie Tice cartwheeled past in her cheerleader uniform. Charlie Garland, dressed in tweed short pants, appeared at his side, looking like Harry Potter, and said solemnly, “We’ve got to meet after class, Ike—at the secret clubhouse.”
The room filled with people running, yelling, and then they were gone. Ike panicked. Someone was It and looking for him. He needed to hide—no, run to home base, be in free.
The bells were the fire alarm. The school was on fire and he had to get out.
“This way,” he shouted at Ruth, “we’ve got to go to the roof and jump.” She pulled away from him.
“No, I can’t,” she sobbed, “it hurt the last time. We all get hurt with you, when we go with you. Don’t ask us to. You take us to the wrong places.” Ike felt guilt without knowing why. When? I didn’t know you then. “Ikey’s got a girlfriend, Ikey’s got a girlfriend.”
Ruth’s face dissolved, replaced by Eloise’s.
“No!”
***
He woke with a start. His mouth was dry and sweat poured from his forehead and soaked the sheets between his shoulder blades. His heart raced. The phone kept up its insistent clamor. His heartbeat slowed and he recognized his surroundings, the familiar furniture of his bedroom outlined in the light that managed to filter through the blinds. He was home. Safe.
He reached for the phone. “Schwartz,” he grunted.
“Ike? What have you been doing? I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon. I tried your office and filled your answering machine with a dozen messages.” Ruth’s voice was controlled, but Ike heard the worry in it.
“I’m fine, Ruth,” he reassured her. “I came home after I dropped you off, took a shower, mixed myself a stiff drink, several stiff drinks in fact, and fell asleep. I guess I was out.”
“Are you okay, Ike?” Ruth asked. “You sound, I don’t know—strange.”
“Bad dream, Ruth, about you and me, and secrets, and fire. I guess it got to me. But I’m fine.”
“That’s what happens when you sleep alone, Schwartz. No one there to make the dreams come out right. Now, do you want to ask me why I called, or do I have to blurt it out?”
“Why did you call?”
“To tell you that Mr. M. Armand Dillon is dancing around here like a girl who’s just been named Miss America. He’s thanking everybody and everything, giving interviews to the press, and asking me every ten minutes or so where you are. You are a hero, Ike Schwartz. The world is awaiting your appearance, wants to interview you, take your photograph, get your autograph!”
“Goody. They still there?”
“Well, no. When you didn’t show up, they all left. They had deadlines to meet if the story was going to make the six o’clock news or the morning paper, but they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Whoopee.”
“And…are you listening?”
“I’m listening while I plan my escape to the border.”
“M. Armand is having a party tonight, here at the college, and you’re invited.”
“Can’t make it, Ruth. Give him my regrets.”
“Ike, you’ve got to come. You’re the guest of honor.”
“You fill in for me. Tell everyone I have an acute case of low back pain and can’t be there. Tell them anything.”
“Ike, you have to. You can’t hide anymore. Even if you wanted to, you can’t, so why not come on out and get it over with? It’s not so bad out here in the daylight. Besides,” she added roguishly, “if you want a case of low back pain, I’ll arrange for that, after everyone else leaves.”
“Ruth, I don’t want—”
“Ike,” Ruth snapped, “if you ever want to get me in bed again, you’ll haul your butt out here tonight at seven-thirty sharp.”
“You are a hard woman. I’ll be there, at eight, give or take.”
“Be seeing you, Sheriff.”
Ike replaced the receiver in the cradle and fumbled for his watch. Six-fifteen. He could just make it.
***
The mayor and three members of the Town Council stood beaming in front of some television cameras. The local news channel, serving as the pickup for the network, was set up by the steps to the long porch and interviewed guests as they arrived. The mayor caught sight of Ike and signaled him over.
“Here’s the man you want to interview,” he brayed, “Sheriff Ike Schwartz, the man of the hour.”
Ike groaned. No escape possible—he stepped in front of the cameras. Questions flew at him from every direction. He managed a few perfunctory replies and begged off. The mayor turned, still grinning like the trained chimpanzee Ike always thought him to be, and asked if there was anything the city could do for him.
“Well, yes, Mr. Mayor,” Ike said, face serious. “I could use a position or two. The town has doubled in population in the past five years. There is a rumor that some major development is on its way here, and we are at the same staffing levels as ten years ago. Do you, does the Town Council, think they could manage some help in the Sheriff’s Department?”
“Absolutely. Great idea, Sheriff,” the mayor choked. His council members agreed
, their smiles botoxed in place. “Absolutely.”
“That’s all, thanks,” Ike said, his own smile sincere next to theirs.
The party had been set up in the large lobby of the main building. Guests filled plates, picked up drinks, and moved out on the wisteria-laden porch to see and be seen. Ike saw the Dillons, père et fils, near the fireplace. Colonel Scarlett and two of his minions stood, shuffling their feet, by one of three punch bowls. The fancy young man, the gallery owner from New York, drifted around the room, and there were others—faculty and spouses, a few law enforcement types, and what passed for society in Picketsville. Ike edged his way to the bar and asked the ancient waiter in a white jacket for a gin and tonic. M. Armand Dillon drew up in front of him.
“Well, Schwartz, I owe you a million. Five million, in fact.”
“All in a day’s work, Mad Dog.”
“I mean it. I owe you five million dollars. I said on television that I would give five of the fifty million dollars to the person who caught the bastards. You did. You get it.”
“I can’t accept. I was on duty and it’s in my job description. State law prohibits taking recompense or rewards for actions which the town pays me to do full-time. Give it to the college. Maybe it will help make up for the revenue loss they will suffer after the collection is moved. Or have you changed your mind about that?”
“No. The collection goes. But I have already taken care of the college. The other forty-five million will go to endow scholarships in the fine arts here. Forty-five million dollars buys a lot of financial security.”
“Make it an even fifty then.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know, you’re quite a guy. I was talking about you to your father just now.”
“Abe’s here?” Ike looked over the room. Sure enough, there was his father bending ears, pressing the flesh, working the room as though he were running for office again. You can take the boy out of politics, Ike thought, but you will never get the politics out of the boy.
“We had a nice chat about you and what you should be doing next.”
“Now listen,” Ike said, “I will decide what my future will be, not my father, not you.”
“Of course, dear boy,” Dillon said, “but you should know that when you’re ready to run for attorney general, the backing will be there.”
“Attorney general? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not at all. You are a natural. And the seat will be open. Incumbent is retiring this year for personal reasons. An easy primary, a close general, and you’re in,” Dillon said, with the air of a man who had been there before, often, which he had, and for far higher stakes. Dillon had helped make presidents. The attorney general of Virginia would be pretty small potatoes to him.
“No, thanks,” Ike said.
“Think about it, Sheriff. All I ask is that you think about it.…Talk to you later.” Dillon raised his glass and bestowed a crooked-toothed smile on Ike. He turned and moved back into the crowd. Ike’s eyes followed him until his path intersected with Ike’s view of Ruth. She was busy talking to Marge Tice. As if on cue, the two women looked at him, flashed him identical smiles, and turned back to their conversation.
His knees felt wobbly. He decided he needed another drink. His glass replenished, he made his way around the buffet. Between mouthfuls of cheese, chips, and dip, he fended off a conversation with his father—attorney general, my eye. He accepted congratulations from four or five couples, spoke with two faculty members, one who wanted his views on gun control and another from the English department, who told him he was going to write a book about the robbery and asked if he would mind being interviewed. Ike said he would be delighted.
Essie Falcao arrived on Billy Sutherlin’s arm. The two had a quick, quiet argument that ended when Billy agreed to take off his cowboy hat. Essie waved at Ike. Ike waved back and smiled.
Sam the techno-geek arrived and walked, stork-like, toward Ike.
“About that job, Sheriff.”
“It’s yours if you want it. Everybody is so pumped tonight, I asked the mayor for a new position, and he said sure. He did that on national television so it’s a done deal. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. You are now, or in the next few weeks will be, a real deputy sheriff with all the rights and privileges appertaining thereto, and all that. I leave it to you to break the news to your boss.”
“Wow!”
“And put that piece away. This is a party, not a shootout.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sam, there’s something I wanted to ask you—”
“No. I did not play basketball in college. But I made alternate for the Olympic volleyball team. That answer you?”
“Pretty much.”
He returned to the buffet and, left to his own devices, finished off half a plate of deviled eggs and was attacking a tub of Swedish meatballs when he sensed Ruth’s presence at his elbow.
“Hello, hero,” she said, twinkling. “I hear I owe you five million bucks. How can I ever pay you?”
“I’ll take it out in trade,” Ike said gruffly. “Let’s see, at a hundred dollars a…um, I expect it’ll take you about a thousand years working every day and most nights to pay me off. You interested?”
“I don’t work cheap, Sheriff. Don’t forget I’m a Ph.D. I’ll be done with you in about two hundred years—if you can stand it, sooner.”
Ike grinned and sipped his drink. “When can you start?”
“Tonight’s fine with me, big spender. Just as soon as these folks eat up all the food and go home, you’re on.”
“You’re a tough lady, Ruth.”
“I only sound like a tough lady, Ike. You know me well enough by now to know that it’s mostly show.”
They stood in silence for a while admiring each other. Ruth cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look.
“Ike, how well do you know Marge Tice?”
“My first true love. I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world and more than anything else I wanted to have her. That was a long time ago, high school.”
“Did you? Have her, I mean? Hey it’s none of my business…who am I to—”
“No, it never happened, much to my sorrow. Why ask about Marge?”
“Well, she said something strange about you. About billiards, I think.”
“Billiards?”
“I think so. She said…let me see, ‘If you ever get a chance to take him on in a pool hall,’ I think that’s right, ‘If you ever get the chance to take him on in a pool room, grab it.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The cab dropped Ike off in front of one of those old-fashioned apartment buildings located on the northern end of Connecticut Avenue. Built in the Twenties for Washington’s young elite, they deteriorated in the Fifties and Sixties and then became fashionable again in the Nineties as condominiums and co-ops. Apartments that a few years before had rented for a few hundred dollars a month were renovated and sold for a quarter to a half million dollars apiece. Ike looked for Charlie’s name next to the door buzzers. No Charlie. He had said 814. The name next to 814 was E. Farnham. Elwood again. Ike’s eyebrows knotted in a frown. He wondered what Charlie was up to now. He rang and pushed through the foyer door as the electric lock buzzed him in. He rode the shiny new elevator to the eighth floor.
Charlie met him at the door of 814.
“Ike. Come on in. This is great! Look who’s here, Peter. It’s Ike.”
Peter Hotchkiss lounged in a big recliner and waved a greeting to Ike. “Welcome back to the world of the living. It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Peter. I guess
you’re right. I’ve been out of touch.”
Charlie handed Ike a gin and tonic, then sprawled on the couch.
“Well, how does it feel to be a crime buster, Ike?”
“A what?”
“Crime-buster. That’s what they used to call guys like you. You are all over the papers, ‘Rural sheriff cracks art theft. Son of politically prominent former Virginia comptroller foils terrorist attempt to destroy five-hundred-million-dollar art collection.’ Blah, blah, blah. You are a crime-buster, a hot property, as they say in show biz. Got any movie offers? People want to write your life story, stuff like that?”
Ike squirmed under the barrage. Peter smiled.
“Charlie’s an unreconstructed P.R. flak. All he sees are headlines and chances to schedule press conferences.”
“I’ll tell you, Ike, Peter is almost right. We’ve had a run of bad press at the Agency—enough to drive a man to drink. Now, I am ready for a change. I need to do something about my sagging career and ego. It’s obvious what you need is a good agent. Let me negotiate with the Hollywood scouts and book writers. Hell, I could even run your election campaign.”
“I haven’t decided to run for anything, Charlie. It’s just talk. What makes you think I’d want to run for…whatever?”
“Ike, the nice thing about you is you’re predictable. Put you in a certain situation, crank up the right physical and emotional stimuli, and you are as predictable as one of Pavlov’s dogs. I can read you like a book, old man.”
“And everybody else can, too?”
“Oh, absolutely. Easiest thing in the world.”
“Then how did I survive so long in the field when I was with the Agency? If I’m so predictable, I’d have been wasted years ago.”
“That’s what’s so nice about you, Schwartz. You do not know your strengths. You are predictable, yes, but also thorough, clever, resourceful, and very smart—those things, too. You do not make mistakes. And if the other side didn’t know the plan—the stimulus—they could not predict the response. All they knew is you were the best we had, and they respected you. For them, the predictable part of you was that you could be trusted and you had integrity. No, they’d never, ever take you out, Ike. You were a good adversary—good at what you did, and even though you beat them more often than not, they’d rather be beaten by you than win with someone else.”
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