by Larry Crane
Virg spontaneously hugged Mag, grasping the tape all the while.
“Maggie...”
“Shush,” Mag commanded. “Lou is in desperate trouble. I am too. You are our only hope. If I don’t contact you in the next twenty-four hours, it means I’m dead. In that case, take the tape to the media. You know how to do that better than I ever would. Splatter it all over the tube. Longer range, after I contact you, if I don’t get in touch within another thirty days, take the tape to William Severence. He’ll run with it, I’m sure. One more thing. In all of this, when the media talk to you, you must identify one man as somehow mixed up in this. His name is Ross Kilmartin. Remember, Ross Kilmartin of the FBI.”
Virg’s eyes were wild and searching, her mouth agape. Lines of apprehension and incredulity formed across her forehead.
“It’s not a joke, my dear Virg. I have to go now. If I have it right, it’s our one chance to live. Now, I’ll leave first. In five minutes, you come out. The man you see me with in the back of the room is Kilmartin. Remember the face, my dear friend. Goodbye.”
Mag hugged Virg hard, kissed her fiercely on the cheek, and left.
Chapter Forty-Five
“Who’s Squeaky Fromme?” Sydney was on the floor with Lou, picking lint from the carpet out of his hair.
He didn’t bother to answer. He got up sullenly and dropped heavily onto the couch. She bustled in and out of the room, collecting her belongings from all over the apartment, lipstick, jewelry, Kleenex, emery stick, Q-tips, comb, mirror, tweezers, all the tools she used to keep from going nuts waiting to find out what Copeland was going to do with her after dumping her here last night under Stanfield’s supervision.
“I thought we were both goners, “she said.
“Stanfield can’t do anything on his own.”
“Then why didn’t Copeland do it right here?”
“And mess up the rug?”
“Ecuador. Not so bad.”
“They’ve been reading too many Nazi novels.”
“It’s happening. We’re here.”
“‘Bogota’ I might’ve believed.”
“What’s wrong with Ecuador?”
“They just want to get me out of this room.”
“Us, you mean. I’m going.”
“You may be going, but it won’t be to Ecuador.”
“You know I couldn’t really do anything else.”
“Do I?”
“You should.”
“How do I know you’re not with them?”
“Because I’m not.”
“How do I know they aren’t thinking I’ll grab at the chance to go dancing with you? It’s a beautiful cliché.”
“We could just do as they say. Go with the money. Stay for a while. Fly off to Cancun or something. After a couple of months, you could make some kind of arrangements to get back here.”
“There is no fucking Ecuador. It’s been one implausibility after another, but Ecuador is not going to happen. Why would they flash a wad of money? Why would they piss away what they obviously wanted: me, dead?
“Us. They couldn’t watch us forever. The only way they’d find out that you’d, like, decamped would be if you went to the police with the story.”
“My head tells me you’re with them.”
“They dragged me out of the creek, and instead of putting a bullet in my brain, they pushed me into their car. I knew then that the only thing keeping me alive was my connection to you. I told them we’re lovers. They thought you’d do something stupid for me.”
“You saw me first at Grand Central. Tipped them off.”
“No. I tipped you off pointing at them. Anyway, they got what they wanted: the two of us.”
Lou got up from couch, went to the bar again. He chunked three or four ice cubes in the glass, and spilled it half-full with more Wild Turkey, the rest—water. He stole a glance at his watch. Ten p.m. Sydney had moved over to the stuffed chair.
The girl had to be with them. As long as she was next to him, they’d know where he was and what he was doing. They spun this fantasy about a ‘honeymoon’ in Ecuador just to get him out of the apartment. Why? They needed to off him somewhere that was in no way connected with them.
He was half numb, partly from lack of sleep, but mostly from the bourbon. Even with a fuzzy view, his mind was functioning. He steadied himself on the back of the sofa and tipped his glass again.
“I know you think I betrayed you, but I didn’t, Sydney said.
After they pulled me out of the creek, Copeland and Stanfield stuffed me in their car and left their guns with the van. The MPs stopped the car at a roadblock a mile or two from the pit. They kept us sitting there in the car while they questioned us outside one by one. They opened the trunk, everything. I was in total self-preservation mode at that point. I should have spilled everything right there, but I just couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
“So, three suspiciously wet and dirty people in a car say they’re out for a drive and the MPs buy it.”
“I guess they could’ve held us. They didn’t. What can I say?”
“Did they follow you?”
“No. They were fooling around all over the car, looking for stuff, is all, I guess.”
“And you told them nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“And you stuck with the goons, voluntarily. Amazing.”
“I was alive. If I’d said something to the MPs, it would’ve been all over for me. I didn’t want the end to come.”
“The MPs must’ve been talking to the FBI, or maybe they were the FBI.”
“There were lots of them. Another car came,” Sydney said.
“They let you go for a reason. Maybe to follow you.”
“You made a videotape? Good move,” she said.
“Not according to Copeland.”
“What does he know? A video like that, boomeranging around the country? They have to know it’s dynamite.”
“It is just an allegation.”
“We’re just an allegation. If we’re so harmless, why don’t they just let us walk?”
Lou swung his foot over the back of the couch, sat on the back of it for an instant, and then slid down, plopping into the cushions and sloshing the drink over the front of his shirt. He killed the rest of it in a swallow and let the glass drop to the floor.
She sat beside him, unbuttoned his shirt.
“You’re all wet, sweetheart.”
“Believe it or not, you’re not the first one to tell me that.”
Sydney pulled the shirt up out of his trousers, jerked it around until he’d twisted his arms out of it, and then dropped it in a soggy heap on the floor. She snuggled into his chest.
“Okay, we’re down to bare skin. This is your best, last chance, commander.”
Lou leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes. “Sydney…,” he said.
“What?”
“Syd…”
“Say it.”
“It’s not that…”
“Don’t tell me what it’s not,” she said.
He turned and leaned back, stretching out, his legs over her lap to the arm of the couch, so that he could see all of her. “I have people in my life who…”
Sydney shoved his legs off her, rose and straightened her skirt.
“Thank you so much, Uncle Lou”, she muttered, striding toward the bathroom.
It was very quiet now. No clock was ticking. No faucet dripping. For a long while, he sat still on the sofa, looking mostly at the ceiling. He’d come a long way to this moment. From the day he’d left the Army, it had been a slow series of compromises, a gradual acceptance of gray where there had once been black and white, a creeping intrusion of the half-truth. He’d told himself that it was the times. He’d been living with old fashioned ethics, worn concepts of honor. And now, alone with himself again, he was not pleased.
He rolled off the couch and kneeled in front of the phone on the end table. He picked up the receiver, listened for something he
was sure would be audible on a tapped phone, but heard nothing. A clear line. One last real talk with Mag. Let it happen. He dialed from the phone book.
“Hello.”
“Yeah hello, is this the Elks Club?”
“Well, this is the bar.”
“Okay, look, you’ve got an auction going on there tonight, don’t you?”
“It’s in the main hall.”
“I don’t suppose you could do me a favor and call someone to the line from there, could you?”
“Who is it?”
“Well, it’s Maggie Christopher. She’s probably sitting in the back.”
“Hold on.”
Lou sat down on the couch. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom.
“Hello?”
“Mag! Mag, it happened.”
“It’s you! I prayed, Lou. I prayed you’d call here.”
“It’s so great to hear your voice, Mag...”
“Lou, I love you.”
“I’m in trouble, Mag.”
“I know. There’s a man here with me.”
“Who? Who’s with you?”
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Mag, listen. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind right now. Talk to him.”
“Mag, listen…”
“Lou, this is Kilmartin. Listen carefully. I know where you are, I know you’re there alone with the woman. Stanfield and Copeland have already left that location, and we’re still following.”
“I’m not staying here, Kilmartin. I only have a couple of minutes.”
“Did you tell them anything about me?”
“No. We’re supposed to drive to Kennedy to catch a flight. I don’t believe we’ll ever get there.”
“All right, listen. I’m sending someone to your location. Wait there.”
“Put my wife back on the phone,” Lou said.
“Lou?” Maggie said.
“Mag, listen to me. I don’t like Kilmartin. He knows more than he should. I’m scared for you. Understand?”
“Yes, Lou.”
“I don’t want him to hear what you’re saying to me.”
“He’s over by the door now, darling.”
“I don’t have much time to tell you this, but I had an ace in the hole—something that could protect you—but now my confidence in it is shot.”
“I know all about it, Lou. Now listen to me.”
“I thought I’d use it when the time was right, but that right time has come and gone with no effect.”
“Shut up and listen.” She smiled for the benefit of the FBI. “When did you first meet Kilmartin?”
“This afternoon, Mag. In the police station.”
“Just listen. They turned the house upside down this morning looking for something. I assume it was the tape. They didn’t find it. They have us both. Who else knows there’s a tape?” She smiled again at Kilmartin.
“I blabbed it just now to Copeland.”
“Copeland. Who’s that?”
“It’s unimportant.”
“You’re right.”
“Who else?”
“Tom Holt and his wife.”
“Tom Holt...?”
“My Army buddy.”
“How the hell is he involved in this? Good god, Lou.”
“Never mind.”
“Right. So, Copeland knows. Does Kilmartin?”
“There’s no way he can.”
“Right again, I think. Except, what were they ransacking the house for then?”
“Anything incriminating. Fingerprints, minimum.”
“My mind is swimming, Lou. If Kilmartin knows there’s a tape, how did he find out?”
“He can’t possibly know,” Lou said. “Unless he has Tom Holt, or he talks to Copeland.”
“Do you know that he does?”
“No. I’m just guessing.”
Lou heard the rush of water stop short, the shower curtain snap back.
“I gotta get off now, Mag.”
“I think the videotape is still golden for us, Lou darling. We can use it on them. Somehow.” Click.
When Sydney came out, she was dressed to go. Her hair hung mussed and wet against her shoulders.
“We’ve got about an hour to get to Kennedy,” she said.
Lou shed Titus’ clothes for his own blue serge and a shirt. He left the tie in the side pocket.
“Ecuador may be bull, but it’s all I have,” she said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m for real. I want to give you your chance too.”
“Meaning?”
“If you want to run from them some more, then run.”
“I don’t want to run; I just want another shot at them.”
“Then do it. When we go out to the car.”
Sydney strode out of the room and Lou moved quickly to the vase, snatched the recorder, and dropped it into his chest pocket.
* * *
The elevator door slid open immediately when Lou pressed the button. He walked in first; leaned against the back wall. Sydney’s heels clicked against the floor tile as she entered, carrying a small cosmetics bag. She needed to straighten his collar; it was sticking crazily out of the jacket. She brought her hand up to his chin, then to the side of his face.
“You’ll kick yourself someday,” she said.
The door slid open at the ground floor. Sydney clicked straight for the entrance. Lou followed. The wind was still gusting across the parking lot. Looking back at the darkened tower behind them, he felt secure. How could they pull off murder in the middle of all these cars? The dark Audi was directly under a lamp. The only sounds were Sydney’s heels on the blacktop. She walked directly to the driver’s side, opened the door, and stood there.
Lou came up to her, and held her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“Some girl,” he said.
Sydney brought her hand up to her mouth and allowed a bored sigh.
“This is good-bye. Good luck, Sydney Winkler,” he said pulling her in to his chest.
“You too, commander,” she said, running the fingers of one hand up behind his ear.
They stood back from each other again, and Sydney turned and slid behind the wheel of the Audi.
Lou fell straight to the pavement and rolled under a white T-Bird beside the Audi. The pain in his thigh sprang back to life in an agonizing jolt reaching all the way to his buttocks. Grunting, he inched his way under the car toward the opposite side. He rolled again, started to rise, and heard Sydney slam the door shut. For a split second he thought he heard the starter whine, just before the blackness ignited. He was buffeted, deafened by an orange roar. He could hear pieces of metal raining down on the cars all around.
Chapter Forty-Six
He was physically untouched by the explosion, but the Audi was totally wrecked—hood sprung, dangling from a fender; windows either shattered or black with soot; tires burning with heavy smoke and brilliant orange flame. Sydney was sprawled on the pavement with her feet inside the car. She was burned black and broken. The air was sodden with the awful smell of burning rubber and human flesh.
The apartment building came to life; bright lights glowed on every floor to the top and faces =peered from every window. The residents gradually emerged and gathered in a circle around the smoldering car. No one approached Lou as he sat on the ground beside the girl. He lifted her blackened hand, pressed it with the two of his. He covered her body with his jacket. She was for real.
It was all mechanical now; he had no emotion left. He should’ve been dead three times over, yet he still lived. He walked away from the car, through the jabbering crowd. No one tried to stop him or to talk to him as he walked back toward the building. Strangely, he didn’t feel the wrenching in his system that he’d known so well in the war, when someone he knew got hurt. It was because she was dead. Burned and unrecognizable. He was numb, that’s all. He was alone in this now, completely alone. It was the way it had to be. The way he wanted it. He’d go
right at them, head to head, alone. Then it would be over.
