Perfect Killer

by Lewis Perdue

  followed security across. Around them, the motorcycles and the limo kept pace. Half a

  dozen paces later Braxton turned to his long-time adjutant. "Dan, as it happens, I need to

  chat with you about Enduring Valor as well."

  Gabriel gave him a go-head look.

  "Mistakes have been made," Braxton said. "Serious mistakes I have learned about

  just today. Mistakes endangering the program, my presidential campaign, our plans to

  reshape the military, and quite frankly my entire career.

  "I don't have to remind you that without Project Enduring Valor there is no

  possible way we can build the fighting force the country needs with the shit-pitiful

  appropriations those clowns on the Hill see fit to give us."

  "Yes, sir. The budget and use of proceeds focused my thoughts there. Everything's

  predicated on Enduring Valor's successful implementation."

  "Good. Hold that thought in mind, use it to filter everything I am about to tell

  you."

  They got to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned right.

  "By now you know the complete official history of Enduring Valor," Braxton said.

  "Today I learned Frank Harper committed some very serious mistakes in the early days,

  some of them prosecutable crimes."

  Braxton let that sink in for several steps. Seeing no signs of weakness on Gabriel's

  face, he continued, "Harper conducted unauthorized surgeries, tampered with his

  experimental data to make things look more promising, lied to congressional committees,

  and delivered outright fabrications to his superiors in the Pentagon."

  "And this is coming to light now, after all these years?"

  Braxton nodded and concentrated on the muscles in his face, working toward a

  mask of dismay and the shock of betrayal. "I owe my life to his skill, but he's turned out to

  have a side that threatens everything."

  The lights at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevard came into

  view.

  "How could that be?" Gabriel asked. "His involvement was half a century ago. Isn't

  there a fire wall of some sort? Isn't Enduring Valor a new program that pays homage to

  Harper's program but is not a continuation of it?"

  "It's not that simple. We have enemies in Congress and elsewhere. They don't give

  a damn about facts or rational debate. They want to win at all costs, which means finding a

  'Gotcha!' for their side of things."

  Gabriel made a face. "Right. Make a mistake and it's not an honest error, but

  evidence of conspiracy and evil intent."

  Braxton smiled as Gabriel connected this emotional attachment on his own. He

  still owned Gabriel's heart.

  "Remember that," Braxton said. "Because Frank's mistakes have killed people and

  more need to die."

  Then Braxton told Gabriel about Darryl Talmadge, two black attorneys named

  Thompson, and a highly decorated veteran and world-renowned neurophysiologist. Then the General connected them all to a string of murders with the dots of a reality he wanted

  Gabriel to adopt as his own.

  "One of the four is dead. We will not be safe until they all are."

  Braxton's words landed on Gabriel like a sandbag. He stopped. Braxton took

  another step, then stopped and turned to face him. Around them, security people,

  motorcycles, and the gleaming limo came to a slower halt.

  "Sir. Please let me get this straight: you're saying we not only have to kill at least

  three more people, one of them a brilliant and very brave soldier, but we have to keep it all

  secret?"

  Braxton moved close to the man he had handpicked for secretary of defense.

  "Filter it, Dan. Filter the reality through what we talked about."

  "But, sir, we are talking about killing innocent people."

  "Innocent people get killed in every war, Dan. Ugly. Evil. Reality." Braxton stood close and studied Gabriel's face and the movements in his eyes,

  which reflected the emotions shifting behind them. The General waited for the right

  moment, the psychological inflection point. When it came, he spoke again, softly. "Do you remember studying the cases where a ship has taken a torpedo, or a

  submarine is damaged so seriously, that only sealing off the damaged areas can save the

  ship? Even if there were sailors still alive in them?"

  Gabriel nodded.

  "And you realize—you accept—the tragic reality that those lives had to be

  sacrificed in order to save hundreds of other lives?"

  "Sir."

  "We must make that decision. If anything derails Project Enduring Valor, millions

  will eventually die. Perhaps not tomorrow or next year, but when we face an enemy wired

  on their nondepleting neurotrop and they slaughter our unprotected soldiers. Misguided

  compassion now for three people will cost us immeasurably more if we wait. If Enduring

  Valor is sidetracked, we will never get it back on course in time."

  "Jesus!" Gabriel exhaled. "Jesus Christ!" He wiped at his face with a cold hand.

  "There must be another way."

  "No. We must act now, just like a ship's captain must make his hard decision

  immediately."

  Braxton followed the despair in Gabriel's eyes, watched his shoulders slump under

  the weight of the revelations. The time for the kill had come.

  "Dan, if I could have handled this by myself, I would never have told you about it

  all. You understand, don't you?"

  "Of course."

  "I need your help. I've pushed my own resources to the limits." Braxton paused.

  "That will change after the election, but for now we have to make the best of what we can

  cobble together, people we can trust, favors we can call in."

  Gabriel felt the dread gathering in his gut.

  "I need you to make some calls. Calls to people who are as committed to you as

  you are to me. People who will take some discreet, out-of-channel action to help us clear

  this mess up before it destroys us both."

  Braxton waited as Gabriel shut his eyes and grimaced.

  "This is not right," Gabriel said.

  Braxton ignored those qualms. "How about the fellow who took over command of

  Task Force 86M from you?"

  "Maybe," Gabriel said hoarsely as he opened his eyes. "But—"

  "But nothing!" Braxton bore down to close the sale. "Think first of America's

  future. Then think about your future. You've resigned from the Army. You can't go back."

  He paused. "If you won't do this for America or yourself, do it for me. I will be personally

  ruined without your help. You've followed me through hell, and together we've come out

  stronger every time. I've come through for you and I've never once asked you for a thing." Traffic sounds washed through the long pause that followed. Braxton watched as

  Gabriel's gaze finally met his own and fixed it with a steely earnestness. A horn sounded;

  engines accelerated.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Thank you," Braxton said. "Make some calls tomorrow morning. I'm sure

  you have more than a couple of people who owe you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good man."

  CHAPTER 53

  Jael St. Clair sucked at the last potent half inch of her Marlboro, then exhaled and watched the smoke join the dense haze surrounding her. Finally, she allowed herself the first smile of the new day. It had taken hours to filter through the names and follow the hidden trails. Now, as she pushed back from her laptop, she knew she had her answer in the minute details of
online land records and an archival issue of the New York Times. No need to call the arrogant "black granite" asshole back at noon, because by then Stone and the lawyer would be long dead.

  She lit a fresh Marlboro off the old one.

  * * * * * The last of the police cars left shortly before dawn. From his reclining position in the back of his pickup, parked at the rear of the cancer clinic, Rex listened to the police scanner through an earbud and waited for signs it was all clear.

  He had followed Brad and Jasmine to the Sonic drive-in from the hospital, but decided not to linger in the neighborhood when they went to her law office. Instead, he set up shop where he could watch the EZSleep, figuring Stone would make his way there eventually.

  The storm that followed had pounded the camper shell like incoming artillery, and he thought at least once he was surely going to be killed by a tornado.

  The storm had really screwed up his surveillance. At times the EZSleep disappeared entirely in the downpour, especially when the power went out. The rest came in spasmodic jerks of time, like an old fuzzy surveillance video with gaps containing the most important parts. He did see Brad Stone, Jasmine, and the red Mercedes, the cable truck, and a white SUV. Then came thunder that sounded like gunshots, a tall blonde with big tits who came running past, and not a whole lot later the police. The police scanner told him cops had an all-points out on Brad and Jasmine.

  "Buddy, you are in a heap a trouble," Rex said quietly under his breath. "Y'mama wouldn't like it at all." He crawled over to the tailgate and waited again, looking for any sign of law enforcement. Some people put down his talk of warrants and an unsavory past as bravado. But he knew from experience that once the cops got wind of his warrants and the crimes behind them, they'd shoot first and not bother with questions.

  Rex lifted the shell's window and climbed out, unlocked the driver's door, and got in.

  "Now where the hell would you two go?" he asked himself as he started the engine and put it in gear. They couldn't go to anybody they knew, nobody they were related to, any place they had ever been before. They had to have a new vehicle and a safe place to hide. And the police knew that as well as he did. Rex hoped he knew Stone better than they did.

  He pulled out onto Highway 82 and headed into town. Maybe, he thought, retracing Brad's steps might produce some answers.

  "Now, God," he said, looking up through the windshield at the brightening sky, "I know you and I don't have the best of relationships. But I certainly would appreciate any pointers you can spare." It was about as close as Rex ever got to praying. That it was his best bet right now bothered him mightily.

  CHAPTER 54

  Loud, muffled thuds ripped apart the seams of my solid, dreamless sleep. The thuds came again, louder, faster. Then, a man's voice: "Jasmine!"

  I jerked awake then. Hazy light frosted the windows and filled the room with soft quilted colors. Then a key rattled the front dead bolt.

  I sat up. Jasmine's exquisitely black hair and the red hues of her brown sugar skin connected with the deepest parts of my heart. Then I remembered my faint dream and realized it had been more than illusion. I wanted to wonder more about this when the front door slammed opened and a man's voice boomed in from the front room.

  "Jasmine?"

  Her eyelids snapped open wide, revealing bright wisteria eyes that distilled the sunshine and threw it back, deeper and more intense.

  "Girl? You here?"

  Footsteps thudded closer; old boards creaked.

  I sat up and realized I was naked except for my briefs. I stretched over and fumbled around on the floor before locating the Ruger.

  "No," Jasmine said as she touched my shoulder. I stopped with my hand still outstretched, fingers curling around the butt of the pistol. I turned my head toward Jasmine and saw she was dressed in an oversize, gray Valley State T-shirt that came dawn to midthigh. From there down it was all beautiful skin.

  "It's okay." She sat up.

  I didn't move my hand until she said, "In here, Uncle Quincy."

  The door opened. As I sat up in the bed, a man of average height and build with light mocha skin, an embroidered dashiki-style shirt, and matching brimless hat walked in. His facial structure reminded me more of Vanessa and less of Jasmine. His eyes were a pale blue and his face touched a memory I could only feel and not remember.

  I had seen this man once before in my life. In Jackson, at the Christmas party that had been the end of a beginning that had not really started for Vanessa and me. Quincy Thompson was Al Thompson's son, Vanessa's brother, Jasmine's uncle.

  He looked at Jasmine, then me. His eyes did this three or four times, and with each iteration Quincy's face twisted itself deeper into a mask of rage that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  "You gonna be the white man's whore, just like your mama?" he raged at Jasmine. "She always talking black and sleeping white like a brother ain't good enough for the likes of her!"

  "Uncle Quincy—"

  "Don't uncle me, girl! Don't you have any pride in your race? Any loyalty? You so damned ashamed of being black you want to have a light-skinned baby?"

  "You're off base, Uncle Quincy." Jasmine's tone was low, even, and forceful. She got quickly out of bed and stood face-to-face with Quincy Thompson. She was taller by an inch or two even in her bare feet. She had the strong legs of an ice-skater and well-defined muscles that rippled as she moved.

  "You made Mama's life miserable carrying on and I am not going to let you do the same thing to me." Her voice was calm and full of steel and made me pray I would never have to face off against her in court or anywhere else.

  "Honey, be true to your race," Quincy said.

  "I will be true to myself," Jasmine said, "and not to some prehistoric notion that all black women are the exclusive property of black men."

  "You've got a sassy mouth, girl. But it's not going to save you from that white man's jungle fever."

  Quincy threw me a white-hot, fastball glare burning with hate. The pitch came high and inside, identical to the one LAPD detective Darius Jones had thrown. Anger rose in my chest, but anything I'd say would only fuel his rage.

  "My life is my own, Uncle Quincy." Jasmine's cool voice diluted my anger and helped me understand they had been through this conversation before. "I will not allow black men to own me any more than I will allow white men to tell me what to do. I will not trade one form of oppression for another."

  Quincy Thompson opened his mouth, then shut it quickly when nothing came out. He stared at Jasmine for several long moments. "You're making a big, big mistake letting some white plantation boy come down from the big house and get into your pants," Quincy said. Then he whirled on his heel and headed toward the door. He stopped and fished in his pants pocket and pulled out a bright pink slip of paper.

  He paused, and for a long moment all I heard was the man's labored breathing. "Well, this is why I came." He turned, tossed the paper. Then he stomped out of the house, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows.

  Jasmine and I studiously avoided making eye contact as the paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face up, obviously a telephone message. A car started up outside and sprayed gravel in its haste to leave.

  * * * * * With the M21 and a Leupold sight for daytime work slung over her shoulder, Jael St. Clair made her way through the underbrush parallel to the road, steadying her gait with a collapsible aluminum walking staff.

  She stopped to take a deep breath and cursed silently when she exhaled. She should have driven the new Toyota SUV rental farther along the narrow, rutted lane, but she worried the 4Runner wouldn't be able to handle the terrain.

  She looked back, but through the dense fog could barely make out anything more than fifty yards away. Sometimes less. The 100 percent humidity combined with the cold front that had followed the tornadoes and thunderstorms across the Delta the night before had combined to produce pea soup so thick on the highway she couldn't see more than a car length or two in many plac
es. Highway 82 had been littered with accidents. Fortunately Quincy Thompson had driven like her grandmother.

  Jael cursed the fog. She'd have to get closer to her targets than she preferred. No matter. The mission had to be completed. She pushed on through the brush, grateful the fog thinned some as the woods grew denser.

  Her lungs burned again from the cigarettes, and her head spun bright from a lack of sleep. But the new patch was doing its job. And doubling up on the pills had rounded off most of the jagged edges of her anger and brought the usual rock-steadiness back to her hands, her eyes, and her thoughts. The old doctor who worked for the General had been adjusting her dosage continuously over the past six months and told her that was a natural thing and not to worry about it. She'd have to tell him she needed another adjustment.

  Jael made her way across the soggy ground thatched with knee-high grasses and saplings, perfect cover for quail and copperheads. She'd already flushed one covey, but snakes didn't concern her. A symphony of

  birdsongs, mockingbirds, the screeches of jays, filled the morning. Then

  the sound of Quincy Thompson's car growing louder again, coming

  from the cabin area.

  She knelt low in the bushes and unslung the M21, flipped open the Leupold's covers, and sighted in. Through the hazy shroud of fog, she made out an angry black face. She tracked the face as it drew abreast, then headed off in the distance.

  "Bang," she said softly as she closed the sight covers and reslung the M21. She stopped for a moment and concentrated her mind on hearing. She'd heard faint rustles since leaving her SUV. But it lacked any sort of pattern connected to danger. The woods here were filled with birds, deer, possums, raccoons, and every other manner of woodland creature. That's what she heard now as she filtered through the chatter of the trees and brush.

  Finally, she opened her eyes and continued on through the woods toward the plot of land and dwelling that had turned up on her Internet search for Quincy Thompson.

  CHAPTER 55

  Jasmine stood with her back to me, shoulders slumped, staring down at the pink sheet of paper. The fading sound of Quincy's car left us holding on to a brittle silence filled with ancient hurt and modern pain. I wanted to reach out, but Quincy's insults made me second-guess my own motives.