Miss B nodded as she rubbed her toes, which were still blue with cold. “Yes, from journalism school. We’ve been friends a long time.”
This was news to John. How many times had he slandered this clown in front of her? A thousand times? Two thousand? “But why are you with him now, Miss B? You know they’re looking for him everywhere.”
“Me, too, John. They’ve put a warrant out on me. I spoke with Alastair Hopkins a couple of hours ago and he recommended I hold a very low profile if I valued my freedom.”
“It’s not just because you punched out that brain-dead censor, is it?”
“The censor? No, John. It’s all about the New York sniper. I found out it’s not just a madman, like we’ve been made to believe. I’d been working on the case for a few weeks, until they stopped my investigation.”
“I see.” He thought immediately of the two-column list he had lying in the drawer. So she’d been starting to suspect some kind of connection, too, had she? If only she had confided in him a little earlier, dammit! “You’re not a police reporter, so why’d you concern yourself with that case? Is it something Alastair set you to?”
She shook her head.
“What do you have to support your theory, if anything?”
“You can explain, Tom.” She nodded at Jumper.
He took a step forward. “Regardless of what you may think of my show, John, I meet a lot of people that the police would like to have a serious talk with.”
Yes, what else was new? Still, his curiosity had been awakened. “So I guess you’re going to tell me you’ve had the killer on your program.”
“Listen to what I’m saying. As you may or may not know, I end each of my shows by urging viewers to volunteer for a later show with some kind of particular theme in mind.”
Bugatti laughed. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever made it that far.”
Miss B took his arm. “John, try and listen. He’s okay, you just don’t know it.” She was right; he sure didn’t. On the other hand, he could just make out the contours of a port wine bottle standing on the side table and began considering whether he could stay on his feet that short distance.
Jumper continued. “A few weeks ago we started a theme on our show called ‘If your boyfriend was the Killer on the Roof, would you turn him in?’”
Looking longingly at the port bottle, John could suddenly vividly remember exactly why he hated those shows. “Sure, and now it turns out the killer has some greedy, selfish little honey who can’t resist the temptation of fame and fortune.”
“It wasn’t a girlfriend; it was a mother.”
“A mother?” John thought of his own mother. If he’d murdered the pope himself, she’d never, ever, have turned him in. On the other hand, he did something far worse the day he proclaimed his homosexuality. He may as well have stabbed her in the heart.
“This is where I come into the picture, John.” Miss B lit a cigarette and gave Danny a nod when he pointed at the ashtray. Her hair was still wet, plastered to her neck, just as she often looked in front of the TV cameras when she was off on an assignment. It was a role she was born to play. “Tom called and wanted me to take over after they shut down his show and started chasing him. He felt there was a connection between the warrant for his arrest and the call he received, and I was inclined to agree.”
John studied Jumper with new eyes. The notion that his show had been closed down because he had come into the possession of extremely sensitive information—not because the program was a gross sociocultural insult to humanity—bothered the hell out of him. Could it really be possible that this man was a threat to anything other than good taste? Were the pathetic diatribes his assistant held atop his street-corner orange crate merely the authorities’ pretense for issuing an arrest warrant for him? Unfortunately it made good sense. He raised his heavy eyelids and gave them both a skeptical look but one tinged with respect.
“Has anyone considered the possibility that this woman, who wanted to turn in her son, was merely out to grab a little attention for herself, put some excitement in her life? Or that she might be one of those crazies who has a habit of taking credit for all kinds of crimes, only this time on behalf of her son?”
Miss B nodded. “Both of these could be possibilities, yes. There’s no way we can be sure.”
“I’ll bet the woman has disappeared in the meantime.” John gave a dry laugh.
“No, she died.”
“I see. . . .” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard stories like this. Plenty of big mouths had been permanently silenced in the course of recent American history. Miss B and Tom Jumper had obviously reached an impasse in their investigation. “Hmm, that’s a shame. And I suppose the son has disappeared in the meantime as well?”
“They were both found dead in her living room,” Miss B replied. “Food poisoning, apparently. Botulism, more specifically, from some rancid pâté. Very convenient, I’d say. Not something that happens every day in New York.”
John tried to shake off the boozy mist that was still clouding his brain. “So then the sniper shootings stopped, or what?” he asked, knowing they hadn’t.
Miss B ignored the edge in his voice. “No, but then they could count the son out. Think what a scoop we’d have had, if it had been him. The young man was known for being an excellent marksman. Everyone in his apartment building said so.”
“Sure. And it’s only reasonable that a mother would suspect her own son.” All the alcohol was making him sarcastic now, and John considered whether he should continue on his drinking binge or take the cup of coffee his deathly pale lover was holding out to him.
“Okay, Bugatti, we know you’re still skeptical,” said Jumper, “but then add the fact that our young man had an employer a few months before his death who could make good use of his shooting talents. Does the address 935 Pennsylvania Avenue mean anything to you?”
John heaved a sigh. Deep inside he’d expected something like this. “FBI headquarters.” He turned directly towards Jumper. “Let me get this straight, Tom . . .” This was the first time he’d addressed him by his first name. “You’re saying he’d been working for the FBI, was a crack shot, and that his mother claimed he was the killer?”
“Right.”
“But he was no longer employed by the FBI at the time of his death, and the shootings continued?”
“That’s correct.” Jumper nodded and accepted a cup of coffee from Danny.
Now John was more puzzled than skeptical. “So, either the FBI is involved, or the mother was mistaken, or our young man and a couple of his sharpshooting buddies had formed a little New York safari club, meaning there was more than one shooter. Or else it was some other damn scenario altogether.”
“Hey, John, c’mon!” Miss B broke in. “You’re much too experienced a journalist not to prick up your ears about this. The White House could well be behind the New York shootings. There’s no doubt the Killer on the Roof was grist for their mill. It was all Jansen needed to get his big reform plan off the ground—simple as that. We don’t know the concrete details, like the order of command and sequence of events, but apparently we know enough that they’re doing everything they can to track us down. Do you agree with that at least?”
“I’m all ears, dear, believe me. And you can rest assured I understand very well why you wanted to pursue the story.” He’d accepted Danny’s cup of coffee, and now he took a gulp. A couple of cups of this potent brew, and he’d be ready for anything.
* * *
—
He made a call to two friends who lived a couple of miles away and were sure to agree to putting up the fugitives for the night and do whatever else was necessary. They were a couple of anarchistic antique dealers who’d sold their boutique long ago, put their millions in the bank, and had begun getting bored. They’d love getting back into the action, even if it were only for a minute.
Jumper shook John’s hand. “I have a transmission van waiting for me in Arcola. Put your radio on long wave, and you’ll hear from me tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know the frequency yet, but I’m sure you’ll find it.” When he was finished shaking John’s hand, he put a scrap of paper in it with an e-mail address.
“How the hell are you going to make it over the river?” John asked. “There are roadblocks at all the bridges.”
“I’m going alone. B’s going to try to get out of the country and report from abroad; that’s all I’m going to tell you. But thanks for your concern. I have a couple of friends in Leesburg who can fetch us tomorrow morning, so don’t worry. You and Danny have given us all the help we need.”
* * *
—
John’s and Danny’s friends picked up Jumper and Miss B in a pink-colored camper at two in the morning, just before curfew. No one in the world would suspect them of being anything but what they were: two gay men in a pink velour poof paradise on wheels and a bumper sticker on the back reading VENICE BEACH, HERE WE COME! A safer form of transportation would be hard to find.
When they were gone, John sat down and stared into space, Danny’s hand in his. If Miss B and Tom Jumper were onto the scent of what he believed they were, then it was an extremely dangerous situation for both them and himself, not to mention the entire power structure. As soon as Jumper had a microphone in his hand again and a mobile transmitter, all hell would break loose. There would be lives lost before it was over. If only they could be the lives of some of the bastards in the Jansen administration for once.
Danny lay his head on John’s shoulder and gave his hand a soft squeeze. This was the sign that he had something serious to say. The more serious, the softer the squeeze.
“Take this to be on the safe side,” said Danny, and passed him an envelope as thick as the Sunday Washington Post. “There’s nine thousand dollars. Don’t give me that look, I am actually capable of saving money occasionally. So this is for you. You’ve got to get out of here, John, understand? Go to the airport tonight. Go at five A.M. when the curfew ends and fly to Alaska or Montana. Then you can find a way to cross the border to Canada.” He looked him deep in the eyes while John tried to refuse the envelope.
“Yes, John, you have to leave. They’re probably not hunting for you yet, but it’s surely only a matter of time. You have to expect they’ll be shutting down the rest of the TV stations before long, and I wouldn’t be able to bear seeing you sitting on your hands, raging about how you can’t do anything because I’m holding you back.”
John tried to say he didn’t feel held back, but Danny stopped him with a stroke of the cheek. So that’s how parting felt.
* * *
—
It took John more than three hours to reach Dulles International. Along the way he saw mile after mile of unlit, deserted streets and restaurants and movie theaters with chains across their doors. There were soldiers everywhere, sitting behind machine guns in their armored vehicles at hundred-yard intervals all the way to the airport, checking all civilian traffic. The closer they got to the airport, the longer the lines of cars at the checkpoints. And by the time the terminal finally came into view, he knew he wasn’t going to make Flight 6837 to Seattle at 8:00 A.M., which meant he wouldn’t catch Flight 883 from Seattle to Anchorage, either. He parked his car between two vans displaying FEMA logos and wheeled his suitcase into the check-in hall to join hundreds of tired, anxious fellow passengers. Now he’d have to improvise and find a new destination.
North Dakota, Montana, Alaska, Idaho—whichever was easiest at the moment. He chose the shortest line and tried not to think of Danny’s face as he stood in the window, waving good-bye. He’d already convinced himself they’d see each other again. Of course they would—that was all there was to it. Danny would manage, and they’d be together once more when the time came.
John nodded to a tall man standing in front of him. He looked to be in his early sixties and was accompanied by a younger and very beautiful Asian woman, probably his wife. It looked like they’d been standing there all night. PETER DE BOER was written on his baggage tag, with an address in Amsterdam. John took a step to the side and looked at the line of passengers before him. In the cold neon light they looked more tired and distraught than ever.
He wondered what plane he’d finally end up on.
“Excuse me,” said the Dutchman, “are you a US citizen?” John was still considering what answer to give when the man continued, pointing at a sign a couple of yards away. “If so, you’re in the wrong line.”
The sign read: FOREIGN CITIZENS ONLY.
John looked around. There were machine-gun-bearing men in uniform at all the counters and exits. No one was speaking to each other. Practically all that could be heard in the enormous check-in hall was the muted rumbling of small baggage wheels.
“You have to go over there,” said the Dutchman’s companion, pointing at the next counter with its inevitable line of hundreds of silent people. “I’m not sure how much good it will do, though,” she continued. “They’re probably never going to get out of here. If you stand in that line, the only thing you’ll accomplish will be that sooner or later you’ll be pulled out of line and asked all sorts of questions.”
She pointed at a little cluster of official-looking men who’d surrounded a man with an attaché case clutched to his chest. He looked frightened.
The Dutchman put his mouth close to John’s ear. “We’ve been waiting here twenty hours, and that other line hasn’t moved an inch the whole time. We’ll be lucky to get out of here, too. It looks like they’re locking the door to the United States and throwing away the key. I’ve seen quite a bit in my time, but never anything like this.”
CHAPTER 19
Pete Bukowski, the prison guard, had made a mistake. It was a pretty big one, but every cloud has a silver lining, they say.
Now it was Friday. He’d had three days off, and for three days his insides had been churning restlessly with apprehension and excitement, so that all he could do was stare into space. Bud Curtis wanted a cell phone, and tonight Pete was going back to death row. Now he had to make the decision of his life and not fuck it up.
To do it, or not to do it—that was the question. No one else could give the answer for him.
* * *
—
The evening before, he’d been silent at the dinner table. Contemplating his wife chewing her food, he saw condemned men before him, consuming their last meal. When she spoke he was lost in a maze of his own thoughts. It made him sad when she placed his hand on her stomach, growing with life. During these past weeks Sussex State Prison had expropriated his whole being, and the mere thought of spending one more day there made him sick.
Afterwards he’d retreated to the veranda to think things through, and Darleen had followed with a cold beer and vigilant gaze. She said she could feel something was on his mind. This he dismissed by saying that, what he was thinking she didn’t want to know. And, even though she probably realized this was true, she’d turned on what charm she had and pressed her warm body against his until she’d softened him up. Then the words started pouring out, and strangely enough he felt better when it was over. He’d apparently needed to share his thoughts with someone. In any case, Darleen now knew all about the condemned men’s complaints and about how he fastened them to the execution pad and then looked away as they died. About how he passed the hours leaning against the death-row wall. And about how Bud Curtis had offered him a lot of money for a cell phone.
Passing on this last bit of information was Pete’s mistake.
The moment Pete’s wife realized what this possible wealth could mean, she forgot all about her husband’s troubled state of mind and began babbling. There was no end to all the happiness this money could bring. Lots of small things that would enhance her social status and just as many big things that would far exceed what a woman
of her class could ever expect from life. She lay wide-awake all night, planning the order in which her needs would be fulfilled. The next day she was so preoccupied, she didn’t go to work. Instead she sat in the kitchen reading the real estate ads. There wasn’t a new home that wasn’t within reach. The girls at the beauty parlor could think what they liked. For sure they’d spend the day gossiping about how Darleen probably hadn’t shown up because her husband had beaten her. Most of the women who frequented Lily Johnson’s salon were married to prison workers, so they knew what they were talking about. The men who worked at Greensville and Sussex had short fuses, and it was true there’d been times when Pete had wanted to hit her. But even though he’d come close on more than one occasion, and even though Darleen was generally the greatest abomination in his life, it was also just as true that he’d never done it.
* * *
—
Pete had found a little house on the wrong side of the tracks, and his mother had warned him:
“Darleen’s not from Waverly; she’ll never fit in. You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, son.”
Pete had asked her to mind her own business.
It was on that occasion Pete learned how right a mother can be.
Darleen was from Claremont, an even smaller town over by James River, sixteen miles to the east. Here she’d grown up in the mistaken belief that she came from a better place than anyone else in the area, and that Waverly was nothing more than a temporary outpost to park her more than abundant bulk.
Having been instructed in regard to what prejudice can do and how anxiety can make it worse, it’s possible he was capable of understanding her to a certain degree. Unlike her hometown, there were black people everywhere in Waverly. For Darleen, a black man meant trouble, and when one had a mind like Darleen’s, one was somehow always right. It was true: Claremont suited Darleen better than anywhere else. There, almost everyone was like her: white, lower middle class, overweight, and looking out for themselves. Pete’s mother had been right: A girl like her couldn’t live in Waverly.
The Washington Decree Page 22
