The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  When she was done, she lay her hand on top of Rosalie’s. “Thanks, Rosalie, I hope this doesn’t cause problems for any of you.”

  “Nonsense. Don’t worry about us. I may not be in top form just now, but the brain . . .”—she tapped her curly head—“it’s still working okay. Just as soon as you and Dennis have left, I’ll send James down to the station so he can report that you came here to have me put you up and that I tried to keep you here, but you took off. We’ll say you were heading towards White Plains in a beige Galaxy with black racing stripes. That’ll keep them busy, and then James can claim part of the reward. No Ollie Boyce Henson or anybody else is going to put one over Rosalie Lee,” she said, patting her chest. “I’ll call you early tomorrow morning and tell you how it went.”

  Dennis handed her Frank’s cell phone. He was apparently done coding her numbers in. “And we dump your fucking handbag and those threads you’re wearing in a trash can along the way, okay? The first clothes store we hit, you buy something better. And all that shit you’ve got lying on the table’s got to go, too.” He took a plastic bag from Jansen’s Drugstore and swept pieces of paper, lipsticks, chewing gum, makeup, keys, and everything else into it. Only the Buddha figure was left.

  “What about that shit?”

  She thought a moment. “I’m keeping it.”

  Dennis started driving north in J. Firebird’s old Ford with Ray Charles playing so loud, the music sounded like the firing of a series of earth-to-air missiles.

  He stopped at a clothing store near the zoo and waited a couple of minutes while she equipped herself with the most anonymous, colorless clothes imaginable.

  She checked herself out with satisfaction when she was back in the car. Not many people would suspect her of being anything other than some underpaid, small-town librarian.

  Then they turned southwest and headed towards Interstate 95.

  “You’ll be picked up at the George Washington Bridge, okay? It’ll cost you a couple grand, but such is life, baby.”

  “How do I get over the bridge?”

  Dennis put on a smile. “It’s sorted out.”

  They turned off the main street just as she could make out the oversized Stars and Stripes blowing in the breeze at the George Washington Bridge’s farthest pier and came to a halt in a side street between a van with four flat tires and a truck with a tank trailer. JANSEN’S DRUGSTORES—FRESH MILK FOR ALL HAPPY AMERICANS was written on the shiny, stainless steel sides in huge letters.

  She wasn’t totally aware of what was going on until Dennis ordered her to give the driver $3,000 and then pushed her up a little steel ladder on one side of the tank.

  She bade farewell to Rosalie’s youngest son and told him to tell his mother that she hoped she’d have a chance to attend Frank’s funeral but couldn’t promise anything, and that she’d try and call her the next day if she hadn’t been caught by then.

  Then they closed the hatch and opened the air valves.

  There she’d have to sit in pitch blackness while one of Jansen’s Drugstore’s drivers made his way down towards Five Forks and Rosalie’s unsuspecting sister. In the meantime, her father’s time was running out.

  CHAPTER 27

  Some hours later—she had no idea how many—Doggie was feeling totally whacked and in constant danger of throwing up. Nothing could mask the steel tank’s heavy, sour stench of milk gone bad. As the miles were eaten away, the odor became more that of an infant’s regurgitation—sweet and sour at the same time and nauseatingly intense. She’d already tried to stand on tiptoes and open the hatch from the inside, but with no success. This, combined with the perpetual pitching and rolling of the steeply curved insides of the tank, made for an exceptionally unbearable experience.

  They had waited an hour’s time to cross the bridge to New Jersey and had suddenly been directed to the far lane, where they were waved through the control post without being made to stop. This is the result of my work, she thought, picturing the piles of material from lobby organizations lying on her desk in the West Wing. If there was something people demanded, it was that milk still be brought out to America’s children. And it had been she who had released a directive to that effect with FEMA’s stamp of approval on it. “And thank God for that,” she whispered, deducing that the dairy truck’s high priority was to thank for them being able to speed past mile after mile of idling car motors and honking horns.

  They were stopped at roadblocks three more times, and each time she felt a jab of fear of being discovered. Some officious zealot, tirelessly seeking military promotion by checking out all the most remote possibilities, who would suddenly stick his little head down the tank opening and make the bust of his career among the rotting dairy fumes. But, in spite of her hammering heart and the loud commands shouted at the control posts, it didn’t happen.

  When her driver finally opened the hatch at a roadside rest place south of Dumfries, the rush of oxygen and glimpse of star-filled sky practically knocked her over, and she had to hold her mouth closed to keep from hyperventilating.

  He handed a tiny transistor radio down to her with a strong admonition that she only turn it on while the truck was moving. It was as if he had some reason for wanting her to listen to it. Then he tossed down a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil and asked if she had to go to the toilet. When she didn’t answer fast enough, he closed the hatch again.

  The darkness and the stench were back.

  She turned on the blue display light from Frank Lee’s phone to make a flashlight for a moment so she could identify the radio’s buttons and dials. Then she turned the radio on and leaned back against the steel container’s constant coolness.

  No one who had tuned in to American media during the past ten years could fail to recognize the nasal voice immediately as it spewed its agitation out of the tiny speaker. Tom Jumper was a man to whom even the staunchest guardians of good taste had listened, whether they admitted it or not. Both his tongue and mind were so outrageous and agile that his low-brow guests never had a clue as to how they were being pissed on. They just sat there with their overfilled bodies and empty heads, playing his games, while money poured into his bank account by the millions. Doggie hated Jumper and everything he stood for, but here—in the loneliest spot on earth and with the entire country anxious to lay eyes on her—he was her only door to the outside world. The intensity in his voice echoed the good old innocent days, barely four weeks previous. With it came a completely unexpected rush of nostalgia. Then he played an early Emmylou Harris number before unleashing new torrents of words.

  “Yo, yo, yo, the hour is twenty-three hundred, Eastern Time, and it’s Saturday night—full throttle,” he intoned, “and you’re listening to Tom Jumper’s Last Bastion. This is the second day we’re broadcasting from our cozy mobile studio, a radio show for all of you who still remember words like democracy and constitutional rights, not to mention fresh ground beef, porno flicks, and moonlighting. Happy times! Remember them, friends?”

  It gave Doggie a sinking feeling.

  Jumper tooted a rubber-bulb bicycle horn and whistled with his fingers. “Hey, that was the jingle for today’s good-news story. We’ve been hearing about the manhunt for Doggie Rogers, the little lady who knocked the vice president’s shriveled nuts clear over his left shoulder, and the latest is that little Doggie-dog has dug in her heels and headed for the hills. Take good care of her if you see her out there! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Anyone who can whup our vice president—and with such style—deserves our deepest respect. Don’t let yourselves be tempted by the reward, folks. Forget about playing Judas; help her instead!”

  The words took Doggie’s breath away. Yes, it seemed like the driver had given her the radio for a reason.

  The horn bleated again. “All those who stage a White House walkout like Doggie Rogers are true Americans. Because there are murderers inside there, drowning our nati
on in blood, and no one in possession of a clear conscience can continue backing them up. Did you believe otherwise? Then it’s good that people like Tom Jumper and Miss Doggie Rogers are around to wake you up, America!”

  Listening to this was totally unreal. Doggie shook her head.

  “Hey, wake up out there,” Jumper barked, “it’s not even midnight! Open up those ears and listen close, because here comes the day’s well-founded shocking allegation, thoroughly researched by my devilishly clever TV-show team. And now I’m gonna say it: New York’s Killer on the Roof was a creation of President Jansen and his mob! Whoa! Pardon me? That bit of news got you sitting straight up on your fat asses, I can tell! Just remember, Jansen and his disciples are no dummies; they’re very crafty. Because, can you honestly say that all these murders in New York and at the school outside Washington, and all the other assassinations and bombings, haven’t affected the way you see things? Made you feel a wee bit unsafe?”

  Doggie took a deep breath and folded her hands behind her neck.

  “Naturally, I’m not speaking to you gun-crazed illiterates who always want to start a ruckus every time a word’s used that’s more than five letters long—there’s no hope for you. No, I mean all the rest of you. Yes, including sweet little Mrs. Jones, sitting in that kitchen.” He laughed. “Yes, you, who always makes sure supper’s ready on time. Didn’t all that have an effect on you? Weren’t you thinking: Yes, when there’s one insane man shooting down citizens on the streets of New York and another insane man busting into schools and killing schoolkids, I believe the president’s right. We’ve got to ban all that hardware. Weren’t you thinking: Hell, yes . . . no, not hell, because you’re a nice girl. . . . Yes, by all the angels in heaven, just flush that Colt down the toilet and all the ammunition, too. The president’s right, you think, and everyone else thinks. Just look at all the horrible things that are happening everywhere. But listen here: Tom Jumper is telling you we have proof that all those horrible things that are happening are originating in the White House! And the scheme is working! By this I’m not recommending you put that shooter back in the drawer of your nightstand; I just mean the way he’s taking them away from us is all wrong. When the White House can hire someone to do in schoolchildren in order to make us hate firearms, things have gone way too far. Do we agree, or what?”

  He stopped abruptly and put on more music. The echo of his machine-gun volley of words blended into the intro of an up-tempo country number. He was a master of effect, and Doggie noticed the steel cylinder no longer felt so chilly. At the same time she was really confused. What Tom Jumper had said: Could it really be true, or was this merely the workings of a paranoid madman, high on speculation?

  The country music faded, and he continued. “Yo, people, now we’re gonna change frequency. Surf a little back and forth on your dial until you hear this music. You all know good ol’ Johnny Cash, so just rotate that dial till you find him.”

  She fumbled after the tuning knob and passed a lot of stations whose previous existence was marked by buzzing static until she heard the dark singing voice.

  She could feel how hard her heart was beating. Tom Jumper had just spoken about her, as well as things that would shake up even the most hardened law-and-order lobbyist. What would be next?

  “Hey, hey, here we are again, folks. Tom Jumper’s Last Bastion comin’ atcha. Now, where were we? Yo, did you know big business isn’t too pleased these days, either? Take the cigarette and ammunition manufacturers, for example. How do you think they’ve been feeling the past couple of weeks, watching their torrential cash flow evaporate? What do you think the Wall Street wizards and media moguls would prefer to be doing right now? Be standing in the Oval Office with a loaded Umarex Beretta 92FS pointed at the president’s pointed little head, or in self-imposed exile, far, far away? Do you have any idea what a dangerous job it is these days, being president of the United States? Hey, I almost feel sorry for the guy. How many people do you think wouldn’t mind sticking a rocket up his ass and launching him back to his humble Scandinavian origins? The most hated man in the world! Good ol’ Saddam was Father Christmas by comparison. Watch out for the big-money boys, Jansen, that’s my advice. They or the mafia or the militias will take you out sooner or later—just wait. Better keep an eye on your so-called faithful backers and lieutenants, too. Maybe they’ve bought shares in Gun-Ho Sports Cases and are watching their stock fall faster than Enron on a good day.” He squeezed his bicycle horn for all it was worth and howled with laughter. Doggie could see his face before her.

  “And while we’re at it, here’s a bit of advice for you, Miss Doggie Rogers: You were last seen with a grossly expensive Fendi bag over your pretty shoulder, so get the hell rid of it! They show it every ten minutes on TV, in case you didn’t know.”

  Another blast on the horn. Doggie hugged her tattered plastic bag, thinking about the thousand-dollar Fendi lying at the bottom of a Bronx garbage can.

  “Back to big-time politics, with a big-time scoop. ’Cause, sitting by my side is one of our nation’s leading commentators, so let’s give him a hand!” He clapped like mad. “We’re not naming names, but you know him, believe me. I won’t describe him to you either, because he might think I was coming on to him, and he might even like the idea, ha-ha.” More unrestrained laughter. “Well, well, well, my dear anonymous friend. We can reveal that you are a man with a great knowledge of many things. We hear there could be a countercoup against Jansen in the offing. I say ‘countercoup’ because wasn’t it a coup when we elected a president who turned out to be Mr. Hyde instead of Dr. Jekyll? So, Mr. John Doe, Mr. Man-Without-a-Face-or-Name, what do you have to say about these rumors?”

  The voice coming out of the tiny transistor speaker had been intentionally distorted electronically, but not well enough, because it was practically as easily recognizable and nationally well known as Tom Jumper’s. Doggie had to press her hand to her chest and concentrate on breathing regularly. It was the voice of her dear friend John Bugatti, perched a mile above the ground on the end of a branch he was in the process of sawing off. The fall would be fatal if he kept on like this. Tom Jumper’s mudslinging was one thing. Even though it put him in mortal danger, the loss of this provocateur—if they found him—would be bearable. But John Bugatti was a different matter. Here was a man whom everyone took seriously—not least of all in Washington—and his presence on the program was pure suicide.

  “A countercoup, you say. I’m not sure what we ought to call it, Tom,” came Bugatti’s toneless, distorted voice. “Is it a countercoup or just an extreme case of the Constitution’s game rules being put into effect? Something’s going on, in any case.”

  He cleared his throat as usual. Dammit, thought Doggie. Couldn’t a pro like him at least turn his head away from the microphone?

  “Of course many competent people have already been arrested, but it will take a whole lot more than that before Jansen’s completely unreasonable concoction of presidential decrees are a success. So far, former vice president Michael K. Lerner—President Jansen’s main rival—is still on the loose. And, just like any other dictatorship, the resistance of the general public is out there, like the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Now Jansen has launched his biggest battleship, armed with all the weapons of totalitarianism, trying to blast his opponents out of the water. But we all know how it can end, don’t we? It could be the Titanic all over again if the government doesn’t change course. That is to say: if Jansen and the rest of his deranged Cabinet don’t resign voluntarily.”

  Jumper tooted his horn. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, that was quite a mouthful from our very special guest. We’d just been talking about Doggie Rogers before you came, Mr. John Doe, and maybe we should take a moment to think about her father, too. After all, according to our impeccable justice system, it was he who brought this whole Armageddon upon us, wasn’t it? If it hadn’t been for him, people claim, we would never have ended up in
the present disastrous situation. But I’m not so sure about that; might it not have happened, anyway? What do you people out there think? In any case, now he’s sitting on death row, waiting for that needle. When is execution day, do you happen to know, Mr. No-Name?”

  The day after tomorrow, Doggie thought automatically, and shuddered.

  “He’s to die the day after tomorrow at Sussex State Penitentiary in Waverly, Virginia,” echoed Bugatti. Then he added: “And I’m convinced they’re murdering an innocent man.”

  Doggie had to hold her breath. She could sense the dairy tanker was presently moving in slow traffic, and she was afraid she’d scream and someone might hear her. So she froze, paralyzed by her emotions and fear.

  “For those of you who have just tuned in, you’re visiting Tom Jumper’s mobile radio universe, where our studio guest has just dropped a mega-mega-ton bomb into his microphone. Did the man say Bud Curtis was innocent? And upon what do you base this radical supposition, I’d like to ask? I mean, we all know there was a public trial following all the proper judicial procedures. Does this mean we can no longer trust the courts to do their job?” His cackling laughter was its own answer.

  Bugatti cleared his throat a couple of times. Doggie really wished he’d stop revealing his identity like this. “Hmm . . . Well, I believe Bud Curtis spoke the truth when he said Mimi Jansen asked him to fetch her a glass of water. And why shouldn’t it be true? She’d had a long, strenuous day; she’d just come into a very warm room, straight out of a snowstorm, still wearing an overcoat. And she was just about to give birth, for God’s sake. And why wouldn’t it be possible for the glass to disappear afterwards? I mean, there were around thirty people present, and it was total chaos.”

  “Whoa, now. Hold on, Mr. Doe. That still doesn’t prove Curtis didn’t get his idiot flunky to do the job.”

  “No, that’s right. And still, no one lost any time discrediting everything he said. Curtis was to be made to appear to be a liar, no matter what. That was the simplest course to take. If he could lie about the glass of water, he could lie about anything. Thus the seed of mistrust was planted in the minds of the jury. If, on the other hand, the jury believed he’d actually voluntarily gone to get some water for that poor, pregnant lady, then the issue of his guilt wouldn’t have been so cut-and-dried. How could he be so courteous and obliging and murderously calculating at the same time? This is the kind of complex, contradictory psychological profile that a prosecutor hates, and he’s not about to let such a trifle spoil his portrayal of a man who’s supposed to be guilty as hell.” John Bugatti paused to clear his throat. “I also find it very hard to understand that the killer himself was only hit by a single shot. I was there, so . . .” He tried to stop his slip of the tongue but too late. “I mean, I know someone who was present, and many people were hit by ricocheting bullets. So several guns must have been fired, and more than once.”