The clock on the living room wall told me the eleven o'clock newscast had been over more than an hour. By now Higgins could have examined that DVD fifty times.
Why hadn't he called?
I walked to the kitchen, lit a burner and started to boil some water for tea. Feeling a draft, I noticed the window over the sink open a crack. As I leaned forward to shut it, I sensed movement outside. Someone, something lurked just outside the cabin.
I switched off the overhead kitchen light and peered out into the darkness. Nothing. I turned the light back on.
A knock at the front door startled me.
I switched on the porch light. Peeking through one of three small diamond-shaped glass windows, I saw a middle-aged man bundled in a red and black-checkered hunter's jacket. I wondered if the storm door was locked. I hoped so.
As I pulled the wooden door open, I saw the visitor clearly through the storm door. A stocky man with dark hair and a thick, black mustache completely covering the space between his nose and upper lip, he smiled as he nodded a greeting.
"Hello, Miss..."
"Yes?"
"Hope it's not a bother. Saw your lights on, and my mother...Mrs. Gordon next door? She’s having one of her migraines. I wonder if I could trouble you for some aspirin."
He seemed friendly enough, and I hated the thought of the frail Mrs. Gordon suffering a migraine. I fussed with the latch on the storm door, and finally pushed it open.
"Thanks." The man rubbed his hands together as he entered the cottage. "Sure cools off fast once the sun goes down. I'm Tom Gordon." He offered his hand.
"Mary...Mary Johnson." I found the hand icy cold. If the man recognized me from the television news reports or newspapers, he didn't show it. Regardless, I didn't want to chance giving my real name.
"I'll see if I can find some aspirin." I headed for the bathroom, but the sound of the telephone brought me to a halt.
"You were expecting a call this late?" Gordon asked.
"It's...it's probably my friend. He's in Traverse City."
I could have answered the phone in the kitchen alcove, but instead walked to the back bedroom, out of Gordon's earshot, and lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Darcy, Sean."
"Sean, where...what’s happening?"
"You were right about the DVD."
"What did you find?"
"The stakes are much higher than we ever imagined. Darcy, listen to this: digital discs record action at a rate of thirty frames every second. This disc, the Avion submaster, carries a message every twenty-ninth frame. The message appears so quickly, the conscious mind never sees it. But it gets implanted big time in the subconscious.”
“What message?”
“Two words: VanBuhler and leadership.”
"My god, they’re trying to corrupt the election. No wonder VanBuhler is coming on so fast. We’ve the evidence we need, Sean. Now we’ve got to get it to the right people.”
"We'll leave tomorrow. But for now, I don't want you there alone. With what we know, it's not safe."
"Sean, be serious. Where else can I go?"
"Until I get back, I want you to go over to Mrs. Gordon’s."
"That old lady? You think she's going to protect me?"
"I don't want you in that cottage alone. These people, whoever they are, always seem to be a step ahead."
"Not this time, Sean. Mrs. Gordon's son is here. I’m perfectly safe."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Gordon's son. He’s here with me. He came to get aspirin for his mother."
When Higgins spoke, the words slid down my spine like a sliver of ice, leaving me chilled to the core.
"Darcy, Mrs. Gordon doesn't have a son; or a daughter. She and her husband were childless."
62
I heard a sound and turned to see the intruder standing in the doorway. The urge to run nearly overwhelmed me, but I kept my composure and continued talking in an imaginary conversation.
"I'll pass along the message, Jack." I replaced the receiver. It would take an hour for Higgins to get here. I couldn’t let this man guess I was on to him.
"Bad news?" he asked.
"Why would you say that?"
"Your face. You look surprised, even scared."
"I'll get your aspirin." I brushed by the man and walked to the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. I held out the bottle.
"Take it."
The man took the aspirin and started for the door. He got as far as the kitchen alcove when he turned. "Jack? You called your friend Jack."
"That's right. That's his name...Jack."
"Not Sean?"
"I think it’s time for you to leave.” My legs suddenly felt like rubber bands. I leaned backward against the stove for support, almost scorching my hand on the burner heating the pot of water.
"I’ve got a better idea," The man's tone changed, no longer the friendly, apologetic neighbor. "I'm going to stick around and see who your friend really is."
He reached behind his back and closed the door.
"What are you going to do?” I fought to keep my voice from shaking. My palms felt sweaty.
"I just want to talk to you both. Relax."
It was a lie, of course. With stakes as high as a Presidential election, no way could we be left alive.
The intruder stood in front of me, motioning toward the living room. Leaning against the stove, I felt the handle of the pot on the burner. The water should be boiling. My hand shook as I made a half-turn to the right and grabbed the pot handle. Spinning back to my left I hurled the contents directly into the man’s face.
"Ahhhhhhh...!" A horrible, high-pitched scream erupted from the man’s throat as he grabbed his face with both hands. I bolted past, jerked open the front door, pounded the handle of the storm door and ran into the cold night air. I tore around the cottage, heading for the back, dodging trees, my feet fighting for traction against sandy soil. I raced across the lighted clearing behind the cottage and into the dark forest. Ferns whipped against my jeans as I dashed through the darkness.
"Bitch! I'll kill you!" The voice wailed somewhere behind me. I hoped the scalding water had blinded him. I stopped to look back, lungs burning. Hiding in the trees, I crouched sixty feet behind the cabin. The light over the back door shone brightly.
Just as I began breathing easier, the man bolted around the corner of the building, stopping in the center of the spotlighted area. Even from this distance I could see he suffered immense pain. He rocked back and forth, making some sort of noise, moaning. He reached inside a coat pocket and withdrew something. As light spread in front of his feet, I realized it was a flashlight.
The man stood stock still, cocking his head one way, then the other. Listening...listening...straining to hear the slightest crackle of leaves underfoot, the sound of a twig snapping. Hearing nothing, he began walking toward the stand of trees.
Toward me.
The flashlight’s beam came closer. I snatched a look behind me. The dirt trail leading to the road lay fifty more feet away. I doubted anyone resided in the cottages along that road; the buildings had been boarded up when Higgins and I arrived.
The man walked faster now, his light extending past the first few trees. I eased backwards, toward the dirt road.
CRACK!
Betrayed by a footstep. The dry twig snapping seemed like the report of a rifle shot. I froze. To the left stood a huge pine. I took a single giant step and slid behind it.
The sound hadn't escaped my pursuer. He pointed his flashlight toward my position and began walking. The light danced through the pines, coming dangerously close to where I huddled behind the tree. Pine needles crackled under his feet, the sound growing louder. He now moved to within inches of me, on the opposite side of the tall pine. His footsteps stopped and his breath rasped as he sucked in the night air. I pinned my arms against my body, locking my elbows under my rib cage. My heart pounded with such force it hurt. The light played around the trees, sto
pping here, there...as the man tried desperately to find me.
I fought to keep my breathing under control; terrified the man might hear me. The moment seemed frozen in time. Then the footsteps began again, this time moving past. I inched around the tree, keeping the trunk between me and the source of crackling leaves and snapping twigs. The man moved to the rear of the lot, circled back and traced the property line toward the front of the cottage. I let out a breath as I watched the flashlight disappear around a corner.
I suddenly became aware of another sensation: cold. The night was painfully frigid. Racing from the cottage, I hadn't worn a coat or sweater, and the cold bit through my jeans and thin cotton blouse.
To my left I made out the shape of the small tool shed behind Mrs. Gordon's house. Was it possible a sweater or jacket hung inside? I crept toward the shed, gingerly at first, grimacing as my footsteps caused crackling sounds against dry leaves and pine needles. As the cold became overbearing, my steps came faster. I kept my arms folded in front of me, my hands rubbing them in an attempt to keep warm.
The shed couldn’t have been more than six feet square. Inside, I saw nothing but darkness. Crouching low, I crawled in, reaching back to close the door. My purser was out there, and could be coming back.
Wrapped in darkness, I found myself shivering violently. I quickly but carefully felt along the wall behind me.
Nothing.
Feeling backwards, now along the floor, I felt...a sweater. I tugged, but it was caught. Remembering the matches in my jeans pocket, I retrieved the pack and struck one.
As the sudden flash of brightness died and my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, I saw to my horror what the sweater had caught on.
The cord around poor Mrs. Gordon's neck and an agonized expression on her old wrinkled face told a horrific story: death had come with a great deal of pain.
63
Higgins guided the blue Lumina onto Peninsula Drive. Driving as fast as the narrow road allowed, he found a grassy area just off the sandy trail where he killed the headlights and engine.
Still a half-mile from his uncle's cabin, he climbed out, eased the car door closed and began walking quickly. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sandy road appeared as a light gray strip, with the trees on either side black silhouettes. He half walked, half ran on the edge of the road, ready to duck for cover if headlights appeared.
He’d had time to think in the hour since leaving Traverse City, and a lot to think about. He feared for Darcy's safety, and dreaded what he might find at the cabin.
He had weighed the significance of what he discovered. Darcy’s guess had struck the bull’s eye. Bacalla and his people were using Adams & Benson, its facilities and employees, to carry out an outrageous act of deceit on the American people. And to do that, they had chosen the commercials of the AVC account, his account.
Higgins wondered how many were involved, how many of the people he knew and talked to every day? The thought that he worked side by side with people involved in this conspiracy made him sick.
He’d stopped twice along the way from Traverse City and called the cottage from pay phones without success. He tried to force speculation to the back of his mind; reality would come soon enough.
Higgins continued along Peninsula Trail as it wound to the right. Close to the cottage now, he moved slower. Mrs. Gordon's cabin came first, on the left, and as he stared through the trees, he caught a glimpse of light.
Strange to see light coming from Mrs. Gordon’s place this late, but he continued on. Uncle Frank's cabin was next. Higgins stole past the sandy driveway, spotting lights in the kitchen and living room. Another sixty feet and he left the road, slipping through the trees toward the lake. Reaching the beach, he turned into his uncle's front yard and crept along the water's edge. Hidden in the darkness, he had a clear view. The living room was brightly lit, and empty. He cocked his head, listening. The only sound came from the lake behind him, its waves rippling softly into the shore.
Crouching low, he inched closer to the cottage, vaguely aware of sweat beads forming on his forehead and upper lip. The inner, wooden door stood wide open. He walked quietly to the storm door and tried the handle, pulling it open.
"Darcy?"
Nothing. He listened for sounds from the back bedrooms. Silence.
Moving slowly, he nearly tripped over a pan upside down on the floor. Stooping to pick it up, he noticed wet carpet surrounding it.
"Mr. Higgins, I presume."
Higgins jumped, startled by the sound. Looking up, the sight shocked him more: a man of medium height in a red and black hunting jacket, pointing a pistol at his chest. The man's face was as red as the shirt, and horribly distended. One eye was swollen shut, the other open and wild looking.
"Your girl friend did this," the man hissed. "Boiling water."
"Where is she?"
"Screw you. You know too much already."
"Enough to put you away for a hell of a long time."
"Let me guess. You found the message in that Avion DVD. Too bad you won't get a chance to tell anyone." The man raised the pistol.
There was movement in the darkness of the bedroom behind the gunman. Darcy? It had to be.
"Someone already knows,” Higgins said. “A TV reporter in Traverse City. Anything happens to me, he'll tell the cops what he saw."
The man lowered the pistol. "So you didn't leave the DVD with him. You have it."
"How can you be sure?"
"If the reporter had the DVD, he wouldn't have to tell what he saw. He would show them."
The pistol came up again. "You've told me all I need to know."
64
I entered the rear door of the cottage moments after the man who had been chasing me.
I heard voices from the living area, and peering out from the darkness, I saw Sean with the man in the black and red jacket. The man had his back toward me, but the conversation made it clear he held a gun.
So did I; a loaded single-shot .22 rifle I found in Mrs. Gordon’s shed.
One shot. One chance.
Would I have the nerve to shoot? Did I have to? If I just pointed the rifle, could I convince him to drop his gun?
Or, would he shoot me instead?
I stepped into the living room, rifle at my shoulder. The man in red and black couldn’t see me, but Sean’s eyes went hubcap wide as he spoke. “When the reporter calls the cops they’ll investigate.”
The man raised his gun. “They won’t find diddly. By then your DVD will be at the bottom of that lake out there.”
Sean screamed. “Good god, Darcy. Shoot.”
One shot. One chance.
The man whirled toward me and uncertainty vanished with the squeeze of the trigger.
The report of the rifle was magnified inside the cottage, the air smothered by the smell of cordite. The man fell to the floor.
I dropped the rifle. “I didn’t want to kill him.”
“If you hadn’t pulled the trigger, I’d be lying there.”
Sean’s eyes went from the body on the floor back to me. “Where’d you get the rifle?”
“The shed next door.” I suddenly remembered: “Mrs. Gordon. He killed her. She’s there in the shed.”
I looked at the man on the floor. “What do we do about him? And how about poor Mrs. Gordon?”
“We call the police now, they’ll be on our tail. We’ll have to hide him in the shed.
“Then we pack, lock up and get out of here.”
The body on the floor sent a shiver through me as I was struck by the realization that I had killed another human being. I felt guilty. But strangely, the guilt didn’t spring from the shooting. It came from the fact I didn’t feel a bit guilty that I killed him.
Does that make sense?
65
Saturday, Oct. 23 2:06 a.m.
The headlights of the Chevy Lumina pointed the way south on I-75, Higgins at the wheel. As we rode, the conversation centered on what Higgins found at th
e studio: the frames with "VanBuhler" and "leadership" repeated throughout the commercial. We both agreed there had to be more AVC commercials; probably with VanBuhler's name matched with words like "diplomacy" and "economic savvy."
"Those are the qualities pollsters ask people to rate candidates on," I said. "No wonder the man’s off the charts."
Sean’s eyes were nearly closed.
"Sean, let's find a place to stop."
We took the next exit and found a motel not far from the expressway. I donned the same “disguise” I’d used at the Gaylord library, pulling my hair back, wrapping it in a scarf and applying eye makeup darker than usual.
I needn't have bothered. The night clerk, a young man about eighteen, was half-asleep. After I filled out a card and paid in cash, he handed me a key.
"Two-eighteen. Around back, second floor."
The room contained one king-size bed. Too tired to argue over propriety, we climbed under the covers and fell asleep.
***
On the expressway by noon, we drove south past towns with names like West Branch, Rose City and Pinconning. Sean seemed wide-awake after eight hours of sleep.
I kept thinking about the shooting the night before and picturing the stranger in the checkered jacket lying lifeless as we placed him in the shed next to Mrs. Gorden. Trust me: no matter who’s at the other end of the bullet and how justified the shooting may have been, it’s not easy getting over killing someone.
As we drove, the stress of the shooting was slowly replaced by the satisfaction of finally having the evidence to prove the existence of a conspiracy, a conspiracy to overthrow the Executive Branch of the United States Government.
Once the plot behind the murders and phony suicides came out, our innocence would be obvious.
During the next day or so we’d contact the police and FBI. Of course we couldn't just ride up to police headquarters. We needed a plan and thankfully, I had awakened with one. We’d have to wait for dark, but it included the perfect place to hide; the one place absolutely no one would ever think of looking for us.
66
Saturday 6:34 p.m.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
My ex-husband stood in the doorway of his apartment wearing a white tee shirt, blue jeans and an astonished expression.
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