• • •
“Sir” Richard Waverly was sleeping soundly when the tidal wave of news swept across the country. Against the advice of his doctor, Waverly had taken three doses of his prescribed sleeping pills, instead of just one. He knew his doctor would be furious if he found out, but Waverly needed sleep.
Earlier, his wife had seen him clutch his chest as he watched Susan Payne report the arrest of Winston Overstreet. He threw the remote against the wall, shards of plastic scattering across the plush carpeting.
“Damn bitch!” he’d said, and struggled for breath.
His wife was sure he was having a heart attack and wanted to call 911.
“It’s too late for that. It would be merciful if this were a heart attack. Call our lawyer,” he said and stormed out of the room.
He gulped down the sleep aids with mouthfuls of water and was soon snoring away in a medicated sleep.
“You can’t go in there.” He barely heard his wife’s voice through his medicated haze. “He’s an important man. He has the ear of prominent—”
“Shut up, lady.”
The sound of splintering wood dimly registered. Richard was trying to figure out what that meant when he felt himself being picked up by rough hands. He was dragged more than carried—without ceremony—to a waiting van. Richard Waverly wondered vaguely why his wrists were restrained. He hadn’t taken enough of an overdose for it to be fatal, but it was sufficient to grant him a feeling of peace as he was being arrested.
That all changed later that morning, when the pills wore off and he heard the charges against him being read by a stone-faced prosecutor.
• • •
Charles Claussen sat in his office—no longer the bridge or command central—his flagship empire crashing around him. Realizing he was well past the point of picking up the phone and just ordering this all to go away, he looked up at Angela Vaughn.
“I told you this would happen if you didn’t…”
There was no reason to finish the sentence. It would have been an exercise in futility, and they both knew it. There was nothing Angela could say as she looked past her boss to gaze out over the lake, knowing it was the last time she would see it for a long time. She fingered the police badge in her pocket. She may have resigned from the force, but it was still a touchstone, reminding her of her oath. Now it was an accusatory reminder to herself of how far she had fallen from grace. She hated to apologize, and decided this wasn’t a good time to start.
They both turned to face the door when they heard the sirens on the street below.
“It won’t be long now, boss.”
Claussen just looked back at her and shook his head. She couldn’t tell what the head shake meant. Her cell phone rang. It was her best cop friend, Cindy, calling from the Ten-Eight. She listened to her excited voice and the cheering in the background. Her face was expressionless as she closed the phone midcall. Cindy hadn’t realized the cheering cops behind her were about to see arresting officers snagging Angela Vaughn in their net.
Tears welling, she thought, I used to be one of them, one of those cheering cops at the Ten-Eight.
She was looking at the closed phone in her hand when she heard a wooden box being opened. She looked up slowly and realized Claussen had a Luger in his hand. Her first impulse was fear.
Is he going to shoot me in anger?
“Get out!”
She rushed out to call for help and was almost to her desk when she heard a shot. She raced back to Claussen’s office. Blood, bone, and gristle were splattered on the window behind his body.
A .9mm Luger can do a lot of damage, she realized.
She was staring at the gory mess when they broke the door down behind her. Men rushed in with weapons at the ready, pointing them at her. She didn’t have to wait for instructions. She quickly raised her hands. She felt them being roughly pulled behind her back and cuffs snapping around her wrists.
“Damn, those old guns are loud,” she told one of the arresting officers. “You guys also need to know about a place called Camp Free Eagle,” she said as she was being led away. One of the officers whispered to the woman who appeared to be in charge, and Vaughn was led to a special operations trailer parked in front of the building. She hurriedly told the lead investigator about Brunner’s role in the riots—and about Camp Free Eagle.
• • •
Charles Claussen had listened to the exchange between his former head of security and the police as he hid behind a narrow panel—a panel that would open and close at the touch of a remote control he was holding. He had anticipated his arrest, and had a plan. He knew he didn’t have much time. He needed to act with deliberate haste.
His escape plan went into motion as soon as Vaughn left his office to call for help. A man who was the same size as Claussen and who was wearing identical clothing stood behind a hidden panel. The man was confused and upset.
“What did someone say about the police?”
Claussen waved the Luger, and with a reassuring gesture, asked the man to sit in his chair. He gave the unwitting victim an envelope and told him to open it, watching the man’s eyes widen when he saw the stack of money.
The dupe was so fascinated with the cash that he didn’t anticipate Claussen’s next move. Holding up a towel to shield himself from blood spatter, Claussen stepped over, placed the Luger under the man’s chin, and pulled the trigger. He folded the towel and calmly removed the envelope and money from the dead man’s grip before stepping through the secret door. The panel slid closed on the secret compartment just as Vaughn opened the door following the shot, and Claussen went out its back door.
He’d hoped the gruesome scene would offer a distraction—and it worked.
He heard excited voices and shouted commands as he strode along a narrow corridor until he came to a service elevator. He’d had a locker installed next to the elevator for this very purpose. It held a quick change of clothes. Walking off the elevator at the parking-garage level, he permitted a smile as he started up an unassuming sedan he’d also stored there for just such an occasion.
I’m not going to miss that fat slug, he thought, referring to his wife. It was supposed to be Angela by my side all along. Maybe after this, I can get her out of jail. I will arrange for the children to join us. They need their father.
• • •
A fleet of helicopters ferried an elite team of special forces into the tundra, its members drawn from all branches of the military. The usual friendly, interbranch rivalry and teasing were set aside for this mission; each man and woman sat with a hard, unsmiling face.
Brunner’s militia may have been good at attacking unarmed civilians, but they were no match for the special ops units they faced in the raid. Most of them quickly realized the hopelessness of the situation and put their arms down, surrendering without firing a shot.
“This ain’t worth dying for,” one said.
Even though there was little resistance, a rumor circulated afterward that several thugs were “accidentally killed” during the raid, but there was no follow-up investigation to confirm or deny those stories.
• • •
The city returned to whatever was going to pass for normal. Agents and employees of CleanSweep were interviewed. Some were charged and were issued orders to appear for further questioning. Others were interviewed and cleared as soon as all of their weapons and their identification had been confiscated. The offices and satellite facilities were placed on lockdown, with military guards stationed at all entrances.
• • •
“Is it safe?”
The crowded Ten-Eight bar was more subdued now, the cheering fading away as they all started to consider what they had been through.
Matt and Carling looked at each other, realizing they had reached best-friend status in spite of their initial reservations about each other, and
they both started to say something at the same time.
“We have unfinished business,” Matt finally managed to say. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“Susan?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t.
CHAPTER 43
Dear Readers
So much had happened in such a short time. Matt walked in and saw them waiting. Carling sat across from Susan and Carl. They turned and waved to him as he squeezed past other tables. He was pleased they had bagged a window table.
They could watch Gerrard Street coming back to life. Street lighting was almost entirely restored, and there was actually a lot of road traffic. Pedestrians strolled by, even though this had been one of the hardest-hit areas during the riot.
Matt thought about how different it had looked when Stinky and Gigantis were ushering him through the same streets. He had made inquiries, but no one was able to shed any light on their whereabouts. Matt was even beginning to wonder if it had all taken place in his imagination.
Susan stood and hugged him. “I suggested this place. I know the husband and wife who own it. They’re trying to rebuild their clientele. We need to help the ones struggling to rebuild.”
Nobody disagreed.
Matt told them he had felt uneasy walking there from his car. “I parked near the conservatory, and the bad memories of hiding in that building came flooding back.”
“Sit, eat, enjoy,” Carling said, slurring his words and wearing a broad smile. The detective sported jeans, a graphic T-shirt, and an open jacket—no fedora in sight.
Matt approved of his new wardrobe, saying, “You look good in urban chic.”
The waiter brought a bottle of wine as Matt sat down. Carling snorted. He reached across Matt and grabbed it.
“It’s my treat, and I’m pouring.” He measured out the portions with a steady hand, surprising them all with his control. There was a small amount left in the bottle when he was done, and he tipped it up, pouring the remainder into his own glass. “Cops don’t have class anyway,” he said as he started to laugh.
“To us.” Susan raised her glass. She spoke in a subdued voice. “To us, because we all did it—together.” Then she added in a more commanding tone, “Come on, guys. Clink.”
Their glasses touched, but they couldn’t let the moment remain solemn.
Susan started it, breaking the ice in typical reporter fashion—by asking a question. “You first, Brick. What now?”
“The chief called me up to six—headquarters. He was sitting behind his humongous desk, his three deputy chiefs standing alongside like trained poodles. I saw the guy from human resources sitting on a side chair and figured my career was toast. You should have been there,” he said. “The chief tore me a strip up one side and down the other, pointing out all the things I did wrong, reminding me that I’d broken just about every rule in the book. Funny thing—he was smiling the whole time. Then he said I had given the service some of the best publicity they’d had in years, and he growled at me to get back to work. Everyone in the room grinned at me.”
“What about you two?” Carling asked, looking at Carl and then at Susan. “Are you two going to make it official and get married?”
Susan started to laugh first, resting her hand on Carl’s leg. “No way, but we just signed documents that make our relationship official in another way. We started a freelance filming venture and expect to capitalize on our newfound fame. That’s almost the same as getting married, right?”
Carl jumped in. “I love her—more than I can find the words to express. Maybe you can find them for me, Mr. Blogger,” he said, looking at Matt. “Why would we spoil a good relationship by doing something crazy like getting married?”
Susan looked at Matt. “What about you?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. I’m going to take a break from it all. I haven’t been able to clear my mind, to erase all the images. I start thinking about Tanner, Clifford, Stinky, and…”
The other three didn’t prod. They simply sipped wine and waited. They knew he was thinking about Mattie.
The moment was broken when the waiter brought appetizers, and they turned their attention to the food. Matt’s good mood returned instantly, and he began regaling them with his description of Stinky.
Suddenly Carl said, “What’s that?” He was pointing out the window.
They looked out and saw a procession of people slowly walking behind a large glass-delivery truck. The street behind the van was packed with people, and they were singing. The four picked up their wineglasses and walked to the door. Other curious patrons followed.
Standing on the sidewalk, they saw a parade stretching at least two blocks to the west on Gerrard—maybe farther. The marchers, holding candles, were singing the chorus of “Amazing Grace.” When the words came to an end, the crowd continued walking, humming the melody, some still singing in small, reverent voices. The sign on the side of the truck almost brought Matt to his knees: “The Mattie Project: Restore the Conservatory.” The marchers were all wearing shirts with that featured a sketch of the Dancing Lady.
As the last of the parade moved east, Matt, Carling, Carl, and Susan said their final good-byes, promising to meet again soon. They all said what Matt was thinking. It was unlikely they would ever again be like this, all four together at the same time. Matt watched Carl and Susan walking away.
“I’ve never seen two people more in love,” he said to Carling.
“Want to go for a drink? You’re officially part of the Ten-Eight squad now.”
“No, but thanks,” Matt said as the two men embraced and parted. He watched Carling begin to walk away and then yelled, “Stop!”
Carling turned. He was standing by his car, which was parked in a no-parking zone in front of the restaurant. Carling fixed him with a “who me?” look and tossed his “Official Police Business” card from the dashboard onto the seat.
“What?” He looked at Matt.
“I have to ask you something. After all, I am an investigative blogger. What the heck does KBO mean? You always signed your notes with it.”
“‘Keep buggering on.’ During World War II, Winston Churchill used to end his phone calls and notes with it. It was his way of encouraging people when everything looked hopeless, grim.”
Matt grinned. That was just what he’d needed to do when things had looked so desperate during their own dark times earlier.
As he drove off, the detective gave Matt a quick siren whoop as a farewell.
Matt walked back to his car, near the conservatory. The parade crowd had gathered in the park and was standing in front of the greenhouse. Matt couldn’t join them, not yet. The memory of her death was too fresh in his mind; he could still see Mattie’s body rolling along the street like a rag doll. He would never escape that—or the knowledge that it was partly his fault.
With that, he got into his car and drove back to his apartment.
• • •
Four weeks later, he was smiling again. He was reading an e-mail from Clifford, but he smirked when he saw it was signed “Cliff.”
“I thought you might like to know we are planning a dedication ceremony for the conservatory,” the e-mail said. “There is going to be a new wing named the Dancing Lady Wing, after Mattie. A lot of volunteers made it happen.”
Matt read the e-mail again, knowing he wouldn’t attend—he couldn’t. He would always feel responsible for her death. He didn’t want to share his memory of her with a crowd.
• • •
The week after that, he staggered up to the door of the Dancing Lady Wing. He looked around the conservatory, holding a bottle. He was drunk. Very drunk. Matt had started out that night with the intention of getting drunk, and it had been a grand success, he thought. He carried a very expensive bottle of single-malt scotch, glad nobody was there to watch him, to see his tears.<
br />
He walked back to the area where he had spent the night crouched under a workbench, hiding from CleanSweep agents. He took large swallows of whiskey and thought of Cliff and Mattie that night, remembering how they’d roused him to warn him. His mind replayed Mattie’s final run as if it were a videotape. The tears streaming down his face mixed with the taste of scotch on his lips. Mattie’s odd way of talking echoed in his memory. He knew he had to learn to live with that memory, somehow.
When he got back to his apartment, he decided he was still not drunk enough, but he was disappointed to find that the only thing he had left to drink was a can of refrigerated light beer.
He didn’t bother undressing. As he drifted into the blissful transition from consciousness, his mind filled with mental images, flash cards, each with a name: Tanner, Charles Claussen, Clifford, Carling, CleanSweep, Susan, Carl, Tanner, Tanner…and…Mattie. Especially Mattie.
He fell into a deep sleep.
Gigantis…Stinky.
The next morning Matt sat, fingers poised over the keyboard. After considering the right words to use, he began typing, his fingers creating a tap-tap-tapping sound as they flew from key to key.
Toronto, May 20
Dear Readers,
This is Matt Tremain. I’m back, and I’m still a seeker of truth.
Let me tell you about a story. This one starts in Arkansas, in the United States. One of my readers wrote and asked me to look into a story about the suicide of a little girl who was bullied at school. I don’t know how you feel about it, but—
Matt stopped typing when his phone chirped; he frowned at the intrusion. He didn’t recognize the number.
“This is Matt!” he answered, trying to sound as irritated as he felt.
“I knew there was something that wasn’t right!” Carling was almost shouting.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carling sputtered. “Listen. It bothered me from the get-go. I saw there was something wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me last night. Nobody even bothered checking Claussen’s prints or DNA. I got on the computer and ordered crime-scene pictures from his suicide.”
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 33
