(2012) Political Suicide

by Michael Palmer

  Lou stopped at the hospital’s Starbucks for what he called road juice—espresso macchiato. Then he headed for the doctors’ parking lot, which was tucked at the center of the hospital complex, among a dozen or so buildings, half of them outdated and antiquated, and half under new construction.

  Before leaving the lot for the four-hour drive to Hayes, West Virginia, Lou called home, wishfully expecting some sort of message on his answering machine from Detective Chris Bryzinski, telling him to stop by the station to pick up a copy of the disc. Nothing doing. Between Sarah’s scorn and Jeannine Colston’s rebuke, he wasn’t exactly feeling at the top of his game. He had learned many invaluable lessons from his years of sobriety, but he still balked at accepting anything less than perfection in himself.

  Nothing doing there, either.

  Traffic was reasonably light as he headed out of the city and toward the Monongahela Mountains, a segment of the Appalachian range straddling West Virginia and Virginia. A Talking Heads CD helped battle back the blearies, and the notion of meeting face-to-face with Hector Rodriguez more or less completed the job.

  Would Hector be able to remember enough details of a conversation from years ago to satisfy Sarah? Lou had his doubts. He wondered how Gary was doing in jail. Being locked up was certainly the ultimate lesson in humiliation.

  It was just after sunset on a day that was hovering around freezing, when Lou rolled into Hayes. The ENTERING HAYES sign was legible, but pocked with bullet holes. His plan was to spend some time before his rendezvous with Hector getting a feel for the place. Hector had provided detailed directions to their meeting spot, but Lou needed only to exit the highway to find the Wildwood Motel. Pulling into the driveway, he took in the folksy look of the weather-beaten sign suspended on a pair of rusty hooks. Judging by the dearth of cars in the motel parking lot, he suspected it was not frequent that someone tacked up a NO before the word VACANCY.

  The Wildwood might not get a five-diamond rating from AAA, but the clean, single-story motel was head and shoulders above the residents’ quarters at Eisenhower. Having phoned ahead, Lou already had a room waiting in his name. If things did not go well with Hector, and there were no notes to compile, he would probably just put on another Talking Heads CD, leave a tip on the unmade bed for housekeeping, and drive home.

  Hayes was a military town—pretty much as expected, but on a smaller scale. Lou drove around some of the back roads, but quickly concluded that Main Street was where most of what passed for action took place. It had two bars, one Chinese restaurant, a burger joint, and a dilapidated lumber mill that still appeared to be active. Wanting to get more familiar with the home of Mantis Company, Lou made a pit stop at a bar called Ralphie’s, which possessed the grungy charm of the dives he once loved to frequent but, at this day and hour at least, none of the patrons.

  He ordered a Diet Coke from the bartender—mid-forties, apron, tattoos, nicotine stains, five o’clock shadow—and rated the fountain Coke a surprising seven and a half for taste, temperature, and carbonation. On the Welcome scale, developed after Diet Coke replaced Wild Turkey as his drink of choice, three was undrinkable unless he was touring Death Valley, and two was undrinkable under any circumstances. He had yet to meet a perfect ten.

  “You ain’t from around here,” the bartender said with an Appalachian twang.

  “You did that without even pulling out your Ouija board.”

  “My what?”

  “How’d you know I was an outsider?”

  “Hayes is a small place. Everybody knows everybody. Even the visitors to the base.”

  “Name’s Lou Welcome.”

  “Bell,” the bartender said, extending his hand. “Ralphie Bell. You said Welcome?”

  “Just like the mat.”

  “Like the wh—? Oh, I get it.” He chuckled until he laughed. And then he laughed until he doubled over in a spasm of cigarette-driven coughing.

  “So, where is everybody?” Lou asked

  “Hayes stays pretty quiet until after eight o’clock or so. That’s when the boys from the base are allowed to come into town. That is, if they have the night off.”

  “Is the base far from here?”

  “The entrance is ’bout a half mile away. But careful that you don’t stumble onto their property without you knowin’ it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The base is ’bout fifteen square miles that includes some of the wildest country in these mountains, and not much of it is fenced in. There are lots of ‘No Trespassing’ signs posted about, but the number-one crime in Hayes are hunters who trespass without realizing what they’ve done. Trespassin’ and carryin’ a weapon around here is really frowned on.” Bell loaded and shot an imaginary pump-action rifle.

  “Ouch!” Lou said, clutching his chest. “Tell me something, Ralphie, does Wyatt Brody ever come in here?”

  Bell scoffed. “Once in a great while he pops in for a drink an’ stays a few minutes. But the truth is, Colonel Brody don’t really socialize with nobody that I know of. Soldiers say he’s on some sort of mission from God, and sometimes he sure acts that way.”

  Lou tried, but could get no further insights on the man who might have murdered Elias Colston. On the chance he was going to need to try again with Ralphie Bell, he left two dollars for the drink, plus a ten. It was going to be up to Hector Rodriguez to fill in some huge gaps.

  Lou had no trouble finding his way back to the Wildwood, but he had a harder time locating the way to the bonfire pit, where Hector insisted they meet. The path, leading off from a pair of worn picnic tables at the rear of the motel, was partially overgrown with brush, and the ground was crunchy with thin ice. A stiff breeze had cropped up, and Lou was grateful that he had steered clear of the bargain aisle when choosing his parka at Eastern Mountain Sports.

  Using his cell phone as a flashlight, he emerged after a hundred feet or so into a wide clearing. At the center of the clearing, a broad, stone-rimmed pit still emitted the potent scent of recently burnt wood. Beyond the pit, a sliver of moonlight escaping from clouds scudding overhead revealed the silhouette of a stocky man standing more or less at attention. The vapor from his breathing swirled eerily in the thin light.

  “Dr. Welcome?” Hector’s voice and accent were unmistakable.

  “That’s me. Thanks for doing this, Hector.” Lou approached him, prepared to shake hands, but Hector remained as he was. Even in his bulky, military-issue parka, he was powerfully built, and through the evening gloom, he looked swarthy and handsome.

  A warrior.

  Lou spoke again. “I appreciate that you allowed me to meet with you, Hector. I think it might be important.”

  “Tell me what you want to know.” His coolness matched the evening.

  Lou shifted his weight from side to side to get the blood flowing to his feet. He reached in his pocket for his gloves and realized he had left them on the front seat of the Toyota.

  “If it’s okay with you,” he said, “I’d rather talk indoors. I rented a room at the Wildwood, so we could speak there if you want.”

  Hector shook his head dismissively. “Can’t do that. People might see me with you. Coming or going. That’s why I got here early and took the back way, through the woods. Talking to a stranger in this town will lead to questions, and questions aren’t good for my career.”

  “Understood,” Lou said, blowing on his hands now.

  From the clouds of frozen vapor, Lou could tell that Hector was breathing at about half the rate he was. He suspected that the marine’s pulse was a fraction of his as well.

  “So let’s do this,” Hector said. “What do you want to know?”

  “First, I want you to know something,” Lou said. “I didn’t tell you the complete truth when we spoke by phone. Elias Colston didn’t take down any notes about your conversation. He recorded it and transferred the recording to a CD. I gave that CD to the police, and now it’s gone missing along with a copy I had in my apartment.”

  He left out
about his place having been ransacked, and that was probably just as well. Even from six feet away, Lou could see the younger man tense and go pale.

  Hector inhaled deeply and tilted his head skyward. “Congressman Colston was my best friend’s father,” he said. “I said things that night I wouldn’t want certain people to know about. Why didn’t you tell me this when we talked on the phone?”

  “I was worried you’d panic if you knew and refuse to meet with me. Look, I’m sorry, Hector, for misleading you in any way, but we’ve got to come as close as possible to re-creating that conversation. Every detail. Every point you made. Everything you said. I have a tape recorder here.” Lou extracted a miniature state-of-the-art instrument from his parka. “We won’t know what’s going to be important or not until we get it all down.”

  Hector eyes flashed. “You don’t get it, man,” he said. “I told the congressman stuff that I shouldn’t have told him. I loved that man. He was like a father to me. That’s why I was trying to warn him to back off from Colonel Brody and Mantis. But if word gets out that I talked about the Palace Guards, then I’m a dead man walking. What in the hell could have happened to that disc? Who has it now?”

  “I … I don’t know. The police have it. I’m sure of that.”

  “Damn.”

  “As I recall, you didn’t say much about the Palace Guards at all. Can you tell me about them now?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you nothin’. It’s not safe for you to know. These guys—the Guards—they’re badass, man.”

  “Please, Hector. You’ve got to help me help the man who’s in jail for Elias’s murder. I don’t believe he did it.”

  “The news said he was havin’ an affair with the congressman’s wife. Why should I care what happens to him?”

  “Because Mark’s father would have cared. He would have wanted justice to be done no matter what, even if it meant freeing his wife’s lover.”

  Hector looked about furtively. “Okay, listen, I’ll help you because I love that family. But you got to find that disc.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “The Palace Guards are sort of picked by Colonel Brody before they even join the Corps. They mark themselves with a tattoo of barbed wire wrapped around their wrist. That’s how you can tell who’s Guard. We all have one of a praying mantis right here on the bottom of our forearm. That’s how you can tell who’s Mantis.”

  “So what’s the connection between Brody and the Palace Guards?”

  “Just what I said. If someone starts actin’ up and gets on Brody’s bad side, the Guard might pay them a visit, rough them up a little, remind them that they don’t want to be on Colonel Brody’s bad side, and that the next step is they’re out of Mantis.”

  “Do you think Brody’s desperate for money to fund Mantis?” Lou asked. “I mean, your outfit has been hit pretty hard by budget cuts that were initiated out of Colston’s office.”

  Hector just shrugged. “Probably,” he said. “Everyone’s desperate for money. The colonel’s always complaining that D.C. is squeezing Mantis harder than any other branch of the marines or even the rest of the service.”

  “Do you think Brody could have murdered the congressman because he knew about the Palace Guards?”

  “I doubt it,” Hector said. “Either way, I sure as hell hope that recording doesn’t get back to the colonel. If it does, I may find myself with a visit from—”

  The night exploded with a series of bright flashes and loud pops that came from somewhere down the path to the clearing. The top of the picnic table in front of Lou splintered, spraying fragments of wood into his face. More gunshots … more flashes.

  “Run!” Hector screamed. “Split up and run!”

  The two men broke for the woods at the same time. They were separated by about a hundred feet, when another shot rang out. Lou saw Hector stumble, then fall, clutching his leg. Lou stopped running and headed toward the marine, but a hail of bullets sprayed snow in front of him.

  Hector lurched to his feet, still holding his leg. “I’m all right!” he cried out. “Get out of here! Run!”

  Lou watched the marine vanish into the woods.

  Then he spotted an opening in the dense underbrush and plunged through it.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lou stumbled as he reached the woods, but he managed to grab a tree trunk and keep from falling. The icy ground provided all the traction of a hockey rink. Branches lashed out like claws, gashing his face and hands. His foot caught a root hidden beneath the snow and sent him sprawling. He landed heavily onto the hard, packed ground and skidded across the rocks. From somewhere in the distance, he heard more gunfire. Then he heard something else—something that sent him scrambling on all fours, across the frozen snow and hard, packed dirt until he regained his footing.

  Voices.

  It seemed like there were two men, and they definitely were after him. The woods diffused the sound, making it difficult for Lou to make out where they were.

  “I can see his tracks,” a raspy voice called out from somewhere behind him. “Keep the flashlight steady.”

  Lou’s only recourse was to keep on running, but his ankle-high hiking boots made every step feel leaden and uncertain. In the icy, blowing night, breathing quickly became a problem. Again and again he had to pause to draw in enough air to push ahead. His lungs burned, and a fearsome stitch had developed in his left side.

  “This way!” a man with a Hispanic accent yelled out. “Over here.”

  Moonlight would occasionally illuminate a pathway through the woods; then clouds would obscure it, plunging the forest into near total darkness. Lou thought he had put some distance between himself and his pursuers, when the ground beneath him turned steeper. Before he could slow his stride, he was skidding downhill. His right foot caught the edge of a rock and he went down, tumbling at an awkward angle and landing heavily at the bottom of a small ravine. He touched his left temple and felt blood. His shoulder on that side throbbed, and he wondered if his contused knee would hold weight.

  The moonlight was gone now, and the darkness seemed impenetrable. Dazed, he hauled himself to his feet. The knee held. Then, from far up the steep slope, he saw two shafts of light dancing erratically off the trees and underbrush.

  “Sonofabitch,” he murmured, wondering whether he should use what time he had to hide or to run.

  For most of a minute, he remained motionless and listened. From among the rustling winter branches, he heard the distinct sound of rushing water coming from his right—a stream or waterfall. Not the direction he wanted to go. Hobbling, he headed away from the sound, angling along the shallow swale at the base of the hill. Every twenty feet he stopped and listened again. There were no voices from above, but he sensed the men were there. Trying to deal with his tracks, he walked backwards for a time, until he reached some rocky ground. Then he cut uphill and to his right.

  Probably fruitless, he thought. No, not fruitless … dumb, and a waste of time.

  At that instant, above and ahead of him, he saw the shafts of light once more, cutting through the blackness. He whirled and, ignoring the stabbing pain on the side of his knee made worse by the unevenness of the terrain, he headed back toward the running water. The stream was wider than he had expected—more a river lined with ice and snow, moving rapidly from his right to his left, rippling across nearly submerged rocks and boulders the size of refrigerators. He peered ahead, getting what help he could from his cell phone’s display light. The wind was to his back, and several times the voices were carried down to him.

  Clearly, the two men were more adept at moving through the winter forest than he was. The debate of what to do next lasted only a few seconds. Prying a stout branch from the snow, he broke off the dead twigs and braced himself as he stepped into the frigid water. In an instant, his boots had filled and his socks became sodden. The numbness was sudden and utterly unpleasant. Rather than go directly across, he followed the flow, using his branch for balance and praying he co
uld stay upright.

  One step … then another … and another.

  Oddly, he found himself flashing on nights in his college library, memorizing an endless list of organic chemistry formulas, knowing that if he studied for twenty-three hours, somebody at another table was studying twenty-four.

  Discipline. One step. Another. One formula. Another. Discipline.

  Carbocation with three valence electrons is carbenium … with six is … is what?…

  His distracted thinking seemed to keep the burning numbness in his feet at bay. Gradually, he angled for the far side of the river. The longer he could stay in, the better chance he had. The water reached his knees. If he fell over now, he was dead. Simple as that. And if the water became much deeper, he was going over.

  Concentrate.

  Oxidation plus carbocation is … is what? How in the hell did I ever pass?

  The water level held just above his knees. His jeans were soaked to the groin. At a bend, he risked a glance backwards. The lights were there, still some distance away. How much of a trail had he left? How much more could he take? Standing in the middle of the river, Lou crouched behind a boulder and watched as the beams cut irregular paths through the darkness.

  “I got tracks here,” he heard one man say.

  “He might have followed the river,” said the other.

  “Or he might be in it.”

  “Let’s separate. You head up the hill. I’ll go this way. Fire if you’ve got him spotted.”

  Lou risked a relieved breath. Two against one were not odds he embraced, but one on one? At least he had surprise going for him. Surprise and the water.… And Emily.

  He stood and kept working across the river. His knee and shoulder ached and the water burned but, one step at a time, he was moving. He checked back again. Judging by the single flashlight beam, maybe fifty yards separated him and his pursuer. The water level had dropped back to his knees, but the slippery rocks were a constant challenge. Still, he was feeling increasingly comfortable moving ahead.