Split Second skamm-1

by David Baldacci

  “But why switch identities at all?”

  “It ensured that the world thought I was somewhere else while I put this little plan together. Otherwise, people might start nosing around.” Morse stretched his arms out. “Think about it. Several of the players in the Ritter imbroglio brought together on an elaborate set like this? People inevitably would start thinking about me. Being institutionalized was better than even being dead. People can fake their deaths. I was confident no one would be able to find out I had committed Peter rather than the other way around.” Morse smiled. “And why do it if you’re not going to do it with panache?”

  King shook his head. He figured he’d buy as much time as possible by keeping Morse talking. The man obviously wanted to brag about his grand plan, and King could use the extra time to work out a strategy. “I would have done it differently. Commit him, then kill him. That way, you’re assured people think you’re dead.”

  “But killing him could lead to an autopsy, and that might show he wasn’t me if they got old medical and dental records to compare against. If he dies naturally, all is fine. Besides, we looked enough alike, and the other little touches I devised were enough to fool anyone. My genius is in the details. For example, this room is soundproofed. Why bother in a deserted hotel? Because you just never know about sound: it carries in strange, unpredictable ways, and I really can’t have any interruptions. It would ruin the whole performance, and I’ve never disappointed an audience yet. I also like to bring things off with a certain flair. Like the note you mentioned. I could have just slipped it in your mailbox. But a body hanging on the door, it’s classic. And blowing up your house. It’s just the way I do things.”

  “But why involve Bob Scott? Like you said, no one would suspect you.”

  “Think, Agent King, think. Every drama needs a villain. Besides, Agent Scott never accorded me the respect I deserved when I was with Ritter. He lived to regret that.”

  “Okay, so you fried your brother’s brain, mutilated his face to further disguise his identity, fattened him up while you slimmed down, moved to Ohio, where no one would know either of you, and established the identity switch. That’s quite a production. Just like the Ritter campaign.”

  “Clyde Ritter was simply a means to an end.”

  “Right. This had nothing to do with Clyde Ritter and everything to do with Arnold Ramsey. He had something you wanted. You wanted it so badly you led him to his death so you could take it.”

  “I did him a favor. I knew Arnold hated Ritter. His academic career had peaked long ago. He was at rock bottom and ripe for the offer I made him. I let him relive his past glory as a radical protester. I let him go down in history as the assassin of an immoral, disgusting man, a martyr for the ages. What could be better?”

  “You walking off with the real prize. The prize you tried to get thirty years ago when you set up Ramsey for killing a national guardsman. But that attempt failed and so did the Ritter plan. Even though Arnold was gone, you still weren’t going to win.”

  Morse looked amused. “Go on, you’re doing very well. What didn’t I win?”

  “The woman you loved, Regina Ramsey, the actress with a huge future. I’m betting she starred in some of your productions way back when. And it wasn’t just business. You loved her. Only she loved Arnold Ramsey.”

  “Ironically I introduced them to each other. I’d met Arnold when I was doing a play having to do with the civil rights protests and needed some research. I never imagined two people so totally opposite… Well, he didn’t deserve her, of course. Regina and I were a team, a truly great one with the whole world waiting. We were poised to hit the big time. The dominating presence she had on stage, she would have been a Broadway star, one of the greatest.”

  “And made you a star too.”

  “Every great impresario needs a muse. And don’t be fooled, I brought out the best in her. We would have been unstoppable. Instead, my artistic power disappeared when she married him. So my career was destroyed even as Arnold wasted her life in his pathetic little academic world at a third-rate college.”

  “Well, that was your doing. You ruined his career.”

  “You’ve asked a lot of questions, let me ask one. What really turned your attention to me?”

  “Something I heard pointed me in your direction. So I started digging into your family. I found out your father was the attorney who got Ramsey off the murder charge in D.C. I guess your plan was to make Ramsey appear guilty so Regina would stop loving him, then you’d swoop in as the white knight, save Arnold and take Regina as your prize. That’s right out of a movie script.”

  Morse pursed his lips. “Only the script didn’t work.”

  “Right, but then you waited until another opportunity came along.”

  Morse nodded and smiled. “I’m a very patient man. When Ritter announced his candidacy, I knew that opportunity had come.”

  “Why not just kill your romantic rival?”

  “What’s the fun in that? Where’s the drama? I told you it’s just not how I do things. And besides, if I’d simply done that, she would have loved him all the more. Yes, I had to kill Arnold Ramsey, but I didn’t want her to mourn for him. I wanted her to loathe him. Then we could be a team again. Of course, Regina was older then, but the talent she had—that never goes away. We could still make the magic happen again. I just knew it.”

  “And so the Ritter assassination was your next major production.”

  “It was actually very easy to convince Arnold to do it. Regina and he had finally separated, but I knew she still loved him. Now was the time to show him as an unhinged killer, not the noble, brilliant activist she’d married. I secretly met with Arnold numerous times. I’d helped support them through the lean times. He saw me as a friend. I reminded him of his younger days looking to change the world. I challenged him to be a hero again. And then when I told him I was willing to join him, that Regina would be so proud, I knew I had him. And the plan worked beautifully.”

  “Except that the grieving widow rejected you once more. And this time it was far more devastating, because the reason was she didn’t love you.”

  “That actually wasn’t the whole story, which is why we’re here today.”

  King looked at him quizzically. “And then later she committed suicide. Or did she?”

  “She was getting remarried. To a man remarkably similar to Arnold Ramsey.”

  “Thornton Jorst.”

  “She must have had a defective gene for such people. I began to see that my ‘star’ wasn’t so perfect. But after all these years if I couldn’t have her, no one else could either.”

  “So you killed her too.”

  “Let’s put it this way: I let her join her miserable husband.”

  “And now we come to Bruno.”

  “You see, Agent King, every great play has at last three acts. The first was the national guardsman, the middle act was Ritter.”

  “And all this is the closing curtain. Bruno and me. But why? Regina is dead. What do you gain by doing all this now?”

  “Agent King, you lack the vision to see what I’ve created here.”

  “Sorry, Sid, I’m more of a down-to-earth guy. And I’m not in the Secret Service anymore, so you can just drop the ‘agent.’”

  “No, today you’re a Secret Service agent,” Morse said firmly.

  “Right. And you’re a psychopath. And when this is over, I’ll make sure you’re reunited with your brother. You can throw the tennis ball to him.”

  Sidney Morse pointed his gun at King’s head. “Let me tell you exactly what you’re going to do. When the clock reaches 10:30 A.M., you will take up your position behind the rope. All the rest is taken care of. You have a very important role in this play. I’m certain you know what it is. I wish you luck in carrying it out. Bad luck, of course.”

  “So will this be an exact replay of 1996?”

  “Well, not exactly. I don’t want it to be boring for you.”

  “Hey, maybe
I’ll have some surprises of my own.”

  Morse chuckled. “You’re not in my league, Agent King. Now remember, this isn’t a dress rehearsal. It’s the real thing, so hit your marks. And just so you know, this play will have only a one-night run.”

  Morse disappeared into the shadows, and King sucked in a long breath. Morse was every bit as intimidating and masterful as before. King’s nerves were close to running away from him. It was him against who knew how many. He had one gun, and he didn’t for a second believe his ammo was anything other than blanks. He eyed the clock. Ten minutes until it started. He looked at his own watch. It read almost 12:30. He didn’t know whether that was A.M. or P.M. Morse, of course, could have set his clock for any time he wanted.

  He looked around, trying to find something, anything, that might help him survive. All he saw was a replay of a horrific event that he’d never wanted to think about, much less relive.

  And then it struck him: who was going to play the role of Arnold Ramsey? The answer came to him in a flash. Like father, like daughter! That son of a bitch. He really was going to do it again.

  Michelle flitted along the trees, keeping a close eye out for anyone near the hotel. As she did so, she saw Jefferson Parks climb into a truck, its wheels kicking up dirt as he raced off. Okay, one less opponent to worry about, she thought. Satisfied it was safe to try it, she bent low and crab-walked to the fence. She was about to start climbing but then drew back. The low hum had puzzled her, and then she saw the wire running to the fence. She stepped back, picked up a stick and tossed it against the chain link. It hit and was immediately fried. Great, the fence was electrified. She couldn’t use the gap in the fence because she’d told Parks about it, and they might be watching for her there, not convinced of her death by drowning. And the gap was so small she couldn’t have avoided touching the fence anyway.

  She moved back into the woods and thought through the dilemma. Finally she remembered what she’d seen on her first visit here and realized it might be her only way in. She ran to the back of the building where the slope of the land running up to the fence formed a perfect launch site of sorts. She’d been a champion long and high jumper in high school, but that had been a while ago. She measured off the distances, did a few practice jogs, eyed the height of the fence in relation to where she’d be jumping from. She removed her low-heeled shoes, tossed them over the fence, took up her starting position, said a silent prayer, drew in a long breath and took off at a dead run. She counted off her steps, just as she’d been coached. She came within a few seconds of aborting the whole thing as the electrified fence drew closer and closer. If she failed here, the defeat would not consist merely of a few tears at being beaten in a track meet. This one was for keeps.

  She lifted off, her legs, arms and back working in unison, her muscle memory returning just in time as she twisted her body, arched her back and cleared the top of the fence by six inches. There was no soft foam to break her fall, and she slowly rose, aching all over, and put her shoes back on. Threading her way to the building, she found another broken window and slipped inside.

  72

  As the time moved to 10:26, a man appeared from the same doorway King had come through. John Bruno looked confused, frightened and ready to vomit. King could relate; he wanted to throw up too. He and Bruno were the Christians awaiting the lions as the bloodthirsty crowd eagerly anticipated the coming slaughter. When King approached him, Bruno instantly recoiled. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

  Bruno looked at him with a bewildered expression. “Who are you?”

  King started to say something and then stopped. How exactly could he explain this? “I’m your Secret Service agent,” he finally said.

  Surprisingly Bruno seemed to accept this without question. “What’s going on?” asked Bruno. “Where are we?”

  “We’re in a hotel. And something is about to happen. I’m not exactly sure what.”

  “Where’s the rest of your men?”

  King looked at him blankly. “I wish I knew… sir.” This was all beyond insane, but what else was he supposed to do? And he had to admit, his demeanor as an agent had come back more easily than he would have thought.

  Bruno saw the room’s exit door. “Can’t we just leave?”

  “Uh, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” King was watching the clock as it moved to 10:29. Eight years ago Ritter was in front of him, dealing with the adoring crowd. King wasn’t going to make that mistake with Bruno. He led him over to the rope. “I want you to stand behind me. Whatever happens, just keep behind me.”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Actually King wanted to get behind him. After all these years here he was: a damn human shield again.

  He pulled the gun from his pocket. If the bullets weren’t real, he had no chance. He eyed the velvet rope. He took a step forward. He was within an inch of it now, ironically almost in the exact same spot Ritter was in when Ramsey shot him. As the hand moved to 10:30, King chambered a round.

  “Well, bring on the fat babies to kiss,” mumbled King. “Just bring it on.”

  As Michelle peered around the corner, she saw the man standing outside the door to the Stonewall Jackson Room. He was armed with a pistol and rifle and looked to be the man who’d impersonated the police sniper in the tree before joining Parks in trying to kill her. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she suspected this man was Simmons. If so, she had an advantage. Should she jump out and tell him to freeze? He might get a shot off and be lucky enough to hit her. And then she looked up and saw the sentry glance at his watch and smile. That could only mean…

  She rolled out, her pistol aimed at his chest. She did tell him to freeze, but she modified that approach somewhat by firing at the same time as she cried out. The slugs hit him right in the pecs; he yelled out and dropped. Michelle ran forward, reached the fallen man, kicked his weapons away, knelt down and checked his pulse. The booted foot came up and caught her on the shoulder, and Michelle tumbled back and lost her gun.

  The man staggered up, grasping at his chest. How could that be? She’d nailed him squarely in the upper torso. She answered her question almost immediately as she struggled to her feet. Body armor. She lunged for her gun but so did he. They crashed into each other, and he got a stranglehold around her neck.

  “This time,” he hissed in her ear, “you’re going to die, bitch.” It was the man who’d tried to kill her in her truck.

  She couldn’t match him in strength, so she decided to use her advantage. She jammed her elbow into his left side, right where she believed she’d shot him that night. He moaned and his grip broke and he went to his knees. She kicked away from him, slid across the floor and fumbled for her gun. As her hands closed around it, she turned and saw Simmons rise up and pull a knife from his belt.

  She aimed and fired, and the round hit him in the dead center of the forehead. She dragged herself over to him. As she stared down at his body, she had an idea. It just might work.

  73

  At precisely 10:31 King realized he had a major problem, or at least another major problem to join all the others. He glanced at the elevator. If the present held to the past, something was going to happen with that elevator. The problem was, if those doors somehow opened and King didn’t look away to see what it was, he and Bruno might be attacked from that direction. Yet if he did look to see what it was, as he had eight years ago, that momentary distraction could spell doom for them both. He envisioned Sidney Morse watching him ponder this dilemma and laughing his butt off.

  As the clock moved to the fateful minute, King reached back and grabbed hold of Bruno. “When I tell you to go down,” he whispered urgently, “you go down!”

  It was as though King could see every sliver of the clock’s movement as the hand moved to 10:32. He readied his pistol. He thought about firing a round, to see if his ammo was live, but Morse could very well have only given him one real bulle
t, and he would have wasted it. Morse had probably figured that one too.

  He made sweeping arcs with his gun, and his grip on Bruno’s coat grew tighter. The candidate’s breathing was accelerating so fast King was afraid he might just faint. He thought he could hear the smacks of Bruno’s heart and then realized they were his own. Okay, he was as ready as he was going to be.

  The clock hit 10:32, and the arc of King’s gun became faster as he tried to cover every inch of the room. The lights went out, and they were plunged into total darkness. And then the room erupted in kaleidoscope lights that would have done any disco proud. They swept around the room like a flash fire, and the voices started up on high volume. It was deafening and blinding, and King had to shield his eyes. Then he remembered and reached in his pocket and put on his sunglasses. Score one for the guys in shades.

  Then the ding of the elevator came.

  “Damn you, Morse!” King called out.

  The doors slid open, or was it just a trick? Indecision was tearing King apart. Should he look over or not?

  “Hit the floor!” he told Bruno, and the man dropped instantly. King turned his head, determined only to look for a split second. He never made it that far.

  Joan Dillinger was right in front of him. Hanging less than ten feet away, suspended from the ceiling, it appeared. It was as though she were on a cross, spread-eagle, her face pale and her eyes closed. King didn’t know if she was real or not. He took a couple steps forward and reached out his hand, and it went right through her. Stunned, he jerked his head in the direction of the elevator. There was Joan, trussed up and suspended by wire. Her image had been projected by some mechanical means. She appeared dead.

  Looking at the woman, he felt an immense rage. And that was probably what Morse was counting on. That realization alone served to calm King down.