by Archer Mayor
“Did he threaten you?” Joe wanted to know.
“We felt threatened,” Morgan confirmed. “Andy and I talked about that after, but we all did. Nobody knew what to do. What happened to whistleblowers was no secret—that was a given. A bunch of guys were killed for shooting their mouths off about stuff happening in the bush. But we were sure Joyce had murdered someone in cold blood—an unarmed American civilian, not even counting the others. In a heartbeat, without thinking about it. He’d done it before to locals—lots of times—but never an American.”
Bob paused to rub his forehead again. “And the way his little speech ended, we were pretty sure he wouldn’t have a problem doing it again.”
“How were things left?” Joe asked.
“We returned to base, on foot instead of by chopper, carrying Sievers in a bag. That was the lieutenant’s choice, and I found out why. He took each of us aside on the way back and grilled us about what we were thinking. He made it real clear to me that if I kept my mouth shut, I’d never have to work again. He said that his family had more money than God, and that I’d never have to worry.”
“Or what?” Paula asked.
Morgan made a face. “I didn’t ask and he didn’t say, but I knew it would be bad. That’s why we were carrying Sievers, I always thought. As a reminder. And after we got shipped back home and he contacted me to make his offer formal, he even told me—no bones about it—how my wife and any other family would die if I ever ratted him out.” He pointed at the small stack of photographs Joe had shown him. “After my daughter was born, that fucker sent me a picture of her, like you would to congratulate somebody. But it was a photo taken through a scope, with crosshairs, and it wasn’t one we took that he’d doctored. We thought one of his people probably shot it through a window or something, as a warning.”
He studied Joe and added, “Jack Joyce is a crazy man, and a stone-cold killer. I wasn’t gonna fuck with a guy like that. I see him on TV every once in a while, and he still keeps in touch through his goons, now and then, and every time, it’s to remind me of—as he calls it, ‘the terms of our contract.’ That’s how I knew about Andy and the others.” He pressed his lips together before adding, “And now I’ve told you, which means your promise better be better than his, or my whole family is dead.”
“Did all the squad members compare notes after you reached base?” Joe asked, not addressing the man’s dilemma. “It seems from what you’re saying that not everybody chose like you did. Andy, for example.”
“There wasn’t that much talking. Joyce had told us not to, and we were already freaked out. You gotta remember, the stuff you see in the movies about soldiers all being best buddies? That’s a crock. Andy and I were tight, but the rest of ’em? Some were okay, but others? I didn’t give a rat’s ass what they did.”
“But you and Andy talked,” Paula suggested.
“Yeah,” he said sadly. “I told him he was nuts. I mean, not only was the offer good, but the guy was a psycho. It was a lose–lose to turn him down. But Andy wasn’t interested. He didn’t think it was that big a deal. We saw a bunch of pure evil over there. Joyce shooting two Americans was terrible, but it wasn’t unheard of, and Andy figured he’d just go home and forget about it.” He pointed to the photo stack again. “Looks like he chose poorly.”
“Your wife know about any of this?” Joe asked.
“She thinks we have a trust fund, which—if you think about it—I do. Or did. What’s going to happen to us now?”
Paula glanced at Joe, probably wondering the same thing. There was no question of an official offer of protective custody. Joe had no case to justify it, much less any evidentiary proof of Morgan’s story. Nevertheless, he didn’t hesitate saying, “It’s up to you, Bob, but you’re both welcome to come to Vermont, where the Bureau will arrange to keep you under wraps for however long this takes to play out. It won’t be easy—just so you know. You’ll have to cut all ties, follow our rules, and not do anything that’ll make it possible for Joyce and his people to track you down. It’ll be a rough path to follow.”
“Better than dying.”
Joe had to grant him that.
* * *
Senator Jack Joyce looked up from the note he was writing with a gold Montblanc fountain pen.
“Jesus, Jonathan. What the hell is it this time?”
“Mr. Smith, sir.”
His butler stepped aside without comment and let a giant of a man step around him and enter the office.
Joyce waved his hand imperiously. “Fine. Get lost. And no more creeping around tonight, okay? Go do whatever you do somewhere else.”
“Very well, sir.”
He waited for the door to close soundlessly before asking without preamble, “What’s this supposedly Dead-Eye Dick’s name?”
“Chris Hadsel.”
“Any reason I should think Chris Hadsel’s going to be any better than the first two? Far as I can tell, those dummies screwed everything up.”
The big man shifted his weight slightly, which, at two hundred and fifty pounds, could make an impression. Joyce was unmoved. He kept a steady gaze.
“I’ve never been let down before,” came the qualified response.
Joyce let out a weary sigh—the executive saddled with petty details. “Christ,” he said softly. “I guess that’ll have to do. Let your latest dog loose and let’s see if we can finally catch a break.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“How’s my girl?” Beverly asked.
Joe pulled over to the side of the road. There was no Vermont law against driving and using a cell phone simultaneously, but he avoided the practice in general.
“She’s a happy clam, from what I was told. You didn’t speak to her directly?”
“No service, of course.”
Joe laughed. That was the other reason he always pulled over. All of northern New England had spotty reception, at best. “I spoke with Dispatch not fifteen minutes ago. Rachel’s fine, and Ben’s house is getting down to where they can see an end in sight, which suits me fine.”
“Oh?”
“I’m hoping against reason for some gold nugget to appear at the bottom of it all, but mostly, I just want it to be done. How are you holding up?”
“Generally?” she began. “Very well. But I could certainly do with a little less attention from the press. It’s now become a rarity around here when the phone rings and it’s not a reporter.”
They spoke a little longer after that, largely on other topics. It was slowly becoming a habit of theirs, especially given the distance between them, to get in touch at least daily, if only to exchange mundane activities. Joe enjoyed the reaffirmation he got from the practice, that this foray of the heart—once presumed to never be tried again—had become one of the smartest moves of his life.
* * *
Joe swung by Ben’s place before continuing on to Brattleboro. The weather had steadied since the last snow, so the crew at the site had been able to ignore it, as most Vermonters did at this time of year—aside from donning extra layers and cursing more frequently as they worked.
On the other hand, the combination of aging snow and active heavy equipment did not make for an attractive scene. Ben’s spread, even compared to how Joe had first found it—what seemed like so long ago—resembled a battlefield. The entire property was gouged with deep, muddy ruts and piles of disturbed earth. And the house—never an architectural showcase—now presented like a building caught in some artillery crossfire, with most of one wall missing and its innards fanned out to both sides on the ground.
He found Rachel moving about the periphery, video camera in hand, shooting through gaps and windows with her long lens—although at what, he couldn’t tell in the bright outside light. She was clearly taking her double assignment, as historical recorder and evidence documentarian, very seriously.
“Getting good stuff?” he asked as he approached.
She finished her shot and lowered the camera, smiling. “Total
ly. I really want to thank you again for letting me do this. I mean, it’s sad, in a couple of ways, but it’s good, too, you know?”
“I do,” he said, appreciating her lack of guile or pretense. “You know if they found anything useful?”
Her expression sombered. “I don’t think so. Agent Martens is inside.”
“They been cooperating with you okay?” he asked. “You been able to do what you came for?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve all been great.”
He didn’t doubt it. Having someone of her age and level of enthusiasm was a rare occurrence at a crime scene reconstruction. He imagined that she’d lifted the team’s spirits and helped refine their focus. He made a mental note to consider using her in this role in the future.
“Good,” he said. “I think they’ll be wrapping up for today pretty soon. If you want, I’ll drive you home after I check in with Sam.”
“Thanks,” she answered. “I’ll be ready.”
He found Sam deep inside, dressed in her hooded Tyvek suit. He hadn’t donned equivalent gear, since forensic contamination wasn’t a problem here. He imagined she’d done so mostly to keep her clothes clean. Given the smell still clouding the whole house—and the dust and mildew that they’d disturbed—he could only sympathize.
“Anything?” he asked succinctly.
She pulled back her hood and stripped off her latex gloves so she could rub her face vigorously. “Odds and ends. Letters, papers. Nothing to write home about. How ’bout you? How’d it go with Morgan?”
“He spilled the beans. Gave us the complete background in a sworn statement. The squad leader—now Senator Joyce—apparently raped and killed a girl in a small village, along with a child and an old woman who were with her. Sievers caught him in the act and was shot for his pains, as was Ben. Joyce then told everybody that he’d either take care of them for life, or they’d suffer the consequences. According to Morgan, that’s exactly what he did.”
“And it worked for this long?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Must have,” Joe said. “Until Rachel stumbled across the pictures Ben had taken of them earlier that same day. Joyce probably had a coronary when he saw them in The New York Times. I’m thinking that he destroyed what Ben had in his cameras, right after he shot him, but didn’t notice that Sievers had been acting as a pack mule, carrying Ben’s equipment bag as a favor, complete with shot film. For Joyce, seeing anything associated with that day must’ve been like a red rag for a bull—he saw his entire career disappearing in a cloud of smoke.”
“Does that mean we have a case against Joyce?” she asked, reasonably enough. “Did Morgan pin the deaths of the other squad members on him?”
“Not credibly. He didn’t even see him shoot Sievers and Ben. He just put it together. Joyce supposedly told them that he killed Sievers after Sievers shot Ben and tried to kill him. Obviously, we’re going to have to round up the surviving members and see if they’ll corroborate Morgan’s story, and dig like nobody’s business into Joyce’s past—which’ll be real fun, given that he’s a U.S. senator and therefore under the watchful eye of our federal brethren. Also, since Morgan told me of the deal he made with Joyce, we have to assume that his life is at risk, which,” he added after a slight pause, “is why I’ve arranged to put him and his wife someplace safe for a while.”
Sammie stared at him in surprise. “Oh, Allard’s gonna love that.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “tell me about it. On the other hand, it might push him into getting the U.S. Attorney’s office involved, to combine this with the Niles case, both to get a cleaner shot at Joyce and to pay for little niceties like keeping the Morgans alive.” He checked his watch. “Anyhow, I told Rachel that I’d take her to my place for the night, since I guess you’re about done for the day. You agree?”
“Yeah. Although, given what you just told me, I’m going to make double sure this site is secure overnight. If Morgan turns out to be a straight shooter, Joyce is likely to pull out every stop he can to destroy everything and everybody connected to his past. It could get hairy.” She looked around them. “This pile of junk, for example, would make one hell of a bonfire.”
She gestured toward the outside of the building. “And not to sound overly cautious, shouldn’t we tuck Rachel away again? No reason to think she’s not still a primary target, especially if Joyce hears you’ve grabbed Morgan. Being a senator doesn’t seem to have curbed his appetite for having people killed or kidnapped. The man likes a clean slate.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Joe agreed. “I’ll make arrangements tomorrow. Where’s Willy?”
She laughed. “You think I know? He is in town, but as usual, all he told me was that he had ‘stuff to do’ and not to wait up. You know our boy—he does love that ninja-skulking. I’ll try reaching out to tell him the latest.”
Joe let out a sigh and stared at the floor a moment.
“What?” she asked him.
“I was just thinking of the irony,” Joe explained. “Here’s Joyce running around, ordering people grabbed, killed, and tortured, going crazy over a bunch of harmless snapshots a half century old, and we can’t even build a case against him. The most we could do is dent his reputation—maybe make him lose the next election.”
Sam smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t even put much faith in that.”
He nodded resignedly. “Guess we’ll just keep plugging. Our advantage is that he doesn’t know what we can’t prove. Oh, well. See ya tomorrow. Give Emma a kiss from me.”
* * *
Two hours later, Joe and Rachel were standing side by side in his small kitchen at home, he washing their few dishes and she drying them. Dinner, prepared by Joe, had consisted of grilled Velveeta sandwiches, canned split-pea soup, and vanilla ice cream covered with maple syrup for dessert. Rachel had praised his flair for practical and tasty concoctions, which he’d taken as a compliment.
“What’s your mom’s cooking like?” he asked as they neared the end of their labors.
“Dinner’s either something French, unpronounceable, and five hours in the making, complete with opera music and wine,” she answered, “or it’s scrambled eggs and toast at eleven o’clock at night.”
Joe laughed. “That a roundabout way of saying you prefer her eggs to her French la-di-dahs?”
She joined him. “It is, but I think her fancy cooking is more meditative than it’s supposed to be successful. She doesn’t necessarily have guests when she goes wild in the kitchen. Sometimes, she’s all alone, just forgetting about work.”
He drained the sink of its soapy water. “I can sympathize with her there. That’s why I turn out more wooden birdhouses and picnic tables than I’ve got interested takers.”
“I was admiring your wood shop earlier,” Rachel commented.
“I love going in there,” he admitted. “Most of those big old iron monsters belonged to my father. They just hum along, barely vibrating, solid like the engines on a ship from the 1800s. Dangerous as hell,” he added, “but wonderful to work with.”
She hung up her dish towel and eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, making him raise an eyebrow. “What?” he asked.
“I was just thinking how glad I am that you and Mom hooked up.”
He reached out and touched her hand. “So am I.”
The doorbell rang—an almost unique occurrence. Joe’s small house was attached to the back of the property, and was often mistaken from the street as either a barn or an abandoned garage. No one came by who didn’t know him, and if they did, they knew better than to ring the bell.
Plus, of course, there was the recently heightened concern for Rachel’s safety.
Joe pointed to the narrow staircase leading to the bedroom/loft he’d lent her. It was a tiny low-ceilinged alcove that had been added above the kitchen, wedged into the corner of the adjacent living room’s skylighted vaulted ceiling. He kept his voice relaxed but quiet. “Why don’t you head up to your room while I find out who that is? Just to play it safe.�
��
They split up as Joe passed through the living room to reach the tiny entryway and the door. Instinctively, his hand fluttered above his right hip, confirming that his gun was in its holster.
“Who is it?” he called out, standing to one side of the heavy door.
A young woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“What’s up?” he asked, hand on the doorknob.
“Sorry to bother you,” she replied, barely audible, “but I was driving by and almost hit this cat. He’s a little guy and doesn’t have a collar, and nobody answered at the front of the building.”
“I don’t own a cat,” he answered her. “Sorry.”
“Hello?”
He cautiously peered through the peephole in the door, making sure there was no light directly behind him, which could give his motion away and potentially make him a target. Before him stood a young woman, eyes wide and pleading, cradling a young cat in her arms.
“I said: I don’t own a cat. Sorry.”
“Hello? I can’t hear you. The poor thing’s almost a kitten. I don’t know what to do.”
He could barely hear her any better than she seemed to be hearing him.
He opened the door a crack.
Of course, it was a mistake. The door flew open under the charging weight of the woman behind it, spinning Joe enough off balance to allow her to push all the way in. As he fell backwards, she launched the howling cat at his head and swiped his temple with a silencer-equipped pistol she’d been hiding, causing a lightning-like flash to blind his vision. She then efficiently tripped him up with her leg and brought him crashing face-first to the floor.
In one smooth, well-practiced move, she stripped his gun from its holster, twisted his arm up behind his back, and shoved the barrel of her gun against his temple, all while straddling his lumbar.
“You move, you die,” she said quietly, her lack of excitement as menacing as her weapon. “Nod if you understand.”
He nodded. The cat had disappeared.
* * *
Above, Rachel heard Joe speaking loudly through the front door as she entered the bedroom loft. So far unconcerned, she crossed to the backpack that she used instead of a suitcase, intent on retrieving her camera’s backup battery, when the house trembled slightly to the sound of a crash and a shout of surprise. Startled, she quietly returned to the top of the stairs and dropped to her hands and knees, hoping to see without revealing herself. She could just make out Joe’s upper half, pinned to the floor by a woman holding a gun. The side of his head was bleeding.
