A Knife Edge

by David Rollins

  She looked at me like I'd just stepped on her foot.

  “What did Butler say when you told him you were pregnant?”

  “He said, ‘Get the little bugger cut out.'“ Her face crumpled as she began to sob. I gave her a moment. I remembered the night down at Laguna Beach, her and Butler across the bar, watching them drink a cocktail of anger, regret, and sadness—the way couples do when they're in a spiral dive with no hope of re covery.

  “Did you know Ruben may have been trying to have you removed as a beneficiary of his will?”

  “No,” she said, regaining a little composure.

  “But you knew you were a beneficiary?”

  She grabbed a couple of tissues from the box and loudly blew her nose. “We talked about it. Years ago.”

  “So you knew how much Ruben was worth?”

  “No.”

  “When he told you that you were to be his chief beneficiary, he didn't tell you how much would be coming your way if he died?”

  “He tried to. I didn't want to know—like it was bad luck or something. I didn't want to jinx him, us.”

  Ironic, I thought, given what had happened to “him, us.” I had to hand it to McDonough; if she was lying, she was a pro.

  “Have you had a conversation with Ruben's lawyer about the will yet?”

  More shakes of the head. “Never spoken to him, you know, not one on one. But I received a letter from him. There's a reading next week.”

  I was just getting into my stride on this Q & A when I heard, “Your ten minutes are up.” It was the minor-impersonating-a-doctor. He pulled the chart at the base of the bed and examined it as a nurse entered the room and began to fuss, herding the patient back under the covers. The sheets billowed as she pulled them over McDonough's legs. The nurse then turned her attention to the curtain beside the bed. She gave it an aggressive tug and it raced around the overhead rail, cutting me off from McDonough. End of interview.

  * * *

  I drove back to Hurlburt Field, putting it together in my head. There were big holes. Butler told me he wasn't having an affair with McDonough, but McDonough hadn't backed him up. She'd just aborted his child. When the issue of paternity could have been settled with a test, it had to be Butler who was lying.

  Butler had also said he didn't know where McDonough lived or worked. Was that an attempt to stall me from talking to Amy long enough for her to have the pregnancy terminated? Had he hoped I wouldn't find out about her condition before he went back to England?

  As for the pregnancy itself, Amy had apparently learned of it seven weeks ago. Around the time that Ruben made the call to his lawyer to—it was still an assumption—have his will changed. Was the timing of the two events significant? Had to be.

  And what about Ruben's MS medications? Where were they? If he'd destroyed them before the fatal jump, what would that say about his death? That he intended to commit suicide? Maybe, but if he was intent on taking his own life, why bother hiding them at all? If Butler took him by surprise that night, wouldn't his drugs have been reasonably easy to find? Hmm… perhaps, perhaps not. I reminded myself the MS was a condition Ruben was intent on keeping a secret from the Air Force. According to Dr. Mooney, he required a cocktail of drugs taken at regular intervals during the day, and that meant having ready access to them. I found myself back at the start: Where did Ruben keep his stash? And, given their relationship, was it really possible McDonough didn't know about his MS?

  The weather had changed. The Gulf had become a sheet of blue glass beyond the Pensacola Bay Bridge, rippled here and there by puffs of wind. It was the kind of day that caused me to think hurricanes were a figment of the collective imagination. But I knew that was not the case. The seeds of destruction were buried somewhere out in the Gulf, just waiting for the right conditions to germinate.

  As the SUV chewed through the miles, the same thoughts kept going round in my head: Sergeant Ruben Wright, my old CCTs buddy, was not the kind of guy who'd take his own life, but he was most definitely the type who'd take the enemy with him, especially if he thought there was no way out. How would he face up to the challenge of knowing his mind and body were deteriorating and, with it, his career and the relationship to the woman he loved?

  Enter Butler—young, fit, and virile, three realities his girlfriend was experiencing firsthand behind his back, and on hers. Learning that Amy was pregnant and Butler was the father would have been hard for Ruben to take. And when he found out, would that have been catalyst enough to change his will? I knew his condition was deteriorating rapidly. What about his mental state? Was that crumbling, too?

  It could have gone down exactly as Butler said it did. Ruben was depressed, jealous, and angry. When the SAS unit came out of the C-130 all messed up, it wasn't just one of those things. Ruben made sure it happened that way by stumbling into the other guys and breaking up the formation. He'd then slammed into Butler in midair with the full intention of causing him some significant damage. Then he cut his own thigh strap with his knife and pulled his rip cord. Gravity and Newton's Laws of Motion did the rest, separating him from the chute. The unlikely method of his suicide, coupled with the significant bruising Butler would have suffered in the collision, the smashed flashlight… What investigation wouldn't put those things together in a light that would make Butler look bad? Ruben Wright's sweet revenge. The last desperate act of a desperate man.

  Before I was aware of it, I'd driven fifty miles and the sign for Hurlburt Field appeared. I turned into the base, showed the security detail my shield, and drove to OSI. I slotted the Explorer between another SUV and a late-model Harley-Davidson.

  My cell rang. I pulled it from my pocket as I passed Agent Lyne. Lyne glanced up from his desk and called, “Vin, there's a—”

  With Lyne spinning in my wake, I walked into the room I'd been using as both an office and a warehouse for Ruben Wright's effects. A staff sergeant I didn't know, dressed in immaculate Class As, was standing among the trestle tables. Under one arm was his cap. In the other was an envelope, all official. “Special Agent Vin Cooper?” he asked.

  I nodded as I pressed the cell's green button.

  “Orders for you, sir.”

  In my ear, I heard a familiar voice. “Vin? Arlen.”

  I accepted the envelope from the sergeant. “Hey, Arlen. What's—”

  He cut me off. “You know that little vacation you've been having down there at Uncle Sugar's expense?”

  “What?”

  “It's over.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Vacation?” I asked. I glared at the handset then put it back to my ear.

  “Trust me,” Arlen said. “Having your toenails pulled one by one would be a vacation compared to D.C. right at the moment. How's the case going?”

  “Fine. Why do you ask?” I said.

  “It's not me asking.”

  “Who is?”

  “I'm channeling for the boss.”

  “What does he want to know?”

  “Whether the Butler did it.”

  “I've already used that one, Arlen.”

  There was a sigh. “Jesus, you make it difficult sometimes.”

  “I'll take that as a compliment,” I said.

  “What I'm trying to ascertain here is whether you think the Limey's guilty.”

  “He's guilty of being a serious asshole.”

  “He's English,” he said. “They're born that way. What about murder?”

  I frowned at a spot on the wall. I suddenly realized Arlen's interest in this case the last time we spoke might have been more than idle curiosity. “What's the deal, Arlen? What's up?”

  “I don't know. The boss wants to know—asked me to ask you. There's no sinister intent here, Vin. The Brits are our allies and the general's just being a politician—you know how they are.”

  I was prepared to take Arlen at his word. Having a member of the British SAS up on a murder charge would create a bunch of headaches for a range of people who'd rather be on the go
lf course. “I can't say definitively, but the more I look into it, the more it seems … you know… I'm just not certain which way it's going to go.”

  “How much more time do you need?”

  “A week, maybe two.”

  “I've been told to tell you you've got a day, Vin. Your orders should be there by now.”

  I looked at the letter that had just been deposited in my hand. “Yeah, got ‘em.” The sergeant who'd delivered them had already departed.

  “You're wanted here for a briefing the day after tomorrow.”

  “Where's ‘here'?”

  “The Pentagon.”

  “The Pentagon? Who with?”

  “Chip Schaeffer.”

  Schaeffer, my CO back at the DoD? I sat in the chair, rocked back, and put a foot on the corner of the desk. “Do you know what it's about?”

  “Nope. I've just been told to make sure you turn up looking eager and interested.”

  Hmm… maybe one of Schaeffer's fish had died and he needed me to lean on the pet store for a refund. I changed tack and asked about something Arlen might have an answer for. “Any headway made on the Transamerica hit?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Remember there were two Arabs who rented the van?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They turned out to be Pakistanis.”

  “Pakistanis don't look Arabic,” I said.

  “No, but I'm guessing the witness at the rental company wasn't no anthropologist. All she knew was that the guys who rented the van weren't white, black, or Korean. FBI is hunting down the sleepers who helped them. But don't expect to hear about it on CNN until they have them all under lock and key.”

  “What about the disk—the one I sent you an MPEG copy of?”

  “The FBI found Dr. Spears's DNA all over the envelope's seal. I heard someone say it was almost like she'd gone down on the thing. If she didn't want people to know she'd sent it, you'd think someone with her experience would have been a bit more careful.”

  “Yeah, you would,” I agreed. “Have they located her?”

  “Don't know.”

  I let all this sink in. There was silence on the line. After a few moments, I said, “Has a statement from Al Cooke turned up yet?”

  “Who's Cooke?”

  “The cook on the Natusima. You remember, Dr. Tanaka—”

  “You're not on that one anymore, Vin.”

  “I knew you'd say that, Arlen. Has it turned up?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Listen, can you get some bank statements—”

  “No.”

  I told him whose statements I wanted. Arlen was surprised, but he agreed to see what he could do.

  “You're a pal,” I said.

  “I know. And, by the way, Happy New Year,” he said.

  “Thanks, Arlen. Back at you.”

  “So, what did you end up doing last night to see in the New Year?”

  “Went to this noisy little restaurant in Pensacola. You?” I enjoyed a quick flashback to Clare on top, rocking back and forth, massaging my naked torso with honey as she licked her fingers.

  “Sat at my desk along with everyone else in Washington and made phone calls.”

  “Any of them involve heavy breathing at least?”

  “No. So, did Anna get through to you? She said she'd tried and was going to try again later.”

  Anna had tried to call? I didn't believe it. The hotel I'd stayed in wasn't in a dead zone—the call from Boris before sunrise proved that. Was she just paving the way for an excuse? “I didn't hear from her.”

  “Oh, yeah, the other big news… my promotion came through. You can call me Lieutenant Colonel now.”

  “That's great, buddy. Congratulations.”

  “Sir…” said Arlen.

  “What?”

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Blow me. Sir,” I said.

  “No thanks,” Arlen said.

  “So, how's Anna doing?” I asked, fishing.

  “Good, I think,” Arlen said. “We didn't talk much. She said she wanted to talk to you. Told me to tell you that if she didn't get through to you, she'd call again in a few days.”

  “ Uh-huh.”

  “Everything OK?” he asked, picking up on something in my tone. Crushing guilt, most like.

  “Yep, all copacetic,” I said.

  “OK. Hey, gotta go,” said Arlen, distracted. There was the sudden noise in the background of several people in the room with him, all talking at once. “Drop by tomorrow.”

  “Will do. See you then.”

  “Sir.”

  “What?”

  “See you then, sir.”

  “Fuck you. Sir.”

  I hit the off button, but not before Arlen beat me to it. He was enjoying himself.

  Hand-delivered orders, a call from Andrews in the form of Arlen to make sure I got them—something big was up. I glanced at the envelope in my hand. I tore the side off it, removed the folded sheets of paper, and ran my eye over the legalspeak. As usual, much of the letter was a form, reminding me that as I held a commission, I had numerous legal responsibilities to my commander in chief, the President. Basically, these were that I had to do what he said. Distilling out all the wheretofores, therebys, and hereins left me with the demand to get my ass to the Pentagon no later than tomorrow, where I was to present myself in Class A uniform to Captain Charles Schaeffer at my old Pentagon address. OSI, DoD, OSI, and now back to DoD. I was going back and forth like a badminton birdie. What gives? I wondered. And why make such a big deal about the dress code? Chip and I weren't exactly strangers. The written orders held no clues. There was no point giving it any thought—as Arlen had said, I'd find out soon enough. That didn't stop me feeling annoyed. I'd been yanked off the Tanaka case before bringing it to a successful conclusion, and it looked like the Ruben Wright case was going to go the same way.

  I tossed the paperwork on the desk and leaned back in the chair, a number of competing thoughts running through my head. I wondered why Anna said she'd called me when she hadn't. Was her intuition picking up on my movements, particularly the ones beneath the sheets with a certain colonel?

  I needed some air. I picked my way through the electrical gear and the records spread around that was all that remained of Ruben Wright, and went outside. While the early-afternoon sun had begun its downhill slide to the horizon, it still held some warmth out of the breeze. I thought about Freddie Spears. She must have wanted to be connected to the disk. So why the theatrics?

  I walked out into the parking lot. The Harley-Davidson caught my eye. I rode one for a few years out of school. Mine had been held together with gum and wire, so it was nothing like this one. This baby was low at the back with raked forks out front and just enough chrome to ensure the job of keeping it all polished up was never quite finished. Its bright crimson gas tanks reminded me of hard candy and looked good enough to lick.

  There were plenty of Harleys running around the base, but something about this one told me it was Ruben Wright's. Maybe it was the two thousand miles on the clock. Or maybe it was the fact that I'd seen the paperwork for it in his files. Seeing the bike reminded me that I had a single day to resolve, as much as I was able, what happened to Ruben and why.

  I went back inside to hunt for a few specific items I'd seen listed with the bike on the breakdown of Ruben's effects. I found some of the items in the third box I opened. One was a digital Handycam. The batteries still held some juice. I fired it up and checked its folders. Empty. The other item was an Apple PowerBook. I pressed the start button and waited for it to boot up. I don't know what I expected to find, but whatever it was it wasn't there. Aside from a bunch of old nineties hits burned into iTunes, it was completely devoid of documents, e-mails, photos, movies. There was nothing.

  I replaced the Handycam and computer in the box, disappointed. I wandered out of my office in search of Agent Lyne. I found him in a back room.


  “Do you know if Colonel Selwyn's around?” I asked, leaning on the doorway. I had some news for her she might not like. Or maybe that was my ego talking. Would she care that I was leaving town? Maybe she'd strike up the band.

  Agent Lyne ignored me. I called louder. “Yo, Lloyd!”

  Nothing. I became aware of a distant sound that reminded me of chipmunks rioting before I saw the little white iPod buds in his ears. He had the volume turned way up. I tapped him on the shoulder, which made him jump. He turned and pulled out the buds.

  “Don't think much of your old pal's taste in music,” he yelled. “Full of nineties crap.”

  I gestured at him to hand it over. He shrugged and pulled the unit from his breast pocket. It was new, of course, and top of the line. I toured the playlists—Aerosmith, Metallica, Hootie and the Blowfish, LL Cool J, U2, Matchbox 20. I didn't share Lyne's problem with Ruben's music taste. On a hunch, I checked its settings. It didn't contain many songs—one hundred at most. Not enough to account for all the memory used. I checked the video folder. Empty.

  I backtracked into my office, restarted the PowerBook, jacked in the iPod, and waited for everything to fire up. The icon for the iPod appeared on the computer's screen. Ruben had titled it “Sgt. Rock.” Cute. I double-clicked it and a window appeared. Inside the window there was a folder titled “Bitch.” In the folder were a large number of MPEGs and JPEGs. Each MPEG was dated. Ruben must have stored them here so they couldn't be played on the iPod's screen. I opened the MPEG with the earliest date, taken close enough to seven weeks ago. The clip opened on a slow pan along a beach, empty except for a few joggers. It was not a sunny day by the looks of things. Then the camera zoomed in on something a long way in the distance. After what seemed a moment of hesitation, the camera had come in for an even closer look. I could now make out more detail. It was a couple making out on the sand. They were dry humping each other. The person on top rolled off. I recognized the person on the bottom first. The red hair gave her away. Her dance partner turned briefly toward the camera. It was Staff Sergeant Butler. He unzipped his fly and extracted his erection, which McDonough shoved down her throat with the gusto of a plumber trying to unblock a drain. The show ended prematurely. Counting back the weeks, the recording would have been made at around the time Ruben first tried to change his will. Given that I don't believe in coincidences, the timing was at least suggestive.