“Yeah,” Wolf replied. “The husband, correct?”
“Yeah. How is she?”
The doctor nodded in satisfaction. “We have cleaned and sutured the wound. There was some blood loss, but we have given her a unit of whole blood. There is no sign of infection. And”—he smiled broadly—“the baby is fine.”
Wolf stared at him. “The baby.”
“Yes,” Bhagram said, still smiling. “I have advised her to see her usual ob-gyn, but there is no sign of—” He stopped at the look on Wolf ’s face. “You didn’t know?”
Wolf sat down slowly. “I’ve been away for a while.”
The doctor scowled briefly in disapproval. He quickly composed his face into his professional mask. “Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Wolf stood up. “Can I see her?”
“Of course.” Bhagram turned and led him through a set of double doors. There were a number of private areas separated by white curtains. Bhagram led Wolf to one of them. “We gave her a mild sedative,” he said in a hushed voice. “She is resting. We will discharge her soon, if you are able to drive her home.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Wolf pushed the curtain aside.
Kendra was lying in a bed, propped up. Her face was still pale and washed out in the harsh fluorescent light, and her eyes were heavy-lidded and dull. She turned her head slightly as Wolf came in. “Hey,” she said.
He let the curtain fall behind him. “Hey.” He paused. “The doctor said the baby’s fine.”
She turned her head away. A single tear coursed down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I just want to ask one thing,” he said, barely keeping his voice controlled. “How long was it before you gave me up for dead?”
She turned her head back to look at him, without raising it from the pillow. A glint of anger cut through the haze behind her eyes. “I don’t know. But it was after you disappeared without even letting me know where you were. And I’m no math whiz, but I guess that makes it long after, what was the name? Fiona.”
That stopped him.
Kendra sighed deeply and closed her eyes. “We’re not going to get this straightened out tonight, Tony. We may never get it straightened out. But right now, I just need some rest.” She didn’t open her eyes again. Wolf stood there, staring at her face. Even in the hard light it was still the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.
A blond-haired nurse stuck her head around the curtain. She looked worried. “Mr. Wolf?” she said. “There’s a Lieutenant Buckthorn here to see you.”
Buckthorn was sitting in the waiting room, his feet out in front of him, hands folded over his belly. He stood as Wolf walked in.
“You didn’t think I was going to show up?” Wolf said.
“The thought had crossed my mind.” Buckthorn nodded toward the double doors to the treatment area. “How’s she doing?”
Wolf hesitated. “Tired,” he said, “but she’ll be okay.” Buckthorn nodded. “Okay, then,” he said. He took a pair of zip cuffs out of his back pocket. “Let’s go see the magistrate.” Wolf looked at the cuffs. “Those really necessary?”
Buckthorn considered it, then shook his head. “Ah, hell,” he said. “I broke more rules tonight than I have in twenty years of law enforcement. What’s one more? But I do have to do this.” He put the cuffs back. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
THE GIBSON County courthouse, like most of the ones built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was a square, high structure made of native brick. When originally built, it was situated in a large open commons and designed with doors on all four faces of the building, both for ventilation in the pre-air-conditioning era and so that people coming to go to court, to record deeds, or to pay their property taxes would have access from any direction. Now the town had closed in around it; there were shops on both sides and a diner across the street that did a booming business on court days. Only the side facing the main street still had the broad sweep of grass before it. And now, in a more paranoid era, three of the four heavy, brass-handled double doors were locked from inside, turned into emergency exits opened by metal bars that would set off a piercing alarm if opened. The one entrance that remained open to the public was guarded by a bored elderly man in a deputy sheriff ’s uniform, seated behind a metal detector. It was 9:00 a.m. on Monday, and a long line of people was shuffling through the narrow aisle of the detector, placing keys and other metal objects in a small Tupperware container, retrieving them on the other side. From time to time, a particularly large belt buckle or forgotten cell phone would cause the detector to beep harshly, whereupon the deputy would sigh, haul himself arthritically to his feet, and scan the offender with a metal wand while the rest of the people in line waited with varying degrees of impatience. The people were dressed in jeans, overalls, and the occasional pair of shorts that would draw a stern lecture from the presiding district court judge and occasionally result in a trip home to change before that person’s business before the court could proceed.
A large bearded man in a denim jacket stepped up to the detector. He dropped his keys and cell phone into the container. He also unhooked a portable CD player from his belt and dropped it in beside the keys. The deputy passed them along the table outside the detector. The bearded man passed through without incident.
A few minutes later, another man dropped a CD player into the container with his cell phone and keys. The deputy paused. He looked at the man standing under the arch, a short, wiry man with a lined face, as if he were used to working outdoors. Not an unusual look for Gibson County. The deputy shrugged and passed him through.
“ALL RISE,” the deputy standing by the bench called out. A few early arrivals in the audience got to their feet, looking slightly confused. Court wasn’t supposed to start until nine thirty, and it was just after nine.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the deputy intoned, pronouncing the Latin words as “oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.” As he spoke, a middle-aged man in a black polyester robe stepped up onto the bench. “This honorable court for the County of Gibson is now open and sitting for the dispatch of business. God save the state and this honorable court. The Honorable Horace Martin, judge presiding. Be seated.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bailiff,” Judge Martin said. He was a ruddyfaced man, still sporting the brush cut he had worn as a marine colonel. Despite an outwardly stern demeanor, he was generally well liked by both the prosecution and the defense bar, known for being willing to say “not guilty” if the facts allowed, but fearsome in his sentences once guilt was decided.
Martin picked a sheaf of papers up off the bench. “Before we get started with district court, I understand we have some ninety-six-hour hearings?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the assistant DA answered. She was young and pretty, not six months out of law school, and still a little uncertain.
A door to one side of the courtroom opened, and a line of men shuffled in, each dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit and shackled at ankles and wrists. Each was here for his first hearing before a judge after being jailed. One of them was Tony Wolf.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Judge Martin said in a voice that indicated he’d said the words thousands of times before. “You’re here on your first appearance. You’ll be informed of the charges against you and informed of your right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford counsel, it will be provided for you. You need to understand, anything you say can and will be used against you. Let’s start with . . .” He picked up a piece of paper. “Anthony Wolf, a.k.a.”—he peered over his half-glasses—“Anthony Sanders.” He looked up again. “A.k.a. Axel McCabe.”
Wolf stood up.
“Mr. Wolf, you’re charged with first-degree kidnapping, assault on a law enforcement officer, resisting, obstructing, and delaying a law enforcement officer, and”—the judge peered at the paper more closely—“possession of a weapon of mass destruction, to wit, a machine gun. You understand these charges?”
“Yes, sir,” Wolf said.
“What do you want to do about a lawyer?”
“I’ll represent myself, sir.”
The judge paused. “You sure about that, sir? These are some very serious felonies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your Honor,” Tim Buckthorn spoke up from the audience. “May I address the court?”
“Of course, Lieutenant Buckthorn,” the judge said.
“Your Honor,” Buckthorn said. He paused. “This is kind of an unusual situation.”
The judge took off his glasses and leaned back. He spread his hands. “I’m listening.”
Buckthorn looked uncomfortable. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”
“Certainly.” He leaned forward as Buckthorn and the assistant DA walked up to the bench. “Tim,” the judge said in a low voice, “what the hell’s going on? Oh,” he said, “and good morning, Ms. Taylor.” The DA nodded, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“Your Honor,” Buckthorn said, “Mr. Wolf offered substantial assistance in the apprehension of the young man you’re going to be doing a hearing on right after these fellows. He’s also, well, sort of a federal agent.”
“Tim,” the judge said, “how is a person ‘sort of ’ a federal agent?” “It’s a long story, Your Honor.”
“I’ll bet. Just tell me it’s not going to come back and bite me in the ass later.”
“No, sir,” Buckthorn said.
“Uh-huh. So what kind of bond do you want?”
Buckthorn looked uncomfortable. “Written promise to appear, Your Honor.”
The judge’s face went blank. “On a Class B felony.” He turned to the DA. “What says the prosecutor’s office?”
“Your Honor,” the DA said, “our office received a call this morning from the FBI in Washington. We . . . we concur with Lieutenant Buckthorn’s recommendation.”
The judge leaned back and stared at them. Then he shook his head. “All right,” he said. He turned to the clerk beside him. “Mr. Wolf waives counsel and will represent himself. He may be released on his written promise to appear. Next case is . . .”
A FEW more people had passed through the metal detector before a man in an expensive suit stepped up. He was bearded, but his beard was neatly trimmed, as was his hair. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and carried a metal briefcase. The deputy looked up as the man stood before him. “You a lawyer?” he asked, looking at the case.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Ted Pagliano, from Wake County.”
“C’mon through,” the deputy said. A few longtime members of the local bar had grumbled at the indignity of having their briefcases and files rummaged through just so they could gain access to the court where they appeared daily. The sheriff, mindful of the campaign contributions some of the lawyers put into his war chest come election time, quietly passed the word that lawyers could pass without being searched. They were, after all, officers of the court.
The man with the briefcase set the case on the table. The deputy slid it down. The lawyer walked under the metal arch of the detector.
“Go ’head on,” the deputy said.
“Thanks, Deputy,” the lawyer said. “Can you tell me where criminal court is being held? I’ve got a client being arraigned this morning.”
The deputy pointed to a staircase off to one side. “Up those stairs. Courtroom Two.”
“Thanks,” Nathan Trent said, smiling as he picked up the metal briefcase.
“OKAY,” Judge Martin said, “does that do it?” He had finished the first-appearance hearings on the five men shackled to Wolf and was looking at the clock. People were filing into the courtroom, and it was getting close to the official starting time for court.
“We have one more, Your Honor,” the DA said.
The bailiff stood the line of shackled men up and herded them out the door to the holding cell behind the courtroom. From there they would be processed, back to the jail or, in Wolf ’s case, back to the outside. Wolf glanced out into the crowd. He stopped. The man behind him bumped into him. “Hey,” he mumbled.
“Deputy,” Wolf said, “I need to talk to Buckthorn.”
“Keep movin’, boy,” the jailer said. “You caught one break today. Don’t be actin’ like you’re golden.”
“Buckthorn!” Wolf called out. Buckthorn looked up, but before Wolf could say anything else, the aggravated jailer shoved him out the door.
THE line at the metal detector was getting sparser, the late arrivals passing through without incident. The deputy looked out the door past the last few people. He saw a dark-haired woman standing on the green in front of the courthouse, holding a microphone down by her side. A middle-aged black man was setting a camera on a tripod a few feet away. “Huh,” the deputy said to no one in particular. “Wonder what the TV folks are doing here.”
THE name on his birth certificate was Charles (NMN) Wells. He had been abandoned the week after his birth by the mother who hadn’t bothered to give him a middle name or to provide a name for any potential father. He had grown up in a series of foster homes until he had aged out of the social services system and been deposited onto the landscape, rootless and angry. The Brotherhood was the closest thing to a family he had ever known. He would die for it, and today, he fully expected to. He picked up the CD player and opened the cover. Inside, nestled in the space where a music CD would normally be found, was a machined steel disc with a razor-sharp edge around its entire circumference. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a thick leather glove. He pulled the glove on. The task was made more difficult by the small circle of Kevlar sewn into the lining of the palm. He held the metal blade between the ungloved fingers of the other hand, careful not to cut himself on the edge. Charles No Middle Name Wells, who was known now by his Brotherhood nickname of Chuckles, looked across the courtroom aisle to where another member, whose slightly protruding eyes and small mouth had earned him the nickname of Guppy, was pulling on a similar glove. Guppy looked over and nodded.
“HOLD still, dammit,” the jailer was muttering.
“I need to talk to Lieutenant Buckthorn,” Wolf insisted. “There’s two members of the Brotherhood in the courtroom. In the audience.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about no brotherhood,” the jailer said. He worked the key, and the cuffs fell away from Wolf ’s wrists.
A few feet away, another deputy opened the heavy solid steel door of the holding cell. Clay Trent stepped out, shackled at wrists and ankles. He looked over at Wolf. “Today’s the day you die, fucker,” he said, and he smiled. “And your bitch with you.”
“Shut up, boy,” the deputy said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. I hear the Feds are here to take you.” He led Clay, shuffling, past Wolf toward the courtroom.
FI V E . . . F O U R . . . t h r e e . . . t w o . . . Howard Jessup’s outstretched fingers counted down the seconds till the camera rolled. When he reached zero, he pointed at Gaby, who raised the microphone.
“Bob, just two weeks after a tense standoff resulted in the escape of fugitive FBI agent Anthony Wolf, violence has come again to the small Gibson County town of Pine Lake. In what one source described as a bloodbath, members of the outlaw motorcycle club known as the Brotherhood—” She stopped. A low rumble in the distance was steadily growing in volume.
“What the hell . . .” Howard said.
“Good thing we’re not live,” Gaby said. As she spoke, a pair of heavy motorcycles came into view at the far end of the long main street. They were followed by another pair, then another.
“That can’t be good,” Howard said.
From inside the courthouse, they heard the sound of gunshots.
DEPUTY Travis Persons had never liked courtroom duty. He liked being on the road, out in the county, catching criminals. But it was his turn in the rotation, so he dealt with the boredom with as much good humor as he could muster. Every now and then something interesting would happen. Not often, but sometimes, like now, as they brought a stocky young man with
dirty blond spiked hair into the courtroom. Word was this was one real bad character.
PERSONS’S attention was distracted by a bearded man in a suit walking into the courtroom, carrying a metal briefcase and talking on a cell phone. He sighed. Lawyers. They always thought the rules didn’t apply to them. He stepped over to tell the man to shut it down. He heard footsteps behind him; then someone grabbed him from behind. As he instinctively pulled forward, he felt something like a line of ice drawn quickly across his throat. The cold immediately turned to heat, then pain. The hands around him were gone, but it felt like someone was tugging at his belt. He slapped down with his hand, felt someone’s fingers fumbling at his buttoned holster. He tried to turn, but something seemed to be wrong with his vision. And the front of his uniform was wet. He looked down in horror to see the blood—his blood— pumping from his throat. He tried to cry out, but no sound came. He looked up in bewilderment as the bearded man flung open the briefcase and pulled out a submachine gun. Then Persons dropped to his knees, pitched forward onto his face, and died.
CHUCKLES dropped the metal blade and yanked the deputy’s automatic from his holster. People were screaming, leaping up from their seats. He turned to aim at the other courtroom deputy, but he was already down, Guppy leaning over his prostrate body, fumbling for his man’s weapon. Chuckles turned his gun on the jailer standing beside Clay Trent. He was standing there in shock, his mouth open. Chuckles shot him, and he fell. Then something seemed to hit Chuckles in the chest like a hammer. He turned. Another deputy, this one with a mustache, had his gun out and pointed at him. That was the last thing he saw.
BUCKTHORN dropped the man who had just killed two deputies with a second shot from his Beretta. He glanced up at the bench. The judge was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully he was under cover and Buckthorn would have one less thing to worry about. He was turning toward where the other biker was now unlocking Clay Trent’s handcuffs when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he threw himself down between two rows of seats. There was the distinctive stutter of an automatic weapon, and the wooden seat backs above him exploded into splinters.
Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn) Page 23
