“Günter Grass,” he said, savoring the sounds. “You found out that name very quickly. I haven’t used it for years.”
Savich asked as he walked slowly toward the man, “You came here even though Fleurette is in Bethesda?”
“Keep your distance, Savich, don’t try to rush me. I know you can fight.” Günter backed up so that he kept ten feet between them. “Both of you, drop the SIGs now and kick them over here.”
Savich and Sherlock both eased their guns from their belt holsters, laid them on the kitchen floor, and kicked them over to where Günter stood.
Günter pointed his SIG directly at Sherlock. “Both of you, come into the living room. Savich, keep her between us.” When they were in the living room, Günter motioned them to sit on the sofa. He walked to the living room archway, his SIG still pointed at Sherlock’s chest. “Enough now. Where’s Elaine LaFleurette?”
“At Bethesda,” Sherlock said. “In the surgical ICU. Don’t you remember? You shot her.”
Günter fired. The shot was deafening in the quiet living room. Sherlock sucked in her breath as the bullet grazed the outside of her arm and buried itself in the wall behind her. She jerked at the shock of it, but didn’t cry out. She clapped her hand to her arm. Savich was on his feet, in motion.
“Stop or I’ll kill her!”
Savich was breathing hard, adrenaline and rage pumping through him. He wanted to kill Günter, but he had his gun on Sherlock. He reined himself in and sat back down, heart thudding hard against his chest, afraid now. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right, Dillon. I’m all right.”
Günter was smiling. “You don’t screw with me, you hear? I am as much a professional as you are. When I ask you a question, you don’t smart-mouth me, you got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got that.” Sherlock knew the numbness would fade soon and her arm would be on fire. But the wound wasn’t bad, he’d just wanted to scare her. His quiet threat of more violence scared her more than the bullet that had already torn through her flesh.
Savich said, “Put the gun down now, Günter. There are a dozen more FBI agents surrounding the house. It stops here, now. There’s no way out for you.”
Günter stared at him. “You set me up at Bethesda? And here in your own house?”
“Yes, that’s right. I underestimated you once. I wasn’t about to do it a second time. Put down the gun and we can end this without any more killing.”
Savich saw the instant Günter believed him, the instant he knew it was over for him. Something in his eyes went dead and flat. He was suddenly afraid that Günter would shoot both of them before he could be stopped. He had to keep him talking. “Tell us why you murdered Justice Califano, Günter. Why you murdered Danny O’Malley and Eliza Vickers. Why you still want to kill Elaine LaFleurette. This is your chance to tell us and the world. Tell us who was working with you, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Günter continued to hold his gun locked on Sherlock’s chest. “You want the truth? All right, I’ll tell you a bit of truth.”
He paused, his eyes calm now, resigned, and Sherlock would swear she saw relief there as well. He continued in a slow voice. “I am actually impressed with you, Agent Savich, as one professional to another. But the end must come for all of us, me, Califano, you—the difference is that while you have chosen it for me, you did not choose this ending for yourself. But I have. I knew some time ago my life was coming to an end. The only question was, how to end the drama, how to make the exit?
“Do you know why I chose the name Günter Grass? Because my father was born in Danzig, as Grass was, and Grass wrote The Tin Drum, the story about where, and what, I came from. His Oskar’s world crumbled, and he built a life for himself with what skills he had, as I did. The Nazis literally sacked my parents’ home, destroying everything. Near the end of the war, it was a Polish judge who condemned my father to death. To save herself and me, still in her womb, my mother degraded herself, and slept with that judge, and so I am here. After my father’s death in front of a firing squad, my mother moved in with that judge. And then she married him, married the man who’d killed my father. She betrayed my father and slept with that monster. I never forgot. When I was seventeen, I became the judge and the executioner and avenged my father. I garroted both of them, just as I did that whore Eliza Vickers and her confidant Daniel O’Malley.
“I called myself Günter in a long-ago life. Let me tell you about that Günter. For a very long time he killed to earn his bread. It was the only thing at which he was truly skilled, the only thing he had a taste for. All of his targets deserved to die—they were evil people, drug dealers, revolutionaries, fanatics, terrorists, or just simply criminals who’d corrupted those around them. And of course there were the dishonest judges who accepted payoffs, who kept mistresses. But he tired of cleaning up society’s mess and being hunted for it all the while. And so Günter ceased to exist, and I came here and became an American.
“I thought it an act of fate—the complete turning of the wheel, if you will—when I saw Justice Califano kissing a young woman in the middle of the day in a small park, the two of them standing in the shade of an oak tree. There was no one else around. Except for me. She was laughing, kissing that old man’s mouth, her hands pressed against him, between them. This man was not just any corrupt judge like my stepfather—he was a Justice of the Supreme Court!
“I watched them, and felt my rage build until I wanted to kill both of them right there in the park, but I knew that would be foolish and dangerous for me, and because I must be sure. And so I followed them to a condominium. I found out the young woman he was taking advantage of was one of his law clerks. I saw soon enough that he had obviously turned this young woman into a whore, just like my mother. I loved killing her, loved her futile struggles, knowing you were hearing it all. And I saw my mother’s face when the life went out of her. Killing her was almost as gratifying as choking the life out of that corrupt justice. He disgusted me. He was a filthy, common little man, as bad as any of the garbage I killed in Europe. I savored the instant when Califano realized he was dying, realized he was paying the ultimate price. It was my destiny to end his life, or die trying.
“You want a bit more truth, Agent Savich? It surprised me that I actually succeeded, both at the Supreme Court and at Quantico. You really did a very poor job of damage control, don’t you think?”
Savich said, “And so you killed three people because two of them were having an affair?”
“You know as well as I do that evil is always banal and common, if you look at it closely, and it must find other evil, and feed. And so I will go down in history as the man who killed a Justice of the Supreme Court and two of his law clerks—those young acolytes who supped and slept with him, and drank in his words, and knew what he was, and reveled in it.”
Savich said, “You garroted Danny O’Malley and tried to kill Elaine LaFleurette because you believed they sanctioned Califano’s affair with Eliza Vickers?”
“They all knew what he was doing, and they did nothing. Just as no one did anything when my mother slept with that judge. They enjoyed his power, lusted after such power for themselves. They deserved to die.”
He was breathing hard, the gun jerking slightly in his hand. He was near the edge. Savich said quickly, his voice low and steady, “Why haven’t you told the world why you killed these three people? Don’t you want everyone to know why you made an example of Justice Califano?”
For the barest moment, Günter simply stared at him. Then he shrugged, and his voice was as empty as the still air itself. “I destroyed him. That is all I need. Whatever the world thinks, it doesn’t concern me.”
Savich said, “What makes you think I won’t tell the world?”
Günter smiled. “Because you’ll be dead, as dead as I will be. Three corpses know the truth. It is enough.”
Sherlock said, “But you weren’t alone in this, were you? Who was the woman with you the night you
fired into our house?”
Günter laughed, but his gun never wavered from her chest. “Who cares anyway? That woman in my car was just a drunk I picked up at a bar. She was good camouflage, to help me get through roadblocks.”
“But you know it stops here, Günter,” Sherlock said. “It stops now.”
Günter laughed. “It doesn’t stop until I say it does. I’ve spent enough time with you. I’m going to die, but you’re going to hell with me.”
Ben shouted from behind Günter, “Don’t you even think of shooting or I’ll blow your head off!”
Günter whirled, fired, and kicked out all in the space of a moment. The bullet slammed into the wall not two inches from Ben’s head as Günter’s left foot struck his arm, numbing it instantly, and sending the gun crashing to the floor, skidding toward the front door.
Ben dived at Günter, slamming him onto his back to the hall floor, but Günter’s locked fisted hands smashed hard into Ben’s throat, just as his legs kicked up against his back, throwing him off. Ben fell against the areca palm, gagging, trying to get his breath. Günter fired into the living room, sending Savich and Sherlock diving behind the sofa. Then he fired toward Ben as he rolled away, shattering a beautiful Chinese vase, and sending the palm tree crashing to the entrance hall floor. It was the palm tree that saved Ben’s life. The next bullet shot through fronds, striking so close he could smell the singed material from his jacket sleeve. Günter burst through the front door, slamming it behind him, and leaped down the front steps.
Ben heard Savich shout at him, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed his gun up in his left hand, threw open the front door, and raced after him, Savich three feet behind him.
From the darkness, Jimmy Maitland yelled, “No, hold your fire!”
“There’s no escape, Günter,” Savich shouted. “Agents are everywhere. Stop where you are and drop the gun.”
Savich switched on the front lights, held his SIG in front of him as he looked at Günter. Ben was just to his left, behind a large urn that held an Italian cypress tree. For an instant, their eyes met.
Günter didn’t drop his gun, he shot from the hip, missing Savich by inches. Before he could fire again, a single loud rifle shot pierced the air. Günter whirled about, thrown forward as he slapped one palm against his neck. The last thing he saw was Dave Dempsey stepping from out behind a car at the curb, a sniper rifle aimed at him.
A half-dozen agents came running from their positions, guns aimed at the unmoving body. They walked to where the man who’d wreaked so much devastation lay, unmoving.
There was absolutely no sound for a good thirty seconds. Finally Jimmy Maitland said, “Jesus, am I glad that’s over.”
Ben nodded, stood up. “Sherlock, are you okay?”
“Yes, fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “He doesn’t look all that scary now, does he? He just looks like a dead old man with a slack jaw. Nice shot, Dave. And thank you, Ben. You shaved it a little close, but you got him out to us.”
He turned to Savich, who had Sherlock pressed against his chest. “I was watching through the living room window, Savich. When he put that bullet through Sherlock’s arm, I nearly shot him myself then. Okay, I guess it’s time to call Dr. Conrad and get the trash taken away.”
Two paramedics came quickly forward, stepping over Günter to see to Sherlock. Ben looked at Savich, but Savich was focused on his wife.
He turned back and smiled at Dave Dempsey. “That was a good shot, Dave.”
“I guess it’s something for Luther’s family. But not enough. It’s never enough.”
“Ben,” Savich called out, “check him for I.D. Find out who he is.”
Günter lay on the sidewalk on his back, his gun still in his hand. Both Jimmy Maitland and Ben went through all his pockets. They came up with nothing at all, not even a fake driver’s license. Slowly, they both rose. Ben called out, “Nothing, Savich. Nothing at all.”
“It’s not a surprise,” Jimmy Maitland said, staring down at Günter. “He lived with another man’s name and died with no name at all.”
Savich had bared Sherlock’s arm. “The bullet came real close to your knife scar.”
“I’ll be fine. Dillon, before you turn the paramedics loose on me, I think you, Ben, and I should talk. You know we do.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, of course you’re right. Ben, could you come into the house for a minute?”
Ben nodded.
Savich picked her up and carried her inside over her protests, leaving the paramedics to wait in the ambulance for another ten minutes before Savich called them in.
Jimmy Maitland wondered if Savich would ever tell him what the three of them discussed.
CHAPTER
37
TUESDAY NIGHT
IT WAS JUST after eleven o’clock when Ben pulled his truck into Margaret Califano’s driveway.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Callie said. “And you never said a word to me. I could have stayed outside with the other agents.”
“I couldn’t, direct orders from Savich. You’ve been saying that all evening. I guess that means I’ll never hear the end of it, will I?”
“Probably not. But I’ll forgive you since Savich gave me that great inside interview for the Post this morning. Coombes is dancing on the file cabinets, high-fiving everyone he runs into, an idiot grin on his face. You said you liked my story, but what do you really think? Did you notice it was above the fold on the front page? Right there with my own byline?”
She was so proud, he smiled. “Yes, I really did like your story. It was excellent. Congratulations. So this means your job is safe?”
“Oh yes. Suddenly I’m valuable to him again. I was relieved to see Sherlock looking back to normal, well, nearly so. Dillon kept going on about the sling.”
“He told me it reminded him of a night he didn’t want to remember. He wouldn’t tell me about it.”
“Maybe I can get it out of Sherlock.” Callie settled back against the seat and closed her eyes. “It’s all happened so fast, I still can’t quite process it, even after writing my story. I’m glad Günter’s dead, but the fact that he picked my stepfather by chance? It didn’t matter which Justice he murdered? Stewart was such a fine man—” She stopped and drew a deep breath.
Ben repeated what he’d been saying over and over to her that evening, “He was crazy, Callie, just plain crazy. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. How better to get attention than to murder a Supreme Court Justice, any Supreme Court Justice, and all his law clerks?
“You want to know something else? When he realized that Savich had set a trap for him, he wasn’t about to die ignominiously in an FBI agent’s living room. He wanted to continue his blaze of glory last night, and that meant getting outside Savich’s house to take on a dozen FBI agents trying to bring him down. It was very much in character for him.”
Callie said after a moment, “And you believe he picked up a woman in a bar as camouflage?”
“Being crazy didn’t make him stupid. That was real smart of him. Who’d be looking for a couple?”
“He’d been Günter Grass for so many years,” she said. “I guess he never even knew who he actually was.”
“As Jimmy Maitland said, he used another man’s name in life and died with no name at all. Callie, before you go in, I want to say something. I sure liked that black dress you wore the other night. Can I see you wear it again sometime?”
She gave him a small smile. “I’m moving back to my apartment tomorrow. My mom says now that it’s over, she doesn’t need me with her anymore.”
“Ah.”
“Ah good or Ah bad?”
“Do you know it’s only a thirty-eight-foot walk from my front door to my king-size bed?”
She laughed, leaned over, kissed him on the mouth, and was out of the door of the Crown Vic. “Tomorrow, Ben?”
“Sure. Great. You know, that little black dress of yours would look even
better hanging on my bedroom doorknob.”
“What a guy-type visual. Be still my racing heart.” She gave him a little wave and walked up the sidewalk to her mother’s house. He waited until she unlocked the front door and disappeared inside before he drove away.
Callie turned to set the house alarm, wondering why her mother hadn’t armed it when she’d gone to bed. She walked upstairs, and paused a moment by her mother’s bedroom door, listening. Slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped into her mother’s lovely bedroom. The white spread shone stark and cold in the moonlight pouring through the window.
She walked to the bed to make sure her mother was all right.
The bed was empty.
She turned on the lights, searched for a note, then walked to her own bedroom to look for one.
She picked up the bedroom phone to call Bitsy when she saw the blinking message light. She pushed the play button. There was a call from her mother’s manager at the Tyson’s Corner store, one from the dry cleaner, a message to call her lawyer about Stewart’s will, and finally, the last message. “Margaret, this is Anna. Come to Janette’s house right away. It’s an emergency.”
Anna had called an hour and twelve minutes before.
What emergency? Callie started to call, then slowly laid the phone back in its cradle. It was no surprise they were meeting at Janette’s house because there was no family to juggle around at her house since her divorce some ten years before. The five friends frequently met there.
What emergency? Callie didn’t pause, bundled back up in her coat and gloves, and headed out to her car.
Janette Weaverton lived in Emmittsville, Maryland, not more than a twenty-minute drive this late at night.
There weren’t many people on the road, and she made good time. She pulled into Janette’s driveway behind her mother’s Mercedes nineteen minutes later.
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