Bodily Harm: A Novel

by Dugoni, Robert

  Joe Wallace approached from down a hall, eyebrows knitted together. The boy stepped to the side and disappeared. Dressed in an Indiana basketball T-shirt and sweatpants, Wallace looked as if he was about to leave for a workout.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home,” Payne said.

  “You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  Wallace stepped aside and welcomed Payne into a marbled entry with an ornate crystal chandelier. Payne smelled chocolate—as when his daughter baked double fudge brownies—and heard the chatter of a baseball game from a television in another room.

  Wallace led Payne to a room just to the right of the front door adorned in white—white carpeting, two white sofas and a matching chair, white drapes. The only color in the room was a black baby grand piano near the bay window and a vase of flowers atop it. Wallace started to sit.

  “Is there someplace more private?” Payne asked.

  Wallace’s brow furrowed, but he asked no questions, leading Payne through two sliding wooden doors to a library with a desk and built-in bookshelves. Wallace slid the doors closed behind them and offered Payne one of two high-back leather chairs opposite the desk. He sat in the adjacent chair and pulled the chain on a lamp between them, the bulb’s wattage muted by a leather shade.

  “You look terrible,” Wallace said. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Anne LeRoy is dead.”

  “Who? Albert, calm down and start over.”

  “She worked in my office. She was preparing a report on the use of powerful magnets in consumer goods, children’s toys, and their potential danger. She’s dead. Someone killed her.”

  Wallace frowned and looked at Payne as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Slow down, Albert, I’m not following you. Are you talking about the report you recently gave me for the hearing? I just read it.”

  “The report I gave you is not her report.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I changed it.”

  Wallace leaned forward into the light. “What?”

  Payne opened his briefcase and handed Wallace a multiple-page document. “This is Anne’s actual report.”

  Wallace took it and sat back, flipping through the pages. After several minutes his fingers stopped, and he sat staring at the books on the shelves, lips pressed tight.

  “I’m sorry,” Payne said.

  “Why would you do this? Why would you give me a bogus report?”

  “The report on the factories in China complying with U.S. regulations is also false.”

  For a moment Wallace did not speak. He stood and paced the Oriental throw rug. “Why would you do this?”

  “I had to.”

  “Had to?” Wallace stopped and faced him. “Why would you have to do this?”

  For the next several minutes Payne explained what had happened in China and about the man and his demands. “And now Anne LeRoy is dead. He electrocuted her in her bathtub.”

  “That sounds like an accident.”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s a lawyer pursuing this named David Sloane. He’s filed a lawsuit in Seattle against Kendall Toys for the deaths of two children who swallowed magnets from a Kendall toy. The Post ran an article and Anne saw it and called him. He was supposed to meet with her, but this man beat him to her.”

  “How would this man know about her report?”

  “Someone had to tell him about it.”

  “Who? Who else knew about the report?”

  “Anne had a friend at the agency, Peggy Seeley. She knew about it, but it can’t be her. It has to be someone with power, someone who could also be sure I was included on that trip to China.”

  “Triplett wanted you to go,” Wallace said. “He was insistent.”

  “So did Maggie Powers. It has to be one of them. They must have promised Seeley something, a promotion to keep them apprised of what my department was doing.”

  Wallace took a deep breath. “So you don’t know who this man is working for?”

  “Not for certain, no, but if I had to guess, I’d guess Maggie Powers.”

  “Why her and not Triplett?”

  Payne handed Wallace a copy of the Washington Post article on Sloane. As Wallace read, Payne continued. “Maggie Powers worked for the Toy Manufacturer’s Association, and Kendall is in financial trouble. They need this new toy to hit big to stay afloat. A report like Anne’s would kill the project. Under the circumstances we would have to initiate an enforcement action and delay production. And if the attorney is right, the toy won’t pass an inspection. It’s a danger to kids.”

  “What do you mean ‘if the attorney is right’?”

  “I spoke to this guy, Sloane.”

  “On the phone?”

  “No. He’s here in Washington.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “I told you. Anne called him. He was supposed to meet with her.”

  “Did she give him a copy of the report?”

  “No. She was dead by the time he got there, but they spoke on the phone about it. Apparently Anne told him I’d pulled the plug on her investigation, and he wanted to know why. He said that a boy in each of the families in that article died when the plastic on two Kendall toys cracked and the magnets fell out. They swallowed them, and the magnets attracted one another through the intestines, creating a hole that allowed bacteria into the body cavity and organs.”

  Wallace stared through the thin curtain covering the leaded-glass window, seemingly deep in thought.

  “Have you told anyone else?”

  “I couldn’t. The man said he’d kill my family. I didn’t know where to go, who to talk to.”

  Wallace paced, rubbing his forehead. “We’ll have to bring in the Department of Justice and the FBI.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but under the circumstances anyone would have done what you did.” Wallace paced again. “Since we can’t be certain it’s Powers and not Triplett, don’t tell anyone else until we know who’s behind this.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “In the morning we’ll go to the Justice Department together. Where are you staying?”

  “At home. Why?”

  “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “This man doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know that I know anything about Anne. He said as long as I do what he told me to do, nothing would happen.” Payne thought for a moment. “My wife has been upset with me. I haven’t been myself since this began. I can suggest she take the kids to her mother’s.”

  “That would probably be a good idea.” Wallace exhaled. “All right. Go home and try to relax. I’ll call you in the morning and arrange a meeting with the Justice Department in my office. I’ll keep this as quiet as I can, Albert. For now, don’t do anything with the actual reports; if Powers is involved, we’ll let her hang herself at the hearing.”

  AMERICAN INN

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  CHARLES JENKINS PACED the carpet, cell phone pressed to his ear. The cabinet doors of the entertainment console hung open, the television on, though he had muted the sound. Alex had called as he watched the local news for any further stories about Anne LeRoy’s death or gunmen at the Georgetown apartment complex. He was worried the lobby had a camera, though he had not recalled seeing one.

  “How’s David?” Alex asked.

  Jenkins heard the water in the shower through the thin motel walls. The furnishings were equally cheap: a small desk to the right of the television, a cushioned chair and lamp in the corner near the curtained window, two queen-size beds separated by a dresser.

  “I’m worried about him.” Jenkins pulled back both the heavy blue curtain and the thinner drape to look out the window into the parking lot. “He’s detached, somber, like the first time I met him on that bluff in West Virginia. He’s lost again, I’m afraid.”

&n
bsp; “You think he could be suicidal?”

  “I think he could be, but at the moment he’s focused on something he needs to do. We’ll need to keep a closer eye on him after this is over.” One way or another, Jenkins thought, but he did not say it. “You’re safe?”

  “We’re fine. It’s you I’m worried about,” Alex replied. Jenkins heard his son mewl through the speaker.

  “How is he?”

  “He misses his daddy,” she said. “So do I.”

  “Tell him Daddy will be home soon.” He heard the shower turn off.

  “Be careful. I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too.” He disconnected and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the mute button and listening to the newscast. After several more minutes the bathroom door opened.

  “You feel better?” Jenkins asked.

  He wore a pullover polo shirt and blue jeans. His feet were bare. “Yes, thank you,” Albert Payne said.

  ALBERT PAYNE’S HOME

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  SLOANE DROVE ALBERT Payne’s four-wheel drive up the inclined driveway and pressed the button for the automatic garage door on the box clipped to the visor next to a picture of Payne’s wife and two children. He slowed his approach as the paneled door rolled up. Ordinarily the door would have triggered an inside light, but Payne had disabled it earlier when he convinced his wife to take the children to his mother’s.

  Sloane turned off the headlights and pulled forward until a green tennis ball hanging from a string touched the windshield. He pressed the button again and waited for the door to roll closed before getting out of the car.

  Jenkins had not agreed with Sloane’s plan. In fact, he had been dead set against it, but they both knew that Stenopolis would need to get to Payne quickly, before the morning. Payne could not be the bait, and Jenkins was out of the question because of his size. Sloane told Jenkins he was not looking to die, not with Stenopolis at large and unfinished business with Malcolm Fitzgerald and Kendall Toys. Jenkins had relented and taken a hotel room within minutes of Payne’s home. While Jenkins wanted to be physically closer to the property, they agreed that it was another risk if Stenopolis were watching. At the moment, they held the element of surprise. Stenopolis would be expecting to find an unprepared, out-of-shape, frightened bureaucrat. What he would encounter was one alert, armed, and determined marine.

  Sloane stepped from the garage to a covered causeway leading to the house. A light in the center illuminated the path, but they had decided not to disable it, concerned it would be too conspicuous. Sloane wore a button-down shirt and brown slacks he had purchased in a mall to match those Albert Payne had worn earlier that evening as well as Payne’s olive green London Fog jacket, padded with newspaper for additional girth, and a pair of glasses without lenses. They picked up a beard at a theater costume shop and applied it with rubber glue that was making Sloane’s skin itch. Jenkins had trimmed the beard and added gray. Sloane turned his head as he walked beneath the light, as if considering the keys in his hand.

  He slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door into the kitchen. Inside, he closed it before flipping the wall switch just to the right, exactly where Payne had diagrammed it. He removed the Sig Sauer 9 mm from beneath the jacket, walked from the kitchen into the family room, and flipped another wall switch, which caused the blades of a combination ceiling fan and light to spin overhead. Brown leather furniture arranged in an L pattern faced a flat-screen television positioned in the center of an entertainment console with books and framed family photographs. A green potted plant dominated a corner of the room.

  Going over the layout of the house with Payne, Sloane and Jenkins decided the family room was the best place for Sloane to wait, providing him a clear view of the entry from the kitchen, as well as the open archway that led to the front hall. It also gave him two avenues of escape, if that became necessary.

  A family portrait of Payne with his wife and two children hung over the mantel. Payne looked different, and not just because he had more hair and no beard, making his face appear thinner. The most striking difference was the expression on Payne’s face.

  He was smiling.

  “Just one big happy family,” the voice said.

  AMERICAN INN

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  JENKINS POINTED THE remote at the television, about to change the channel when his cell phone rang, the number indicating David Sloane.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine. I presume this is Charles Jenkins?”

  The adrenaline rush brought Jenkins to his feet.

  “Cat’s got your tongue? I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jenkins felt numb.

  “Let me explain how this is going to work. First, you will bring Albert Payne to me. Why? Because I have never left an assignment unfinished, and I have no intention of beginning now. If you fail, I will kill Mr. Sloane—”

  “I want to talk to David.”

  “Do not interrupt me again, Mr. Jenkins. It’s rude.” Stenopolis paused. “If you fail, I will kill Mr. Sloane, and we both know that I will eventually find and kill Mr. Payne, anyway.”

  “I want to talk to David,” Jenkins repeated. “How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”

  “A fair request.”

  There was a pause. Jenkins heard a voice, though it did not sound like Sloane. It sounded tired and slurred. “Don’t come. Don’t give him the satis—”

  Jenkins heard a thump followed by a groan.

  “David!”

  The voice remained calm. “You don’t have much time, Mr. Jenkins. I know you’re in a nearby motel and I timed the distance. I’m not a patient man. Any delay and I’ll assume you have breached our understanding and I will kill your friend and disappear. Time is running out.”

  ALBERT PAYNE’S HOUSE

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  FIVE MINUTES EARLIER

  THE ROOM WAS a blur of black-and-white flashes. As his vision cleared, Sloane was looking up at the blades of an overhead fan. His head snapped forward, further startling his senses. He tried to move but found his arms bound behind him, the pressure around his wrists making his fingers cold and numb. He felt the same pressure around his ankles, though he could not see them either. His legs had been pulled behind him, bound to the back legs of a sturdy chair. The right half of his face tingled numb; his right eye was swollen shut. Searching the room through his one eye, he saw orange and yellow flames wick and dance in the fireplace and flicker shadows across the furniture and the portrait of Albert Payne and his family. Stenopolis sat, legs crossed, elbows propped on the arms of the leather chair, hands forming a pyramid just beneath his chin.

  “We meet again, Mr. Sloane. I’ve never had the pleasure of saying that to one of my targets. You are resilient.” Stenopolis uncrossed his legs, smiling. “I must admit I made a mistake not killing you when I had the chance. I normally don’t make mistakes.”

  The Sig Sauer lay on the glass, circular coffee table between them, taunting him.

  “You made another big mistake.” His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He tasted blood.

  “And what is that?”

  “You killed my wife.”

  Stenopolis unclasped his hands and calmly pulled the poker from the fireplace. Wisps of smoke spiraled toward the overhead light fixture, dissipating before reaching the rotating blades. Sloane felt the heat of the fire on his bare arms and smelled freshly cut pine. The sap from the wood crackled and popped.

  “You should be grateful,” Stenopolis said.

  “Yeah? How’s that?” Sloane felt the anger welling inside of him. The wrist and ankle restraints tightened.

  “Because she did not suffer.” Stenopolis shoved the tip of the poker back into the glowing orange embers and rotated it. “Your wife’s death was quick and painless. We should all be so lucky. I find it fascinating that so many people fear death, when death is not what should be fe
ared. Death is the end. It brings peace and comfort. I’ve read many books on the subject.”

  “And here I was betting you couldn’t read, Anthony.”

  Stenopolis ignored the use of his name. “It is what happens before death that people should fear. You’ve heard the saying ‘a fate worse than death’?” Without taking his eyes from Sloane, Stenopolis reached behind him and gripped the handle of the poker, turning it. A glowing orange ember tumbled onto the brick hearth. “Imagine having your tongue cut out while you are still alive, or your eyes burned from their sockets, being forced to live in total darkness. Imagine living with no thumbs. Have you never considered such things?”

  Sloane didn’t respond.

  “I have.”

  “That’s because you’re a sociopath, Anthony. Do you know the meaning of the term ‘sociopath’?”

  Stenopolis burst from the chair, his face just inches from Sloane’s. He smiled. “A person who engages in antisocial behavior, I believe. Though I do think the term is overused.” He stepped back, waving his hands in the air. “Everyone is ‘crazy’ now. Everyone who does something out of the ordinary is a ‘sociopath.’ It really detracts from those who are truly crazy, don’t you think?”

  “Not you.”

  Stenopolis did not respond.

  “Why kill her?” Sloane asked. “She couldn’t have stopped you.”

  Stenopolis stepped closer to the fireplace, one arm leaning on the mantel, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his body, seemingly impervious to the heat. “You’re feeling guilt.” He turned and looked at Sloane. “You tested my acumen. Now I will test yours. Do you know the meaning of the word machismo?”

  Sloane did not answer.

  “No? It means an exaggerated awareness of one’s masculinity. Tell me, do you feel guilty because your wife is dead, or because, as a man, you could not protect her?”

  Sloane had been but a boy when his mother was killed, and rationally he knew there was nothing he could have done to save her. But he could not use that rationalization to shake the guilt that his first instinct had been to dive behind his desk, even if it had been to get his gun. He had been over that moment a thousand times, wondering what would have happened if he had rushed Stenopolis immediately, and he knew it would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, however long that may be.