The Short Drop

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Grace put out a hand, reaching back for the arm of the chair behind her, unable to look away from the book. Her hand hung there, forgotten, and her face flooded with a pain, profound and deep, as a thousand shards began to fall into place—the fragments of a knowledge that she hadn’t known existed. But as it assembled itself from previously unconnected memories, as she stepped back and began to see not only the tail but also the entire elephant, Grace Lombard opened her mouth and let out an agonized cry.

  “What is it, Mrs. Lombard?”

  “Goddamn you, Gibson.” She slammed the book into his chest, the book still open to the same page, and turned to Denise.

  “Where is he?” she asked Denise.

  Gibson held open the book, looking for writing in blue ink. He found it in the left margin:

  I wish I could explain. If I go now, before he finds out, he’ll be okay again. He will. I bring out something bad. That’s what he always says. I just shouldn’t have waited so long to leave. I was afraid. I’m sorry. Don’t be sad.

  Gibson looked up in horror at Grace, but she was already halfway to the door.

  “Who?” Denise asked.

  “My husband, Denise. Where is he?”

  “Mrs. Lombard?” Denise asked, unease heavy in her voice. “What is it? Sit down for a minute. Talk to me. What’s the matter?”

  Grace spun back to Denise aggressively. “Stop handling me, Denise. My husband. Where is he?”

  “Conference Room Three,” she stammered. “Mrs. Lombard?”

  But Grace was out the suite door and past the startled Secret Service agent before he could react. Half running, half walking, she plowed down the hall with a look on her face that threatened dire consequences. Staff scurried from her path like field mice from a thresher.

  Denise trailed after her. Gibson trailed after Denise, who glared back at him angrily, accusingly. The Secret Service agent brought up the rear.

  They caught up to Grace Lombard at the elevators. The down arrow was lit, but she pounded away at the “Down” button—a morphine drip for her uncontainable agony.

  The ride was one short floor down, but it felt like a life sentence in that elevator. Such was the tension in the claustrophobic space. Denise tried to get Grace to acknowledge her; when she couldn’t, she turned her anger on Gibson.

  “What have you done?” Denise wrenched the book out of his hands.

  He wished her luck. Whatever forces he had set in motion, it was out of his hands now. It was down to the Lombards now. He and Denise were merely bystanders.

  It was standing room only in Conference Room Three. The vice president stood at the head of an enormous conference table. His jacket was off, top button unbuttoned, tie loosened, and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked like a man bellied up to a bar after closing a big deal, ready to tell stories and toast his victory. Instead he was holding court with his advisers, speechwriters, and press liaisons arrayed around the conference area in order of importance. It was like an old medieval throne room—proximity to power was power. The outer ring contained lesser celestial bodies: eager assistants, interns, and aides.

  There was an upbeat feel-good vibe to the proceedings. Gibson heard it in the conference room before he saw anything—the murmur of generous, self-congratulatory laughter. There might be work yet to do, but an air of celebration had already taken hold.

  The pair of agents guarding the door had been alerted that something was up. Each stood at least six foot three, with wrists thicker than Grace Lombard’s legs. They stood shoulder to shoulder and struck a conciliatory, soothing tone. They never stood a chance.

  “Mrs. Lombard. Can I help you with something?”

  “Thomas, I’m fond of you, but get out of my way or when I’m through in there, you’re next,” she said. “I’m only going to tell you once.”

  Once was enough. The two massive agents parted. They closed ranks, blocking Denise and Gibson’s way. Grace came to a halt just inside the conference room, her eyes resting heavily on her husband. Those nearest saw her and fell silent, feeling a terrible change in the atmosphere—dogs before the storm. Their silence rippled across the room. Conversations drifted off. Uncertain faces looked up expectantly until the only sound was an oblivious staffer on his cell phone, talking excitedly about television spots for Iowa. Someone elbowed him, and he turned, ashen faced, to join the mute chorus.

  The room waited for her to speak, but she just went on staring at her husband. The vice president cleared his throat. He was an expert politician. He’d spent his career learning to deflect questions from reporters. He’d been described as unflappable so often it had become a cliché in the press. This was something else.

  “Grace?”

  “Out. Everyone,” she said.

  No one moved.

  “Grace. What is it?” Lombard asked.

  “You want to do this in front of them? Because I will.”

  The room’s eyes flickered toward their boss. Lombard didn’t like the rumble that accompanied her question. He forced a smile onto his face.

  “All right, everyone,” he said, a portrait of benevolence. “We’re in good shape here. Let’s take an early lunch. We’ll reconvene at twelve thirty.”

  Some gathered up their things, trying not to look like they were hurrying. Others just left everything behind, anxious to be out of the terrible room. It was an awkward, tense few moments while the staff shuffled out past Grace. Lombard looked at his wife like a gambler trying to decide whether to call, fold, or possibly raise. The herd gathered in the hall, wary faces blank with questions. Some tried to pry an explanation from Denise, but she waved them off; others talked among themselves. Finally, an imposing older man with an important-sounding voice ordered them to disperse.

  As the hall emptied, Gibson heard muffled, angry shouting through the thick door. The two Secret Service agents stared straight ahead and pretended they couldn’t hear the war breaking out inside. He and Denise stood before the door expectantly, like Dorothy’s inept cohorts hoping for an audience with the Wizard. The older suit approached Denise and demanded to know what was happening.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m the vice president’s chief of staff. What is happening?”

  “Ask him.” She gestured to Gibson with her chin.

  “Leland Reed,” the man said and put out a hand.

  Gibson looked at the hand. “A little friendly advice, Leland. Get your résumé together.”

  Before Reed or Denise could respond, the door flung open, and Gibson found himself face-to-face with Benjamin Lombard. God’s own minute passed between them, Grace immediately behind.

  “Come back here, Ben,” she said. “We’re a long way from done.”

  Gibson watched the muscles work under his face—an epic battle to resist the body’s natural responses to surprise, embarrassment, and anger. It was a remarkable display of will, and Lombard was already controlling his breathing, composing himself. Composing answers to blunt his wife’s questions.

  What the man needed was a push in the wrong direction.

  Gibson winked.

  The effect was immediate and incendiary. Any pretense of composure fled the vice president, and a great purple swell of blood flooded his neck and face. Lombard pushed through the two agents, fists rising as he came toward Gibson.

  All Gibson could think was Please, please, please punch me. He couldn’t possibly be this lucky. He willed his hands to stay at his side. Defenseless would play even better. Make it a good one, you son of a bitch. Nail your coffin shut.

  Calista Dauplaise remained seated at the end of the conference table, a look of anguish warping her imperious face. What was she doing there? But before he could answer his own question, Benjamin Lombard threw a haymaker and caught him flush on the jaw. The VP was a large man, and Gibson was out cold by the time his head
bounced off the carpet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Gibson came to on the floor of Conference Room Three. He lay on his back, staring up at acoustical tile. The room was empty but not emptied. It reminded him of one of those apocalyptic zombie movies—food wrappers, paper cups, briefcases, laptop cases, all strewn about the floor. The vice president’s suit jacket still hung on the back of a chair. It looked abandoned.

  He had felt better. His body still carried the aftereffects of having been hung by a rope, and Lombard’s punch hadn’t done him any favors. He sat up slowly, somewhat surprised to discover his wrists weren’t shackled. Denise Greenspan sat in an armchair, studying a stain on the carpet.

  “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

  Denise, preoccupied with her own thoughts, took a long time answering. “No.”

  “I’m free to go?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gathered up his belongings and stood. At the door, he stopped and turned back to Denise.

  “You okay?”

  “No, I am not okay,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Head hurts. I got punched. Don’t know if you saw,” he said and offered her a smile.

  Denise didn’t return it.

  “Actually, I’m a little hazy on what happened.”

  “What happened?” By way of an answer, Denise cupped her hands together at her waist, and then raised them up over her head. She made the rumbling sound of an explosion.

  “That bad?”

  “Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, you got it. Hope you’re happy.”

  She held out a business card. He took it. It was Grace Lombard’s number.

  “You have any trouble, you’re to call Mrs. Lombard direct.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Shut the door behind you.” She left without another word.

  Out in the hall, staffers stood in frightened clumps, whispering among themselves. They were like children who knew the grown-ups had been fighting but didn’t understand what it was about. They watched Gibson pass but didn’t speak to him.

  He rode the elevator down. The gloom that had engulfed the vice president’s floor had not yet made its way down to the lobby. Gibson threaded his way among cheery mobs of party fat cats, delegates, and convention staff. The good times were just getting rolling as far as they knew.

  Enjoy it while you can, folks.

  Ahead, a pair of bellman’s carts weighed down with luggage and garment bags were being wheeled cautiously across the lobby. Calista Dauplaise followed in its wake. She was barking furiously into a phone and didn’t notice him, but Gibson took an involuntary step back anyway.

  What’s your sin, Calista?

  Gibson was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the girl.

  Little Catherine Dauplaise lagged some thirty feet behind her aunt, lost and forgotten like a stray dog following its last sure meal. She looked scared. Unmoored. The way only a child does whose world has shifted under her feet. His heart went out to her, and then something occurred to him. He stood watching her until she was out of sight, and for some time after he continued staring after her.

  Hours before his scheduled acceptance speech, Benjamin Lombard resigned from the office of the vice presidency and removed himself from his party’s ticket. In so doing, he became the first candidate to withdraw from a presidential ticket in the nation’s history. It sent shock waves through American life that wouldn’t subside for years.

  Looking beleaguered and exhausted, Lombard spoke for only five minutes in a faltering voice. He disclosed that recent tests had uncovered a previously undetected life-threatening condition. It would be irresponsible to continue his pursuit of the presidency under these circumstances. The American people deserved to feel confident in their president’s health. It was a heartbreaking performance.

  Grace Lombard was not by his side.

  Gibson watched the press conference with Jenn and Hendricks from their motel room. Initially jubilant simply to be clear of the vice president’s reach, they quickly fell silent as the ramifications of Lombard’s charade became clear. When it was over, Jenn shut off the television.

  “It’s a good story,” she said.

  “He’s got a future in Hollywood.”

  “But will it hold up?” Hendricks asked.

  “Of course it will. People will need it to,” Gibson said.

  “Why do you think his wife went along with it?” Hendricks asked Gibson as if he were the expert on all things Lombard.

  “Maybe to protect Suzanne’s memory?” he said. “Don’t know.”

  “Should have protected her life.” It was cold, but neither of them had the words to refute Hendricks’s cruel calculus.

  They found that none of them wanted much to talk about what had happened. Gibson had imagined he might feel a sense of triumph. He had dreamed of taking Lombard down since he was a teenager, but there was nothing to celebrate here. In the end, this was about a missing girl who was being systematically excluded from the conversation. It might have saved the three of them, but it had brought no justice for Bear.

  They hadn’t won; they’d only survived.

  After all they had been through, Gibson still didn’t know what had happened to Bear. But he had an idea now whom to ask. He considered telling Jenn and Hendricks about his epiphany in the hotel lobby, but to them it had only ever been a job. He didn’t resent them for it, but he needed to finish it on his own.

  Hendricks cracked another beer and mentioned his encounter with Kirby Tate’s killer. Gibson and Jenn stared at him dumbly.

  “Were you going to tell us?”

  “Just did.”

  “Are you kidding me, Dan?” Jenn said. “Give!”

  Hendricks told them the story. To Gibson it was unforgivable. Hendricks had had a gun on the man who had killed his dad but let him go to cover his own ass. The same man who had hung Gibson by the neck and stolen Duke’s journals. That man was out there still. Free and untouched by all this.

  Jenn was far more practical. “And you think this psychopath is going to honor your gentleman’s agreement? Because why? Because you were his version of ‘friends’? That’s insane.”

  “I handled it how it had to be handled,” Hendricks said. “It’s not your fingerprints on the gun.”

  They sat there in silence while Hendricks drank his beer. When he finished, it was the signal that it was time for bed. No one had anything left to say. In the morning, Gibson woke to Jenn packing her gear. Hendricks was already gone. They said good-bye in the parking lot of the motel. She gave him a brisk hug and handed him the keys to the car.

  “Where are you going to go?” he asked.

  “To get George.”

  Gibson nodded. He hadn’t realized how much she cared for her mentor.

  She hugged him again. “Go home,” she whispered. “For real this time. See your kid.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “If you… need me?”

  “Exactly,” she said with a grin.

  “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “Thank you for coming back,” she said. “And don’t even think about hugging me again.”

  “You know you’re going to miss me.”

  They laughed.

  “I just might,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Gibson was an hour north of Atlanta when the news came over the radio that Benjamin Lombard was dead.

  Responding to a gunshot at 4:43 a.m., Secret Service found a nonresponsive Benjamin Lombard in his suite. He was transported to Emory University Hospital, where he was pronounced dead. A single gunshot to the head. All indications pointed to suicide, but no official announcement was forthcoming. To Gib
son’s way of thinking, a private justice had been served.

  There was no mention of the vice president’s shoes, but that didn’t stop Gibson from wondering.

  Sadly, at least according to the news, Grace Lombard had already departed for their home in Virginia. A protective narrative formed around her over the course of the drive—devoted mother and wife to whom fate had twice delivered catastrophe. The name of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was invoked in describing her.

  Gibson found he didn’t care that Lombard was dead. It surprised him at first, but he found his apathy a relief. In the end, Lombard’s death righted nothing and made nothing whole.

  It was a ten-hour drive to Washington; Gibson made it in just under eight. He drove hard, Billy Casper’s gun wrapped in a cloth in the glove box. A reminder that it wasn’t over. He’d only known Billy for a couple of days but had felt a bond. Billy had said they were connected through Suzanne without ever knowing how true that was. After this was over, he’d drive back to Pennsylvania and comb the field until he found Billy. Leaving him to lie unclaimed behind an abandoned service station didn’t sit well with Gibson.

  He called Nicole and told her that she could go home. Her voice was tight, and when he asked if he could talk to Ellie, Nicole said she was sleeping. Silence. He wanted desperately to fill it, to tell her what he now knew about his father. That Duke Vaughn hadn’t killed himself. Hadn’t abandoned him. He hadn’t been able to clear his father’s name with the general public, but his dad had been restored to him. It wasn’t a magic potion; it didn’t make him intact. Life didn’t work like that. But it loosened a knot down near his heart. In the last few days, he’d been able to think about his father again, and, though tinged with melancholy, his memories of the man made him smile for the first time. If not reborn, he felt, at least, rebooted.

  The moment passed, and Nicole said good-bye and hung up without waiting for him to say it back. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell anyone the truth.

  There was one thing left to do. For Bear.

  Traffic was heavy driving into the District. He crossed Key Bridge and steered into Georgetown down M Street. He drove with the window down. Undergrads and tourists made it slow going, and once he crossed Wisconsin Avenue he turned north into the wealthy residential neighborhood behind the shops and restaurants.