Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

  Finally, the blond sighed and said, “I said we weren’t here to murder you. What’s the point in killing a man who’s about to commit suicide?”

  Two of the others stepped forward and one held him while the other got his belt off him. The blond and another guy grabbed him and carried him to the bathroom, trailed by the pair with the belt, which they worked around the shower rod, inches from the ceiling, while the blond and his helper propped Bryson up. The blond wound the belt around Bryson’s neck, not making eye contact. It was as if the man already considered him dead.

  That was the terrible part, not the pain, not the certainty that death was coming, but knowing that after a little time had passed, they would call on Beth, to see what he had or hadn’t told her.

  As they held him up, Bryson tried to kick, but his legs remained slack and the belt cut more deeply into his neck, shutting off even more of the meager oxygen he was managing to suck in.

  The blond let go of him and Bryson’s feet slipped down the outside of the tub until the belt was taut, and he was barely off the floor, the shower rod holding.

  Maybe it would give—maybe it would break before anything inside his neck did!

  Alone in the bathroom now, he could feel his eyes bulge and his chest burn, as he fought to draw in even a molecule of air without success.

  He heard the outer door close. They weren’t even going to stay around to make sure he died! He had to think of something, had to do something. He tried to bend his feet, to touch the floor, but they barely moved. He tried to lift his hands but they were useless things, floating yet heavy.

  The burning in his throat grew hotter. Sweat poured out of him like the shower was on, and he struggled to draw a breath of any kind.

  Stars exploded in ghastly Fourth of July bursts as his vision darkened. He thought of Beth and begged her forgiveness, as if she could hear a pain-racked apology that would never leave his head. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, it was just a job, no, not even that, just him looking into something he had overheard. Something he had overheard that had gotten him killed and probably her, too, without Reeder’s help. Shit! Shit!

  He loved her, always had. Now, all he wanted was to hold her one last time.

  Beth, I love you, I’m sorry. Christopher, son—always said you were the man . . . now you are the man . . .

  In the darkness, he felt sensation begin to flow through his limbs, his body, most of it pain, but goddamn, sensation.

  The last sensation he felt was the burner phone in his pocket, vibrating.

  “If it happens, it happens . . . we can’t stop living.”

  Walter Reed, US Army physician who postulated and proved that yellow fever is transmitted by mosquitos.

  Section 3, Lot 1864, Grid T/U-16.5, Arlington National Cemetery.

  TWO

  Joe Reeder hated being called a hero.

  The idea that he, or anybody for that matter, realistically fit that designation seemed to him absurd. Heroic actions, yes—Audie Murphy in combat—but a hero? Maybe the kind Murphy played in those ancient cowboy movies. But not in life. In life America’s most decorated soldier of World War II had been a troubled alcoholic, possibly psychotic in his worst moments.

  Yet according to the media, and most everybody else he ran into these days, Joe Reeder was a genuine American hero twice over, larger than life and then some. This dated back to his Secret Service days, when he had taken a bullet for President Gregory Bennett, a man whose politics he deplored. Even now—especially in the dead of winter like this—his left shoulder reminded him of that bullet and his actions, nudging his mind to recall the reactions. Deskbound afterward, he’d been unable to stomach the politics and particularly the underhanded tactics of President Bennett and his cronies, and had let his feelings slip.

  Mistake.

  The Secret Service was necessarily apolitical—though finding a left-of-center agent in those ranks could be a trick—and Reeder had become a pariah in government circles for his indiscretion. That had driven him from the Service and he had, out of necessity, begun his security business, which proved rewarding in several senses. The private sector only knew him as the “hero” who saved President Bennett, and ABC Security—the ABC standing for nothing more than good placement in alphabetical listings—had flourished from day one.

  That success multiplied many times over when he was designated a hero a second time.

  On that occasion, he’d saved the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court from a potential assassin. The rewards had been great, for his security business at least, but the price for that newfound wealth had been the life of his best friend, FBI agent Gabriel Sloan.

  Joseph Reeder, twice a national hero. Twice suffering the ignominy of media fame.

  Hero? You can have it.

  Reeder was six one and pushing fifty, with regular features that the years had lent some craggy character. His eyes were brown, his hair white and cropped near-military short, his eyebrows white as well. During his years as an agent, he’d had to conceal that premature distinctiveness with hair dye.

  Back in his Secret Service life, he’d been nicknamed “Peep” by Gabe and others, a joking acknowledgment of his ability to read people. An expert at kinesics, the study of body language, Reeder had spotted President Bennett’s would-be assassin in the crowd a split second before the shooter fired.

  Walking through Arlington National Cemetery before the tourists were let in at 8:00 a.m., Reeder enjoyed the feel and sound of snow crunching under his Rocky-brand oxfords, and didn’t mind the cold on his face or that the weather made his eyes water.

  This was the place on earth where he felt the most at home, where peace enveloped him. Right now he was in Section Three, unofficially known as the “hospital section,” where he stopped at the grave of Dr. Walter Reed.

  Pulling his ABC Security parka a little tighter, he gazed down at the dark granite headstone, set atop a white granite base displaying the doctor’s last name. A bronze plaque provided information about Reed and concluded with the quote: “He gave to man control over that dreadful scourge—yellow fever.”

  He thought about all the stupid media acclaim he’d gotten for being a “hero,” while here rested a man who just might be worthy of the word. Of all those who knew the name Reeder today, how many remembered a doctor named Reed? Yes, there was a hospital in Bethesda, Maryland, that bore the man’s name, but now—the late 2020s—how many knew why the building had been named after a physician dead since 1902?

  Dr. Walter Reed. Who had never taken a life, and had in fact saved many. During the building of the Panama Canal, Reed’s team had proven that yellow fever was not passed by way of bedding, towels, and other materials from the stricken, rather the result of a simple mosquito bite. From this rose the fields of epidemiology and biomedicine.

  That was heroic work, far outweighing catching a bullet or killing a couple of potential political assassins.

  Though he’d been up only a few hours, he found himself yawning. Ever since the night of that suburban shoot-out, he’d gotten only fitful sleep. Getting through the day was no problem. Always something to do—a desk filled with work, staff meetings, client luncheons, even occasional interviews with the more trustworthy members of the media, since being a goddamn hero was keeping his business flush.

  But at home, darkness out the windows, with nothing to keep him company but TV and books and a beer or two, Reeder found the nights endless. Today he’d change that. He would go home this afternoon instead of tonight. Maybe take some mild over-the-counter sleep aid. Get to bed early, snare that elusive good night’s sleep. The kind of sleep where dreams don’t come and peaceful rest does.

  The dreams he so hoped to avoid were not nightmares, more recollections, some pleasant, even very pleasant, his daughter Amy with her friend Kathy . . . sharing beers with Gabe at a ball game . . . then not so pleasant, Amy at Kathy’s funeral . . . Kathy’s father Gabe crying into his shoulder . . . and then sudden violence, bullet
s flying, the dark of night all around . . .

  Wake up bathed in sweat. Plump the pillow, drop back down, start the whole cycle again.

  That had been his nights for almost a year.

  Last night, though, had been different. Usually he got right to sleep before the fitfulness crept in, to wake him every hour or two with the fresh taste of recurrent dreams lining his brain. Last night? Worry was nagging him, and a guilty feeling that he should be doing something about that call he’d received, just before he crawled in the sack.

  Well, not that he’d received—he’d missed the call. These days Reeder ignored his phone, where media types frequently bothered him and left him messages that had no chance of return. But he did check periodically, and before he went to bed he had.

  He didn’t recognize the number, and there’d been no caller ID. He damn near ignored it, but his gut told him not to, and he’d learned not to blow off his inner warning system.

  The call had been from an old friend, one he rarely saw, a fellow retired Secret Service agent who had a security outfit of his own now . . . okay, really just a PI office with some twenty-first-century trappings. Chris Bryson was one of those friends with whom he felt guilty about not keeping in closer touch, as the years crawled and raced by, in their contradictory way.

  The message had been simple enough: “Call this number when you get this. Life and death, brother—don’t let me down.”

  A lot of people used that phrase—to some, getting to FedEx on time could be a matter of life and death. Not to ex-agents like Bryson and himself. Reeder had returned the call but it went to voice mail.

  “Chris, get back to me,” Reeder told his cell. “I’m waiting, buddy. Just tell me what you need, where to come. No matter the time.”

  He tried Bryson’s other number and it went right to voice mail, too, and he left a similar message. He didn’t have Beth Bryson’s number. Bryson’s wife and his ex-wife Melanie were good friends.

  Which meant the next logical step would’ve been to call Melanie, but somehow he couldn’t force himself across that small social barrier. The call might be answered by the husband who’d replaced him, Donald Graham, and hearing the lobbyist’s buttery voice always gave Reeder a pain.

  So he told himself Chris was a pro who could handle himself. Put the phone on ringer, turned the ringer up, and deposited it on his nightstand, waited for it to ring.

  Which it never did.

  Behind him, he felt more than heard someone coming, but he didn’t turn. Judging by the person’s boots crunching lightly on brittle snow, this someone was not very heavy.

  Did Dr. Reed have descendants who regularly came to pay their respects? More likely someone knew to find Reeder here, but that was a short list. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and Amy—Christmas break over—would be in class or at her new job. So would her boyfriend Bobby Landon, who was growing on him.

  Patti Rogers maybe? The FBI agent had been Gabe Sloan’s partner till last year when she teamed up briefly with Reeder, who was consulting on the Supreme Court task force. He and Patti remained tight, and those light footfalls could be hers.

  The caretakers of the cemetery had little to do in the winter and, anyway, gave him a wide berth. If the media had tracked Reeder here, keeping his temper would be a challenge. A tiny part of him thought it might be a threat, and he was unarmed, so—despite not wanting to invite conversation with a reporter or intrude upon someone’s privacy in a cemetery—he finally turned.

  And saw his ex-wife trudging up the slope toward him in the snow.

  “Jesus, Joe,” she said, half-kidding, “give a girl a hand, why don’t you?”

  He stepped toward her, held out a leather-gloved hand. She held out a cotton-gloved one. Tall, her slender form plumped as if for an Arctic expedition in navy and black and touches of red and Ugg boots, she gave him a small smile so white, the snow might have envied it. Her long brown hair was tucked under a fashionable red-and-black stocking cap, her brown eyes impossibly large with long natural lashes, her model-sharp cheeks pinked with cold.

  The divorce had been the right thing for the marriage, he knew that, but he would never stop loving her. Though they spoke on the phone regularly, he hadn’t seen her in many months. His heart raced a little, as it had when they had first met, so many years ago.

  She positioned herself beside him, leaving her gloved hand in his, as they both looked down at the headstone. Magie Noire, her favorite perfume, found its way through the chill to warm his nostrils.

  She said, “It’s fuh-fuh-fuh-freezing out here.”

  “You trudged all this way with that news flash?” He meant to tease but it didn’t quite come out that way.

  She pursed her lips, a precursor to a familiar frown.

  “Just making conversation. And hello to you, too, Joe.”

  “Sorry. Trying to be funny.”

  A tiny smirk. “You suck at ‘funny.’”

  Last year’s tragedy had brought Reeder and his ex-wife closer than they’d been in years. Daughter Amy had seemed happier now that her parents were getting along again.

  But last summer, Reeder had gone over for a family cookout that included Amy and boyfriend Bobby. Hubby #2, Donald, was grilling in the backyard, taking on a role that had been Hubby #1’s. Though a registered Democrat, Reeder found the combination of the liberal lobbyist’s cynicism and Bobby’s idealistic socialism hard to stomach. It was a wonder he hadn’t slapped them both around with a greasy spatula. He thought he’d hidden his feelings pretty well.

  But privately Melanie scolded him for his “unrelenting sarcasm,” and invites to family dinners were not repeated.

  Reeder did still meet Amy and Bobby for dinner once every week or so, but hadn’t seen Mel since the ill-fated barbecue.

  Suddenly here she was at his side, in his Fortress of Solitude. But Arlington was a big place, and even though she knew the five or six graves that were among his regular stops, she had gone to considerable trouble in frigid weather to track him down.

  Whatever had brought her here was in-person important. Why wasn’t she getting to it?

  Concern spiked in him. “Is Amy all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “Amy is fine. Bobby, too. This isn’t that.”

  “What is it?”

  Her voice sounded small against the wind. “Beth Bryson called this morning.”

  “Oh. About Chris?”

  Her eyes tensed. “Yes . . . but . . .”

  “Dead?”

  The face under the stocking cap goggled at him. “You knew?”

  “No. Seeing you here . . . just meant . . .” He gulped air and breathed it out like cold cigarette smoke, then told her about the missed call from his friend.

  “I let him down, goddamnit.”

  “Joe . . . you couldn’t know this would happen.”

  “What did happen? Killed on a job?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Joe . . . I’m sorry . . . but Chris took his own life last night.”

  “Shit,” he said.

  They both knew the suicide rate among Secret Service agents, both active and retired, was not exactly low.

  “At home? Hell, did Beth find him . . . ?”

  Melanie shook her head. “No, she says he was in a hotel or motel somewhere near Dulles. Evidently, he . . . hanged himself.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the guy.”

  “Joe, we never know what’s really going on inside other people’s lives . . . do we?”

  “No. And Chris had been out of mine for too long. But damnit, he turned to me and I didn’t come.”

  “How could you? Don’t beat yourself up over something you couldn’t control.”

  They stared at the headstone.

  His kinesics expertise had been an issue in their marriage, Melanie constantly accusing him of reading her. Like she expected him to turn it off, somehow. Even now, as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders, he took in t
he classic defensive postures. Or, hell—maybe she was just cold. It was an inexact science.

  The longer they silently stood there, the more he knew she wasn’t done with him yet—this was more than just delivering some bad news about an old friend. She could have phoned him, right? And he and Chris had been friends, but never Gabe Sloan tight.

  Or was she worried about how losing another friend, any friend, would hit him?

  Finally, she let out a long steamy breath. “Beth asked me to get ahold of you.”

  “Oh? To deliver the bad news?”

  “To ask you to come talk to her.”

  “Do I look like a priest?”

  She turned toward him, eyes flashing. “Your dead friend’s wife wants to talk to you. Should I have asked for a reason? To see if it’s important enough to interrupt your busy schedule walking around a graveyard?”

  “That came out harsher than I meant it to.”

  “Me, too.” She shuddered, some of it the cold. “Really bad morning.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Joe . . . how long have we been snipping at each other, anyway?”

  “Too long.”

  “Cease-fire, then?”

  “Cease-fire. Mel . . . did Beth have any explanation for why Chris would do this?”

  She shook her head. “Says they were happy, never better, actually. Doesn’t believe Chris killed himself. That’s why—”

  “Why she wants me to look into it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do know she should be talking to the police, not your ex-husband.”

  Her expression bordered on pleading. “Talk to her, Joe. She thinks someone who knew Chris might get a handle on this where the police wouldn’t. And you could look into it . . . discreetly. Anyway, she seems to think you can do anything.”