Unless he left immediately; but he was utterly without refuge. There was literally not one place he could think of to go. He had friends—he could imagine no better friends—but it was to them that the police would turn first.
His ultimate destination did not yet matter. His first need was to run, as the frightened beasts of the mountains had run the night of that long ago forest fire. His car was just outside, the gas tank nearly full.
That was more madness. In so odd an antique British car he might as well be driving a fire engine with the siren screaming. He had bought the Hawker-Siddeley as an advertisement for himself, a symbol of his differentness and contempt for the conventional life. There was always a price for that and now he was paying it. He could take Zack’s Triumph, but it was hardly nondescript either, and for no reason would he now go back into the room where her body lay to rummage through her things for the keys.
He must go into the mountains on foot. He knew them well. He knew hiding places and tracks along the ridgeline that could take him far to the south before he’d need to descend to the highway. Yet, leaving both cars in the driveway would advertise that decision as well. They’d be out after him with dogs and helicopters in hours.
Dresden forced himself to make his thoughts come faster. Whatever he did, he could not go just as he was. There was a canvas over-the-shoulder bag he had used back when he had been a regular flyer on commercial airlines. He dragged it from his front closet shelf and then went to the door to the garden, dropping to his hands and knees and quietly easing it open.
Nothing stirred in the heavy shadows, though he could hear a dog barking at some distance. Crouching, he moved up the slope to the lanai, pausing as he reached it to listen again for any hint of menace. Then he hurried to the old disconnected refrigerator, rising carefully and opening the freezer compartment. The box was still where she had put it and he had left it. Searching its contents with his fingers, he pulled out his .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, a long-ago gift from a onetime police friend, and the .357 Magnum, along with a heavy box of cartridges. Dresden hesitated, then, in considerable self-disgust, reached into the box once more, removing the thick stack of currency that had been Zack’s so short-lived good fortune. He was now a thief, and it was all the worse that he was stealing from the dead, his own beloved dead.
If she had told anyone else about the money, its absence would be another weight on the scales against him. But his need for it was great and desperate. He stuffed it into the bag.
He had decided what he would do. Stepping off the side of the lanai, he slipped down the hillside and through the cemetery, returning along the road to the front of his house, and then to the side of his car. For a few seconds, he would have to expose himself, announce himself, but he had no choice.
The Hawker-Siddeley, still faithful, started at once. He gunned the engine, backing out of the driveway in a churning spray of gravel, then roared off down the road with a protesting squeal of tires, maintaining his mad speed around all the curves and bouncing over the old wooden bridge with such violence he feared it would buckle. When he reached the main road he pushed the old car to its maximum, nervously keeping it there all the way to the crossroads and the now-deserted Mexican beer bar. He turned onto the highway to Santa Linda, but instead of continuing on, he killed his headlights and swerved into the bar’s dirt parking lot, steering the vehicle around behind the little building and halting where he was nearly hidden from view, though he could see a fair stretch of both the highway and the Tiburcio road.
To his amazement, no other car came speeding after him. Nothing drove by at all. He waited five minutes, and then five minutes more, and then a full quarter hour, but the roads remained empty. This puzzled him, but changed none of his plans. Taking a deep breath, leaving his headlights off, he slipped the Hawker into gear and turned back toward Tiburcio. Reaching the town’s darkened center, his headlamps still dark, he slowed and eased to a stop beside Cooper’s closed saloon. He had to expose himself to one more risk. It was foolish, terrifyingly so, but vitally necessary. If they knew of him they could know of Tracy Bakersfield. He would not let them do to her what they had done to Charlene, not if he could get to her in time.
There was a pay telephone in front of the building, the only one in the town. Dresden left its door open to avoid turning on its light. All sounds now seemed frighteningly magnified—the frogs peeping and croaking along the creek, the coin dropping through the phone box’s mechanism, the dial clicking, the ringing on the line. When someone finally answered and he spoke, his own voice seemed to boom throughout the canyon, although he spoke in what was not much more than a whisper.
It was Tracy’s husband who had answered, without much happiness.
“Bill, it’s Charley Dresden. I’ve got to talk to Tracy. It’s really, really urgent.”
Kluggerman had always been amazingly cordial to Dresden when he called, no matter how odd the circumstance. He must have loved Tracy to an extraordinary degree to be so tolerant.
He was not so tolerant now.
“Charley,” he said wearily, “are you even dimly aware of what time it is?”
“Yes, of course. Damn it, I wouldn’t be calling you at this hour if it wasn’t really, really urgent. I think Tracy may be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I don’t have a lot of time, Bill. Just get her on the phone and let me tell her about it. Hurry. Please.”
Kluggerman sighed, displeased, but once again tolerant. There were times when Dresden was infuriated by the man’s essential goodness, but not now. “All right, Charley. This one last time. Wait.”
As he did so, Dresden began to feel a touch of returning confidence, but it did not last long. A new sound intruded upon the quiet, a distant murmur that increased, soon recognizable as an approaching car. In a moment, he could see the first flicker of headlights far down the road.
“Charley,” said Tracy. “You said you wouldn’t do this.”
He crouched down against the side of the booth, bringing pain to his injured knee.
“Just listen to me, Tracy. And do what I say. They killed Charlene and Danny Hill. They came for me, but I stayed away until very late. So they killed them. Their bodies …”
The car was slowing. Its headlights seemed monstrous, all-seeing eyes, illuminating all before them. He had stupidly left both of his pistols in the bag in the Hawker-Siddeley.
“Charlene? Do you mean your—friend?”
“Yes, my woman, my girlfriend. She’s dead. They shot her.”
“They?”
“Someone. Someone who may know what you and I have been doing.”
The car had stopped at the edge of the road, not much more than a hundred yards distant. It was pointless trying to hide himself. Crouching against the glass of the booth, he must be as visible as some zoo animal in its cage.
“Charley? …”
He would have only a few seconds if he made a run for the Hawker, but it could be done. There was still a chance for escape—if he was willing to abandon Tracy. He might never be able to make contact with her again. She might not be alive the next day.
“Charley? Are you there?”
“Yes. Now listen. I think they might come after you. If they could track me down, they might also know about you, about what you did for me, about what you know. I may have been followed for days. I want you to leave as soon as possible.”
Now the car’s lights went out. Dresden told himself it might only be a Tiburcio resident, returning home after a late night. But Zack and Danny were dead. He should run. Now.
“Have you been drinking, Charley?”
“Damn it, Tracy. Listen to me. They murdered Charlene and Danny Hill. It was awful. Their bodies are still in my house. Now I want you and Bill to get out of there. Go anywhere you don’t usually go, but go. It could mean your life. Please, believe me. It’ll be on the news tomorrow, but tomorrow could be too bloody late.”
She paused. “I
believe you. It’s in your voice. It always is when you’re truly serious, Charley. But I’m not sure I can convince Bill. Have you called the police?”
He could see no movement along the road, but if his fears were correct, he had by now lingered too long. At least he would die a little nobly. His death was worth Tracy’s life.
“I can’t call the police. They’re going to think I did it. I need to get away. You, too, Trace. Please. I have to go. Now. I don’t know when I’ll talk to you again.”
“Charley …”
“Good-bye, Trace. I love you in all the ways there are.”
He hung up, the sound of her voice calling out his name echoing in his mind. Her last word. He would cherish it—for however long he had left.
Now he ran. It was all he could do. He was in his car and driving away in a blurred instant. He kept his headlights off until he was around the long curve at the end of town that took the main road over the creek and toward the mountain. He could see no lights behind him. He might yet be able to carry out his plan.
His rearview mirror was still empty when he reached the mountain road and slewed the Hawker onto its rough dirt surface for the second time that night. On this climb, however, he went no farther than the entrance to the mine. He got his car inside the wire fence, then closed the gate behind it. At the opening in the mountainside a wooden barrier had been put up, warning away intruders with a strident but pointless KEEP OUT! Charley drove through it, wincing as splintered wood and nails scraped at the Hawker-Siddeley’s sides. He proceeded on through the tunnel until it steepened and he came to a second wooden barrier, this one proclaiming DANGER!
“Right,” he said.
Beyond this obstruction, the shaft plunged into the depths of the mountain. There had been heavy rains that fall and in such weather the bottom of the shaft flooded. It was one of the reasons they had decided to close the mine. It might be weeks or months before they found his car, if ever.
Letting the engine idle, he took his canvas bag and a flashlight from it, then stood a moment, his hand on the roof. It was an awful thing he must do, but he was losing much this night. Depressing the clutch with his foot, he reached, straining, and shoved the gear lever into first. Then he stood up and, hurling himself back, yanked his foot off the pedal. The Hawker ground furiously ahead, thudding against the barrier, but it was less substantial than the first and quickly gave way. The car rumbled on, swerving and crunching noisily against the tunnel walls, but the descending shaft was so narrow it served as a guide. As the car moved away, so did the light. Dresden stood in darkness, listening to the terrible noises until they culminated in an enormous splash. He turned on his flashlight, shouldered his bag, and began what was going to be the longest walk of his life, or so he hoped.
Clicking off the flashlight as he emerged into the starry night, he noticed that his friend the moon had returned, though now a much different moon from that which had lent its glow to his final interlude with Madeleine Anderson. It seemed cold and lifeless now, drained of all its sentimental qualities, a stark sentinel staring blankly as Charley passed through the gate and started his trudge to the top of the mountain. He had to return to the summit to regain the only thing now of any use to him. Whatever all-powerful, all-seeing force had reached out and stolen life from Zack and Hill had taken everything that Charley loved and valued, everything that constituted his own life. He could never go back. Tiburcio, his house, his friends, his loves, California—everything his long years there had given him had all been snatched away, forever beyond his reach. He’d have to wander the earth for the rest of his days, however long or few, a faceless, unknown man, Tiburcio existing only in his memory. But if he’d luck enough to somehow find it, he’d at least have that briefcase, and the power its contents gave him.
As the road steepened, the pain in his leg increased until it produced a severe limp, and then almost a stagger. Perhaps he might not make it after all. Perhaps this mountain would prove to be as far as he would ever come.
Kreski tried to use the long flight to Denver for sleep, but achieved only unpleasant thoughts and a heightened sense of discomfort. Following his own policy for Secret Service personnel traveling civilian, he was flying economy class, a self-inflicted, humbling punishment. The difference between Air Force One and this was as profound as that between first class and steerage on one of the old trans-Atlantic luxury liners. After so many years attached to the presidency, it sometimes came as a shock to him how mere citizens lived. He’d have to get used to it—soon, if the Congress had what looked to be its intended way.
He was traveling alone, just another anonymous face and suit in a cabin crowded with distracted businessmen. His only connection with Washington was a pocket beeper he carried that could be activated with a call through the Denver office. His only other trappings were his identification badge and pistol. His hope was to come upon Peter Ashley Brookes as circumspectly as possible, and not spook him with what might resemble an investigatory assault. If Kreski was able to arrange a conversation, he wanted it to be as relaxed and revealing as possible. Aside from being rich, ruthless, and slightly crazy, Brookes was an extremely smart man.
There were a number of things Kreski should have been attending to in Washington. Mrs. Atherton, bored with Williamsburg and worried about her husband, had returned with her daughter to the capital, which was not in need of two more such highly visible targets. Agent Perkins had, of course, returned with her, and Kreski had not yet interviewed him about Gettysburg. A stolen car recovered by Philadelphia police not far from Huerta’s hideaway proved to have tires matching the imprint taken from the battlefield on the other side of the woods from Perkins’s tower. A fingerprint report was probably already awaiting Kreski. He had undoubtedly taken another step higher on the ladder to the hangman’s scaffold by dodging the Congress again. Ultimately, they were going to get him, and the longer he put them off the more vicious they would be about it.
But this Brookes matter was beginning to make him itch.
Like so many men of his circumstances, Peter Ashley Brookes required a shimmering office tower to perceive his own success and power. Brookes’s building, a slab-sided shaft with a black, mirrored finish, was one of the highest in Denver. His personal office, as the lobby guard informed Kreski, was on the very top floor, but Kreski wouldn’t be able to go there. It was forbidden.
Kreski’s government badge got him past the lobby guard, and to within two floors of Brookes’s aerie. There he was passed from a receptionist to a succession of secretaries and assistants and finally up one floor to a youngish man whose manner suggested he was a high-ranking member of Brookes’s praetorian guard.
He had a large corner office with an outsize photograph of Brookes mounted on one wall. There were no other decorations.
Once again, Kreski displayed his badge.
“Do you have a warrant?” said the man, politely but coldly.
“No. I’m not here to arrest anyone. If Mr. Brookes could spare me a few minutes, I’d appreciate talking with him.”
“Mr. Brookes sees no one without an appointment.”
“Very well. I’d like to make an appointment.”
“We’ll get back to you.”
“An appointment for today. I have to get back to Washington.”
“I’m sure that would be impossible.”
“Sir. This concerns an attempted assassination of the president of the United States. I’m the director of the U.S. Secret Service. I’m not here to solicit contributions to the National Gallery of Art.”
“Fine. Get a warrant.”
Kreski wondered if he might have been wiser to have come with an army of agents. He had once enjoyed power enough to have this man hauled out of his office without explanation. Perhaps he still did. But he’d make one more try with an oblique approach.
“Sir,” he said. “This is a highly sensitive investigation, but it’s also one that’s under the utmost scrutiny. Whatever I do, whomever I see, wh
atever results—it’s all going to end up in the public record. I’m sure Mr. Brookes is quite cognizant of that, but it strikes me he’s probably not even aware that I’m here. What if it turns out he would have wanted to talk to me? Would you like to give that some thought? Before the New York Times reports that he hid from an investigative officer?”
The man’s expression softened, though not by much. “I’ll see,” he said. “But he’s extremely busy.”
Kreski was led back out to a reception area to wait, guided to a chair near the outer door. Brookes’s assistant returned with unexpected swiftness.
“He wants to talk to you,” he said, somewhat agitatedly. “Immediately!”
As Kreski had expected, Brookes’s office was outsize beyond all reason, incorporating two corners of the building and reaching at least a hundred feet from the enormous double entrance doors to the far windows. The pillars encasing the structural girders were obscured by statuary, life-size sculptures of soldiery taken from various periods of world history. A free-standing mural served to separate a conference area from the rest of the room. The long painting was a vivid rendering of a varicolored jungle reminiscent of Rousseau, except for the fact that the figures moving among the jungle growth were not animals but combat troops. Otherwise, the huge chamber held little furniture or decoration. Brookes’s slab-topped desk was on a raised dais at one of the far corners. His was the only chair and he sat facing away from the windows. The Denver haze and smog had obliterated what otherwise would have been a sweeping view across the city to the mountains.
Brookes was tanned and lean, looking much younger than his age, which was forty-eight. Kreski supposed he skied and otherwise spent a set period of every day in violent exercise. He had a dark mustache and longish gray hair that, like President Hampton’s, was probably trimmed every day. His light blue eyes were unusually clear, almost transluscent, like faintly tinted glass marbles. It was as though one could look through them into the man’s mind, though with Brookes, one might not want to.
By Order of the President Page 25
