The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

  They attacked their rare steaks ravenously, easily finished the baked potatoes with sour cream, and interspersed the meal with pieces of warm, freshly baked bread. They skipped desert and Sara ordered Irish coffee.

  “This is Irish coffee?” he asked when the dark brown beverage topped with two inches of whipped cream was served. “Looks like an ice cream sundae.”

  “It’s got booze in it,” she whispered conspiratorially.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Hey, interesting.” He began to spoon the topping.

  In the glow of the meal’s aftermath, Martin made the gesture that Sara had known was inevitable. They had avoided intimacy on the drive down from Gettysburg and the wait for Sperry, although as she drove she occasionally sensed his sidelong glances. Their lovemaking beneath the thunderclouds on the darkened battlefield now seemed distant and far away, as if it had happened between other people; but he had not forgotten.

  His hand reached forward and curled her fingers. She has no alternative but to meet his eyes.

  “I love you,” he said simply.

  “We’ve been through a lot together, Martin, but now with Sperry’s help it’s almost over. With his influence, once the story has broken, I think we can get both our lives straightened out.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to be apart.”

  “Well, no, of course not.” She tried to keep her tone level and slightly aloof, but not cold. She couldn’t bear to hurt him. “But we will have our own things to do.”

  “When it’s over,” he said distantly. “But let me make love to you again tonight.”

  How could she tell him that the incident at Gettysburg was done from her own fear, sense of loss, and compassion for him? It was the motivation of a modern woman in a very complex situation and difficult to articulate. She was physically attracted to him; she knew now that she always had been. She appreciated his awe as lost years were revealed to him … but his conception of a commitment would be far different from hers.

  He smiled again and she had to admit it was an attractive smile. “Did I say anything wrong?”

  “No, but there’s something you have to understand.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think it’s about time we thought of the future. Yours and mine.”

  “You’ll return to teaching,” he stated.

  “Probably.” She laughed. “If I can find a university that will have me.”

  “I’ve thought about that. Universities are like the school although larger. They have huge lawns and many flowerbeds. That’s work that I am trained to do. Wherever you teach, I can be a groundskeeper.”

  “Martin, you’ve never even had a girl friend. You aren’t ready to commit yourself to anyone.”

  “And you aren’t ready either?”

  “We have different interests.”

  “I haven’t had time yet to know what my interests are.”

  It was her turn to hold his hand. “Please, Martin. Please try and understand and don’t make this difficult for me.”

  He stood. “It’s time to go. Isn’t there something about leaving a tip?”

  “Fifteen percent,” she replied.

  He smiled again and the grin seemed to become more infectious with repetition. “I can manage to compute it.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  Outside the restaurant he took her hand and they walked the hundred yards to their motel unit. “In case you’re worrying, I don’t intend to attack you tonight.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I never thought you would.”

  When they arrived at their room, he unlocked the door and they stepped inside. His arms went around her as he gently kissed her.

  She pulled away. “Martin … please.”

  He gave her a short peck on the forehead. “I know. Goodnight.”

  Later, when they were both in their respective beds Sara called over to Martin softly. “You awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just wanted to say goodnight and to say again how lucky we are to have found J.J. Sperry to intercede for us.”

  “I know. Very lucky.”

  The rush hour traffic for once did not irritate J.J. Sperry. He had enjoyed the afternoon. He always did when he had a cage or two to rattle. He had the corroboration he needed, and tomorrow he would write the column that would break the story.

  It would be a day to be relished. His staff, as usual, would be astounded as he held their usual early morning conference and revealed the intricacies of Operation Barbados. As soon as the column was forwarded to the newspaper syndicate the wire services would pick up the gist of the contents and all the media would be pounding on his door.

  Yes, it would be a good day. The kind of day that made the work worthwhile.

  He’d shake them up. Senator Rutledge Baxter would be up on charges before the Ethics Committee within a week.

  The quaint Georgetown street was crowded with parked cars, and he had to circle the block until he found a vacant spot several houses down from his. His good spirits still prevailed. He would not let the day-to-day annoyances of city living mar this night of achievement.

  Sperry carefully locked the car and began to walk briskly toward his own house. He passed a parked plumbing van and glanced inside out of idle curiosity. The two men on the front seat were pointedly looking the other way. One held a copy of The Wall Street Journal, the other a Styrofoam cup.

  Sperry smiled. They were so obvious they should have carried signs. At day’s end, ordinary plumbers did not drink coffee and read financial news before returning home. So, the surveillance was continuing. It would end tomorrow when the news broke.

  He inserted his key in the latch, and on impulse, turned and waved at the waiting men in the plumber’s van. They were watching him, but at his friendly salutation, immediately turned away to stare in the opposite direction.

  Sperry was still smiling as the door opened and he stepped into the empty house. He had fired Soy that morning, so he would have to make do for himself this evening, but even that prospect could be mitigated with the small pleasures of a bachelor life. He would grill three prime lamb chops and mix a green salad with his special creamy anchovy dressing. A bottle of vintage brut Bollinger would go well.

  Jack Daniels on the rocks would be his first order of business, then dinner, and afterward, over a cognac, he would make notes for tomorrow’s important article.

  A mild pique of irritation occurred when he realized that there wasn’t any ice in the dry sink. Of course, there wouldn’t be—he had fired Soy. The Jack Daniels was also low. He must remember to call and order a case.

  In the kitchen he flipped ice cubes into a silver bucket and then stepped over to the wall phone and dialed the liquor store.

  The phone was dead. He slammed the receiver down with a clatter and stomped scowling into the living room.

  He poured the sour mash, added ice from the bucket, and gently stirred.

  The house was quiet as he sat in the easy chair before the fireplace and sipped on his drink.

  Something was wrong. He knew it with the sudden intuitive clarity that had never failed him.

  He carefully placed his drink down on a side table and stepped to the fireplace to pick up a pair of tongs. The house was alarmed if it hadn’t been tampered with. Each window was expensively armed to set off a loud outside siren and also ring at the nearby precinct station.

  Sperry carried the tongs across the living room and crashed out a small pane of glass in a side window.

  There wasn’t any sound—no wail from the outside siren, just as there would be no alarm activated at the police station.

  He returned to his chair and drink. He was too old to run, and in his present physical condition he would never make it to the corner. The house was devoid of firearms; his repeated columns on gun control legislation attested to that.

  The men from the plumber’s van would be along shortly. It would take only seconds for them to breach the front door. He only hoped that t
hey were professionals and would do it neatly and with a modicum of pain.

  He knew who was ultimately responsible. He had shaken cages all right, and one of the shaken had called Baxter. He had underestimated the ambitious senator.

  Sperry leaned back in his chair and drank his Jack Daniels while looking at his favorite Jamie Wyeth over the fireplace. All that he felt was a faint nostalgia for the story not written.

  It would have been a good piece—one of his best.

  Pity.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As Sara watched Martin unload the food from the McDonald’s bag, she noticed his animation. From time to time he would glance at her and smile.

  It seemed nearly impossible that this man sharing her room was the same one who had arrived at Meegan halfway house only days before—the same man who had taught himself to ride a bicycle and eagerly reported to an alien job in an alien environment.

  If nothing else, the recent rush of events had accelerated his assimilation into the real world. What might ordinarily have taken months to accomplish had taken days, sometimes hours.

  Martin placed a paper napkin over his arm and, in a stiff and formal manner, approached the table where she sat. He plunked a water tumbler in front of her, ceremoniously poured a tiny splash of soda from the McDonald’s container into the glass, and then snapped erect—waiting.

  Sara tasted the soda and smacked her lips. “Yes, it has an adventuresome and robust tang. I would say that the delicate succulence of the cola extract has been blended authoritatively with the soda water.” She nodded and he filled her glass.

  He delicately opened a Big Mac container and set it next to her soda. “Do you approve, madam?”

  Sara bent and smelled the sandwich. “A combination of frozen utility grade beef and cheese, along with carefully selected mayonnaise, herbs, spices, and wilted lettuce. Compliments to the chef.”

  They both laughed as he sat opposite her and took a large chomp from his cheeseburger.

  They had slept well, the most refreshing rest they had experienced in days. It was as if the intercession of J.J. Sperry had relieved their inner tensions and allowed for the complete relaxation of their bodies.

  “We’ll stay holed up here until we hear from Sperry,” she said. “I would think he’ll get back to us no later than this time tomorrow.”

  “Uh huh. I wonder if there’s anything on the news yet?” He flipped on the television.

  “Probably too early,” she said. “Maybe on the six o’clock.”

  The noon anchorman’s face swam into focus and the sound picked up his voice in mid-sentence.

  “… of an apparent heart attack. Sperry’s body was discovered early this morning by Corrine Avery, a longtime cleaning woman for the noted columnist.”

  Sara stiffened. “Oh, my God, no,” she said softly as the newscast continued.

  “Sperry, whose syndicated column appeared in over three hundred eighty-five newspapers, had long been known for his Washington exposés. When contacted, staff members were grief-stricken and stated that the investigator was working on an important column when felled.”

  Martin looked at her in astonishment as Sara stared blankly at the newscaster. She felt numb until deep suspicion overcame shock. The coincidence of Sperry, in robust health yesterday, succumbing to a death by natural causes seemed too fortuitous to have happened on the eve he was to write the exposé column on Operation Barbados.

  “They killed him,” Sara said, and Martin nodded.

  “Contacted at his suburban Virginia home, Senator Rutledge Baxter had these comments.”

  The program cut to a videotape of the senator seated in a book-lined study, staring somberly at the camera.

  “The nation’s capital will deeply miss a man like J.J. Sperry,” Baxter said. “The well-being of the nation is dependent upon such men to hold a magnifying glass over our foibles and malfeasances. No man has ever done that better than J.J. Sperry.”

  The tape cut to a spokesman for the president and Martin flipped off the set. “They killed him,” he reiterated flatly.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “We should call his office and see if Sperry had told them anything about us.”

  “Yes.” She moved to the telephone on the bed table in slow motion. Sperry’s office number was written on a note pad next to the phone and she dialed.

  “Sperry Enterprises,” an emotionless voice answered.

  “This is Sara Bucknell. I’ve been talking with Mr. Sperry about something very important.”

  “Mr. Sperry passed away last night,” the voice answered without feeling.

  “I know. I just heard and I’m terribly sorry, but is there anyone else there who would know about our conversation?”

  “One moment, please. I will put you through to Mr. Robinson.”

  The phone was dead in Sara’s hand as it went on “hold.” Minutes passed. Her palms began to perspire and she considered redialing, but the phone was still without sound. She hadn’t been cut off—yet.

  “Robinson. Who the hell is this?”

  The voice on the phone startled Sara, and it took her a moment to realize that the man on the other end of the line was half-drunk. She could hear a great deal of noise in the background—they were having a wake at Sperry’s office.

  She spoke as clearly and concisely as she could. “This is very important, time is running out. I have been talking to J.J. Sperry about …”

  “Poor old J.J.’s dead,” the voice answered and its maudlin content preambled tears. “Dead,” Robinson repeated.

  “Yes, I heard. Did he tell anyone in the office about Operation Barbados?”

  “This week’s conspiracy?”

  “Yes, somthing like that. Please, did he?”

  “No. Hey, wait a minute—you the broad wanted for murder in upstate New York?”

  “Yes, but Mr. Sperry and I were talking about something else.”

  “He was arranging for your surrender, right?”

  “Wrong. I told him about Operation Barbados. It concerns a group of powerful men who are going to have …”

  “Listen, lady, you call us back in a couple of days, okay? We don’t even know if the syndicate will continue the column with J.J. gone. Contact me the middle of next week and we’ll get all the details … all right?” Without waiting for an answer Robinson hung up.

  Eddy Robinson poured himself a double finger of bourbon and kicked back his chair in order to have room to put his feet on the desk. The old bastard had been rough to work with, but he was the master … the real master. He raised his glass in silent toast.

  “Hey, Eddy,” a voice called in his doorway. “Did you know our phones are tapped?”

  Eddy Robinson drank again. “Fuck it.”

  “Don’t point that weapon at me, Althea.” Rutledge Baxter dissembled well, and after his initial start of surprise as he got into the limousine, his face assumed a broad friendly smile.

  “You sent someone to kill me, Rutledge.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Liar.” She pushed the gun against him.

  “Will you allow me a moment to at least talk about it? We can go to your place and talk over a drink. We won’t even have to use any subterfuge for the trip. Mr. J.J. Sperry’s legmen won’t be on our tail.”

  “You took care of that too.”

  Rutledge didn’t answer. He picked up the intercom to speak with the limousine’s driver. “Take us to Miss Remington’s apartment.”

  The driver flicked his eyes into the rearview mirror and flipped open the button of his uniform jacket to reveal a holstered snub-barreled revolver. He looked into the reflected eyes of Rutledge Baxter for confirmation.

  Rutledge shook his head and said no softly. “The apartment please, and notify the office at what number I can be reached.” He settled back in the seat next to Althea and half turned toward her. “Your face?” He ran his fingers lightly over the bandage that covered her cheek.

&
nbsp; “Not very pretty.”

  “Too bad we lost Billie. It rather surprised me, a man of his professional competence.”

  “I’m sure he was more surprised than you were,” she said bitterly, “if he had time for surprise. You’re a son of a bitch, Rutledge. Do you know that?”

  “Of course, darling. But you’ve always known that. I had always rather thought that was part of what attracted you to me.”

  “Not when your venom’s directed against me.”

  “You have to admit that your record up there in the Adirondacks was not exactly unblemished.”

  “I’m not finished with Fowler—I’m going to kill him.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Althea. We’ll get Fowler in good time. You should be on your way to New York to the plastic surgeon. Do you have enough money?”

  “Yes, I have enough money. Whatever possessed you to send someone after me? My failure? Billie?”

  “How can you be sure it was me? This is the first I’ve heard about any attempt on your life. I thought you were in New York—in a hospital.”

  Her eyes flickered with brief uncertainty. “You’re such a goddamn liar. You probably don’t even know yourself when you’re telling the truth.”

  “Why would I have you killed?” Because you know too much and you’ve outlived your usefulness, he told himself, but his mask did not slip.

  “I … I don’t know. But who else would have tried?”

  “Fowler and the woman.”

  “That wasn’t Sara Bucknell who came into my room that night.”

  “Someone she hired, or an accomplice … there are several possibilities.”

  The car pulled smoothly to the curb in front of the apartment building and a doorman stepped toward the limousine. Althea stuffed the Beretta into her pocket, but still clenched it firmly.

  “Pick me up in an hour,” Baxter snapped at the driver and stepped out of the car.

  They walked into the apartment house and silently waited for the elevator. When the doors hissed open, Rutledge stepped aside to let her enter, but she moved the pistol in her pocket to wave him inside.