Free Fall

by Kyle Mills

  “Okay, time for just one more,”he said, raising his arm out over the crowd.“You, sir.”

  “Senator. Your rather harsh ideas on prison reform could be called ultraconservative and your ideas on drug legalization, though unique, would generally be considered far left. Time is getting short—a little more than three weeks to the election. Do you feel that your message is appealing enough to the public to move you out of third place?”

  “That question sounds suspiciously professional,”Hallorin said, in an easy, good-natured tone that he’d been practicing for months.“No reporters are allowed to ask questions today, you know. This forum is for the people.”

  “I’m an accountant. I swear!”came the unmiked reply.

  Hallorin nodded and smiled engagingly.“Since I have your word … The problems you mention are interrelated, really. It seems to have become obvious that people are not reformed in prison—often the contrary is true. In some circles …” Hallorin didn’t identify blacks by name, but paused slightly to let the audience fill that in for themselves. The strategic fanning of racial animosities was critical to his campaign.“… going to prison has become a badge of honor; a rite of passage. Let’s look at the facts. Seventy percent of prisoners are nonviolent drug users. That’s roughly a million and a quarter souls. Conservatively, it costs us twenty-two thousand dollars per year to keep them in jail. That’s over twenty-sevenbillion dollars out of our pockets. And worse than the cost, we don’t have room to keep killers, rapists, and the like on the inside. If we can free up space by releasing people who are not a threat to the safety of others, then we’ve made one heck of a first step to taking the streets back from the criminals.”

  He paused again to usher in a slight change of subject.“Perhaps it’s time to say that the opportunity to live in a free society comes with certain requirements—rules. You can’t kill anyone, for instance. Many of my colleagues seem to think that this is an unreasonable and unworkably complicated rule. I disagree. You know how I remember things? Sticky notes. Got ’em everywhere. So I propose that everyone could put one beside their bed so that it’s the first thing they see in the morning. In big black letters it would say: ’Reminder Don’t kill anyone today.’ I might even support funding to allow the government to give out packets of sticky notes, with that message preprinted on them, to every American.”

  He got a full laugh out of that one, as he’d expected.

  “No more degrees, no more excuses. If you kill somebody and it wasn’t an accident or self-defense, you go to prison for the rest of your life. Not to reform you, but to keep people whocan follow the rules safe from you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of his men jabbing desperately at his watch, and he nodded an imperceptible acknowledgment.

  “I was told yesterday that the highest voter turnout in fifty years is expected for this election. That seems to surprise a lot of people. But not me. America knows that it has an opportunity to do something wonderful here. Good can come from all the pain we’ve suffered over these last few years. Let’s make sure our children don’t have to go through anything like this again.”

  The applause was polite but enthusiastic as he stepped away from the podium and was ushered through a door at the back by the Secret Service men who had been assigned to him. As always, they looked nervous. His utilitarian stances on the workings of the government, his outspoken criticism of popular politicians, and most of all his unwavering disrespect for the Arab world had produced quite a bit of speculation regarding the possibility of an attempt on his life. Good. That sense of danger sold tickets.

  As they approached the exit, Hallorin slowed down, effectively using his solid two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame to halt the procession. He had been told that he would meet with the press immediately after he’d finished in the auditorium. The head of his protection detail seemed to read his mind.“Sir, we’ve been instructed to escort you out immediately. Arrangements have been made to handle the press.”

  Hallorin didn’t move.“What the hell are you talking about? Who gave that order?”

  “Mr. Peck insisted.”

  Hallorin looked back down the hall toward the sound of his audience as they left the building. It had gone well. Better than expected. But the press still wasn’t with him—he needed this meeting.

  “Sir?”

  “Goddamn it,”he said between clenched teeth and then started moving again, allowing himself to be pushed toward the exit.

  The interior of the natural gas-powered van had been reconfigured to be like that of a limousine: two sets of plush seats facing each other right behind a heavy glass pane that separated them from the driver. In the corner of one of those seats, with his head resting against a side window, was Roland Peck.

  The van started moving the moment the side door slid shut, the motion appearing to cause Peck physical pain. Headlights from oncoming cars filtered through the tinted windows, making his skin glow stark white and coloring his bright red hair almost black.

  “What the fuck, Roland?”Hallorin said angrily.“The press—.”

  “You did well, Senator,”Peck interrupted.“Yes. I watched. Our people can handle the spin. A simple matter.” Peck swallowed hard and flicked his nose with the forefinger of his right hand. It was another of the mannerisms Hallorin had come to know. There was a problem.

  “The file,”Hallorin said.

  “We’ll have it within forty-eight hours.” Peck spoke without looking up and Hallorin felt a vague sense of nausea wash over him. He waited until it passed before he spoke again. ’Tell me what happened, Roland.”

  “There was an accident.”

  Hallorin shot a hand out and grabbed hold of Peck’s arm. His fingers went all the way around the man’s thin bicep and overlapped in the back. ’Tell me what happened, Roland!”Peck still didn’t look up, so Hallorin increased the pressure on his arm until a wince started to spread across Peck’s thin face. He almost looked like he was going to cry.

  “There was an accident. An accident… one of our men is dead.”

  Hallorin released him and fell back in his seat, the words ringing in his head.

  Peck still didn’t make eye contact, but the story finally started to flow in frightened stops and starts.“I don’t know how it happened. I left only for a moment. There were two of our men in the room and Newberry was tied up. The woman … wasn’t.”

  “Stop,”Hallorin said, cutting off what he knew would be an incoherent jumble of excuses, facts, and speculation.“Who’s dead?’

  “Anderson. He went through a window and …” Peck put a hand up to his throat.“It cut here.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “It looks like a car accident—glass from the windshield.”

  “You said you left them with two men—what about the other?”

  “I don’t know what happened—he says that the woman pushed him and he fell against the edge of the bed. He was knocked unconscious long enough for her to untie Newberry and get out through the window.”

  “Who is ’he’?”

  “McMillan.”

  Hallorin knew both men. State troopers who had been with him for a number of years. He’d kept the most loyal of them around despite the increasing involvement of the Secret Service as his candidacy had evolved. The Secret Service had no allegiance.“Is there any reason not to believe him?’

  Peck shook his head miserably.“No … I don’t know.”

  Hallorin ran his hand through his hair and looked out over the unfamiliar landscape of Columbus, Ohio. History and fate had lined it all up in front of him: the recent scandals that had rocked the government, the onset of the economic disaster he’d foretold, the existence of the Prodigy file. The American people were like children: noisy about their need for independence when things were going their way, but ready to crawl back to their parents when that good fortune turned. This was his time in history. His time.

  “Look at me, Roland.”

  He
didn’t move.

  “Look at me!.”

  Peck slowly raised his head.

  “You said forty-eight hours. That you’d have them and the file in forty-eight hours.”

  Peck looked like he was trying to shrink back further, but the glass behind him wouldn’t allow it.“It’s hard. Senator. Hard. We’ll find the boy. Yes. Soon. And when we find him, we’ll have the file. But the girl. We know so little about her. And it’s so hard to learn more. We can’t allow anything we do to be traced back to us.”

  “You can’t let anything be traced back to you,” Hallorin corrected.“She’s seen you, hasn’t she?”He let that hang for a moment. Peck was valuable to him—incredibly so, but not indispensable. It would be a shame to lose him now after spending so many years learning to manipulate his many psychoses and insecurities. Yes, it would be terribly inconvenient, but if he had to, he would distance himself from the younger man and use the loyalty he had so carefully cultivated to force Peck to take any blame that could be directed at him.

  “She’s seen me,”Peck admitted finally.“Yes, she’s seen me.”

  “If she isn’t found soon it may be necessary for you to bring in someone from the outside to help in the search. Someone not connected to us.” Hallorin reached out again, this time taking Peck’s face in his hands.“What will happen to all your plans without the file, Roland? Everything was so perfect. You made everything so perfect.”

  It had taken a great deal of time and a number of expensive psychologists, but Hallorin had finally come to understand Roland Peck. The external trappings of power didn’t interest him. Only the complete dominance that was virtually impossible at this time in history meant anything. Hallorin had initially gained his loyalty, and love, by putting him in control of the marketing for his business empire. Through using his genius to create ways to tell people what to think and feel, Peck had gleaned just enough of that sense of dominance to keep him hooked.

  Hallorin had put no constraints on Peck’s actions with regard to the woman who had been with Tristan Newberry. While her death would have undoubtedly been rather imaginative and unpleasant, it would have been a gluttonous feeding for Peck’s unusual psychological and sexual needs—another gift from Hallorin that would further bind the man to him.

  “Find the file, Roland,”Hallorin said.“Imagine what it could mean for you if we were in the White House.”

  twelve

  Darby Moore wrapped her arms around her knees and looked down on the gray-blue mirror that was Summersville Lake. The wind was gusting gently, making the sun bouncing off the water go from a dull glow to a blinding flash every few seconds. She adjusted her position for what must have been the thousandth time, trying to get comfortable in the rocky alcove nature had carved from the dense foliage, and trying to stay calm.

  She was completely invisible to anyone hiking on the trail system or climbing on the cliffs that rose above her, but the amphitheater-like rock formations bounced sound in her direction. If Tristan called to her, she’d hear.

  It had taken her twelve hours from the time she’d watched Tristan limp away to when she finally came to the mouth of the canyon she had descended into—nine of those hours in the dark. The town of Conrad, Maryland, had been another few exposed miles through open fields and unprotected roads.

  She’d kept out of sight as much as a dirt- and sweat- encrusted twenty-seven-year-old woman could, working her way through the quiet streets and finally slipping into an alley across from the police station. She’d watched the cops moving back and forth in the large picture window for a long time, trying to figure out what to do.

  Finally, she’d decided that she had no choice. If Tristan hadn’t already been caught, he would be soon—she had to go in and tell them what happened.

  She had stepped from the alley and was about to start across the street when the familiar face of the man who had let her and Tristan escape appeared in the police station window. She ducked back out of sight and watched him walk out to the street, followed by a man in uniform. They spoke for a few more minutes, finally breaking off their conversation when a dark gray Ford pulled up. She didn’t recognize the man driving, but she remembered the red- haired man in the backseat very clearly.

  She’d taken off down the alley and in a few minutes found the only bank in town. She spent most of the next four hours in a small park with her back pressed against an oak bordered by tall bushes, waiting for what little money she had to be wired from her bank in Wyoming.

  After that, she’d walked to the outskirts of town and found the old used car lot she’d passed on the way in. The little Toyota pickup truck she’d purchased there was worth about two thousand dollars. It had cost her forty-five hundred. The man who ran the lot had obviously smelled blood when she’d walked up. He’d protested at first—saying that it was impossible to sell her a car with no ID—but the protest hadn’t had much emotional content. The money—nearly all she had—changed his mind.

  Darby pulled what was left of her cash from the waistband of her shorts and smoothed it out on her lap, counting it for the third time that day. Four hundred and twenty-six dollars. Normally, enough to live on for months. But things weren’t exactly normal.

  She turned her head at the sound of a shouted obscenity floating down to her from the cliffs above. Tristan wasn’t coming, she knew that. She’d probably known it the moment she’d left him. She shouldn’t have let him go off on his own. She should have stayed with him no matter what.

  Darby stood, careful not to bump into the branches around her and alert anyone to her presence. If someone saw her, they’d most likely recognize her. And if they recognized her, it wouldn’t take long before every climber within a hundred-mile radius knew she was here. After that, it was inevitable that the news would leak out of the climbing community and reach the men who were undoubtedly after her—if they hadn’t guessed she was here already.

  She started back toward the clearing where the truck was parked, knowing what she had to do, and trying to convince herself that it was the smart move. In the end, though, she knew better. She was acting solely out of fear and guilt—two of the very worst emotions to base decisions on.

  There was no path, and the light was failing. It was still familiar to her, though. If she kept going straight through the trees, she would end up at the top of the climb she’d been working on. From there, she’d be able to see down into the clearing where she’d parked her van.

  She was vaguely aware that every step she took was a little slower than the last, but continued to force herself forward. Every few seconds she’d go perfectly still and listen for any sound that could be human. Then she’d look around her, trying to penetrate the shadows created by the trees and the thick bushes strangling them.

  As she slid down a moss-covered rock into a deep puddle of muddy water and wet leaves, she noticed a dim glow gaining strength in front of her. At first she’d thought it was natural—the stronger light in the open clearing she was moving toward. But when it became obvious that it was man- made, she slammed her back against a large tree and slid down beneath it.

  What the hell was she doing there? They’d be waiting for sure—armed men who wouldn’t let her surprise them again. They’d probably guessed what direction she’d be coming from, too. They were probably all around her, right now, waiting for an opportunity to grab her without having to fire a shot and cause a stir in the people camped around the river.

  She felt the tears start to well up again, but clenched her eyes shut and squelched them. She’d been in tough situations before, she told herself, and never resorted to crying. The tears couldn’t be stopped through reason, though, and soon she could feel them running down her cheeks, leaving narrow streaks that cooled quickly in the mountain air.

  What was wrong with her? The answer came easily. She’d never cried before because she’d always known what to do. Dig in and wait out a storm or try to outrun it. Continue up a climb, back off, or bivy. She had her years of expe
rience to rely on.

  But her experience didn’t extend to people purposefully trying to kill her. What was the right decision? She had no idea who was after her or who she could trust. Certainly not the police or government. The men in the file Tristan had stolen probably owned the government.

  Darby looked back into the woods she’d come through, trying to penetrate the deepening shadows. She wanted to run. To get as far away from all this as she could. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

  She crawled now, slowly and quietly toward the dim glow in front of her. It wasn’t long before she could hear the unintelligible hum of conversation over the sound of the wind and flowing water. Only a few more feet. She dropped to her belly and slid forward, inch by inch.

  When she’d decided to come back here, she’d expected to find the clearing dead silent and her van transformed from her home and primary source of transportation to bait for a trap to capture her. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The clearing was bustling with activity. The glow came from the headlights of no fewer than five cars encircling her van. There were men and women everywhere—some in casual clothes, some in police uniforms, some in suits.

  A camera flashed and tinged the windows of her van pink. She thought it was just a reflection at first, but when the man with the camera moved, she saw it. A single, bare foot hanging out of the open side door. From where she lay, she could see that it was covered in blood.

  Darby rolled on her back and looked through the trees at the sky. The first stars were starting to burn in the east but weren’t yet strong enough to close in on the just-set sun. She tried to concentrate on them and block out everything else, but it was impossible.

  She’d seen dead people before. A friend of hers—a good friend—had died in her arms on K2. It had been years ago, but she could still remember the small, bright patches of blue above them as the violently gusting wind opened up cuts in the clouds and then, just as quickly, sealed them. He’d joked about having her arrange his limbs like a Roman statue—so that future climbers could enjoy a little art on their way to the summit. Then he was gone.