Free Fall

by Kyle Mills

  “My diagnosis is certainly not terminal,” Taylor said above the fading din. “But it’s made me question whether or not I have the energy to take on a responsibility like the presidency. America needs someone at the helm right now who is capable of one hundred and ten percent.”

  Beamon leaned forward until his forehead rested on the table in front of him. There it was. A mere six hours after their ill-fated meeting, and after forty years in public service, this was Robert Taylor’s final act. Slinking away like a dog from a little embarrassment and leaving America, Mark Beamon, and Darby Moore in the hands of a murderous blackmailer.

  “I’ve devoted my life to this country,” Taylor continued, “so you can imagine how difficult this is for me.” There was a dramatic pause, and Beamon started to feel a little queasy as he waited for the other shoe to drop. “The days of partisan politics are over. They have to be. America cannot afford to start the twenty-first century with an ineffective and bloated government I’ve heard the people, and they’re crying out for a system that works and that doesn’t empty their pockets at tax time.”

  Now who was he starting to sound like?

  Beamon rolled his head to the side and looked over at Darby. She was sitting ramrod straight on the other bed in the room, wearing a hotel-provided terry cloth robe. Below her still-damp hair, her face had frozen into a blank stare.

  “And I believe that the people are right,” Taylor went on. “Serious changes have to be made to bring this country—and the rest of the world—back on track. But be prepared—smaller, more efficient government makes demands of its citizens. Personal responsibility will be the theme that carries us forward.”

  The buzz from the off-camera reporters increased in volume again as the senator began speaking in Hallorinisms.

  “I’ve had a number of meetings with David Hallorin since my diagnosis….” The buzz grew to a deafening level and Beamon felt an increasingly familiar sensation of helplessness overcoming him.

  “I believe that be is the man to lead America forward.”

  “Fuck!” Beamon yelled, grabbing the portable computer next to him and throwing it in the general direction of the television. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor with an unsatisfying thud.

  “Please, please,” Taylor said as Darby rose from the bed and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. “If my party will allow it, I would like to continue in a leadership role, and should Senator Hallorin’s bid for the presidency be successful, act as a liaison between the GOP and his administration. We have a lot to get done, but I believe that if we work together, we can accomplish more in the next four years than we have in the last twenty. We—”

  Beamon clicked the OFF button on the remote and leaned back, staring at the ceiling and letting himself sink into a state of deep relaxation. Practice for being dead.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed like that—no thoughts crossed his mind to mark time. What was there to think about? It couldn’t be stopped. Not by him. Not by anyone.

  When he finally pulled himself back into the present, he saw that the bathroom door was still closed. “Darby? You all right in there?”

  No answer.

  He pushed himself out of the chair and padded across the room in stocking feet, silently admonishing himself for losing control. She had been through enough without having to witness the guy who was supposed to be saving her throw a tantrum.

  “Darby?” he said again, this time with his mouth almost touching the bathroom door. Nothing.

  “You decent in there?” He put his hand on the knob and opened the door wide enough to allow him to peek cautiously around it

  She was sitting on the edge of the tub, leaning forward so that her head rested on her knees. A slight vibration in her shoulders was visible under the thick robe as she quietly sobbed.

  She didn’t seem to be aware of his presence, so Beamon just stood there, unsure what to do. It suddenly struck him how young she was. He wondered how an inexperienced, twenty-seven-year-old Mark Beamon would have handled being stuck in the middle of something like this.

  Beamon ducked out and pulled two beers from the cooler they’d brought up from her truck. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back through the bathroom door and took a seat on the counter. “Here, it’ll make you feel better,” he said, holding the bottle out to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is so embarrassing.”

  “What?”

  “Sitting here crying like a baby. You may not believe this, but normally I’m pretty put together.”

  “I believe you. I’d be a Marlboro-flavored Popsicle if it weren’t for you.”

  She let out a sad half-laugh and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

  “You must have been in worse spots than this.” Beamon motioned toward her nose with the neck of his beer bottle. “What about those scars? You got them walking into a blizzard, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Must have been pretty frightening.”

  “All I remember is that it was cold. The wind had kicked up and everywhere you went it looked like you were walking through a crystal whirlwind. Then the clouds came over the mountain and it got dark….” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “But that was different. In the mountains you know where it’s coming from. It’ll be the cold, or a fall, or a slide. I don’t know where anything is coming from anymore. I don’t understand what motivates these people, and I don’t have the slightest idea of how to even try to stop them. I think about David Hallorin and Vili and the other men who are responsible for all this—for Tristan and Sam and Lori—and I want to kill them. I want to kill them, Mark. That’s not me.”

  He wanted to say something wise, or soothing, or insightful, but he couldn’t think of anything, so he remained silent.

  “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do,” Darby continued. “Other than to sit here and cry like a jerk while you baby-sit me.”

  “I wish I had something you could help me with, Darby. I know how frustrating it is to just sit around and wait in a situation like this, but to be completely honest, I’m not sure what I’m doing.” He paused. “You probably didn’t want to hear that, did you?”

  She took a sip of her beer. “I appreciate you being honest with me, Mark. And I know you’re doing everything you can. But where do we stand now? David Hallorin’s going to win, isn’t he? He’s going to be the president”

  Beamon nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking, Mark. We don’t have any proof that he has the file. We don’t even know if it really exists—I just saw something wrapped in plastic. Maybe he realizes all that. I mean, we can’t really hurt him—he’s going to be the president.”

  Beamon stared at the empty white wall in front of him and tried to decide how much to say. He wanted to lie to her, to tell her they were going to be okay, to snap her out of the depression she seemed to be sinking into. But he couldn’t “Would you take that risk?” he said, sliding off the counter and starting into the other room.

  She followed him out of the bathroom and watched silently as he lifted his portable computer off the floor. Miraculously, it was still working. The credit card Reynolds, Trent, and Layman had given him was, for some reason, still good, and he’d spared no expense at the computer store.

  “Look, Darby. There’s a trail of dead bodies connected to you. The cops are going to want to believe that you’re responsible. Who are you to them? A homeless person with a death wish, right?” He paused. “I’m still not getting this tact thing, am I?”

  She shook her head sadly. “You’re right That’s exactly what they think about me.”

  Beamon sat back down at the small table by the wall and centered the computer in front of him. “I’m telling you this because I know you can handle it. And you said you wanted honesty, right?”

  She nodded.

  “It would be best for them, if you resurface, uh, not alive. Then you can’t talk about what happened and
the cops just close the book on your friend’s death. I’m in just as bad a spot. Why would Hallorin risk letting me live—a man who has so many of the threads of their plan in his head? How do they know I won’t—”

  “Weave them into a tapestry.”

  “Well said.”

  She let the robe slide off her shoulders and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “I’m going to go for a walk,” she said, sitting down on the carpet to put her shoes on. “I need to get some fresh air and think.”

  Beamon frowned and tilted the computer’s screen down so he could see her over it. “I don’t know….”

  “Come on, Mark. It’s a safe part of town. And it’s dark. Nobody knows we’re here.”

  She was right, but the thought of her striking out on her own made him nervous. He was about to offer to come with her but knew she didn’t want the company. He tossed her the cell phone lying on the table next to him. “If you see anything suspicious—anything at all. Call me. And be back in an hour.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Beamon stared at the door for a few minutes after she had gone, not sure if he made the right decision. She was looking more and more like a caged animal as the days wore on, and a little open space and solitude was undoubtedly what she needed.

  The chances of one of Hallorin’s henchmen driving by and recognizing her in the dark didn’t seem very high. Hell, she was probably safer walking around at random than in the hotel with him.

  He shook off his nervousness, going back to the computer screen and the endless pages of Freedom of Information Act documents relating to JFK’s youthful indiscretions. After seeing the volume of the information, he understood Cindy Abrahms’ reluctance to e-mail it to him. It must have taken a full day to scan this many pages.

  In the end, though, it was looking like the whole thing had been a wasted effort. What exactly was he looking for? He was pretty comfortable that he’d already figured out more or less what the Prodigy file contained—so poring over a thousand pages of moot information wasn’t going to save his skin.

  His only real hope was to figure out a way to cut a deal with Hallorin. The current circumstances, though, suggested that was unlikely. He had absolutely nothing the man wanted, no proof of any wrongdoing, and based on his meeting with Taylor, a less than persuasive demeanor when politicians were involved.

  Beamon spent the better part of the next hour scrolling disinterestedly through the documents on the computer, mostly because he didn’t have anything better to do. As he’d come to expect of classified government documents, they went on forever and said almost nothing. The bulk of it consisted of reports on Kennedy when he wasn’t doing anything. There was a full ten pages on a birthday party for his six-year-old cousin.

  Beamon took to a more liberal use of the PAGE DOWN button, finally turning up some of the documents relating to Kennedy’s tryst with the alleged spy. Even that was mundane by current standards. It seemed that, like the press, the FBI at one time had a sense of decency. Thank God that hadn’t lasted.

  A few more pages flickered by and he stumbled upon a more detailed description of JFK’s relationship with Inga Fejos. As was common with some of these old documents, along the margin something had been scrawled in pen. Initially, it wasn’t legible, but after a few minutes he figured out how to make the computer focus in on the writing and magnify it

  When the door to the hotel finally opened, he barely noticed. Darby walked past the table he was sitting at and dropped onto her bed. “What if we just run, Mark?” she said. “I was stupid to go to Thailand, but there are other places. Places no one could find us. We wouldn’t have to stay gone forever, just… Mark? Are you listening to me?”

  She slid to the floor and crawled up next to him, following his unblinking stare to the laptop’s screen. “Re-file,” she read. “Not Prodigy. B. You found something! Do you know who B is?”

  Beamon reached out and shut the computer off. “That’s not a B.”

  forty-eight

  Tom Sherman turned off his headlights and navigated the car down the dirt road leading to his house half by moonlight and half by memory.

  He’d originally purchased the three hundred acres and the small cabin at its center as an occasional retreat. Seven miles from Manassas, Virginia, it was only about an hour from downtown D.C. As time passed, though, it was becoming much more than an occasional escape. Workweeks seemed to end earlier and start later every month. It was only Sunday night and, despite the faxes that would be piling up in his DuPont Circle brownstone, he knew he wouldn’t return there until at least Tuesday afternoon. It was all getting too confused. And he was getting too old.

  Sherman pulled up to the small cedar home and turned off his car’s motor, but didn’t get out. Instead he held his right hand up in front of his face and examined it in the moonlight flooding through the windshield. It looked ghostly white and it shook. The drive through Virginia’s countryside used to calm him. Now it all just followed him.

  Sherman stepped out into the cold air and started immediately for the house, leaving the hanging bag containing his clothes in the backseat. He’d feel better in the morning, he told himself. He just needed to get into bed and sleep.

  Halfway up the steps leading to the porch, he stopped. There was a dull, almost imperceptible glow coming from the window next to the front door. He moved a few feet to the right and examined it from a different angle, thinking it was his imagination or a trick of the moonlight. It wasn’t. There were lights on somewhere in the back of the house. But he was certain he’d turned everything off when he’d left the week before.

  He wasn’t sure what to do for a moment He couldn’t call the police because he’d purposely left his cell phone in D.C. He could, of course, drive to the station a few miles away, but somehow, it didn’t seem worth it. Instead, he walked quietly back to his car and pulled a .38 revolver from the glove box.

  The front door was unlocked, confirming his suspicion that someone had been, or still was, in the house. He pushed it open slowly, holding the gun out at waist level as he moved through the entry and spotted the light bleeding from the crack under the closed door to the kitchen. He stopped and listened for a moment, trying to decipher the sounds coming from the other side. There was no getting around the fact that someone was there.

  He should get the police, he knew. Or at least come at the kitchen from a less obvious direction, but in the end, he just couldn’t bring himself to care enough about his own welfare to bother. He pushed the gun out a little further in front of him and simply walked through the swinging door.

  The young woman standing at the island in the middle of the kitchen jerked back in surprise when she saw him, splattering a fair amount of balsamic vinegar on the floor beneath her. She took a step back from the plate of sliced tomatoes she’d been hovering over and raised her hands. “They were going bad. I swear.”

  “Darby Moore,” Sherman muttered, lowering the gun. She put her hands down and started pulling paper towels off a roll on the counter.

  “Where’s Mark?”

  “I think he’s in your office.”

  Sherman nodded and started to turn away, but paused and looked down at her as she wiped the vinegar off the floor. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you.”

  She stopped working on the floor and looked straight at him, probing. “I believe you,” she said finally. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Beamon said as Sherman entered the small, neatly organized office. Beamon had taken a seat behind the desk in the back corner and was examining a framed photograph he’d taken off the wall. It depicted a very young Tom Sherman shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover.

  “You were one of his top aides before you were even thirty, weren’t you, Tommy? He couldn’t give you the title, but you had more of the old man’s ear than anyone but Tolson.”

  Sherman stopped for a moment, examining Beamon’s more glaring injuries, then crossed the off
ice timidly and sat down in one of the chairs lined up in front of his desk. Beamon had to fight off the discomfort he was feeling at this bizarre role reversal. It had always been Sherman behind the desk and him in the hot seat for some screwup or another. And in a strange way, that’s how he preferred it.

  He put down the photograph and picked up a single page printed from his computer, looking one more time at the handwritten note in the margin.

  Re-file. Not Prodigy. B.

  “The initials are a little less confident,” Beamon said, sliding the paper across the desk with his good hand. “But I’d say they’re yours, wouldn’t you?”

  The symbol that Darby had mistaken for a “B” was actually the half-merged “TS” that Beamon had seen a thousand times before.

  Sherman hesitated for a moment and then picked up the sheet of paper. His eyes ran across it for no more than a second before he wadded it up and threw it in a wastebasket by the wall. Without a word, he stood and walked across the small room to a sideboard topped with a collection of liquor bottles. “Drink?”

  “I could use one,” Beamon said.

  Sherman looked a little unsteady as he returned to his chair and shook slightly as he pushed Beamon’s drink across the desk.

  “How stupid was I?” Beamon said, gulping down his first taste of bourbon in almost a year and feeling it attack the unhealed cuts in his mouth. “I thought I had the whole thing figured out. David Hallorin’s got enough political juice to get my suspension turned into a felony rap, he’d know about old FBI files from his time as a prosecutor in D.C., and he’s wealthy enough to throw three hundred thousand dollars my way to find a twenty-seven-year-old mountain climber. I’d have bet the farm I was working for him. But now it occurs to me that there’s someone else who fits that description.”