by Jack Bowie
“You’re insane,” Braxton cried. He felt the tremor getting worse. “I have to kill you. I have to get rid of you and your abomination, this Cache.”
Greystone’s gaze briefly dropped to the wavering weapon. “The Cache? Such an amusing name. Warren thought it was quite clever. You don’t really think I only had the two of them do you? You cannot imagine the extent of my power.” His friendly, chatty tone suddenly turned cold. “You have led a charmed life, Adam Braxton. That incompetent assassin missed you twice. I won’t make the same mistake. It’s time to end this little conversation.”
Braxton could no longer restrain his anger. The man in front of him had taken his whole life: his father, his best friend, the woman he loved. He tried to raise the revolver at Greystone’s face but it shook uncontrollably in his hand.
“Don’t stress yourself unnecessarily, Adam. You can’t kill me; it’s just not in you.”
Braxton felt sick. This had to all stop; he couldn’t listen to any more. He thought of Susan and all she had meant to him; of all Greystone had done. He willed his arm to straighten and his finger to close on the trigger.
“Braxton! No! Don’t do it!”
The shout came from up the rise. He turned and saw Fowler running down a path toward them. His gun was raised.
“Susan is all right,” he yelled. “I was at the hospital. You don’t have to do this!”
Braxton shook his head. Why couldn’t he concentrate? If Susan was alive he had to see her. What was he doing here?
He was about to call to the detective when an explosion echoed through the woods. Fowler doubled over and dropped to the ground motionless. His gun fell from his hand.
“I think you should drop your gun too, Adam.”
Braxton turned toward the voice. Greystone was pointing a large, very lethal looking, automatic at him.
“Now, Adam,” Greystone ordered.
Drained physically and emotionally, he couldn’t challenge Greystone this way. Shooting someone, even the bastard standing in front of him, was not who he was. And would get him in even more trouble not less. Better to back off and wait. His arm dropped to his side and the revolver slipped from his hand.
“That’s better,” Greystone said. “Move away from the gun.” He motioned Braxton back, then pulled a pair of light cotton gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on, alternating the weapon between his hands.
Braxton stepped to the side, his chest heaving. He remembered the confrontation with Nicholson. He didn’t give up then and he wouldn’t now.
Greystone picked up Braxton’s revolver, stuffed it into his belt, and pointed for the consultant to walk toward the detective. When they reached the motionless body, he took the detective’s gun, trading it for his own automatic. He kicked Fowler in the side and the detective’s head snapped up.
“Bastard!”
“Detective Fowler. What a surprise. I didn’t expect you to join us.”
“Sam, how did you find us?” Without thinking Braxton moved closer, knelt over the detective, and tried to help him up. Fowler’s right pants leg was soaked with blood. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I went to the hospital to see Susan.” The words came between winces of pain. “When she regained consciousness this morning she told me about Greystone. I promised her I’d find you. I was driving down the Parkway when I heard a call about a kidnapping and guessed it might be the two of you.”
“What call?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Greystone cheerfully replied. “I have an emergency transmitter in the car. When I recognized you, I activated it. It sends a silent alarm to the police and also acts as a locator. All very high tech don’t you think?”
Braxton heard the faint sound of sirens in the background.
“Soon we will be found by members of the very efficient Metropolitan Police,” Greystone continued. He turned back to Fowler. “You came by sooner than I had expected, Detective. I can’t be sure what you might have heard, so unfortunately your colleagues will find there has been a terrible accident.
“I was going to have to kill you in self-defense, Adam, but now Detective Fowler has come to my rescue. Alas, you will have fatally shot each other just as the Detective was saving me. You may even get a commendation, Fowler. Posthumously, of course.”
“Go to hell!” Fowler tried to raise up but collapsed on his wounded leg. He was breathing hard, trying to hide the pain.
Braxton felt Greystone’s eyes upon him, and he quickly tried to hide his thoughts from the killer.
“You’re thinking of Ms. Goddard aren’t you, Adam? She is quite attractive, isn’t she? I hope the two of you had some fun together.” Greystone’s expression changed into a suggestive leer. “She will be easy enough to take care of. Hospitals are such dangerous places.”
Greystone’s face turned back into an expressionless mask, only a fearful dark glow from his eyes betraying any emotion. Had it been that coldness, the lack of connection to humanity, that had driven Greystone to computers in the first place? Had he seen their inherent logic as more suitable to his personality than the unpredictability and fallibility of his colleagues?
Braxton realized there was a piece of Greystone in him, that part that had tried to shut out the human world and withdraw into work or despair. Susan had finally brought him back from that void.
He couldn’t let Greystone kill Fowler. The executive was only twenty feet away. He would make something happen; he would do it for Susan.
A frantic charge worked with Nicholson. Could it be successful again?
“Screw you, Greystone.”
The executive glanced down at Fowler’s outburst and Braxton saw his opportunity. He screamed and charged, preparing himself for whatever would happen.
Braxton’s suicidal dash caught the executive off guard. The moment’s hesitation was a fatal mistake.
The first flash was almost too quick to perceive. Braxton saw the spot of speckled red light cross Greystone’s forehead, then return to settle midway between his dark eyebrows. Half a second later it disappeared, replaced by a slightly larger black hole.
Braxton pulled up, still six feet short of his adversary, and heard the report, a sharp crack that resonated through the trees behind him. He started to turn and look toward the sound but was mesmerized by the sight of his would-be executioner.
Greystone’s body shuddered as if he had caught a chill, then fell slowly backward finally reacting to the momentum of the bullet. He hit the soft sylvan floor with hardly a sound, a look of surprise still etched into his face. A pool of dark red blood quickly spread in the leaves and pine needles, forming an ironic halo around his head.
Braxton stared dumbfounded at the body, then snapped around to locate the shooter but all he saw was a jungle of brush and trees. He was still standing, so he supposed the sniper had taken care of his target and disappeared. Whoever it was, they were certainly better prepared than he had been.
He heard a moan and realized he had forgotten about Fowler.
“Sam, can you hear me?” he said, kneeling down next to the detective. The leaves under his leg were floating in a pool of blood.
“Sam!” he cried, shaking the detective’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” the detective grunted. His eye fluttered open. He was going in and out of consciousness. “What happened?”
“A sniper killed Greystone. He saved my life.” Braxton was still shaking from the confrontation with Greystone. His last hope to clear his name was gone, but he had to focus on Fowler. “What can I do for you?”
Multiple sirens broke through the quiet of the ravine. They were coming in his direction.
“Greystone’s alert,” Fowler whispered in explanation. “Get away.” He was having trouble speaking. Braxton had to do something.
“Can’t, Sam. I’ve got to look at your leg.” He found the bullet hole and stuck his fingers though the pants leg. “This might hurt a bit,” he explained as he ripped the material open, exposing the wound.
Fowler screamed.
Blood continued to gush from the wound. He had to find a way to stop the flow.
Braxton unbuckled Fowler’s belt, yanked it out of the loops and wrapped it around his leg above the wound.
“One more time, Sam. Sorry.” And he pulled the belt tight.
Fowler yelled again, but this time less loudly. Braxton didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not.
What else could he do? What did he have that would help? He rubbed his hands over the chauffer’s outfit and felt a bump. Besides his watch, wallet and cell phone, he had transferred the flash drive to Santana’s uniform.
The cops were on their way. He couldn’t leave Fowler, but his situation after they arrived was not likely to be cordial. There was no telling whether they would listen to what he had to say.
The drive was the last copy of Chamberlain’s file. He had to keep it safe.
Lights flashed over the rise. They would be here any second.
He pulled the drive out of his pocket. “Sam, can you hear me?” Fowler’s eyes were glazed. He was conscious but only barely.
“What?” Fowler responded weakly.
“I’m putting the drive with Chamberlain’s journal in your pocket. The key is ‘the journal of the cache’. Can you remember that?” He slipped the piece of plastic into Fowler’s jacket.
“Journal?” The word came out in a slur.
“Yes, Chamberlain’s journal. You remember we talked about it. The key is ‘the journal of the cache’. Repeat it for me.”
“Journal of . . .”
Suddenly Braxton flew into the air. Then just as rapidly smashed to the ground. His face was mashed into the carpet of pine needles and decomposed leaves. A knee stabbed in his back and his arms were ripped behind him and locked in a nylon cuff.
“Adam Braxton,” came an angry, disembodied voice. “You are under arrest for the murder of Barclay Nicholson and Robert Greystone. And the attempted murder of Detective Sam Fowler. You have the right to an attorney, anything you say . . .”
* * *
The sniper made one final scan of the kill zone, then stood back from the crook of the tree he had used as a stabilizer. The cops had turned the scene into a circus. They would be so focused on the two civilians and the dead body it would be hours before they even thought of another shooter. Ample time to make his getaway. It was the treacherous client that he had wanted, no one else. That score had to be settled.
It had worked out mostly as he had planned. Both Braxton and Greystone had been very predictable. The second arrival was a surprise, but Greystone had neutralized him and he hadn’t presented any additional difficulties. The trip down Rock Creek, on the other hand, had taken all of his skills. Braxton had driven like a maniac and he had had trouble keeping up with him. Maybe he was getting too old.
It was time to retire, time to take his family to the quiet ranch outside Jackson Hole that he had purchased years before. A caretaker lived there now, keeping the home clean and the livestock managed. His boys would like the small herd of cattle, and the stable of riding horses. His wife would complain at first, and it would take some time for her to get used to his regular presence, but she would eventually succumb to the open air and breathtaking scenery. It would be a good life, and a fitting rest.
He slid his modified Remington M24 rifle into the case, bent down to pick up the spent casing, and dropped it into his pocket. One final look around to check for anything he might have left behind.
Then Harding limped back through the trees, disappearing into the ravine.
Chapter 73
Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 5:00 p.m.
BRAXTON HAD BEEN dragged through the ravine by two beefy D.C. cops, thrown in the back of a cruiser and driven, full lights and sirens, to Police Headquarters where he had been immediately led to a claustrophobic interrogation room, dropped into a waiting chair and left, his arms still handcuffed behind his back.
The room had originally been painted a sickly green, but now there were more stains than paint covering the floor and walls. Braxton couldn’t decide which was more disgusting. Sitting there alone, he tried not to think about the mix of bodily fluids that had caused the spots.
He was seated in a cracked wooden chair. Directly in front of him was a dented government-issue metal table, then two more chairs and finally a small mirrored window stuck in the opposite wall. He wondered how many cops watched from behind that wall.
A long fluorescent fixture with half its lens missing provided the only light, and a small video camera was perched on a bracket in the far ceiling corner, blinking its electronic eye at him with distracting regularity.
He sat in silence, a thousand thoughts flashing through his head, but unable to bring any in focus enough to prepare him for the forthcoming questioning. The Army had provided rudimentary interrogation training, but he had paid little attention at the time. In retrospect, a big mistake.
Adding to his anxiety, his arms ached and the plastic restraint was having the expected effect on his psyche. He tried to breathe deeply and relax, but the pounding in his chest refused to respond.
A door on his right opened and two men entered. Neither was in uniform. One man was tall, thin and completely bald. He wore dark trousers and a wrinkled blue shirt. The clothes of a working cop. His face was hard, like it was chiseled from a block of stone. And like a rock, his expression never changed.
The shorter man was stocky, with military-cut brown hair, hazel eyes and a dark stubble. His shirt was white, but no less unkempt. He, unlike Stone Face, had very expressive features, and from Braxton’s position, the expression was one of pure hate.
“I am Detective Davidson,” the shorter man began. “And this is Detective Frankel.” Stone Face nodded. “Cooperate and you might get out of this alive.
“We’ve got your gun, two dead bodies and a critically-injured cop. My ex-partner by-the-way,” Davidson added with a venom Braxton felt to his toes. “Now I don’t give a damn about that Chamberlain guy, that’s Massachusetts’ problem. If they ever get their hands on you, which I doubt they will.” Stone Face shook his head and agreed.
“No, you’re mine until I say otherwise,” Davidson continued. “We are not leaving this room until we get the truth. It will go a lot easier on you if you just tell us what happened. So why kill the aide to a Senator?”
* * *
And that was the way it went. Again and again. Davidson screaming questions, Braxton explaining what happened. Always giving them the truth. Never what Davidson wanted to hear.
It didn’t matter what Braxton said, the questions were always the same. Sometimes Stone Face joined them, sometimes not, but it was always Davidson.
They had to have the ballistics reports by now. It would show he didn’t shoot Greystone, Nicholson or Fowler. Why was Davidson insisting that he did?
Braxton struggled with his strategy. He could always just request a lawyer. The questioning would stop, but he would then be photographed, booked, thrown in a cell and forgotten. He didn’t know any lawyers and there was no chance a public defender would believe him. He would be in the same position but buried deeper in the legal system. As painful as it was, he’d take his chances with Davidson.
They made every effort to wipe out his sense of time, but Davidson had forgotten to remove his wristwatch and Braxton had been able to sneak an occasional look. Between eight and nine his arms finally failed and he had slumped over in the chair; Davidson had removed his wrist constraints. It took fifteen minutes to get feeling back in his hands. At ten he had requested a bottle of water; it was provided. This was repeated at midnight and two. A bio-break was routinely requested, and routinely refused.
At three o’clock Davidson again appeared. Braxton hoped he didn’t look as bad as the cop. His sweat-stained shirt reeked, his eyes were set into deep black craters and his cheeks had a pasty pallor that flushed red when the cop talked. The cop’s
deterioration was one of the incentives that kept Braxton going.
Davidson strode to the opposite side of the table, leaned forward and put his face three inches from his suspect.
“Okay, Braxton. Now it’s really over.” His rancid-coffee breath flooded over Braxton and made his stomach turn.
“You’re a murderer and a liar,” Davidson screamed. “You killed a D.C. cop and I’m not going to let you walk out of this room until you admit it!”
Killed a cop? What was he talking about? Had something happened to Fowler?
“What cop?” Braxton pleaded.
“You know damn well what cop. Sam Fowler is dead. I’m personally going to see you rot in hell for that!”
Braxton felt his heart explode. He couldn’t breathe.
Fowler couldn’t be dead. It had just been a leg wound. There was no one to corroborate what happened at Rock Creek. No one to explain the journal. He had no more proof of his story.
The exhaustion and despair finally struck him like a tidal wave. He nearly fell off the chair. He had never understood how innocent people could confess to a lie just to sleep. Now it seemed so obvious.
The door to the room opened and two men in dark suits entered. Davidson spun around.
“Who the hell are you?” he screamed. “Get out of my interrogation room!”
Braxton looked up and saw the intruders stand their ground. Even in his brain-dead state, they looked vaguely familiar.
The taller man spoke in a calm and clear voice. “You’ve had your chance, Detective Davidson. Time to give it up.” He pulled a wallet from his pocket and flashed a badge. “Special Agent Brooks, FBI. This is Special Agent Salisbury. We’re here to take custody of Mr. Braxton on behalf of the Federal Government.”
“Bullshit,” Davidson said, stepping in front of Brooks. His face glowed bright red. “This is murder of a D.C. cop! No way you put one more foot in this room.”
