Open Chains

by D. F. Bailey

  Finch laughed. “Maybe I should have said he’s worth his height in gold.”

  “So, what? Just under seven feet? Yeah, worth a ton more.”

  In the distance they could see a lone man trudging up the sidewalk towards them. He paused to adjust the shoulder strap on his briefcase.

  Finch narrowed his eyes. “I think that’s him.”

  “He’s not in his car. The Escalade.” Eve leaned forward. “I’m not sure. Well … maybe.”

  Finch checked his watch. Six thirty. “He’s right on time.”

  Eve took the four-by-six photo in her hand, held it against the windshield and compared it to the man trudging forward. “You’re right. It’s Brodie.” She put the picture aside and turned to Finch.

  Finch didn’t avert his eyes. He knew this would be the only time he’d have to take a measure of the man before Brodie was exposed for his past crimes. He wore a brown leather jacket over an open collared shirt. His belly protruded over the belt on his denim jeans. A ten pound spare tire. Maybe fifteen. He had the stocky build of a wrestler and Finch imagined that during his basic training Brodie might have won a few bouts in the ring. His untrimmed, scruffy beard and his bushy hair completed his look: The untamed intellectual who defied any social pigeon hole. It was a brand that Brodie nurtured to flaunt the cultured, color-coordinated image of career-track Washington bureaucrats. The deep state cronies. He wasn’t one of them. Never would be. His mission was to destroy them all.

  “I can’t believe it. This is way better than trying to get to him from his car.” Finch set his hand on the door lever. “You still good with the plan?”

  The plan called for Finch to approach Brodie on his own. He’d challenge him with an opening question. The ambush question. Then he’d give Brodie a copy of the brief story he’d written — the can-opener — which accused him of murdering fifteen Iraqi fighters. He’d ask for a response. If he caught Brodie by surprise, maybe he’d get in a second jab before Brodie fended him off. But once Brodie said, “You’re trespassing, get off my property” (or words to that effect) then the interview would be terminated. However, if Finch was lucky, Brodie would bite, and the interview could lead anywhere.

  She nodded. “You feeling lucky?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I am.” He clicked on his cellphone, tapped the video app to ensure it was recording, then slipped the phone into the breast pocket of his jacket so that the camera lens stood just above the top of the pocket.

  “Then go.” She kissed two fingertips and pressed them to his cheek.

  “If I’m not back in an hour” — he rolled his eyes as if to say, I should be so lucky — “call in the marines.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving without you.”

  Finch opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. As he walked past the cover provided by the shrubs he realized that Brodie wasn’t aware of his approach. The man appeared to be in another world, some internal bubble where he was talking to someone. Even his lips were moving, biting off words in silence as if he were shouting orders to an invisible companion. Finch moved forward in silence. He was ten steps away. Seven. Five.

  ※ — ELEVEN — ※

  “MR. BRODIE.” FINCH blocked the driveway entrance that led up to Deacon Brodie’s home. He held a copy of the story in his left hand, a single sheet of paper fluttering in the light breeze. “What do you have to say about the fifteen men who died in a helicopter under your command during Operation Enduring Freedom?”

  “What?” Brodie's eyes blinked open. He looked past Finch’s shoulder as if he needed to find his bearings.

  “Do you take responsibility for fifteen Iraqis thrown to their deaths from the back of a CH-47 Chinook helicopter in 2004?”

  “What’s that?” Brodie took a step back as if he’d just absorbed a body blow. “Who are you?”

  “Will Finch from The San Francisco Post.” He moved a step forward to maintain his distance with Brodie. If he could land one more jab, it would keep Brodie back-footed for another few seconds. “I have two notarized testimonials claiming you murdered fifteen Iraqis on the night of February 6, 2004.”

  Finally Brodie came to his senses and stood his ground. His eyes narrowed and swept over Finch as if he were scanning every inch of him. He glanced at the paper and snarled. “Who are you, again?”

  “Will Finch. San Francisco Post.” He passed the story to Brodie and watched as Brodie studied the single sheet of paper, folded it, and tucked it inside his jacket. “I’d like to know your response before we publish.”

  Brodie gazed at him, his eyes twin lasers focused on Finch’s inner world. Then Brodie zeroed in with a pinpoint strike Finch never saw coming.

  “You’re the reporter who took down Senator Whitelaw three years ago.” He inhaled a long breath as if he needed a moment to cast into his memory and reel in the details of the story. “Right. You were accused of assassinating him.”

  This time Finch blinked. “Those charges were dismissed within two days. The fact is Whitelaw had Parkinson’s Disease. He shot himself.”

  “Right.” Brodie let out a light guffaw. “A suicide.” He smiled to suggest they were both insiders to a tragic joke. “Look, if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to turn off that cell phone.” He pointed to the lens of the camera peeking out from Finch’s breast pocket.

  Finch realized he would have to comply. He pulled the phone from his pocket and turned it off.

  Brodie held out a hand. “Give it over. Don’t worry, I’ll return it when you leave.”

  Finch hesitated. “What?”

  “You either leave my property now with that phone in your pocket” — his face broke into a wide, almost luminous smile — “or give me the phone and join me in my home where I will entertain your questions.” His tone suggested that they might enjoy a drink together while Brody amused himself with Finch’s journalistic confections.

  Finch considered the offer. He’d never been presented with a choice like this. Nothing close to it.

  “Choose, Mr. Finch.” His smile diminished slightly. “It’s one of the privileges we Americans share.” He held up a clenched hand and one by one his thumb and fingers rolled out of his fist. He was counting down the seconds. His unspoken ultimatum was that Finch had five seconds to decide. One finger. Two. Three.

  “All right,” Finch whispered, and passed over his phone.

  “Good. You made the right choice.”

  Brodie slipped the phone into his jacket and led the way up the driveway in silence. When he reached the covered porch, he entered a long code into a keypad lock and swung open the front door. He waved a hand — “After you” — and Finch stepped onto a broad foyer. The floor was composed of terracotta tiles, the walls covered with waist-high wood wainscoting. Five framed black-and-white photographs covered the left wall. All of them images from the late 1800s in the American wild west. Finch gazed at the picture of a young gunslinger, his right hand sitting on top of a rifle barrel, the other draped behind the holster of his left-handed six-shooter.

  “That’s Billy The Kid,” Brodie said as he hung his leather jacket on a coat tree. “The original 1880 pic. One of a kind. To this day the name of the photographer is unknown. And believe me, I’ve spent time and money trying to track him down.”

  Finch decided not to respond. Better to keep the conversation focused on Brodie himself. He turned to scan the room beyond the foyer but Brodie led him back toward the kitchen and dining room.

  “Sally!” he called into a distant room. “We got company, girl.”

  Seconds later a black woman in her mid-thirties appeared in a navy-blue maid’s uniform. Over the blouse and skirt she wore a white, bib-style apron. Her hair was tucked up in a bob under a white cap. Her appearance was immaculate.

  “Sally, this is Mr. Will Finch. A famous American journalist. Specializing in fake news, I’m afraid, but for today we’ll allow that.” He waved a hand between Finch and Sally. “Mr. Finch, this is Sally. The help. She’ll get
you anything you want. I’m having Glenfiddich. What would you like, Mr. Finch? Or may I call you Will?”

  “Coffee. Black.” He smiled to ease Sally’s obvious discomfort. Then turning back to Brodie with a brisk nod, he said, “I think it’s best that you refer to me as Mr. Finch.”

  Brodie put on a mock frown. “Fine. Let’s sit in the great room, shall we?”

  He led the way along a corridor. The hallway opened into a large space illuminated by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view down the ridge to Lake Sammamish. Opposite the windows stood a massive river rock fireplace. Like the windows, the stone chimney rose to the ceiling. Between the fireplace and windows a collection of unmatched sofas and chairs were arranged in four casual clusters. On the far wall, ten or more paintings were hung in two rows, each depicting a scene in the long saga of American legends. Davy Crockett defending the Alamo. Custer alone at the Little Bighorn. Obviously Brodie possessed a selective view of history, Finch thought as he considered the view from the windows.

  “Sally will be along in a few minutes with your coffee. Until then, make yourself comfortable. I have two calls to handle. Then we’ll sit and talk.” His eyebrows rolled upward as if he were posing a question.

  “Fine.” Finch walked along the bank of windows to see if Eve’s Honda was visible below the cedar hedge lining the driveway. It wasn’t. He tried to determine what this tidy display of domestic wealth and comfort revealed about Brodie. But the man remained a puzzle. A seven-sided Rubik’s cube. Brilliant, articulate, a technical wizard with an acclaimed talent for finance and international business. But when his fuse was lit, he became deadly dangerous.

  Sally appeared with his coffee, served in a china cup and saucer. “I know you said you take your coffee black, Mr. Finch. But if you’re needing anything else, you just let me know.”

  Finch took the coffee and sat next to the fireplace. “You know, there is something else, Sally.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Do you work here alone?”

  “On weekdays. But if there’s some party or meeting maybe, then we get extra help.”

  “No one to manage the property or lawns?”

  She smiled weakly, worried that she might be revealing house secrets.

  “No one?” he asked again.

  “Well … Mr. Rawlins comes twice a week to work the yard. Or when Mr. Brodie has company, sometimes there’s some extra security fellas involved.”

  Finch nodded and took a sip of his coffee. At the same time Brodie appeared from the hallway.

  “Here’s your Glenfiddich, Mr. Brodie, sir.”

  He took the glass and sat opposite Finch. “Sally, I want to remind you to book the extra hands we’ll need for the planning session coming up next week.”

  “Yes sir,” she said and took a backward step. “I’ve been trying on that. The company we usually use, Bright Ways Catering, they say they are short of staff and trying to hire extra right now.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She shrugged. “They say it’s the uniform.” She touched the hem of her apron. “Some of the girls refuse to wear it.”

  Brodie's face knotted in a frown. “Well, try someone else. You’re going to have to fix this. I don’t have time.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” Her lips rolled into a weak smile.

  “All right. I want you to report back to me every day until this’s solved. Now leave us.” He waved a hand and took a sip of the Scotch whisky, then set the crystal glass on the side table.

  Finch leaned forward. “So, do you have a response —”

  Brodie held up a hand. “Stop right there. First, some ground rules.”

  Finch tipped his head to one side. “Which are?”

  He pointed an index finger at Finch. “Any questions about Iraq, or my service record there are off the record and I won’t respond to them.”

  Finch drew a breath. He could see where this was going.

  Next, Brodie put up his middle finger. “On the other hand I will talk about US foreign policy and what I propose to do to support the president. All of that will stand on the record.” He smiled. “You’ll have an exclusive, Mr. Finch. A week before the senate hearings, you alone will know it all.”

  Now his thumb rose to stand beside the other two digits. “Finally, at any time when I say the interview is over, it is terminated. Anything I say thereafter is off record.”

  Finch considered the offer as he paused to take another sip of his coffee. Brodie's proposal was nothing more than a plea for whitewash journalism. In a way, he felt surprised that Brodie had stooped so low. Over the years he’d bullied dozens of novice reporters eager to interview the marvelous Deacon Brodie. Not this time.

  “I’d love to have that exclusive interview. Believe me, I would.” Finch tried to gauge the reaction on Brodie's face. “But today is all about the fifteen men murdered in Iraq in 2004.”

  Brodie shook his head as if to say, Make no mistake, Mr. Finch, you are blowing it. “No comment.”

  “Then I’d like your reaction to the testimonies given by two American soldiers on that same flight. Testimonies that identify you as the commanding officer who murdered those fifteen men.”

  Brodie blinked. Perhaps he was shaken — Finch couldn’t be sure.

  “Or we could go deeper.” Finch leaned forward. “What is your response to the series of murders of US soldiers that followed the Iraqi killings? US soldiers who were witness to your crimes?”

  “No comment. And one more question like that and we will be done here.” His voice was smooth, almost mellow.

  Finch wondered if he should reveal that he knew about the murders of Tony Turino and Joey Kinsella. “How do you respond to the claims linking you to the murders over the past three months of the men on that helicopter flight with you in 2004 — Tony Turino and Joey Kinsella?”

  Brodie sat back in his chair and pressed his shoulders into the cushion behind him. “You know, I’ll give you credit for dogged determination, Mr. Finch. But let me tell you —”

  Brodie was interrupted by the phone sitting on the side table at his elbow. He held up a finger to suggest he’d complete his sentence in a moment. He examined the call display and picked up the handset.

  “Hello, Frankie. What do you have for me?”

  As Frankie spoke, Brodie cast his eyes over Finch. Finch felt as if Brodie were sizing him up for a meal. Determining the temperature to set the broiler, how long he would need to turn Finch on the rotisserie.

  “And so it’s all done? Oh, already in place?”

  Brodie smiled at Finch as he listened to Frankie spelling out more details.

  “Great. And what are the chances of breaking the injunction?”

  Another smile.

  “Two months. Well, that should get us there.”

  Finch looked away.

  “Great news, Frankie. Once again, thanks for your help. Tell Angie, I still love her key lime pie.” He laughed with a loud staccato bark. “ Ha-ha-ha! More than that. Tell her I want another piece.”

  Brodie hung up the phone and turned back to Finch. “That was Frankie Lane of Lane, Solomon. Our attorneys. He just confirmed that The San Francisco Post has been served with a court order blocking you and any of your associates from publishing anything about my tour of duty in Iraq. If you’d bothered to inquire with the department of defense, you’d know that any information about my war service and military discharge remain sealed.”

  Finch stared at him. It took a moment for him to respond with a weak laugh. “And you think that overrides our first amendment rights?”

  “Indeed, it does, Mr. Finch. It’s something called national security.” He raised his glass in a light-hearted toast, and knocked back the last of his Glenfiddich.

  Finch realized that the calls Brodie had made earlier were intended to silence him before he could even begin his interview. He’d been outplayed every step of the way. He could feel his blood pulsing through is neck. He knew that if he didn�
��t leave the room within the next few minutes, he would smash Brodie's nose to a pulp.

  “Our interview is now over, Mr. Finch. It’s time for you to leave.” He stood up and strolled toward the front door. “Let me get your phone, all right?”

  He opened the door for Finch, dipped a hand into his leather trench coat, and handed the phone to him. Finch paused to consider if Brodie had somehow tampered with it during his absence to make his phone calls. Finch shrugged off the idea and dropped the cell into his pocket. He turned to take a final look at Brodie.

  “Sorry you came so far for nothing.” Brodie offered a contrite smile. “But while you’re up this way you should check out the San Juan Islands. Beautiful. Oh, and just across the border you’ll find the Canadian archipelago. Mayne Island’s my favorite. Ever heard of it?”

  Finch froze where he stood. He now understood that Brodie knew everything. Tony Turino’s murder. That Nine had disappeared without completing his mission. And that Finch remained one of the few people who could still testify to Brodie's crimes.

  “It’s a bit of a hike back into town. Normally, I’d call a cab for you, but I know your girlfriend is waiting for you at the foot of the driveway. Eve Noon, isn’t it?” Brodie pressed another smile to his lips. “So in this case, I didn’t bother.”

  Finch stepped onto the porch and then wheeled around. He let his fist fly at Brodie's nose, then pulled his punch an inch before it landed.

  Brodie gasped, stumbled backwards, fell on his back — and belted out a blubbering fart.

  “Now you’re talking through your asshole,” Finch said with an amused guffaw. “And you know what? It makes way more sense than what comes out your mouth.” Finch laughed again and shook his head in mock sympathy. “Consider yourself lucky, Brodie. I didn’t touch you. Not this time, anyway.”

  ※

  Eve drove back down the cul-de-sac, turned right onto the Lake Sammamish Parkway and steered the Honda toward Redmond. She could tell that Finch was simmering with anger and she began to fear the worst. “What is it?”