A state of disobedience (42 page)

Off came the rifle from its cradle. Quickly it was broken down into its constituent parts. These were stowed in the case, to be followed by the tripod as soon as it was collapsed. The case was then closed.

Tearing off the shower cap and the plastic garment, Smythe stuffed these into the overnight bag. There was nothing inherently suspicious about them anyway, so he determined to leave them in the room, at least for now. The rifle case he slid under a bed. He could return for it later, if possible.

Smythe went to the door and opened it, looking down the hall.
Good. No excitement here yet.
 

Lastly, as calmly as may be imagined, Smythe opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and began to walk to his own room.

Alvin had no desire to kill anyone but the President. In fact, he expressly did not
want
any truly innocent blood on his hands. Thus, when a fusillade of shots from what he thought might be three different vantage points began to impact on the church steeple, instead of returning fire, he crawled to the steps and began to slither down them to the main church. Already he could hear sirens, both police and ambulance, converging on the area.

They'll be along for me soon. I wonder if they'll arrest me or just shoot me. Guess it don't much matter, no how. I ain't afraid. 
 

Caroline McCreavy could not at first believe the news reports. Over the next several hours after the shooting, she might be said to have been in a state of denial. Finally, the reports became too consistent, as well as too insistent.

At that point, McCreavy went to her desk drawer, removed a pistol from it, and with a sobbed, "Oh, Willi, I never stopped loving you," placed the pistol to her own head.

The news traveled around the floor like wildfire. Juani could not at first believe it. She came to believe it, though, when a representative from Massachusetts, a woman, walked up to her and, first spitting on Juani's face, announced, "So it wasn't enough to drive her from office and ruin everything she's done for the people. You Texan bastards had to kill her, too, just like you did JFK."

Putting a restraining hand up to prevent Jack from flattening the Yankee, woman or not, Juani just shook her head in negation.

"It's all over the news. The President is dead and one of you Texas rednecks killed her."

Juani didn't, couldn't, make a verbal answer. She turned to Jack and pleaded, "Please take me to my hotel room."

"Well, what did you expect to come out of the convention, Juani? Some utopian dream of truth and justice?"

The governor glared at Schmidt, at her side as he had been every day since the attack on her family. She glared, and then relented.

"I don't know what I expected, Jack. Something better. Something that had a better
chance
to last. Maybe if Rottemeyer hadn't been killed. . . ."

"If she'd lived she would have been a thorn in our side, true, Juani. Dead, the bitch is a dagger. Frankly it has me worried. The new President is likely to win reelection by hanging on to Willi's spiritual coattails. And he is, if anything, even less principled than she was. He might be smarter, too. Worries me."

Changing the subject, Juanita asked, "Is there any word from Elpidia?"

Schmidt hesitated before answering. Finally, reluctantly, he said, "She made it through all right, I know that much. But she's not coming back here. She can't face you. She won't."

"Poor girl," muttered Juani. "As if I would blame her for anything that's happened."

"You don't have to blame her, Juani. She blames herself enough."

Elpi had never flown before, other than that once in the helicopter with Charlesworth. She was looking forward to the experience no more than she had wanted to fly with Charlesworth; which is to say, not at all.

But what choice do I have? Go back to Austin? Stand around a constant reminder of everything my actions cost the governor? No . . . I don't think so. 
 

She'd had no money of her own, but Minh had loaned her a fair amount. Well, he'd called it a loan to preserve the girl's meager self-respect. It had been intended as a gift, though, one Minh was pleased to make.

Minh had also made a phone call to a friend in a different country, asking for someone to meet her at the other end of the trip, see to setting her up, show her the ropes.

Minh understood that sometimes one just had to leave and start afresh.

Elpi wanted that, a fresh start someplace new. There were too many memories, too many harsh memories, in Texas for her ever to hope to be able to stay there.
The Padre, young Miguel and Mario . . . 
at the thought of the governor's son,
what a sweet boy he was
, Elpidia forced back a little sob.

Minh's ears caught the tiny sound. He squeezed her shoulder once, for assurance, and then again, for luck. "You'll do fine, girl. A fresh start somewhere new is all you need."

Elpi smiled her thanks and relaxed slightly. "You'll tell the governor?"

"Yes, surely. She'll understand but I think she may be hurt you didn't come back."

"Maybe," answered the girl. "But she'd be hurt worse if I did come back."

"You might be right," said Minh. "In any case, that door will stay open, I think."

"Yes . . . I hope maybe someday . . ."

An unseen speaker interrupted Elpidia's sentence. "Continental Airlines Flight 888, nonstop Hobby Field to Tocumen airport, Panama is now boarding. . . ."

Elpi turned to the even smaller Vietnamese man. "Good-bye, Colonel. And thank you."

Minh merely smiled in his subtle Asian way. "Never mind, young lady. Just make a better life for yourself."

Same script, different players, thought the convalescent Carroll, initially. Then he amended the thought, Well, no, a slightly different script after all. Now, while we've lost Willi, she's entered the ranks of martyrs to the cause. And while we've lost quite a bit of power, Willi's "martyrdom" also gave us back some. 

I wonder if she knew and understood how important it was to the cause that she become a martyr? 
 

The new president, Rottemeyer's previous Vice—Walter Madison Howe, had seemed nearly a political nonentity to Carroll, a mere adornment to the ticket. Indeed, other than a widely suspected penchant for females young enough to be his daughters, and a widely held contempt for the new President's extremely poor taste in women—those tending to the fat and insecure—there had seemed to Carroll nothing to recommend the man.

Politically, Howe was regarded as being somewhat moderate, or—as many had said to Rottemeyer in her heyday, "Compared to you, Willi, the man's practically a right wing Fascist."

But Howe was no such thing. He was, in fact, possibly the least politically committed President since Calvin Coolidge.

This was not to say, however, that Howe was uncommitted to politics. From his earliest boyhood, one thought had dominated his heart and mind.
I will be President someday.
 

Running successfully and successively as a populist, Howe had served as representative, governor, and senator for his home state. Never once had he ever shown the slightest tendency to let principle interfere with expedience. "I'm against the death penalty," so had Candidate Howe told more than a few cheering crowds at fundraisers. "I'll support the will of the people," so had Governor Howe said in signing an almost unequalled number of death warrants. "I believe in protecting the environment." So had said candidate Howe. "A few million towards my next campaign and I think I can find ways to rein in those environmentalist people who want to shut you down." So had Governor Howe told a major contributor, the second largest pork producer in the nation.

A man utterly without political or moral principle, thought Carroll. Perhaps that's just what we need. 

"So what's left?" asked Howe of his assembled Cabinet.

"That's a shorter list than what's gone," answered Carroll.

"Meaning?"

Carroll drawled back, "Well . . . we've managed to save some of the federal law enforcement capability, Customs, the INS and a part of the IRS. The Army's not been cut, as a practical matter, and won't be anytime soon if we can find a use for them. The Environmental Protection Agency still stands, though it's lost most of its direct enforcement powers . . . and I think that's going to be important . . ."

"It is," answered Howe. "But what we really need is to get our tax base back, am I right?"

"Yes, Mr. President. But they've stripped us of most of the responsibilities we need to have in order to tax. 'Promote the general welfare' lost most of its meaning and use to us."

"We still have 'provide for the common defense,' don't we?"

"Yessir, we do."

"Okay then, what's the problem? We got the government we had through foreign wars, didn't we? We just need to have some more of them."

Carroll considered. It was true, he knew. "But where, Mr. President? The Arabs are still reeling from the drubbing we gave them a few years back. The Europeans? Nah. The Balkans? A quagmire. And we don't have much reason to go in there anymore, anyway."

"Oh, I agree, Mr. Carroll. But I was thinking maybe somewhere closer to home."

Carroll inclined his head in deep thought. "Mexico? Maybe. 'Stop illegal immigration.' South Africa's going to hell, so there's another place. Colombia or Panama in another drug war might be possible. The Chinese can always be relied on to threaten Taiwan, I suppose. Iran? Well, it's no big deal to drum up popular feelings against Iran; that's become something of a national habit. The press won't roll for us as readily as they used to."

"I am thinking, Mr. Carroll, that one of those might do just fine. . . ."

For once the Warden regretted a death penalty case the feds had not insisted on taking over themselves when they had a chance to. But in the current political enviroment, and with Virginia having no noticeable squeamishness about putting convicted murderers to death, the feds had simply stood aside.

Still, thought the warden. I wish I didn't have to go through with this one.

"It's time, Alvin."

Scheer looked up at the warden, and the two burly guards accompanying and nodded, calmly and with great dignity. "Yes, sir. I figured it would be."

"The governor—"

Alvin held up his hand to cut off the warden's words. "I never asked anybody for clemency, Warden. All those appeals? Well-meaning folks, most of 'em, I'm sure. But I never asked."

"I know," answered the warden.

Looking over at the tray of half-eaten food, the warden queried, "The meal, Alvin? It was cooked okay?"

"Yes, sir. It was just fine. Only thing is I weren't all that hungry. You understand." The condemned man smiled.

"Sure, sure. I understand."

Another man walked into the cell, more or less stiffly. "Alvin," said the warden, "this is Dr. Randall. He's going to give you a shot to relax you."

Scheer looked suspiciously from the warden to the doctor. "This isn't the one that's gonna kill me, is it?"

The warden shook his head. "No, son. But it will relax you some so you aren't so afraid."

Scheer felt his hackles begin to rise. He started to say, "I ain't—" Then he laughed at himself and said, "Thanks, Warden . . . Doctor."

"What's the shot, doc?"

"Just thorazine, Mr. Scheer. Nothing to harm you. Now if you would roll up your sleeve?"

Alvin bared his arm. "You know," he observed, "if'n you folks really wanted to be kind to me, that there thorazine stuff would kill me so quick I wouldn't even know."

To this the warden said nothing, though he privately agreed. A fair number of the condemned had come through this facility after being housed for some years up on death row in the Mecklenburg prison. Most of them the warden considered to deserve to die, and in many cases to die more painfully than they did. Alvin, though, had been a model prisoner in Mecklenburg—so it was reported, and quite easy to deal with for his necessarily short stay in Greensville.

Alvin tried not to flinch as the doctor's needle entered his arm.

The walk from the cell to the execution chamber was a short one. Alvin noticed a partition that had been set up, then let his eyes rest on the gurney on which he would begin his final sleep. Though drugged, he understood that much clearly.

Alvin could not see, because the partition shielded it from view, the electric chair that remained an option and was still, occasionally, used.

In the chamber, the warden invited Alvin to make a last statement. He just shook his head in negation and said, "I've never been a man of many words, sir."

Also in the chamber was, among the other witnesses, a tall, gray-haired man in a military uniform. The warden nodded at that man who then arose and walked to Alvin's side.

"Alvin, I'm General Schmidt, from Texas. I just want you to know two things. One, you did what
I
wanted to. Two, your kids are going to be cared for. My word on it."

"Good enough for me, sir. Thank you."

Schmidt grasped a shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze before returning to his seat.

The two guards assisted Alvin onto the gurney, then began strapping him down, arms, torso and waist. Alvin lay quietly, cooperating when asked. The strapping finished, the guards stepped back. One of them made a small head signal for the medical technician to come forward.

Expertly, the technician found Alvin's veins and tapped them. A saline drip was started to keep the veins open while the tubes that would carry the lethal drugs were connected.