Absolute Power (57 page)

“What?” The bewildered cop stared at Jack.

“Look at his shoes.” Jack realized he was making little sense, but how could he when he couldn’t tell the cop the whole story?

The cop looked down the tunnel, saw the homeless man standing there, his face turned into a grimace. In his confusion he retreated to the normal inquiry.

“Has he been bothering you, sir?”

Jack hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Hey!” The cop shouted at the man.

Jack watched as the cop ran forward. The homeless man turned and fled. He made it to the escalator, but the up escalator wasn’t working. He turned and raced down the tunnel, darted around a corner and disappeared, the cop right after him.

Now Jack was alone. He looked back at the kiosk. The Metro guy hadn’t returned.

Jack jerked his head. He had heard something. Like a shout, of someone in pain, from where the two men had disappeared. He moved forward. As he did, the cop, slightly out of breath, came back around the corner. He looked at Jack, motioned him to come over with slow movements of his arm. The guy looked sick, like he had seen or done something that disgusted him.

Jack hustled up next to him.

The cop gulped in air. “Goddammit! I don’t know what the hell’s going on, buddy.” The cop again struggled to catch his breath. He put one hand out against the wall to steady himself.

“Did you catch him?”

The cop nodded. “You were right.”

“What happened?”

“Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta call this in.” The cop straightened up and pointed a warning finger at Jack. “But you are not to leave. I’m not explaining this one by myself and it sounds like maybe you know a helluva lot more about this than you’re letting on. Understood?”

Jack nodded quickly. The cop hurried off. Jack walked around the corner. Wait. The cop had told him to wait. Wait for them to arrest him. He should bolt now. But he couldn’t. He had to see who it was. He was certain he knew the guy. He had to see.

Jack looked up ahead. This was a service way for Metro personnel and equipment. In the darkness, far down the tunnel, there was a large bundle of clothing. In the dim lighting Jack strained to see more clearly. As he moved closer he saw that it was indeed the homeless man. For a few moments Jack remained motionless. He wanted the cops to show up. It was so quiet, so dark. The bundle did not move. Jack couldn’t hear any breathing. Was the guy dead? Had the cop needed to kill him?

Finally, Jack moved forward. He knelt beside the man. What an elaborate disguise. Jack moved his hand briefly across the matted hair. Even the pungent odor of the street person was authentic. And then Jack saw the stream of blood as it trickled down the side of the man’s head. He moved the hair away. A cut was there, a deep one. That was the sound he had heard. There had been a struggle and the cop had hit him. It was over. They had tried to trick Jack and gotten tripped up. He wanted to remove the wig and other elements of disguise, to see who the hell his pursuers had been. But that would have to wait. Maybe it was good the police were now involved. He would give them the letter opener. He’d take his chances with them.

He stood up, turned and watched the cop striding quickly up the corridor. Jack shook his head. What a surprise this guy was about to get. Chalk it up to being your lucky day, pal.

Jack moved toward the cop and then stopped as the 9mm swiftly came out of the holster.

The cop glared at him. “Mr. Graham.”

Jack shrugged and smiled. The guy had finally identified him. “In the flesh.” He held up the box. “I’ve got something for you.”

“I know you do, Jack. And that’s exactly what I want.”

Tim Collin watched the smile fade from Jack’s lips. His hand tightened on the trigger as he moved forward.

*   *   *

S
ETH
F
RANK COULD FEEL HIS PULSE QUICKEN AS HE DREW
nearer to the station. Finally, he would have it. He could envision Laura Simon devouring the evidence like it was a slab of aged beef. And Frank was almost one hundred percent certain they would score a hit on some database, somewhere. And then the case would crack open like an egg hurled from the Empire State Building. And finally his questions, the nagging, nagging questions would be answered.

*   *   *

J
ACK LOOKED AT THE FACE, ABSORBING EVERY DETAIL
. N
OT
that it would do him any good. He glanced over at the crumpled clothing on the floor, at the new shoes covering lifeless feet. Poor guy had probably wangled his first new pair of shoes in ages and now would never enjoy them.

Jack looked back at Collin and said angrily, “The guy’s dead. You killed him.”

“Let me have the box, Jack.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“That really doesn’t matter, does it?” Collin flipped open a compartment on his belt and pulled out a suppressor that he quickly twirled onto the barrel of his gun.

Jack eyed the hardware pointed at his chest. He thought of the gurneys wheeling out Lord and the woman. His turn would come in tomorrow’s paper. Jack Graham and a homeless man. Twin gurneys. Of course they’d work it so Jack would be blamed for having done in the poor, wretched street person. Jack Graham, from partner at Patton, Shaw to deceased mass murderer.

“It matters to me.”

“So?” Collin moved forward, placed both hands on the butt of his weapon.

“Fuck you, take it!” Jack flung the box at Collin’s head right as the muffled explosion occurred. A bullet tore through the edge of the box and imbedded itself in the concrete wall. In the same instant, Jack hurled himself forward and made impact. Collin was solid bone and muscle but so was Jack. And they were about the same size. Jack felt the man’s breath driven completely from his body as Jack’s shoulder connected right at the diaphragm. Instinctively, long-ago wrestling moves came flowing back to his limbs and Jack picked up and then body-slammed the agent into the unwelcoming arms of the brick floor. By the time Collin managed to stagger to his feet, Jack had already turned the corner.

Collin grabbed his gun and then the box. He stopped for an instant as sickness enveloped him. His head hurt from having struck the hard floor. He knelt down, fighting to regain his equilibrium. Jack was long gone, but at least he had it. Finally had it. Collins’s fingers closed around the box.

Jack flew past the kiosk, hurdled the turnstiles, raced down the escalator and across the train platform. He was vaguely aware of people staring. His hood had fallen off his head. His face was clearly exposed. There was a shout behind him. The kiosk guy. But Jack kept running and exited the station on the 17th Street side. He didn’t think the man had been alone. And the last thing he needed was someone tailing him. But he doubted if they had both exits covered. They probably figured he wouldn’t be leaving the station under his own power. His shoulder ached from his collision and his breath came in difficult gulps as the cold air burned his lungs. He was two blocks away before he stopped running. He wrapped his coat around himself tightly. And then he remembered. He looked down at his empty hands. The box! He had left the goddamned box behind. He slumped against the front glass of a darkened McDonald’s.

A car’s lights came down the road. Jack looked away from them and quickly moved around the corner. In a few minutes he hopped a bus. To where he wasn’t sure.

*   *   *

T
HE CAR TURNED OFF
L S
TREET AND ONTO
19
TH
. S
ETH
F
RANK
made his way up to Eye Street and then turned toward 18th. He parked on the corner across from the Metro station, got out of his car and went down the escalator.

Across the street, hidden behind a collection of trash cans, debris and metal fencing, the products of a massive demolition project, Bill Burton watched. Swearing under his breath, Burton put out his cigarette, checked the street, and made his way quickly across to the escalator.

As he got off the escalator, Frank looked around and checked the time. He wasn’t as early as he thought he would be. His eyes fell upon a collection of junk that lay against one wall. Then his gaze drifted over to the unmanned kiosk. There was no one else around. It was quiet. Too quiet. Frank’s danger radar instantly lit up. With an automatic motion he pulled his gun. His ears had pricked up at a sound that came from his right. He moved quickly down the corridor away from the turnstiles. There a darkened corridor awaited him. He peered around and at first saw nothing. Then as his eyes adjusted to the diminished light he saw two things. One was moving, one wasn’t.

Frank stared as the man slowly rose to his feet. It wasn’t Jack. The guy was in a uniform, a gun in one hand, a box in the other. Frank’s fingers tightened on his own weapon, his eyes locked on the other man’s weapon. Frank stealthily moved forward. He hadn’t done this in a long time. The image of his wife and three daughters veered across his mind until he pushed it back out. He needed to concentrate.

He was finally close enough. He prayed his accelerated breathing would not betray him. He leveled his pistol at the broad back.

“Freeze! I’m a police officer.”

The man did indeed stop all motion.

“Lay the gun down, butt first. I don’t want to see your finger anywhere near the trigger or I’m gonna put a hole right in the back of your head. Do it. Now!”

The gun slowly went toward the floor. Frank watched its progression, inch by inch. Then his vision became blurry. Frank’s head pounded, he staggered and then he slumped to the floor.

At the sound, Collin slowly looked around to see Bill Burton standing there, holding his pistol by the barrel. He looked down at Frank.

“Let’s go, Tim.”

Collin shakily got to his feet, looked at the fallen officer and put his gun to Frank’s head. Burton’s massive hand stopped him.

“He’s a cop. We don’t kill cops. We’re not killing
any
body
else, Tim.” Burton stared down at his colleague. Discomforting thoughts flickered in and out of Burton’s head at the calm and accepting manner in which the younger man had stepped into the role of conscienceless assassin.

Collin shrugged, put his gun away.

Burton took the box, looked down at the detective and then over at the other crumpled mass of humanity. He shook his head disdainfully and looked reproachfully at his partner.

Several minutes after they were gone, Seth Frank let out a loud groan, tried to rise and then floated back into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

K
ATE LAY IN BED BUT WAS AS FAR FROM SLEEP AS SHE COULD
possibly be. The ceiling of her bedroom had been replaced with a torrent of images, each one more terrifying than its predecessor. She looked across at the small clock on the nightstand. Three o’clock in the morning. Her window shade was open enough to reveal the pitch-black darkness outside. She could hear the raindrops on the windowpane. Normally comforting, now they simply added to the relentless pounding in her head.

When the phone rang, at first, she didn’t move. Her limbs seemed too heavy for her to even attempt to budge, as if each had simultaneously lost all circulation. For one terrible moment she thought she had suffered a stroke. Finally, on the fifth ring she managed to lift the receiver.

“Hello?” Her voice was shaky, one step from oblivion; her nerves completely spent.

“Kate. I need some help.”

*   *   *

F
OUR HOURS LATER THEY SAT IN THE FRONT OF THE LITTLE DELI
at Founder’s Park, the site of their initial rendezvous after so many years apart. The weather had worsened into a hard, pelting snow that had made driving nearly impossible and walking only for the irrationally daring.

Jack looked across at her. The hooded parka was off, but a ski cap, a few days’ worth of beard and a pair of thick glasses obscured his features to such a degree that Kate had to look twice before she recognized him.

“You’re sure no one followed you?” He looked anxiously at her. A cup of steaming coffee partially clouded her line of vision, but she could see the strain on his face. It was clear he was near the breaking point.

“I did what you said. The subway, two cabs and a bus. If anyone kept up with me in this weather, they’re not human.”

Jack put his coffee down. “From what I’ve seen, they might not be.”

He had not specifically identified the meeting place on the phone. He now assumed that they were listening to everything, to anyone connected to him. He had only mentioned the “usual” place, confident that Kate would understand, and she had. He looked out the window. Every passing face was a threat. He slid a copy of the
Post
across to her. The front page was revealing. Jack had shaken with anger when he had first read it.

Seth Frank was in stable condition at George Washington University Hospital with a concussion. The homeless man, as yet unidentified, had not been so fortunate. And smack in the middle of the story was Jack Graham, a one-man crime wave. She looked up at him after reading the story.

“We need to keep moving.” He looked at her, drained his coffee and then got up.

The cab dropped them off at Jack’s motel on the outskirts of Alexandria’s Old Town. His eyes looking left and right and then behind, they made their way to his room. After locking and bolting the door, he took off the ski cap and glasses.

“God, Jack, I’m so sorry you’re involved in any of this.” She shook; he could actually see her trembling from across the room. It took a moment for him to wrap his arms around her until he felt her body calm, relax. He looked at her.

“I got myself involved. Now I just need to get myself uninvolved.” He attempted a smile, but it didn’t dent the fear she was feeling for him; the awful dread that he might soon join her father.

“I left a dozen messages for you on your machine.”

“I never thought to check, Kate.” He took the next half hour to tell her the events of the last few days. Her eyes reflected the growing horror with each new revelation.