Frame 232 (18 page)

Rydell dropped the slips on the edge of his desk and sat down. Tapping his keyboard did not clear the screen saver
 
—a CIA logo floating against a black background
 
—but rather caused
a password prompt to appear in front of it. Rydell paused a moment, then typed in the eight-key alphanumeric phrase with remarkable speed, his fingers moving over the keys in a chattery blur. The pause came from having to remember it, which both concerned and irritated him; he
never
forgot passwords.

He had always been able to push distractions out of his mind, always been the master of his own concentration. But this Babushka Lady film, and the fact that Jason Hammond and the Baker woman were running around loose . . . He could feel his blood pressure rise every time he thought about it. Sheila Baker would have been easy enough to handle by herself, but Hammond . . .
That could be real trouble,
a voice teased over and over, and then the fear that he hated more than anything else surged into his system.

He had considered prematurely activating his postretirement escape plan, gaming out the scenario to see if a reasonable conclusion could be reached. But it was simply beyond the realm of the possible. The sudden disappearance of a person in his position would set off alarm bells in every corridor of government. A massive manhunt would be launched, word would leak to the press, and every citizen would become an involuntary de facto agent in the search. Even if he managed to elude capture, every square inch of his life would be scrutinized. No matter how smart you were
 
—and he knew this as well as anyone ever had
 
—you never wanted to find yourself under the magnifying glass of the American intelligence system. Sooner or later, you ended up like a dead frog in a high school biology class, pinned to a dissection tray with your belly sliced open and your guts hanging out.

The screen saver vanished, revealing an Excel spreadsheet
groaning with financial figures. It was the last agency budget he would ever do, and although he had found these rivetingly boring in the past, he found a certain comfort in this one. Just as he was about to turn his full attention to it, however, the phone in his pocket vibrated.

He scowled when he saw Birk’s number. He had thought seriously about sending another man out to eliminate and replace Birk. He knew one who was particularly nasty, a true psychopath who made Birk seem saintly by comparison. But that would’ve been more trouble than it was worth; that operative was too blunt a tool to use for such a delicate mission. Birk, at least, had some finesse. And there was always the chance Birk would survive an attempt on his life, which would further complicate matters.

All that aside, Rydell had still made a point of giving his well-paid employee an epic reaming when he learned of Hammond and Baker’s escape. No way the little thug was going to be spared that.

He accepted the call and said, “Wait,” then went into the bathroom and turned on the exhaust fan. “Okay, what is it?”

“Hammond made contact with one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Benjamin Burdick. He called Burdick’s house just a few moments ago.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Rydell smiled.

HAMMOND FOUND B
urdick’s book on another JFK assassination site, downloaded it, and brought the laptop along so Sheila could read it in the car.

“There are some pretty serious accusations here,” she said, scanning the table of contents. “They didn’t stir up any controversy?”

“Oh, they did. They sent ripples through the intelligence community. Most people just never heard about it.”

She went to the About the Author page and found the same photo from the SMU faculty site. Burdick looked remarkably ordinary. He could have been an auto mechanic and part-time deer hunter. But a closer look at the eyes revealed a steely awareness, a native intelligence that was easy to miss. This was a careful man, Sheila sensed. A curious and somewhat-skeptical man. Someone who was not easily fooled.

She read through the bio, which was more detailed than the one on the university website.

“He has a doctorate in American history?”

“In American history, yes, and another in world history.”

“Married?”

“His wife passed away a while back. They had two children, both of whom are grown and gone. Now he lives alone.”

“That’s sad.”

“He keeps in constant contact with his kids. The three of them are very close. And he manages to keep himself busy the rest of the time.”

She went back to the main text. “He makes a very convincing argument that the federal government took part in the assassination.”

“He felt he didn’t present enough hard proof in that book. But the last time we spoke, he said the new one would take care of that.” Hammond made a right turn that took them off the highway and onto a gravel road. “I know a lot of this sounds crazy, but he’s not a screwball, believe me. He considers the assassination one of the greatest travesties ever committed against the American public. Even if his accusations have raised some eyebrows, he’s famous for the thoroughness of his research, so his conclusions are hard to argue. He covers his bases very well, and he won’t open his mouth about something unless he’s certain.”

“Have you ever discussed my mom’s film?”

“Funny you should say that. I was trying to remember. . . . We did have a conversation about it once. He said something like, ‘If the Babushka Lady really did shoot a film, she would’ve had the only good moving picture from that side of the limo when the shots were fired.’ He thought it might show something the Zapruder film didn’t.”

“Good guess.”

“He’s going to love Storm-Drain Man. This is the kind of thing that really gets him going.”

They rumbled up to an aluminum mailbox with the name Burdick printed on the side. Another right turn brought them down a brief wooded lane, which made a horseshoe in front of a large frame house with a wraparound porch. It was white with black shutters and flower beds on either side of the steps.

Hammond came to a halt but didn’t kill the engine. “Uh-oh.”

The beds, which had once been vibrant with floral life, were now plots of dried earth crawling with weeds. The paint on the porch was cracked and peeling, and some of the downspouts had broken free of the rain gutters.

“So much for being the neatest guy in the world,” Sheila said.

“No, he
is
the neatest guy in the world. If there was a Nobel Prize for tidiness, he’d win it every year.”

Hammond shut off the engine and got out, noting other signs of ruination
 
—a rusted lawn mower sitting outside its shed, the grass consuming it in a note of irony. When they went up the front steps, Hammond saw a rip in the screen door, and one corner hung down like a dog’s ear.

“Ben would never allow that,” he said, pointing. “He’d have fixed it as soon as it happened. You know the saying ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place’? That’s Ben.”

“Maybe he moved.”

“I thought about that, but his name’s still on the mailbox.”

He rang the doorbell
 
—a majestic two-note
bing-bong
that echoed inside
 
—and waited. After a long moment, Hammond pulled the screen door back and knocked hard on the other, causing it to drift forward. Pushing it farther, he took a cautious step forward.

“Ben?”

The furniture and the decor were as Hammond remembered
 
—the polished mahogany table in the dining room, the grandfather clock standing in a corner, and in the hallway, a narrow table with a Tiffany lamp and a collection of framed photos.

“Ben? You home?”

He slipped inside with Sheila in tow. Then the smell hit them.

“Oh, man,” he said, waving it away from his nose.

“He apparently hasn’t done his laundry in a while.”

“Either that or
 
—
oh no
!
”

Hammond took off running, going from room to room and shouting Burdick’s name while Sheila tried her best to keep up. Finally he reached the den in the back. It had been nice at one time
 
—white brick walls, thick carpet, an expensive home theater system. But like the rest of the property, it exhibited signs of neglect. Dirty plates and empty beer cans were scattered about, and the shades were pulled down. The answering machine by the phone was still blinking from the message Hammond had left on the way over.

Burdick was slumped in the recliner, wearing only gym shorts and a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. He wasn’t moving.

Hammond knelt down and felt for a pulse.

“Is he
 
—?”

“Yeah, he’s alive. But, whew, does he reek.”

Sheila went to the set of east-facing windows and pulled the shades up, revealing a panoramic view of the expansive backyard and the adjacent woodland beyond. As the room flooded with afternoon light, more details of Burdick’s squalor became visible. There was an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on an end table and what appeared to be a petrified coffee spill on the table’s marble surface.

“Cigarettes and coffee?” Sheila whispered. “I thought you said he was a health nut.”

“He is . . . or was. I don’t know
 
—Ben? Hey, Ben. Wake up!”

Hammond shook him, then patted the side of his unshaven face. Burdick groaned as his head rolled about.

“Ben, come on. . . .”

At last the eyes opened, the lids peeling apart the crusted organic seal that had formed along the edges. The scleras were red and watery, veins fleeing in every direction.

“What?” he croaked. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Jason Hammond. Come on, wake up.”

Burdick tried to focus. His eyes shuttered in a mechanical manner. He coughed, sending a blast of whiskey in Hammond’s direction.

“Thanks a million for that, Ben.”

Burdick finally seemed to get a fix on him, a degree of hazy recognition settling in.

Then the change. Even in his diminished state, fear filled his eyes. Burdick tried to move back in the chair as though he thought Hammond had smallpox.

“What do you want?” He said this with more clarity than Hammond would have thought possible.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about the Kennedy assassin
 
—”

“No, I don’t do anything with that anymore.” Burdick’s head jerked when he noticed Sheila standing there. “Who are you?”

“This is my friend Sheila Baker.”

“Hello, Dr. Burdick,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, hi. What do you two want?”

“I’m here to talk to you about something concerning the
assassination. Something very big. You’ll want to hear this, believe me.”

Burdick shook his head rapidly. “I have nothing to do with it anymore, so no, I
don’t
want to hear it.”

“What?”

Burdick lifted himself out of the chair, again with greater fluidity than Hammond would have believed. “Just leave me alone,” he said, waving his hand.

“Ben
 
—”

“No, Jason. Absolutely n
 
—”

“Ben, it’s about the Babushka Lady. We found her film,
and there’s a guy with a rifle in the storm drain
.”

This brought Burdick to a halt, his bare feet squealing on the hardwood floor. When he turned back, there was a glimmer in his eyes that reminded Hammond of the old Ben. At first Hammond thought it was a merge of curiosity and fascination. Then he realized what it really was.

Recognition.
He already knows about Storm-Drain Man.

“No. . . . Don’t say any more.”

“Ben
 
—”

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know
anything
!”

Burdick spun and continued on his way, taking a pack of Parliaments from his pocket and placing one between his lips.

Hammond shook his head. “I don’t get this. One day you’re one of the leading authorities on the assassination; the next you’re acting like it never happened. What’s that all about? And for that matter, what’s happened to
you
? You go from Felix Unger to Oscar Madison overnight?”

Burdick lit the cigarette, listening with as much patience as he could muster. Then he walked over until they were face-to-face.

“Listen to me,” he said calmly, pointing up. Hammond was at least a half foot taller. “I have absolutely nothing to do with Kennedy anymore, okay? I don’t care what evidence you found. I don’t care if the conspirators are sitting in your car, waiting to give a videotaped deposition. I’m through with it.” He started to walk away, then pivoted back. “And as for what’s happened to me, that’s . . . none of your business.”

He turned away fully this time. Hammond went to say more but Sheila cut him off.

“Jason, maybe we should just let him be.”

“Sheila, I don’t
 
—”

“Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Burdick,” she called out. “We appreciate it very much.”

Burdick ignored her and disappeared around a corner.

They were back on the gravel road, about a mile from the highway, when Sheila said, “You shouldn’t have pushed him like that.”

“I saw something in his face when I mentioned Storm-Drain Man. I swear, I think he knows something about it. I just don’t understand him.”

“He’s scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yeah. He’s tormented by something. There’s a dark cloud following him around. It would explain everything
 
—his change in personality, his lack of interest in his work and in his own appearance. I get people in my gyms like that all the time. They’ve had a health scare from their doctor or they’re trying to escape drugs or alcohol. I know the look.”

Hammond rolled this around in his mind. Burdick was a strong-willed, intelligent man, driven and focused and not
the type to give up on anything. What could have occurred to cause the changes? Did it have something to do with the assassination? With his book, perhaps?

“If you’re right, then we need to figure out how to help him. Because if we don’t, he can’t help
us
. And I need his help right now. If anyone knows the identity of the man in the storm drain, it’s him.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Turning the car around, Hammond said, “I have an idea.”

“Jason, you probably shouldn’t.”

“Just trust me.”