Frame 232 (40 page)

RYDELL STARED
into the mirror of the basement bathroom, and a stranger stared back.

It was a most remarkable job, he thought. Particularly gratifying considering his lack of expertise. He had known hundreds who lived and died with their ability to alter their appearance, but he had never conversed with any of them on the subject. No casual lunches in the agency cafeteria to pick their brains, no invitations to dinner and drinks on a Friday evening. He got his information, as so many did these days, off the Internet. As such, he’d been forced to absorb and apply it far too rapidly. And yet . . .

I can barely recognize myself,
he thought with a satisfied grin, turning his head back and forth.

His hair, formerly in the transitioning-from-black-to-silver phase, was now uniformly iron gray. And the respectable combed-back style was gone, replaced by a more unkempt, almost-frazzled look. The false mustache was particularly effective
 
—he had been concerned that it would look ridiculously bogus, like something attached to a set of the plastic Groucho nose and glasses found in every gag shop in the
world. But this one was so convincing, it looked like it might start growing. Best of all, it matched the new hair perfectly.

Of the six alternate personas he’d created over the last two years, the one he decided to go with was named Louis Cooper. Cooper was what he thought of as “an old man who worked with his hands all his life.” Lower income, minimal education, generally ignorant toward world affairs, and not too concerned about his appearance. To that end, Rydell decided the most appropriate costume would be a pair of work boots, jeans, and a plaid fleece coat. He’d also keep the glasses and hat he’d been wearing since he left the house. He liked that the aging Chevy Malibu seemed a credible choice for the character. Best of all, this alter ego was far enough removed from his actual self that it would just about eliminate any chance of his being spotted as he carried out the crucial next phase of the escape.

That phase had but one objective
 
—to get out of America. This would be accomplished by road travel, he’d decided, on a southwesterly route that could cut through Virginia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and then Texas. The newly minted Mr. Cooper had a birth certificate, driver’s license, and passport, so a border crossing wouldn’t be a problem. Besides, Rydell thought, it was a rare occasion indeed when anyone cared if you went from America
to
Mexico.

At first he thought it might be best to travel only at night. But that could cause problems, like attracting the attention of some bored cop on an otherwise-empty stretch of highway. So he would drive during the day, mostly while the rest of the country was hard at work, and maybe some evening hours as well. He would get his food at drive-throughs, go to the bathroom at rest stops and gas stations, sleep in small, out-of-the-way motels, and pay for everything in cash.

When he reached Monterrey in Nuevo León, he could begin the next phase of the plan. This was his favorite by far
 
—taking a flight to the Caribbean island of St. Eustatius, buying a villa, and spending the rest of his days with a straw hat propped over his face while he snoozed under the afternoon sun.

He stepped out of the bathroom and into the small sitting area. This included a couch, CRT television, faux fireplace, and coffee table. He had set the duffel bag on the couch and taken out only those items required to become Louis Cooper. But now he noticed that something was different. Many items were scattered around the bag helter-skelter, as if a small bomb had gone off inside it. Then came the sound, instantly familiar and doubly chilling.

Click.

He turned slowly, already knowing someone was there holding a gun. What he did not expect was
who
. With a sickening acceptance, he figured it would be someone from the agency, maybe some wet-behind-the-ears kid who took a chance on this largely forgotten safe house and could now expect a citation for his brilliance, maybe even a promotion. Or perhaps it would be Vallick himself, mad as a hornet and ready to parade his catch in front of every camera in town. Neither guess was correct, and a hundred more would not have made any difference.

Ben Burdick’s face was a study in murderous hatred. The eyes, deep set under a tightly furrowed brow, were locked on his prey. His lips were pressed together hard. And there was a slight tremor in the cheeks, which Rydell recognized as the burbling of loosely controlled rage.

Fear blew through him like hot gas. “But . . . you’re
dead
.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

“That’s impossible. You were shot.”

Burdick undid the second and third buttons of his shirt with his free hand and pulled the placket aside. The large gauze pad taped there was spotted with blood. “But not killed. A broken rib and a punctured lung. Your hired thug could have easily finished the job, but he didn’t. What should’ve been the last day of my life turned out to be the luckiest because it gave me the chance to hunt you down.”

“The press . . . The stories about your death . . .”

“My kids helped with that, and a doctor friend who came through when I needed him most. All misinformation. The bit about my being cremated and my ashes scattered in a private location? That was their idea. Brilliant, just brilliant. You remember my kids, right, you sniveling little worm? If memory serves, you threatened to kill
them
on several occasions too.”

The look on Burdick’s face was truly terrible now, and Rydell’s fear was rapidly morphing into unadorned terror.

“Maybe we can make a deal,” he said unevenly, his throat as dry as a chimney flue. “I have two hundred thousand in cash with me. You take half of it for yourself.” That amount would be covered by the fee he had no intention of paying Birk. “In return, you let me leave th
 
—”

Burdick strode briskly forward and backhanded him across the face. Rydell spun around like a ballet dancer, blood flying, and crashed to the floor. The false mustache that had so impressed him dangled ridiculously from one side. The hat and glasses had also been jarred into new and awkward positions.

“You think you can buy your way out of this?”
Burdick screamed, leaning down as if scolding a dog. “Are you out
of your
min
d
? YOU RUINED MY LIFE! YOU DROVE ME OUT OF A PROFESSION I LOVED!
YOU ENDANGERED MY FAMILY
!
”

Burdick delivered a soccer-style kick to the stomach, and Rydell twisted into a fetal position.

“If I get a hundred thousand, then how much do you suppose you owe the
Kennedys
? What’s the going price for a dead son or a murdered father in your book? And for that matter, how much will it take to repay the American people for their
lost president
?”

Burdick kicked again, this time in a location where no man likes to be struck, and Rydell cried out.

“No,” Burdick said, shaking his head, “there’s no out for you this time, you heartless monster. This time you pay your bill, and I get to be the collector.”

He wound up for another shot, but Rydell surprised him by swinging his own foot up and connecting at the point where he’d seen the gauze pad. The pain was impossibly radiant, snatching the breath from Burdick’s throat and causing him to take several staggering, robot-like steps backward. Then he lost his balance and went down, clutching at the site of the blow as the gun bounced away on the cheap Berber carpet.

Rydell got sluggishly to all fours and began crawling for it. Burdick wrapped his arms around Rydell’s thigh. Rydell responded by using his open palm to piston Burdick’s head into the floor several times. Burdick released his grip, and Rydell started forward again.

But Burdick wouldn’t quit, grabbing him around the ankle this time. When he pulled, Rydell fell flat. Cursing, Rydell sat up more quickly than Burdick had thought possible and drove a fist into the wound site. Burdick screamed
and rolled over, a burst of blood exiting his mouth. Then, with a strength fueled by absolute hatred, he lunged forward just as Rydell reached for the weapon.

They both let out guttural moans and crashed to the floor together. Burdick scrambled over him and got his hands around the butt of the pistol. He wasn’t even certain how good a grip he had, but it would have to do. He rolled over, swung the gun around, and with trembling hands fired off a single round.

Rydell was on his knees at that moment, about to pounce on him. When he froze like an image in a photograph instead, Burdick thought he’d killed him. Then he realized the bullet had in fact gone up and to the left, through the ceiling to who knew where. What he found encouraging, however, was the fresh overlay of dread on Rydell’s face.

Burdick rose slowly and with great effort. He was aware of the warm flow coming from the reopened wounds in his chest and the matching one on his back. The pain was like nothing he ever imagined a human being could endure. Worse, it was beginning to make him feel light-headed again. He had experienced this many times since the shooting. It was normal, he had been told, and would pass in time. Meanwhile, it was relatively harmless as long as he didn’t engage in any stressful activity. The adrenaline was compensating for now, but he knew that wouldn’t last forever. If he grew dizzy in front of this man, if he began to lose consciousness . . .

Get on with it.

“Okay,” he said with labored breaths, “now . . . for all that you’ve done to me and my family, for what you helped do to the president you swore an oath to serve, and for every other crime you have committed in direct violation of the laws and ideals of this country . . .”

Burdick pulled the hammer back and took careful aim.

Then a familiar voice said softly, “No, Ben.”

The two battle-weary men turned at the same time and found Jason Hammond standing there with three agents behind him. Several more could be heard thundering down the steps out of view. The trio had their own weapons drawn but not raised, as Hammond had one hand open to signal that they should hold their fire.

“Ben, if you pull that trigger, he will never stand trial, never be held accountable for his crimes. At least not in his mortal life. Is that what you want? Is that what you
really
want?”

Burdick gave this some thought but did not lower the gun. “The things he did . . . to me, to Kennedy . . .”

“No one’s doubting that. And no one’s doubting that he’ll be made to pay for his sins.”

“Who knows how many other victims there are? How much more suffering has he caused?”

Hammond walked toward Burdick slowly, hands raised. “I know. Everyone knows. But if you pull that trigger, you become like him. You
become
him. You are a man of peace and justice, whereas he is a murderer. He possesses no regard for human life, no sensitivity toward the effect his actions have on others and on the world at large. He only understands his own wants. Remember when you and I talked about how America changed after the assassination, how you thought it marked the beginning of the end of America’s innocence? That’s exactly what the Rydells of the world want. They have no innocence of their own, no humanity, so they devote their energies to shattering whatever beauty they encounter. Their selfishness, their ego, their arrogance . . . when these things are empowered, they act like poison, infecting and polluting
every good thing in their path. It is his
willingness
to kill in the first place that makes him what he is. Yes, he should be held accountable for what he has done. Yes, he deserves to be punished. But do you want to sacrifice yourself just to expedite his sentence?”

No one moved or spoke. Burdick maintained his lethal gaze and kept the gun at the pale expanse of Rydell’s forehead.

Hammond took another step closer; now they were inches apart. “He’s been trying to destroy you for years, Ben. Are you really going to hand him that victory now?”

Another moment unwound slowly. Then Burdick brought the weapon down, his shoulders fell, and all the strength went out of his body.