Frames Per Second (13 page)

“I understand that, sir,” Lucien began. “Perhaps you can comment on why she …”

“No.” The senator shook his head sternly. “I will not comment. I will not allow you to speculate and put my comments in print about goddamn
nothing.
There’s not an iota of evidence of me doing a damn thing wrong here, but if you run these photos the public will jump to damaging conclusions.”

“Sir, we’re not trying to hurt your career, it’s just that we’re following up on all of the stories that Peter was working on as an all-encompassing article that reporters run risks …”

Ben lifted his camera and caught a couple of frames of the senator pushing himself back from the desk, as if to better comprehend this new angle.

“Stop with that damn camera,” the senator said sharply to Ben. When he returned his attention to Lucien, his voice was quiet, well-measured, but shaking ever so slightly.

Ben couldn’t tell if the outrage was feigned or genuine.

Cheever said, “Let me understand you. You intend to run these photos in the context of the things that Gallagher was investigating that got him
killed
? Excuse me, but are you so damned irresponsible that you’d tar me with the suspicion of being involved in a reporter’s death? I’m a U.S. senator. Do you know what that would do to my career with all the nuts out there who have nothing to do but entertain conspiracy theories?”

“No, senator, no,” Lucien stood. “Look, let me talk with my editor. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea here… .”

“Who is she?” Ben said.

“What?” The senator looked confused. Then he slapped the photos with the back of his hand. “Did you take these?”

“Who’s the woman?”

The senator shook his head, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, call her. Her name is Teri Wheeler. Heads up the New England Software Foundation, NESF.”

“A political action committee?” Lucien said.

“They don’t refer to themselves as a PAC group, but that’s what they are,” the senator said.

“So you’re saying you have no romantic relationship with her,” Lucien asked, his pen poised.

“Emphatically.” The senator opened his drawer and flipped through some cards before finding hers. He tossed it to Lucien. “I’m also saying go ahead, talk to her. Clear your own minds. But you print something as damaging as what we discussed, with so little grounds, and I’ll come after you. Public figure or not, I’ve got some rights. Now get out of here.”

CHAPTER 13

“WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” JAKE ASKED, LETTING HIMSELF INTO THE library.

“Dumping off some old files,” Kurt said. “I’ll be done in a minute if you want to use the computer.”

“Yeah, OK.” Jake sat on the love seat, quietly watching his stepfather work for a few minutes. “My dad hates computers.”

“I know,” Kurt said. “He’s competent with them, but it’s a challenge to get him to do his expenses or log his shots. But his other talents overshadow that, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Jake looked up at the prints of his father’s still up on the wall. “He’s incredible.”

Kurt caught the envy in Jake’s voice along with the admiration. Not for the first time, Kurt thought that those pictures should come down. For the kids’ sake, as well as his own. But he knew it would raise holy hell if he broached the subject. Better to wait until the new house.

“You think my dad will ever use a digital camera?”

Kurt smiled. “Miracles can happen. I tried to foist the new digital Nikon on him. He could still use his own old lenses, I thought that’d appeal to him. We’d cut out the processing, streamline production. He gave me half a dozen pretty good reasons why not, with the top three being, ‘I don’t want to.’ Your dad is a talented, creative guy, but he goes his own way. I expect that’s kind of tough on you and Lainnie, isn’t it?”

Jake shifted uneasily, wary now. “Maybe sometimes.”

It saddened Kurt to see how much Jake wanted to be like his father—and how different he was. The two of them didn’t even look alike: Jake had his mother’s light skin and dark hair, while Lainnie had her father’s coloring.

And Jake’s manner was entirely different. More hesitant. More cautious. Kurt wished Jake were his own. He just knew the kid would shine with the right kind of attention.

Kurt said, “If ever I can be of any help, talking, just listening, that’s one of the things I’m here for.”

“Yeah, well… . Do you know where my dad is now? It’s been like a week.”

“You know he’s very busy trying to find out what happened with Peter.”

“I know, but still.”

“I understand.” Kurt looked at his watch. “He’s in Washington, D.C.”

“What’s he doing there?”

Kurt thought about it, and decided there was no harm. He told him how Ben was going to see Johansen.

“Cool,” Jake said, his eyes lighting up briefly. “You think he’ll be on TV?”

“Better not be,” Kurt said, smiling. “This is part of a feature we’re doing for
Insider.”

Kurt saw the boy’s enthusiasm fade. Kurt felt he could decipher the look:
My dad is cool, but there’s no time left for me.

“My own dad was a captain in the navy. Commanded a destroyer,” Kurt said. “I was proud as hell of him, but I sure didn’t see much of him. And even when I did, it sometimes felt like I didn’t…” He paused. “… it felt like I didn’t exactly
register.
You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I know what you mean.”

Kurt ejected the disk and exchanged it in his briefcase for packaged software that was still in the store bag. “OK. We’ve got some room on this drive again. I just picked up a copy of SimCity. You want to help me load it and start rebuilding Boston to our own liking?”

Jake straightened and reached for the software package. His eyes met Kurt’s directly for the first time since he came into the room. “Hey, thanks.” Those eyes were bright, and alive, and, for the moment, Kurt felt as if Jake was truly his own son.

“You knew I wanted this, didn’t you?” Jake said.

Kurt smiled. “That’s one of the other things I’m around here for.”

CHAPTER 14

THE TRIP TO LORTON STATE PRISON TO SEE JOHANSEN WAS A BUST.

Worst than a bust.

While Parker watched through one-way glass, Ben and Sarah sat down across the table from Johansen. His hands were manacled to a belt around his stomach. Johansen’s face looked puffier than before, but there was a malicious excitement in his eyes. On an impulse, Ben asked him flat out if he had arranged for the bomb.

Johansen shook his head dismissively. “I expect someone took a swat at you for what you’ve done to me, and to the country. But I wouldn’t waste my resources to deal with people on your level.”

“Then why did you agree to see us?” Ben said.

“For entirely personal reasons,” Johansen said.

And then he spit in Ben’s face.

He moved so fast that Ben had barely reacted before Johansen’s face was in his own.

The door behind Ben opened immediately, and the guard came in and grasped Ben by the arm. Parker came in moments later. Together, they pulled Ben and Sarah out of the room as Johansen said quietly, “Think twice before you open a package. Sweat it out before turning the key in your car. The free people of America will decide whether or not you live or die. The free people of America will no longer tolerate the collusion of the media and government—’’

“Ah, shut up,” Parker said, and slammed the door shut. He looked at Ben with bemused sympathy. “Tell me—what are you feeling right now?”

Within fifteen minutes, they were in Parker’s car on the way back to the airport.

“OK, what have we got?” Parker said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Johansen was actually telling the truth on this. We’ve been responding to all sorts of shit. Guy out in Seattle killed a state cop who stopped him for speeding. Said it was his revenge for Johansen. Federal buildings are all back on full alert for bombs. Couple of white supremacist enlisted men in Norfolk kidnapped, raped, and murdered a young black woman supposedly as a ‘political statement.’ Admitted the rape part was a little something for themselves. And burning black churches is back in fashion, only with a new twist. You know about that church down in Alabama last month? Preacher opened his bible that somebody had hooked up to a motion detector detonator. Pulpit had enough plastique to take out him and eight people in the front pew.”

Parker looked in the rearview mirror, back at Ben sitting there with his gear. “Got to say that your friend Gallagher is the first one in the media to take it, though, if that’s what it was. Most of these nuts seem to like the attention of the press just fine.”

“What do you know about Jimbo McGuire?”

Parker shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’d look at him hard.”

“Have you?”

“Not directly, not on this. I understand the Bureau’s Organized Crime unit in Boston has been looking at him for some time. I know an Agent Ludlow has a file on him but there’s nothing conclusive. Again, as far as the death of Peter Gallagher, it’s Boston Police’s show.’’

When they reached the airport, Parker walked around to open Sarah’s door. He shook Ben’s hand. “I’ll keep in touch. Anything that I think you can use, I’ll call.”

Parker touched Ben on the shoulder. “Watch yourself.”

Ben took another few minutes in the men’s room to wash his face again before they boarded the plane. He could still feel the spittle on his cheek even though he had scrubbed the skin raw.

When he came out, Sarah was sitting at the gate. Her face was pale.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She simply nodded. She was silent the whole time they were boarding the plane. A single, angry tear slipped down her face as the plane took off, and she looked out her window in the direction of the prison. It was too far away to see, but still she looked. “The bastard,” she said. “The bastard still doesn’t even know who I am.”

That night, as Ben walked down the hallway to his studio, he was thinking of his kids, thinking about tucking them in when they were younger. Thinking how often he’d missed it because he wasn’t home or he had begged off to Andi, “I’ve got processing to do.”

Thinking about Sarah, too, on her way home to her little girl.

He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. He smelled gasoline.

It was faint, but it was there. Ben instinctively began to back away, but the man inside made his move before Ben realized he was there.

He grabbed Ben by the upper arm and spun him around. The door slammed behind him, throwing the room into darkness. Ben cried out as the man sunk two hard punches into Ben’s stomach.

The man worked in terrifying silence.

Ben tried to cover his stomach. There was a whistling sound and a crashing blow alongside his head. Ben staggered, and then fell to his knees. The whistling sound came again. Ben ducked and the blow glanced off his head and landed on his shoulder. He fell onto the floor, his right arm numb.

“That’ll do you,” the man said. Ben could hear him breathing hard now.

The man felt down and rapped Ben hard on the head with his knuckles.

Ben lay still, certain that reacting would only put the guy back to work.

After a moment, the guy shuffled away.

There was a faint glow of light, and Ben opened his eyes to see the man standing by the file cabinets. He had a small flashlight in his hand, and the beam hit his face for moment. Ben captured the image in his head with the clarity of a photograph. It was the security guy from McGuire’s office. The one who had come after Peter.

The man slid open one of Ben’s file cabinet drawers of negatives. He swore, and opened several more. “Jesus Christ, how many you got here?”

The man quickly opened all of the drawers on Ben’s six cabinets before bending down to lift up a big metal can, which he rested on top of the cabinet. He unscrewed the cap.

The smell of raw gasoline filled the room, and that galvanized Ben.

He’s going to burn them,
Ben thought.

His life’s work.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the layout of his loft.

Ben saw the place in his head, the door leading to the kitchen area.

Knives. They were all in drawers, he would never get to them fast enough.

What else?

And then, probably because fire was imminent, he saw it in his head and even saw it when he opened his eyes. The fire extinguisher. In the bracket outside of the kitchen area. At his angle on the floor, he could see it outlined against the light from the window. When he was on his feet, it would be in shadow. He’d have to get his bearings on the countertop, and then reach straight down.

The flashlight beam turned his way for a moment, and Ben kept himself still as the light washed over him. Then the man turned it back to the files.