Killshot (1989) (12 page)

The idea is it's dead of winter, the ship channels are frozen over, the coast guard's breaking ice for the Harsens Island ferry and the one to Walpole and he's been going over there on a hunch they're hiding out on one of the islands, in a boarded-up summer cottage or a trapper's cabin, he can feel it, the people on Walpole are acting strange, they know something but won't talk and he senses the two guys have scared the shit out of everybody and are making them bring food, maybe holding a kid hostage. Lionel's wife finally tells him they're hiding out in an old trailer on Squirrel Island where Lionel used to keep muskrat traps, on the edge of a cornfield right across the South Channel from Sans Souci, the bar where the Indians go. For weeks he watched the trailer from a duck blind near the bar until finally one day he sees two figures coming across the channel, shoving muskrat poles in the snow, poking their way along so as not to go through the ice. He raises his binoculars. It's them. They're a mess, filthy dirty fugitives, a couple of human muskrats that have been hiding out on the edge of the marsh, wild looks in their eyes. They don't see him till they're almost to the bank. He's out of the blind, standing with the Remington across his arm, patient, relaxed, wearing his heavy black wool parka with the hood. And he's got a beard now. They stop dead in their tracks. They don't know him from Sergeant Preston of the fucking Mounties till he says, very calmly:

"I've been waiting for you, gentlemen."

Wayne listened to it in his mind. He thought calling them gentlemen because of the way they looked, being sarcastic, would sound good but it didn't, it was dumb. No, leave it off, just say . . . And said out loud:

"I've been waiting for you."

Behind him, the walking boss said, "We're right here, Wayne. What's the trouble?"

The raising-gang foreman was behind the walking boss, both of them standing on the open-iron girder. They watched Wayne look up over his shoulder, welding goggles on his hard hat turned backward, maybe a little surprised to see them, that was all. They watched him get to his feet.

"No trouble," Wayne said. "I'll move out of your way."

The walking boss and the raising-gang foreman watched him walk the girder to the column at the south end of the structure, on the corner, swing out around it, gripping the outer flange with his gloves and the instep of his work shoes, and slide down two levels to the decked-in tenth floor. They watched him pause. From where he was now he could take ladders down to each floored level. Maybe he was going to and changed his mind, favoring the express route. They watched him slide down the column the entire hundred feet or more, all the way to the ground where the guys were standing around watching, and head for the steel-company trailer.

The walking boss looked at the raising-gang foreman. Neither of them said anything.

Chapter
11

CARMEN HAD TO WAIT to tell Wayne about the FBI man calling.

Wayne came home talkative, now with another reason to be on the muscle. The squad car parked in the yard wasn't enough. Now they didn't want him at work because they said he almost caused an accident that could have killed a man. "Almost," Wayne said. "The whole goddamn job, anything you do on a structure can almost kill you, it's the way it is." Having their beers he told her this guy Kenny never looked where he was going was the trouble, it wasn't the first time he dropped a beater, everybody knew Kenny worked in the morning hungover, it was why he went out at noon. Didn't matter. "The walking boss, guy I went to apprentice school with, says take some time off till I get my head on straight. Says nobody'll work with me. You believe it?" Wayne turned to the range, asked what they were having for supper.

Carmen told him Oriental stir-fried chicken and said, "Wayne? Scallen called." There, she had his attention and could take her time now and watch his reactions to what she was going to tell him.

"He wants us to come down to the Federal Court Building tomorrow."

"Detroit?"

Carmen nodded. "And see a man named John McAllen, with the U.S. Marshals Service."

"What for?"

"I thought maybe they had the two guys. Scallen said no, this was something else."

"What?"

"I asked him, he said it would be better to wait and let John McAllen tell us."

She watched Wayne take a drink of beer. He didn't seem worried. He said, "Tomorrow, huh?" He didn't seem the least concerned, or even curious.

"They're gonna pick us up."

"That's all right, long as it isn't a squad car."

Carmen hesitated. "What do you think it's about?"

"I don't know--what do marshals do? Guard prisoners, take them to court . . . I don't know. What do you think it's about?"

She said she couldn't imagine and after that was quiet, because she couldn't tell him what she was thinking, the awful feeling that the "something else" was about Matthew. Wayne would act amazed and say, "Matthew? Why would you think it's about him?" Because she was thinking it, that's why. Because she couldn't help it. Because if it wasn't about the two guys but had something to do with the government, someone in the government wanting to talk to them . . . She could see them walking into an office with a flag on a stand where the government official is waiting to tell them, is sorry to inform them, there was an accident on the flight deck of the Carl Vinson, CVN 70, their son got between an aircraft and the JBD, or their son had been swept overboard and was missing, not drowned, they'd never say that, they'd say he was out somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean missing, as if to say, well, he could turn up, you never know.

Or Wayne might give her his bored but patient look and ask was this her instinct as a mother coming out or the other one, what was known as women's intuition? And she'd get mad and say, "Well, you don't understand," and he wouldn't. So she didn't say anything at all.

Not until the next day, riding downtown in the security of the gray interior of a gray sedan, two men in front wearing gray suits, Carmen and Wayne in back dressed for business, an official occasion, she made sure of her tone and finally said to Wayne in a low voice but an offhand manner, "You don't suppose it's about Matthew."

He looked at her right next to him and said, "So that's it. I've been wondering." He put his hand on hers, holding her purse in her lap. "No, they come to your house. They send an officer, a serious young guy in his dress uniform, to tell you. U.S. marshals don't do that. I've been thinking about it, a marshal's like what Matt Dillon was in Gunsmoke. They wear a big cowboy hat. Remember Matt and Miss Kitty?"

The marshal on the passenger side of the front seat turned his head toward the one that was driving.

Carmen nudged Wayne with her elbow. He gave her hand a squeeze.

This U.S. marshal, John McAllen, seemed as big as the one in Gunsmoke and was about the same age, around fifty, Carmen judged, and looked familiar in that he fit the role of law officer, appeared to have rough edges and kept his personality to himself, or tried to. She had seen enough law officers recently to recognize the type. McAllen, in his dark suit, was not as neat and polished as Scallen, the FBI special agent, who looked more like a lawyer or business executive and sat off to one side. Carmen and Wayne had chairs facing the marshal at his desk, a big one. On the wall behind him were pictures of three past presidents of the United States and a fourth who was about to leave office.

Greeting them, McAllen had said it was a pleasure and that he appreciated the courage it took for them to come forward, willing to testify at the appropriate time. He said now, with a little smile, "I imagine what you'd appreciate is somebody taking better care of you. Well, that's why you're here."

Carmen thought he even sounded like the one in Gunsmoke only more authentically western. She said they would appreciate it a lot, and glanced at Wayne. He was sitting forward, his elbows on the chair arms, not yet moved by the marshal's concern.

"This situation, from our standpoint, is an unusual one," McAllen said. "However since your lives are apparently in danger we feel you qualify for federal protection under the Witness Security Program of the United States Marshals Service."

Wayne said, "You mean our lives appear to be in danger but maybe they aren't?"

As McAllen looked up from a notebook he was opening Carmen said, "I thought it was only for criminals. Wasn't Richie Nix in the program?"

"He was for a time," McAllen said, maybe surprised by the way both of them had come at him, glancing over at Scallen now.

"Everything I've read about it," Wayne said, "it's for people who testify in court to stay out of prison."

McAllen, trying to smile, said, "Whoa now, you people have a misconception about the program we better clear up."

Carmen turned to Scallen as he got into it saying, yes, the program was originally created by the attorney general for the protection of witnesses under Title V--or he might've said Title B, Carmen was still having trouble with McAllen referring to them as "you people." Scallen's tone helped, giving her the feeling he was actually concerned for their safety. He said the program must work, there were about fifteen thousand people in it counting witnesses and their families. He said, "Let's let John McAllen go through some of the boilerplate, basic things about the program. How's that sound? Then we'll see how a modified version might work for you."

It sounded okay to Carmen. She said, fine. Wayne didn't say anything.

So then McAllen recited from his notebook, beginning with the conditions required for eligibility. There had to be evidence in possession that the life of the witness and/or a member of his or her family was in immediate jeopardy. There also had to be evidence in possession that it would be advantageous to the federal interest for the Department of Justice to protect the witness and/or family or household members.

Carmen began to wonder when Wayne would jump in.

With this evidence in possession the attorney general could, by regulation, provide suitable documents to enable the person to establish a new identity . . .

Right there.

"What you're saying," Wayne said, "you want us to change our names 'cause you can't find these assholes? Is that it?"

McAllen said, "Whoa now," and Scallen got into it again saying, "Wayne, you have to let John finish. The regulation states it's to establish a new identity or 'otherwise protect the person,' so we're flexible in that area."

McAllen said he would appreciate their waiting till he was finished before expressing their views. Staring at Wayne.

Good luck, Carmen thought.

The program would provide housing, McAllen said. It would provide for the transportation of household furniture and other personal property to a new residence of the person. It would provide a payment to meet basic living expenses and assist the person in obtaining employment . . .

Wayne said, "Can I ask a question?"

"I imagine," McAllen said, looking up from the notebook, "you want to know what comes under 'basic living expenses.' "

"I want to know, first, if you're saying we have to sell our house."

Carmen was wondering that too, among other things. But most of all she was wondering, if they did move, what she'd tell her mother. While Scallen was saying, yes, it would involve relocation, for their safety, but he didn't think it would be necessary to sell the house. Carmen thinking that if she told her mother they were going on a vacation her mom would get sick, as she usually did, sometimes putting herself in the hospital. Scallen saying he believed he could make a deal with Nelson Davies, have his company appear to be offering the house for sale and take care of the maintenance.

Wayne said, "Relocate where?"

Scallen looked at John McAllen who said, "Where we have marshals that supervise the program, experienced Witness Security inspectors. Right now we can offer you Lima, Findlay, Ohio . . ."

Wayne said, "Jesus Christ, those're both on I-Seventy-five."

McAllen paused, frowning. "What's wrong with that?"

Carmen said, "Wayne?" with a look that meant, Don't give your speech about driving through Ohio. She said to McAllen, "What else do you have?"

He was still frowning, maybe confused. "Well, a couple places in Missouri, one especially we recommend. But what I'd like is to finish with the regulations first, if that's agreeable with you."

He didn't say "you people" and his tone seemed okay. Otherwise, Carmen was fairly sure Wayne would have jumped on him. At the moment he was holding on to the chair arms.

Before providing the aforementioned assistance, McAllen said, the attorney general would enter into what was called a Memorandum of Understanding with the person, which sets forth the responsibilities of that person and would include:

The agreement of the person to testify and provide information to all appropriate law-enforcement officials concerning all appropriate proceedings.

The agreement of the person to avoid detection by others of the facts concerning the protection provided.

Carmen was going to say, What? But didn't.

The agreement to comply with legal obligations and any judgments against that person.

Carmen felt Wayne looking at her. She glanced over. He was giving her a look, mouth open, that meant, You believe it?

The agreement to cooperate with all reasonable requests of officers and employees of the government.

The agreement of the person not to commit any crime.

Carmen thought that one should cut Wayne loose, bring him up out of his chair. But he surprised her.

"Now, that's a tough one," Wayne said. "You understand, we could possibly go along with all that other bullshit, but to promise we won't commit any crimes . . ." Wayne shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Mr. Colson," McAllen said, "these regulations applied originally to federal offenders. I thought we explained that and I'm sorry if we didn't make it clear. They still apply to ninety-seven percent of the people we take into the program, not counting their dependents and so on. The other three percent are honest citizens, such as you and the wife, who're willing to avail yourselves of the program and its resources . . ."

The wife, Carmen thought.

". . . which I must tell you is truly inspiring to us in law enforcement and the administration of criminal justice." McAllen turned to the FBI special agent. "Paul, am I right about that or not?"

Scallen straightened, all of a sudden brought into it. He nodded saying, "That's a fact, yes."

Carmen saw him agreeing but with not much conviction now, shifting around in his chair as though he might have doubts and wanted to say something. But then McAllen was speaking again, reciting words Carmen believed were from a text.

Something about "in the judgment of the United States government that by reciprocating, protecting you to the fullest extent once you have agreed to testify, we can effect a major action against these elements of organized crime."

After that for a few minutes there was silence, Carmen watching the U.S. marshal line up papers on his desk, getting ready for the next part, while those three ex-presidents and the one about to be looked down from the wall behind him.

"I have a question," Wayne said to the FBI special agent.

Carmen looked over at Scallen, who seemed relieved now, even smiling a little as he said, "I imagine you're gonna have all kinds of questions."

"Just one," Wayne said. "Do we get a ride home?"

A uniformed sheriff's deputy sat in the living room watching television and another one was outside somewhere. State Police would drive by every once in a while.

Wayne and Carmen were in the kitchen having a beer, trying to decide whether to cook or go out.Wayne said if they went out the cops would come along and he'd rather not be seen in public with them.

They would talk about the witness program, make comments and then not say anything, Wayne with his thoughts and Carmen with hers, taking their time getting into it. Carmen said she had a feeling the FBI agent didn't think too highly of the program, or had some doubts about it. McAllen, she believed, was sincere but used to dealing with criminals. Wayne said he was getting used to being treated as one so what was the difference?