My King The President (27 page)

At last she said, “My son, we owe you a great debt of gratitude. Possibly even our lives. So does the Monsignor, and there is very little I would deny you. I’m going to allow you to see Liz, but I must also say to you that she was close to a total breakdown by the time you left her at Tryon’s Cove. Very close.”

“Breakdown?”
“Yes. With all the other things on your mind, you didn’t notice, but try to imagine how she felt: Her brother’s tragedy, her own misfortunes at school, her harrowing adventures with you, not knowing when or where she might be killed? Well, perhaps I had best allow Liz to speak for herself. Our chapel is midway down the corridor on the left. Wait for her there.”

The tiny chapel was candle-lit and quiet as a grave, which did nothing for the queasy feeling spreading like a mudslide through my gut. I sat down and waited, barely breathing. I didn’t hear Liz arrive, a few minutes later, and only sensed her presence when she eased down on the pew behind me. “Don’t turn around, Jeb. I don’t want to have to look at your eyes.”

Something in the sound of her voice froze me in place. “Liz? Sweetheart, what is it? I came for you as soon as I could. You—”

“Please listen to me, and don’t interrupt. If you do, I’m not sure I can get any or all of this out. First, I love you. I know I will always love you, but I have made a more important decision for the rest of my life. I’ve already started my initial probationary period. I’m a novice now, preparing to take my first vows. God willing, I’ll make it through my time as a novitiate, and within two years, will take my final vows. I’m going to be a nun, Jeb.”

I don’t know how much time passed between those shattering words and her next ones. The only sound I heard was the accelerated thumping of my own heartbeat.

“While I was in Tryon’s Cove with the Williams family and later, in Florida, I was close to losing it. Really losing it. I’d been trying hard to imagine a life with you. Every first thought was of living with you. Marrying you. Having your babies. Not
dying
with you in some God-forsaken place. And every second thought was, what about the day you didn’t come home? Or if you did, would you be dead or alive? I knew if we were together, I mean permanently together, I wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to you. With the helter-skelter life you lead, the probability, the risk is too high. Maybe I’m weak, but I have already lost too much. Bishop Doyle knew I was at the end of my rope. So did Sister Agnes.

“But they didn’t talk me into this, Jeb. Nobody did, unless it was God. I’ve been dreading seeing you again. Telling you this, and I’m begging you not to say one single word. Otherwise, I’ll be lost forever. Let me go, my love. Just… let me go. Please.”

I didn’t hear her stand up and leave. I don’t know how much longer I sat there either, alone except for the sympathetic stained glass saints and slow-burning candles. I found myself staring at one in particular, trying to work out in my head how long it might take to burn down, or how long the air around it would stay warm if someone snuffed it out; ill-fitting metaphors for the quick flash and warm flame of Liz McCarty who had lighted a new part of my life with the brilliance of a Roman one, and with the same brevity.

Sister Agnes was standing beside the front door when I left, offering her hand. “We will all pray for you, Mr. Willard. God be with you.” I muttered a word or two of thanks and stepped outside. It had become cloudy again. Probably would snow again before nightfall…

Without really thinking about it, I drove into a nearby upscale mall, parked, and found a men’s store where I bought jeans, three flannel shirts, underwear and socks, plus a pair of comfortable Nike’s, all of which I wore outside, thus legitimizing my reason for borrowing the car. I dropped Ralph Curtis’ things in the first trash bin I saw. Since leaving the convent, I had felt like I was wearing somebody else’s skin, and it was burning me up. By the time I got back in the car, I was feeling a little better, at least physically. Another thought came to mind, so I got out again, looking for the nearest telephone. I dialed Ernie’s number and left a message on his machine to call Father Ralph. “Tell him it’s okay to come home, Ernie. It’s safe now, and his church needs him more than ever before. I’m okay, too, and so is my Dad. More later.”

It was snowing again by the time I got back to Blair House. Saying nothing to anyone, I found a sofa in an empty room, stretched out, my feet over the edge, and by some miracle, fell fast asleep.

The snow was heavier when Frye pulled out of the Vienna side street, glancing at his watch. “Seven fifteen. He’s on his way.”

“How do you know?” Cal said.”

“My secret.”

During our earlier dinner at Blair House, which I had barely touched, Thurmond had already reluctantly revealed to Cal and me a few of his long kept professional secrets, the most important of which was how he had known about Judge Koontz’s security system for three years, and while I had been off on my afternoon shopping trip, had arranged with the Vienna police and the Allison Alarm and Security Company to shut it down at seven o’clock because Judge Koontz had “wanted the FBI to make a few additional Federal modifications,” which would take until past midnight to finish.

And like Cal, I wondered how he had known exactly when the Judge had left his house for the drive into Washington, but I let that pass. The heightened spurt of adrenaline coursing through my veins when we pulled into Koontz’s property with our lights blazing shoved all lingering thoughts of Liz out of my head. I also swallowed another dose of grudging admiration for Thurmond Frye’s professionalism when it dawned on me that he had somehow commandeered a car that was the same make, model, and color as the one Judge Koontz drove!

It took him no more that twenty seconds to pick the back door lock. Inside, we used flashlights to find our way up to the music room. I went straight for the stacks of recordings, praying that Cal’s amateur musicology was on the money. Not taking any chances, I extracted all ten of the plastic Sibelius cases from the shelf. “What now?”

“First things first,” Frye said, not bothering to whisper. “We find a CD player and test them out.”

It took a while. We finally found it—in the Judge’s kitchen! I should have known that’s where it would be. One by one, we shoved the disks into the machine, set normal levels, and were rewarded by the darkly beautiful sounds of Jan Sibelius’ genius. Symphonies one through five were all legitimate performances. Collectively holding our breath, we listened for something musical to come out of the speakers when Frye jammed Symphony number six in. All we got was rough static. “Bingo!” Cal said, his own voice half an octave higher. “Let’s look for his computer.”

This was easier to locate. It was in Judge Koontz’s upstairs bedroom, which he hadn’t shown Walt and me before. Its animated screen saver was casting dancing light shadows on the far walls. “Uh, oh,” Cal said.

“What? I asked.

“Koontz’s password. We can’t do squat without that.”

Frye reached for the wall light switch and flipped it on, revealing a sneaky look in his eyes. “Not a problem. Like most people who aren’t computer experts, Koontz uses a password he couldn’t easily forget.” He sat down. Without saying anything further, and while we looked over his shoulder he typed in the word
idamae
. Turning back at us, he added, “His mother’s name.”

Cal and I exchanged glances, both of us thinking the same thought.
How does he know
?

He slipped the “Sibelius 6
^th”
in, clicked on SHOW ALL FILES, and like Cal and me, caught his breath when it immediately responded with—
OPERATION CASTLE

“Chess term?” Cal whispered.

Those were the last words spoken by any of us for over an hour. Thurmond tapped the mouse rapidly. It was there. All of it. The whole diabolical, unbelievable plan, in detailed perfection. As if by tacit agreement, Frye scrolled fast, only pausing here and there, as if he couldn’t quite believe some of the underlined names, phrases, and dates.

With a shaking hand, he inserted the next disk, then the next. We all stared unblinking at the screen, much, I imagine, the same way other eyes had first beheld King Tut’s treasure tomb. Or the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or maybe the same way men in the New Mexico desert watched the first atomic bomb test.

Thurmond was slipping in the last disc when a voice from behind us quietly said, “Freeze. Raise your hands.”

Simultaneously, the three of us turned. A hatted, tall man in an expensive overcoat was standing in the doorway, holding a nasty looking machine pistol leveled at our chests. We had no chance to do anything other than what he’d commanded. We froze. The muzzle of the Uzi, or whatever type of weapon he expertly held, didn’t waver a millimeter. The voice didn’t either. “Hands on top of your heads, please, and don’t talk. Not a sound. I don’t want to shoot you, but if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to, you’ll all be dead before you fall.”

At the range of no more than four feet, with all three of us standing close together, we believed him, and slowly did as he had told us. It was only then that I noticed another man behind him, half a foot shorter, also holding a similar weapon. The second man came inside quickly and snatched up the discs, including the one still inside the computer. As if by habit, he touched the shutdown key, nodding to his partner, who said, “Good. All right, then. You’re all going back down the hall to the music room, one at the time.” With the barrel of the pistol, he motioned to Frye. “You first.”

In the soft, but adequate light of Ezekiel Koontz’s bedroom, I saw Thurmond Frye’s face harden as he stared into the face of his new enemy, and then took a slow step toward the door. “Just a moment,” the tall man said. “Hands up against the wall, please. High up. Spread your feet.”

Frye did as he was told, and was quickly frisked. In seconds, the tall man found Frye’s own gun, and the lock-picking tool case, which he shoved into his overcoat pocket. The second man then jammed the snout of his gun into the small of Frye’s back. “Let’s go.” The two of them disappeared down the hall. The shorter man returned within minutes, and motioned for Cal. “You next.”

Cal gave me a flashing look of absolute helplessness, then followed orders. I opened my mouth to say something, but the ice-cold eyes of the tall man with the steady hand holding the machine pistol changed my mind for me. His partner came back soon, and it was my turn to be marched down the hall. While the tall man held his pistol to my spine, the second guy unlocked and opened the door. “Inside, please.”

I obeyed, noticing that Cal was sitting on the harpsichord bench, but Frye was standing, leaning against the old piano, his hands resting on either side of its top. As I crossed the room, momentarily shielding him from the tall man, I saw him lean forward and lift his right leg, placing his foot against the thick leg of the heavy instrument. I would never have believed a man as big as Turmond Frye could move so fast. Cat-like, using the leverage of the piano leg, he sprang at the tall man with a blood-curdling scream. The surprise move was effective, but not quite fast enough. There was too much open space between his hurtling body and the tall man standing in the open doorway.

His machine pistol emitted one obscene burp, making not much more noise than a child’s toy. Frye dropped in a heap at the man’s feet, his body twitching like that of a poisoned animal. The tall man looked up at Cal and me, again leveling the pistol. “Impressive, but stupid. I’m sorry.” He turned his head sideways, toward his partner, but without taking his eyes away from us. “You have them all?”

The shorter killer patted his overcoat pocket. “Yes. All ten. Let’s go.”

“Just a moment,” the tall man said. “Cover them.” From his pocket he removed Thurmond’s weapon, ejected its clip, and extracted two of the bullets, which he dropped on the floor. Placing the clip back into his pocket, he dangled the empty automatic from his finger. “Listen to me carefully. I am not by nature a cruel man. I’m a hard one, true, but I’m not without compassion. I’m going to leave this weapon here when we leave. You will have two choices. As you can see, this is a solid oak door, with a modern steel lock. One of you can use those two bullets to try to shoot it out, but that would be futile, I think. Your other choice will be for yourselves. I wish I could guess which of you will go first.”

With those inhuman words, he turned quickly, flung the gun into the far corner, and slammed the door behind him. We heard the key turn in the lock, then nothing. They were gone—along with the proof of Koontz’s treason. Cal and I both stood stock still for a long couple of seconds before we thought of Frye. I bent over him, turned him over and tried to ignore the blood oozing from several holes in his upper body. He had not yet lost consciousness, and his tortured eyes looked into mine. Through pink froth and clenched teeth, he was trying to overcome his horrible pain to tell me something. His voice was weak. Otherworldly. Only a few croaked words at the time. “B—elt… Paaa—ger.”

A spell of spastic coughing followed, and I caught my breath. With great effort of will, he opened his eyes again, “B—button… Three… times. Thrrrrreee…” His eyes rolled back in his head, and I couldn’t tell if he had died or had only fainted from pain. Reaching through blood, I found the pager, or what looked to be a pager, turned it over in my hand and found the button in the back. I depressed it three times, then dropped it. When I looked up, Cal was uselessly trying the doorknob. Looking around the room in oncoming panic, I suddenly remembered that it wasn’t the number of Sibelius recordings that had bugged me about this room before. It was something else.

It had no windows!

Cal and I bent over Thurmond Frye, using the pressure of our open palms to try to staunch some of the blood flow. It was hopeless, we knew, and our shared glances of human inadequacy changed and multiplied fourfold—to terror—when we both realized we were smelling smoke. Cal’s voice was a choking whisper. “They’ve set the place on fire, Jeb. We’re trapped.”

I then believed I knew who had murdered Jean Tyndall, and it was also then that I fully understood why the “compassionate” killer had left behind Frye’s pistol and two bullets.