Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) (31 page)

“You sure?” Paula asked, frowning. “You can barely see him.”

Morgan’s voice was excited. “Yeah, it is. You think I’d forget that day?” He tapped on another figure. “That’s Joyce yelling, as usual. Must’ve been earlier. The background isn’t the village.”

This was a mixed blessing for Joe, both a confirmation and a disappointment, as his next question revealed. “Bob, you said there was no film to be found. That Ben’s cameras were empty. If these were shot the same day, where did they come from?”

But Morgan didn’t hesitate. “Sievers,” he said, as if that explained it. “He’d agreed to carry Ben’s kit bag, since he was unarmed. It had a tripod in it, some other stuff, and it’s where Ben dropped all his exposed film. When the medevac chopper got there, I threw it in with Ben.” He gestured toward the pictures. “They must’ve been in there.”

Joe let his words sink in before he asked, “What happened after you’d tended to Ben?”

“We called in the chopper.”

“What about Sievers?” Paula asked. “He go, too?”

It turned out to be a pertinent question. Morgan took her in with an almost surprised expression. “That’s where it started getting really weird, and why—” He looked at Joe. “—I didn’t make this up. No. Joyce said to leave him. Then he got us together after the chopper left and started on this rant, telling us how everybody was out to get us, from the protesters to Command to the politicians to the gooks, and how we had to hang together, especially against people like Sievers.”

“Sievers?” Joe said, caught off guard.

“Yeah. He sort of worked his way around to pinning the whole thing on him, saying that Sievers had ‘almost got him’ or some shit like that, before Joyce got him first. The implication was that maybe it was Sievers who shot Ben, even though he didn’t carry a gun. It was totally crazy. He was walking back and forth, waving his arms around, talking fast. Still with the gun in his hand.”

“Did he threaten you?” Joe wanted to know.

“We felt threatened,” Morgan confirmed. “Andy and I talked about that after, but we all did. Nobody knew what to do. What happened to whistleblowers was no secret—that was a given. A bunch of guys were killed for shooting their mouths off about stuff happening in the bush. But we were sure Joyce had murdered someone in cold blood—an unarmed American civilian, not even counting the others. In a heartbeat, without thinking about it. He’d done it before to locals—lots of times—but never an American.”

Bob paused to rub his forehead again. “And the way his little speech ended, we were pretty sure he wouldn’t have a problem doing it again.”

“How were things left?” Joe asked.

“We returned to base, on foot instead of by chopper, carrying Sievers in a bag. That was the lieutenant’s choice, and I found out why. He took each of us aside on the way back and grilled us about what we were thinking. He made it real clear to me that if I kept my mouth shut, I’d never have to work again. He said that his family had more money than God, and that I’d never have to worry.”

“Or what?” Paula asked.

Morgan made a face. “I didn’t ask and he didn’t say, but I knew it would be bad. That’s why we were carrying Sievers, I always thought. As a reminder. And after we got shipped back home and he contacted me to make his offer formal, he even told me—no bones about it—how my wife and any other family would die if I ever ratted him out.” He pointed at the small stack of photographs Joe had shown him. “After my daughter was born, that fucker sent me a picture of her, like you would to congratulate somebody. But it was a photo taken through a scope, with crosshairs, and it wasn’t one we took that he’d doctored. We thought one of his people probably shot it through a window or something, as a warning.”

He studied Joe and added, “Jack Joyce is a crazy man, and a stone-cold killer. I wasn’t gonna fuck with a guy like that. I see him on TV every once in a while, and he still keeps in touch through his goons, now and then, and every time, it’s to remind me of—as he calls it, ‘the terms of our contract.’ That’s how I knew about Andy and the others.” He pressed his lips together before adding, “And now I’ve told you, which means your promise better be better than his, or my whole family is dead.”

“Did all the squad members compare notes after you reached base?” Joe asked, not addressing the man’s dilemma. “It seems from what you’re saying that not everybody chose like you did. Andy, for example.”

“There wasn’t that much talking. Joyce had told us not to, and we were already freaked out. You gotta remember, the stuff you see in the movies about soldiers all being best buddies? That’s a crock. Andy and I were tight, but the rest of ’em? Some were okay, but others? I didn’t give a rat’s ass what they did.”

“But you and Andy talked,” Paula suggested.

“Yeah,” he said sadly. “I told him he was nuts. I mean, not only was the offer good, but the guy was a psycho. It was a lose–lose to turn him down. But Andy wasn’t interested. He didn’t think it was that big a deal. We saw a bunch of pure evil over there. Joyce shooting two Americans was terrible, but it wasn’t unheard of, and Andy figured he’d just go home and forget about it.” He pointed to the photo stack again. “Looks like he chose poorly.”

“Your wife know about any of this?” Joe asked.

“She thinks we have a trust fund, which—if you think about it—I do. Or did. What’s going to happen to us now?”

Paula glanced at Joe, probably wondering the same thing. There was no question of an official offer of protective custody. Joe had no case to justify it, much less any evidentiary proof of Morgan’s story. Nevertheless, he didn’t hesitate saying, “It’s up to you, Bob, but you’re both welcome to come to Vermont, where the Bureau will arrange to keep you under wraps for however long this takes to play out. It won’t be easy—just so you know. You’ll have to cut all ties, follow our rules, and not do anything that’ll make it possible for Joyce and his people to track you down. It’ll be a rough path to follow.”

“Better than dying.”

Joe had to grant him that.

*   *   *

Senator Jack Joyce looked up from the note he was writing with a gold Montblanc fountain pen.

“Jesus, Jonathan. What the hell is it this time?”

“Mr. Smith, sir.”

His butler stepped aside without comment and let a giant of a man step around him and enter the office.

Joyce waved his hand imperiously. “Fine. Get lost. And no more creeping around tonight, okay? Go do whatever you do somewhere else.”

“Very well, sir.”

He waited for the door to close soundlessly before asking without preamble, “What’s this supposedly Dead-Eye Dick’s name?”

“Chris Hadsel.”

“Any reason I should think Chris Hadsel’s going to be any better than the first two? Far as I can tell, those dummies screwed everything up.”

The big man shifted his weight slightly, which, at two hundred and fifty pounds, could make an impression. Joyce was unmoved. He kept a steady gaze.

“I’ve never been let down before,” came the qualified response.

Joyce let out a weary sigh—the executive saddled with petty details. “Christ,” he said softly. “I guess that’ll have to do. Let your latest dog loose and let’s see if we can finally catch a break.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“How’s my girl?” Beverly asked.

Joe pulled over to the side of the road. There was no Vermont law against driving and using a cell phone simultaneously, but he avoided the practice in general.

“She’s a happy clam, from what I was told. You didn’t speak to her directly?”

“No service, of course.”

Joe laughed. That was the other reason he always pulled over. All of northern New England had spotty reception, at best. “I spoke with Dispatch not fifteen minutes ago. Rachel’s fine, and Ben’s house is getting down to where they can see an end in sight, which suits me fine.”

“Oh?”

“I’m hoping against reason for some gold nugget to appear at the bottom of it all, but mostly, I just want it to be done. How are you holding up?”

“Generally?” she began. “Very well. But I could certainly do with a little less attention from the press. It’s now become a rarity around here when the phone rings and it’s not a reporter.”

They spoke a little longer after that, largely on other topics. It was slowly becoming a habit of theirs, especially given the distance between them, to get in touch at least daily, if only to exchange mundane activities. Joe enjoyed the reaffirmation he got from the practice, that this foray of the heart—once presumed to never be tried again—had become one of the smartest moves of his life.

*   *   *

Joe swung by Ben’s place before continuing on to Brattleboro. The weather had steadied since the last snow, so the crew at the site had been able to ignore it, as most Vermonters did at this time of year—aside from donning extra layers and cursing more frequently as they worked.

On the other hand, the combination of aging snow and active heavy equipment did not make for an attractive scene. Ben’s spread, even compared to how Joe had first found it—what seemed like so long ago—resembled a battlefield. The entire property was gouged with deep, muddy ruts and piles of disturbed earth. And the house—never an architectural showcase—now presented like a building caught in some artillery crossfire, with most of one wall missing and its innards fanned out to both sides on the ground.

He found Rachel moving about the periphery, video camera in hand, shooting through gaps and windows with her long lens—although at what, he couldn’t tell in the bright outside light. She was clearly taking her double assignment, as historical recorder and evidence documentarian, very seriously.

“Getting good stuff?” he asked as he approached.

She finished her shot and lowered the camera, smiling. “Totally. I really want to thank you again for letting me do this. I mean, it’s sad, in a couple of ways, but it’s good, too, you know?”

“I do,” he said, appreciating her lack of guile or pretense. “You know if they found anything useful?”

Her expression sombered. “I don’t think so. Agent Martens is inside.”

“They been cooperating with you okay?” he asked. “You been able to do what you came for?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve all been great.”

He didn’t doubt it. Having someone of her age and level of enthusiasm was a rare occurrence at a crime scene reconstruction. He imagined that she’d lifted the team’s spirits and helped refine their focus. He made a mental note to consider using her in this role in the future.

“Good,” he said. “I think they’ll be wrapping up for today pretty soon. If you want, I’ll drive you home after I check in with Sam.”

“Thanks,” she answered. “I’ll be ready.”

He found Sam deep inside, dressed in her hooded Tyvek suit. He hadn’t donned equivalent gear, since forensic contamination wasn’t a problem here. He imagined she’d done so mostly to keep her clothes clean. Given the smell still clouding the whole house—and the dust and mildew that they’d disturbed—he could only sympathize.

“Anything?” he asked succinctly.

She pulled back her hood and stripped off her latex gloves so she could rub her face vigorously. “Odds and ends. Letters, papers. Nothing to write home about. How ’bout you? How’d it go with Morgan?”

“He spilled the beans. Gave us the complete background in a sworn statement. The squad leader—now Senator Joyce—apparently raped and killed a girl in a small village, along with a child and an old woman who were with her. Sievers caught him in the act and was shot for his pains, as was Ben. Joyce then told everybody that he’d either take care of them for life, or they’d suffer the consequences. According to Morgan, that’s exactly what he did.”

“And it worked for this long?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Must have,” Joe said. “Until Rachel stumbled across the pictures Ben had taken of them earlier that same day. Joyce probably had a coronary when he saw them in
The New York Times.
I’m thinking that he destroyed what Ben had in his cameras, right after he shot him, but didn’t notice that Sievers had been acting as a pack mule, carrying Ben’s equipment bag as a favor, complete with shot film. For Joyce, seeing anything associated with that day must’ve been like a red rag for a bull—he saw his entire career disappearing in a cloud of smoke.”

“Does that mean we have a case against Joyce?” she asked, reasonably enough. “Did Morgan pin the deaths of the other squad members on him?”

“Not credibly. He didn’t even see him shoot Sievers and Ben. He just put it together. Joyce supposedly told them that he killed Sievers after Sievers shot Ben and tried to kill him. Obviously, we’re going to have to round up the surviving members and see if they’ll corroborate Morgan’s story, and dig like nobody’s business into Joyce’s past—which’ll be real fun, given that he’s a U.S. senator and therefore under the watchful eye of our federal brethren. Also, since Morgan told me of the deal he made with Joyce, we have to assume that his life is at risk, which,” he added after a slight pause, “is why I’ve arranged to put him and his wife someplace safe for a while.”

Sammie stared at him in surprise. “Oh, Allard’s gonna
love
that.”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “tell me about it. On the other hand, it might push him into getting the U.S. Attorney’s office involved, to combine this with the Niles case, both to get a cleaner shot at Joyce and to pay for little niceties like keeping the Morgans alive.” He checked his watch. “Anyhow, I told Rachel that I’d take her to my place for the night, since I guess you’re about done for the day. You agree?”

“Yeah. Although, given what you just told me, I’m going to make double sure this site is secure overnight. If Morgan turns out to be a straight shooter, Joyce is likely to pull out every stop he can to destroy everything and everybody connected to his past. It could get hairy.” She looked around them. “This pile of junk, for example, would make one hell of a bonfire.”

She gestured toward the outside of the building. “And not to sound overly cautious, shouldn’t we tuck Rachel away again? No reason to think she’s not still a primary target, especially if Joyce hears you’ve grabbed Morgan. Being a senator doesn’t seem to have curbed his appetite for having people killed or kidnapped. The man likes a clean slate.”