Rising Phoenix (47 page)

The Reverend Simon Blake took another pull from the vodka bottle and went into an inevitable coughing fit. He had once experimented with alcohol as a college freshman, and it was an episode that he didn’t look fondly back on. Since then—almost twenty years—he hadn’t touched a drop. Until today.

He laughed bitterly when his throat loosened enough to allow it. Quite a pickle he had managed to get himself into. He thought back to his meeting with John Hobart, how sure he had been that they were on the righteous path. How he was going to single-handedly bring America back on track. He laughed again and took another pull. The alcohol in his empty stomach felt like the fire of hell.

Events had conspired against him in the last few days. His clumsy attempt to put an end to the CDFS through snitching on Nelson had backfired. Now Hobart’s face was plastered across every TV in America. Blake could hear the threats Hobart had made against his family as clearly as if the phone were still pressed to his ear. Threats he knew that his ex-security chief was fully capable of carrying out.

And then there was Mark Beamon—who Blake was convinced knew of his involvement. Finally, there were the countless thousands dead because of him.

Blake put the bottle down on the floor next to him and listened to the silence reigning in the house. He had sent his wife and children away for a few days. Erica had been needing to see her mother for some time.

He closed his eyes and reflected on the brief
moments in life that so easily turned into milestones. His agreement to finance Hobart’s eradication of narcotics. His forgetting to ask Mark Beamon why they were looking for Hobart when he’d been so careful to ask Martinez. His call to the FBI about the DiPrizzio episode. All in all, these three events made up less than twenty seconds of his long life. But those seconds would define him, and overshadow everything he had built.

He reached for the phone and dialed 911.

“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece when the police operator answered. “I heard gunshots at the Reverend Simon Blake’s home.” He could hear the operator asking for details as he let the receiver fall between his chair and the table next to it. He picked up the revolver sitting on the floor next to the nearly empty fifth of vodka and put the barrel in his mouth. The taste of steel almost gagged him. “I love you, Mary,” he slurred over the barrel.

The good thing about having your picture all over the TV is that you know what not to look like.

Hobart tossed his backpack on the bench next to him and watched a tugboat struggling into its slip. Pigeons flapped around his feet, waiting to be fed.

His hair was long and blond, the color that suggests years of surfing in Hawaii, or birth in Southern California. A large earring dangled from his left ear—he’d pierced it himself only an hour ago. Torn canvas pants, a turtleneck, and a brightly colored vest completed the effect. He nodded a silent greeting as a group of skateboarders strolled by. Normally they
wouldn’t have given him a second look, but they seemed to identify with Hobart’s new image, and returned his greeting.

Satisfied that he was drawing no attention whatsoever, Hobart grabbed the army surplus knapsack next to him and headed for a pay phone perched on the side of the ice cream shop across the street. He shoved a quarter in the slot and dialed the warehouse.

“Clipper City Antiques and Oddities.” Swenson’s voice.

“Could you do me a favor, Bob?”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“Look something up on the computer for me.”

The skateboarders began to do tricks on the steps of the large brick square in front of him. He watched with mild interest, listening to his partner walking and finally sitting down.

“How many times have I told you that you don’t have to turn the computer off every time you leave, John. It’s got a screen saver. You’re gonna have to wait till it warms up.”

“No problem.”

A skateboarder took a hard fall into a steel railing. His friends laughed.

Being almost a mile from the warehouse, Hobart hadn’t expected the explosion to be quite so loud. The skateboarders ducked involuntarily, then straightened up and looked around with confused expressions. Everyone else on the street did the same. Cars stopped, drivers leaned out their windows.

Hobart replaced the receiver and strolled casually to his rental car. Once inside, he retrieved a small
chess board from the pocket in the passenger side door. The board had been designed for travel, and the pieces had been replaced by small magnetic discs that allowed the player to fold the board up midgame and continue later. The position of the pieces matched the board that until a few minutes ago had rested next to his television. Hobart pulled the white queen—Robert Swenson—off the board and threw it on the floor of the car.

The driver of the car behind him was still looking around, trying to figure out what had happened. Hobart gave a short honk on the horn and began backing out onto the cobblestone street.

Hobart had planned on shutting down the CDFS before his identity was discovered. That had been plan A. Mark Beamon’s artful meddling had forced him to switch to plan B.

He had been careful in diverting the funds from Blake’s accounts, but he wasn’t so conceited as to believe he was smart enough to fool the army of CPAs the Bureau would throw at the church’s books. At least he hoped he wasn’t. He had used Robert Swenson’s terminal number and password.

He slowed slightly as he passed within a few blocks of the warehouse. Smoke curled into the steel gray sky. The wailing of sirens echoed through the narrow streets.

Beamon was clever—he had to admit that. But what did the Bureau actually have on him? Sure, they could prove that he knew both Nelson and Karns, but so what? He could produce at least four other DEA agents who had also been acquainted with the two
men. And with his death, Swenson had gone from partner to reasonable doubt. Dead men could be very useful that way.

Hobart eased the Subaru onto 195 North, careful to constantly monitor his speed. The Jeep protested at speeds much over sixty-five, but this one could get him in trouble.

Hobart was almost halfway to his destination when a police car passed him going south. He followed it in his side mirror. It was almost out of sight when it slowed abruptly and bounced across the grass. He switched to the rearview mirror and watched it overtake him. Three cars back it slowed and matched his speed.

Coincidence?

He pulled into the right lane and touched his brakes. The cars behind him began to pass by. The cruiser stayed in the left lane, but again matched his speed, staying about fifty yards behind. Hobart checked his speed. Sixty mph. Cars were beginning to pile up behind the squad car, afraid to pass.

They continued like that for almost five miles, with no cars between them. Hobart spotted another state police car driving too slowly on the overpass ahead of him. This one was unmarked, but its ugly brown color and bristling antennae announced it just as loudly. He shifted his rearview mirror so that he could see the top of the overpass as he came out from under it. The car gained speed and turned sharply onto the on-ramp. It fell in about twenty-five yards behind the black and white.

Goddam Mark Beamon,
Hobart thought, slamming his

hands into the steering wheel. He must
have the cops chasing every fucking rental car in Maryland.

To his right, Hobart saw the enormous structure of White Marsh Mall and the brightly colored IKEA store that shared its parking lot. He flipped on his blinker, and eased the car onto the off-ramp, keeping one eye on the squad car behind him. The driver slowed slightly, then regained his speed, trying to decide what to do.

As soon as he was around the corner and out of sight of the trailing cars, he slammed his foot to the floor. The Subaru jumped satisfyingly as he accelerated into the gently bending road, tires protesting with a low, constant scream. As he curved left through a stand of trees, he caught a glimpse of the two police cars speeding toward him.

He slammed on the brakes and skidded into the vast parking lot of the shopping complex. Pulling into oncoming traffic, he took his first left and sped toward one of the many entrances to the mall. He skidded to a stop in front of the bank of glass doors, and, leaving the car running, walked briskly into the building. Once through the doors, he looked back. The people behind him looked interested, but not enough to follow.

He worked his way into the crowd, turning abruptly onto a down escalator, and bumping hard into a woman with an armful of bags. She didn’t drop them, but gave him a dirty look anyway. At the bottom of the escalator, he hurried for the nearest exit.

He burst out the doors, and walked purposefully toward a white Mercedes illegally parked in front of
him. Inside, a bored-looking woman examined her fingernails over the steering wheel. He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and jumped in.

“Sorry I’m late, hon, let’s go,” he said to the woman, pushing the barrel of his .45 into her ribs. A look of terror spread across her face. She froze.

“Smile and press the accelerator or I’m going to kill you.” His tone and message woke her from her trance and she pulled out into the parking lot.

“Very good. Now just take it easy, and get us going south on 95.”

“What do you want?” she stammered.

“I just want to get back to Baltimore, that’s all.”

She pulled out onto the freeway, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Hobart settled back into the soft leather seat and flipped on the radio. The announcer was talking about him. He flipped it off, and began going through the woman’s purse.

“I have money—credit cards, too—take it all,” she begged.

He laughed. “Thanks, but you can keep them. He pulled out a worn leather wallet held together with a rubber band. Pulling the rubber band off, he began going through it.

“Your kids?” he asked, holding up a picture of two blond boys of early grade school age. She nodded. A tear was running down her cheek. He pulled the picture out of the wallet and dropped it and her driver’s license onto his lap. He picked up the cellular phone nestled between the seats. “You mind? It’s a local call.”

He dialed the number of the warehouse, getting a
recording that the number was temporarily out of service.

“Charley? It’s me. I’m in a car with one Carol Lundan. That’s spelled L-U-N-D-A-N. She lives at 506 Pullman Street. Yeah. She’s got two kids—look to be six and eight. Blond. If I don’t make it back tonight I want you to kill ’em all. Got that? No, ’Lundan’ with an ’A.’ Yeah. Okay.”

Hobart hopped out of the car near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, studying Carol Lundan’s face as he slammed the door shut. She wouldn’t say a word. Probably not even to her husband. The terror etched across her face was as good a guarantee as a bullet in her head.

J
ohn Hobart pulled his new rental car into a nearly empty public parking lot and climbed out. He glanced briefly at his watch as he locked the door, calculating that he had at least two hours before the FBI sent word to start looking for the car. In fact, he probably had much more time than that, but where Mark Beamon was concerned, it didn’t pay to take chances.

He jogged across the quiet street and began walking along the storefronts. Many were vacant, their large front windows cracked and duct-taped. Street numbers weren’t plentiful, either. He glanced down at the section of Yellow Pages in his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. He probably should have just gone back to the same store. Despite his elaborate disguise, he was feeling exposed on the empty sidewalk.

There was no sign on the shop, but the mannequins in the window were dressed in outrageous wigs and
period costumes. A flyer taped to the door announced that it was Scarlett O’Hara week—whatever that was.

The bells on the door chimed as he opened it, and the man sitting behind the counter tossed his magazine on the floor and jumped up.

“Can I help you?” he asked, sounding elated to have a customer.

“I think you can,” Hobart replied, flipping the dead bolt on the door.

“Uh, we’re still open …”

Hobart pulled his gun from the knapsack slung over his right shoulder. “This’ll only take a little while.”

The man started to raise his hands but Hobart discouraged it.

“It’s been a slow day,” the shopkeeper explained as Hobart marched him into the back room. “There’s not much cash in the register, but you’re welcome to it. I’ve got a few bucks in my wallet, too.”

Hobart grimaced. It was the second time in as many hours that he had been mistaken for a common thief.

The back room of the shop was piled high with costumes in no apparent order. One of the walls was completely covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. On the far side of the room sat an old makeup table. Two halogen desk lamps looked out of place on its weathered wooden top.

“Turn around,” Hobart ordered, pulling off his wig. “I want to leave here a woman.”

He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of his statement. His plan to solve America’s most devastating problem had fallen apart. And now, not only was he being forced to flee the country that had been his
home for his entire life, he was being forced to do it in drag. Goddam Mark Beamon.