The Chessman (11 page)

“So you’re on that House Select Committee?”

“Idiot me thought I’d hit a grand slam when I first got assigned to it.”

Cady walked along the front of the tank, looking at Farris’s assortment of exotic fish. The aquarium sat on an oak base and had to be six feet long by four high. Various decorations lay on the light blue gravel at the bottom of the tank: a sunken pirate ship snapped in two, a half-buried treasure chest, and a yellow submarine with pictures of the Fab Four staring back at Cady from each of the submarine’s four portholes. A couple starfish sat motionless, a variety of multicolored aquatic plants stretched upward, and rocks, coral, shale step ledges, and driftwood were also strewn about the colored gravel.

“Fortunately, we’ve got a service that checks the filter system and temperature,” Farris said. “The fish were my wife’s idea. The Fab Four and the topless mermaid on the swing set were my two cents.”

“I bet.” Cady peeked at the mermaid, and then began checking out the fish. “What’s this one with the red tail?”

“That critter’s a Tinfoil Barb. It’s still got a bit to grow. Many in there are rainbow fish and a variety of Gouramies. There’s also a Blue Dempsey and a Bala shark, and an eel lurking near the pirate ship.”

“Interesting.” Cady turned and looked across the room. Open doors on the back wall led out to a second-story terrace.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Mind if I finish my Glenfiddich?” Farris picked up his glass and raised it to Cady.

Cady shook his head.

“Never thought I’d become a Glenfiddich man like my father.” Farris finished his drink in one swallow. “Hell, Scotch might even work as a biofuel.”

“I found out today that the friend of Marly Kelch—the girl who drowned at Schaeffer’s party—a guy named Ingram, died in a fire last year.”

Farris walked over to a cart in the corner stacked with bottles, picked up the open bottle of Glenfiddich 15 and refilled his glass. “I guess they’re all dead now.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m sorry to hear about Bret, Agent Cady.”

“You said you didn’t know him.”

“What?”

“In your father’s office, you said you didn’t know Marly’s boyfriend, but you just said you were sorry to hear about Bret. I never mentioned Ingram’s first name.”

Farris looked out the open doors of his terrace. “I became curious and Googled old articles after we spoke.”

“Bret Ingram was never charged with any crime, Congressman. I read through all the news accounts as well. The articles, brief as they were, focused on Marly Kelch’s
accidental drowning
on Snow Goose Lake. It was treated as a tragedy. They didn’t itemize the minutiae of who was partying with whom, perhaps out of respect for the Kelch family. Or fear of the Schaeffers.”

Farris walked out to the edge of his terrace, drink in one hand.

Cady followed.

“What happened that night at the lake, Congressman?”

Farris took another long sip from his glass and stared across the alleyway. “The Robillards are home early.”

Cady glanced across the way, a dim light from a back hallway clicked off in the neighboring condo.

“They’ve got a timeshare in Venice.” Farris turned to look at Cady. “When they’re not in Italy, Gretchen and Phil often have me over for one of Gretch’s home-cooked meals. They’ve been married nearly sixty years, Agent Cady. You’ve heard of love at first sight? With the Robillards, it’s love at every sight. I’ve seen it up close. Whenever Gretchen enters the room, Phil’s eyes light up and the two are like kids again. Makes me feel like I should excuse myself and grant them some privacy.” Farris turned back toward his neighbors’ home. “That’s the way it should be, right?”

Cady said nothing.

“It’s going to break their hearts when they hear about me and Emma.”

“Emma?”

“My wife and I are separated. Long time coming. Emma’s a real trooper, though; she’ll be there for the next election…then a quiet divorce decree, and separate ways.” Farris took another mouthful of Scotch. “I see you’re wearing a ring, Agent Cady. Did you hit the lottery? Have you got what Phil and Gretchen possess?”

Cady said nothing. Laura had been in her fifth month of pregnancy when she’d miscarried last December. Cady had been in Detroit tracking down rumors of Al-Qaeda connections at one of the Islamic centers—comments by a cleric had raised eyebrows but ultimately were editorial in nature. Cady flew home, took weeks off, but something had broken—had been years in the breaking, according to Laura—and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were having a devil of a time putting it together again. Cady planned on taking an extended leave of absence once the Chessman case was resolved.

“Your silence is most telling,” Farris said, toasting the agent with his drink glass. “I welcome you to the club.”

“What happened at the lake, Congressman?”

Farris began to giggle and Cady realized that the man was on more than his second Scotch. He was getting the distinct impression that the congressman’s imbibing might be a nightly occurrence.

“What happens at Snow Goose stays at Snow Goose.”

“I don’t see the humor.”

“In that we are in perfect accord, Agent Cady.”

He tried a new approach. “You knew Marly Kelch more than you let on, didn’t you? Marly was more to you than someone to nod at in the hallway.”

“Forgive me for butchering Faulkner, my friend, but the past is not dead.” Farris polished off his glass and then chewed an ice cube. “In fact, it’s not even past.”

“What am I to make of that?”

It was Farris’s turn to say nothing.

“What’s with all the security, then? Secret Service chauffeurs, MPD cruising the neighborhood?”

Farris remained silent.

“I don’t get it.” Cady walked back inside the row house, went to look at the rainbow fish. “I came here tonight to tell you about the pathologist results on the five Chesapeake Bay victims. The ones Alain and Adrien took out on their sailboat. All five of the women had been drowned, stabbed repeatedly after death, then wrapped in tarp, weighted down, and tossed in the bay.”

“Stabbed after death?” Farris asked.

“Keeps the gas from ballooning, an added insurance policy against the women ever floating to the top of the bay. I didn’t envy the medical examiner working with the decomposing remains of these five young women, but he was able to enlighten us on one other point. All the victims had laceration marks around their waists, Congressman.” Cady turned to look at the house rep. “Rope burns.”

Farris had remained by the terrace balcony, back to Cady, staring off in the general direction of the Robillards and the elusive nature of true love, but Cady saw the man’s shoulders quiver.

“You see, after the victims had been repeatedly raped by Alain and Adrien, they’d been tossed overboard, a rope tied around their stomachs, kind of like a monkey on a string, Congressman. The women were made to drown for hours for the Zalentines’ amusement.”

“Fucking psychopaths.” Farris put his empty glass down on the stone railing.

“Any time a girl would give up and let herself go, the twins would pull her up, let her rest a moment or two, and begin the torture anew. I imagine this made their jollies last longer. What do you think—”

“Stop it,” the congressman whispered.

“What do you think triggered the Zalentines’ bloodlust, Farris?” Cady asked, probing deeper. “What really happened that night at the lake?”

The silence between the two men could be stirred with a boat oar. Cady turned to the aquarium, looking for the eel in the pirate ship, when something else caught his eye. His blood froze. The top half of a single chess piece stuck out from the colored pebbles behind a piece of coral. A clear glass king. Cady bent for a closer examination. It looked identical in shape and size to the kings in the chess set the crime lab had tracked down, the chess set with clear glass pieces that matched the ones inserted into the killing wounds in both Sanfield and the Zalentine twins. The chess pieces came from a fourteen-inch glass chess set, one that went for under $20 and could be found at any game or toy shop at any mall or department store from coast to coast—making it impossible to track a purchase. Cady had juggled a similar glass king as he contemplated what statement the killer was trying to make.

And now to find this piece hidden in Farris’s fish tank, like a prize inside a Cracker Jack box, broke reality.

“Turns out I misled you.” Farris slurred his words to the night. “Misled myself, too, Agent Cady. Once upon a time, long ago, I knew exactly how it felt—Phil Robillard’s affection toward his wife. Cuts deep and endless. Alas…unrequited.”

His mind spinning like a merry-go-round, Cady withdrew his Glock 22 from his shoulder holster. Farris was the Chessman? He’d known Marly Kelch? Loved her? Had discovered what the Zalentines had done to her that night, how Sanfield had helped them cover their tracks—and set about taking his vengeance? He’d hidden the glass king in the aquarium as some kind of sick keepsake?

“Turn around very slowly, Congressman Farris.” Cady aimed at center mass, reminding himself what the Chessman had done to the Zalentines and Sanfield. “Place your hands in the air where I can see them.”

Farris turned around, a questioning look on his brow.

“Walk slowly into the room, Congressman. No sudden moves.” Cady cursed himself. He’d left a set of flex-cuffs in the car.

“I guess this ends it, then.” Farris walked into the living room toward Cady, palms in the air. “Every last one of us. But,” Farris said, squinting at Cady, “who are you?”

Cady squinted back, trying to digest Farris’s peculiar comment when thunder clapped and the top half of the congressman’s face blew apart, showering Cady in a mist of brain tissue, blood, and skull matter.

Cady dropped to the floor in a blink, his side against the sectional. A blink later Cady put two rounds into the ceiling fixture, showering the room with glass and darkness. The only light came from the aquarium and the half moon shining from the open terrace. Cady crab-crawled backwards until he was up against the whiskey cart. He could make out the dark lump in the middle of the room that had seconds previously been Congressman Farris. The man was dead, no ifs, ands, or buts.

The Robillards are home early
flashed through the agent’s mind.
They’ve got a timeshare in Venice
. Cady suddenly knew it had not been Phil or Gretchen Robillard—the Antony and Cleopatra from across the way—who had flicked off the back light in the neighboring condo.

Cady wrenched a faux antique phone from the whiskey cart, knocking over and shattering Farris’s near-empty bottle of Glenfiddich. He tossed the handset onto the hardwood floor and punched in 911. Cady crouched, worked his way silently against the terrace door and listened. Nothing. Then footsteps. He closed his eyes, remembered the cement patio beneath the terrace. Cady took off, covered the terrace in an all-out sprint. Left hand on the balcony, he hurtled over, landed fifteen feet below and went down hard into a gravel bed, and knew immediately that something was seriously wrong with his right knee.

Cady pushed himself up and hobbled to the wooden privacy gate that led out to the alleyway. He made out the padlock in the moonlight, and then sent a side kick with all his might at handle level. The pain seared up and down his right side. He bit down hard, twisted about and repeated a side kick, this time with his left foot. The gate burst open and Cady pushed through, weight on his left side, Glock sweeping the path in front of him. He held his breath and listened for something to tell him which way to go. Nothing.

Cady took a step down the alleyway, knew if the shooter made it to Connecticut Avenue, he’d be quickly lost amongst the restaurants and nightclubs near Woodley Park Metro. Cady hobbled toward Connecticut. Suddenly a shadow in his periphery—then a sledgehammer cracked into the side of his face. Cady dropped like a bag of cement, handgun skittering across the way. Dazed, on his stomach, he swam after his Glock when a jackhammer of darkness smashed down upon his right hand, shattering bones and tissue, his palm a washcloth of crimson.

Cady screamed. He screamed to stay conscious. Something was wrong with his mouth as his scream came out a low guttural echo, hardly audible. He tasted blood and teeth and looked up. A figure flew across the shadows, nearing the end of the alleyway, long coat flowing behind him like a cape, a dark case in one hand, suddenly slowing, turning the corner…escaping.

Cady heard the sirens as he pulled himself back to the entrance to Farris’s patio, vomited, and passed out.

Chapter 12

T
wo days later, on a lead provided between surgeries by a bedridden Agent Cady at George Washington University Hospital, FBI agents tried unsuccessfully to contact Dane Schaeffer at his cabin home outside Chester, New Jersey. The following day Agent Preston and her team returned with a warrant, but Schaeffer’s house was deserted. No car in the attached garage and black bananas sat on a lonely kitchen countertop. The only thing of interest was when Agent Preston nudged Schaeffer’s mouse on the pad in his office and the monitor blinked awake. Two short sentences in a Word document displayed on the screen in size twenty-six Times New Roman.

Forgive me, Father. Please forgive me…

A week later some hikers from Mason Neck State Park found a Lexus RX Hybrid on a dirt road down near the river—abandoned in a place where no vehicles should be. The hikers figured teenagers, a stolen car, and a joy ride, and called the police. The Lexus RX turned out to belong to Dane Schaeffer. Agents were present to discover a handful of glass chess pieces stuffed inside a brown envelope in Schaeffer’s glove compartment, as well as a smashed trombone case hidden in the car’s trunk. After popping out both the Kohlert TB524 and the high pile plush lining, the federal agents found something doubly interesting: a Remington 700 LTR 308, a light tactical rifle.

A day after finding Schaeffer’s abandoned Lexus, Special Agent Dan Kurtz was able to match the round that killed Congressman Patrick Farris—a .308 Win—to the Remington 700. They were also able to determine that it had been vigorous strikes from the hardshell Kohlert trombone case that had shattered Agent Cady’s jaw, broken both his nose and left cheekbone, and turned his right hand to mush.