The President's Assassin (36 page)

We could hear, off in the distance, the screams of sirens, and again she twisted around and looked to be sure there weren’t any flashing lights on our tail. No such luck.

I mentioned, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The Bureau already knows about you.”

“Yeah, right—nice try. They don’t got a clue about me.”

“Well...look, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news here...but yeah...they really do.”

“Bullshit. They don’t—”

“They know you’re from Killeen, they know you’ve been pilfering weapons, and they know all about your pal Clyde Wizner.”

As intended, this disclosure got a big jolt out of her. She sort of recoiled backward, the pistol dipped a little, and her eyes went wide.

“Investigators are running all over Killeen,” I continued. “What I’ll bet is somebody will remember seeing you and Clyde together.” I added, “With your looks...the boys do take notice, don’t they?”

“I...when...I mean, how—”

“Hey...you should see the composite of you they’re flashing around. From that range theft—the day you ran around Fort Hood in the range control getup. Those guys on the range sure remembered you. In fact, seeing you in the flesh—wow, it’s
you
...a dead ringer.” I glanced at her and said, “Hey...you seem a little tense...upset. Should I be telling you this?”

“Jus’...fuck— Jus’ shut up.”

“Fine. I’ll just, you know, drive.”

I stared straight ahead. MaryLou was apparently not one of those people who accepts bad news gracefully. Neither am I.

I was thinking on my feet, looking for an angle, trying to get a bead on this lady. Having grown up in Army bases in the South, I knew girls who at least looked and sounded like MaryLou—rednecky, bred on the wrong side of the tracks, and willing to do anything to get to the right side. Mentally underendowed, but overendowed with great looks, great knockers, and the drives and instincts of a true carnivore.

Okay, I was constructing an overused stereotype, but stereotypes have their uses, and often even have roots in some useful and telling truths. For instance, I guessed that MaryLou probably was a little insecure about her background, resentful toward authority figures, and probably had a history with the coppers. Like most people from hardscrabble backgrounds, she was perhaps prone to believe that every piece of good fortune comes wrapped in a shitty lining.

Motive was also a factor. I would guess MaryLou beat the odds of early disaster, and now the shadow of long-term failure loomed; she was too old and carried too much baggage to impress a rich boy, her good looks were getting wrinkly, and a forklift was required to keep her boobs aloft. For MaryLou, it had become all or nothing, which was not really happy news for me. As I suspected she might, she waved her pistol and asked, “Hey, you. What else the cops know?”

“MaryLou, it’s not what they know
now
—it’s what they’ll soon know. You born and raised in Killeen?”

“So?”

I shook my head. “So, that’s unfortunate for you. For the cops, it’s one-stop/one-shop. The thing with cops is, they may get off to a slow start, but they’re resilient and very persistent.” I added, “By nightfall, they’ll know your name, your history, even your shoe size.”

Actually, from the molds taken at the Hawk’s place, they already had her shoe size, width, an estimate of her weight, and even her shoe type. Under the circumstances, however, it probably was best not to bring that up. I suggested, “But maybe you don’t have a problem.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a good disguise and a fake passport to get out of the country. Right?”

“Nope. I know where I can git one, though.”

“Killeen?”

“So?”

“What do you think?”

“Too hot, huh?”

I allowed her to think about that. She didn’t strike me as overly bright, but I would be foolish to underestimate her. At least given our brief history together, there was no risk she would overestimate me. I suggested, “I’m not saying you’re going to get caught, but I don’t really see how you’re not.”

From her expression, these thoughts were disturbing for her. Actually, I was a little astonished. These people had thought out everything; why not a reasonable escape plan? Then again, success breeds overconfidence, and we all know where that lands you: sloppy.

Eventually she said, “Maybe yer not as smart as you think, Drummond.”

“Maybe. I know this; once the cops ID you, you’ll be as recognizable as Madonna. As will your partners. You murdered some very important people, MaryLou, and you painted a bull’s-eye on the President’s ass. They’re calling this the crime of the century.”

“I kin still get away.”

“Maybe. But what if you don’t?”

“What’s that mean?”

“A smart person considers the alternatives.”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes shit happens, MaryLou. But it doesn’t have to happen to you.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“We’re talking multiple counts of murder in the first degree, extortion, and conspiracy to commit murder...” I looked at her and explained, accurately, “The government will have to ask for capital punishment. At least a couple of you will fry.” I paused to allow that reality to register, and then suggested, “But I’ll bet one of you won’t.”

I directed my eyes back to the road, though I could sense her studying me. Eventually she said, “Look, asshole, I got maybe twelve million comin’ to me. Now yer tryin’ to jerk me around, like
I
got a problem.”

“Don’t you?”

“Turn there, on Glebe.” She added, “Way I see it, only problem I got’s how to spend all that cash.”

“Fine. Good luck.”

“Yeah? Well, nobody kin prove shit on me.”

“Except your partners.” I smiled.

She raised her pistol and pointed it at my head. With a quick glance I saw that her trigger finger was white with pressure and her pupils were dilated with anger. Uh-oh. She said, “I think I’ll jus’ blow yer friggin’ brains out.”

“Boy, is that my thanks for trying to help you out here?”

Her fingers tightened a little more, and she was about a millimeter short of ending this conversation. “Don’t, MaryLou. I’m driving, we’ll crash, the cops will come, and you might have a little trouble explaining those suitcases in the truck bed.” I very reasonably added, “Take a deep breath. Forget everything I said.”

She obviously couldn’t, however. She said, “Clyde’s smarterin’ you anyway.”

“Probably.”

“He thinks things through.”

“Sure does. I’ll bet he knows exactly what he’s going to do if you’re apprehended.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Think about it.”

“Yer tryin’ to fuck with my head.”

Exactly.
“No, I’m simply suggesting that if you’re apprehended, your reality changes. Maybe you and Clyde are as close as brother and sister. Or maybe you’re not.”

“Clyde always played me square.”

“And the big guy?”

“Hank? Well, he’s a little slow. Stupid, actually.”

“You see...that’s exactly what I’m talking about. If you’re caught, somebody’s going to squeal. They always do. The Feds will separate you, sweat you a little, and then offer you each one chance to live. First to squeal gets the deal. Maybe it’ll be the smart guy who thinks ahead, or maybe the dumbass who can’t think two seconds ahead.”

She appeared to be pondering which of her partners, Hank or Clyde, would be the first to rat her out. I added, “The thought of ten thousand volts popping your eyeballs out of your skull...your teeth exploding...smoke curling out your hairtips and pouring out your ears...Some people...well, you know, they go all squirmy just thinking about it.”

A little revolting imagery is always sobering. We were still headed west on Glebe Road, and she had cooled off a bit and was cradling her gun in her lap. Off to the left was a turn into a large and slightly run-down complex of red-brick townhouses and apartment buildings. She pointed at a turn into the complex and said, “Go past that. Circle ’round a bit.”

“Fine.” I now knew where we were going to end up.

After a moment, she said, “All right, Mr. Smartass Lawyer, say I git caught. What am I supposed to do?”

“First, don’t hesitate. Like that game show...you know,
Jeopardy
, that Alex guy asks the question and whoever hits the buzzer first gets first shot.”

“What’s that mean? First shot?”

“Well, I didn’t say it was automatic, did I?”

“No?”

“No. Maybe Hank, or maybe Clyde, or maybe both, will also jump at the deal.” I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe how often that happens.”

“I thought you said first to squeal gets the deal.”

“Didn’t I also say that somebody has got to fry?”

She nodded.

“See the problem here? The prosecutor’s going to tell the cops the quota’s for one. Only one. Whoever games it best gets the deal.”

“Uh-huh. How’s that work?”

“Well, it weighs on what they call extenuating factors. Like...for instance, who murdered the most people?”

“Uh...well, that would be Clyde and Hank, for damned sure. I only did...like two. Uh...maybe three.”

“Which three? The lady at the door at Belknap’s?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

My grip on the steering wheel got a little tighter. “Belknap’s driver?”

Another nod.

“And was it you who planted the mine beside Justice Fineberg’s door?”

“Nah. Clyde did that. He’s really into bombs and shit. He don’t let nobody near ’em. I jus’ pushed the button that blew the ol’ fart in half.”

“That it?”

She had to think about it a moment. This was surreal. “Maybe one more,” she said after a hesitation.

“
Maybe
?”

“Okay, one more...Belknap’s old lady.” She looked at me and said, petulantly, “Clyde and Hank did like...I don’t know...like maybe
ten
people.”

It’s always amazing, not to mention dismaying, when you talk to killers and discover what idiots they are, and how shockingly little remorse or even guilt they feel. I shook my head.

“What? You got a problem with that?”

“No, but you will. MaryLou, you need something else to offer the Feds. Exactly
how
dumb is Hank?”

“
Real
dumb. Clyde and I got all the brains. We’d get the targets, and plan ’em out.” She laughed. “Ol’ Hank, you tell him to stick his head up a cow’s butt, he don’t even think about it. That boy’s stupider’n dirt.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

She stopped laughing. “What ain’t good?”

“You have to understand, the law gives idiots all the breaks. Like, the stupider you are, the less guilt you bear. You’ve got to balance that out.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Maybe show you had a stab of conscience. Do something good to outweigh the bad. Remember, you only have to look slightly better in comparison to them.” I added, quite sincerely, “That’s not hard, is it?”

She studied me a moment. She said, “Like I should let you live? That’s what yer edgin’ at, right?”

“Not at all.” After a moment, I added, “Well, obviously it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Uh-huh. And you’d say nice things about me?”

“It’s a little late to make you sound like a saint. I’d be as complimentary as circumstances allow.”

She said, “Go back to that turn I showed you.”

“Sure.” I asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“Don’t know yet. Gotta think about it.”

Neither she nor I said a word the rest of our way. I had planted the seed, and either it would sprout or I was screwed.

I made the turn into the complex, then two rights and then a left, and we ended up in a tight cul-de-sac, where I pulled into a space right beside Hank’s red pickup. Clyde’s black pickup was nowhere in sight.

MaryLou hung a cloth over her pistol and ordered me out of the truck. We looked a little suspicious walking up the sidewalk, me in my underpants, her three paces behind me with her right arm locked. But the neighborhood was run-down and decrepit, and neighbors probably tended to mind their own business.

We entered a two-floored colonial-style townhouse, and I was directed down a narrow hallway that led into the sparsely furnished living room. I observed a small TV, a foldable card table, and some plastic outdoor furniture; otherwise, the place was bare. Martha Stewart would have a fit.

Hank stood off to our left, in the efficiency kitchen. He was a bit older than I expected, maybe fifty, dark-haired, slack-jawed, sugar-sabotaged teeth, and there was sullen dullness in his dark eyes, like somebody forgot to turn on the lights inside his skull. He was just knocking off a Bud; he tipped it at MaryLou and said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied.

“Him?” he commented, directing the beer can at me.

“Him,” replied MaryLou, which seemed to end their monosyllabic discussion.

Incidentally, seated in a chair in the middle of the living room was a guy with his hands tied behind his back, with a black gag taped around his mouth, and with a face I instantly recognized: Jason Barnes.

CHAPTER THIRTY

H
ANK PUT DOWN HIS BEER
,
GRABBED A KNIFE AND COIL OF ROPE OFF THE
counter, approached me, and swiftly tied my hands behind my back. Next he drew black tape across my lips, as MaryLou pushed another outdoor chair into the center of the living room. Without a hint of gentleness, Hank shoved me toward and then into it. He then tied the rope around my hands to a rear chair leg, and my feet to a front leg.

Hank was quick and strong, with a sailor’s dexterity with knots. Probably he had worked with cattle at some point in his life, and it showed. The bonds were so tight I would have gangrene within the hour.

But it was interesting, I thought, that MaryLou failed to inform him that their identities were now known to the cops, or that her, his, and Clyde’s asses might be a little exposed.

Maybe she was worried that Hank might fly off the handle. Or maybe she didn’t care what Hank thought. Or maybe MaryLou did care and was preserving her edge.

I noted Jason’s gray eyes following me throughout this drill. I was surprised to observe that he did not look at all like a crazed dog or even a schizoid nut. In fact, he looked like a perfectly ordinary guy in an utterly helpless state, a little afraid, monumentally befuddled, and more than a little curious about the new guest.