Then he showered and she dressed his wounds.
“Jesus, but aren’t you a stud-puppy?” she said. “I’ve never seen multiple trauma gunshot recovery so fast.”
The arm wound was the ugliest, a raw welt at the outside of his left bicep about three inches above the elbow. But it was just bruised and burned meat that would eventually heal without complication.
The entrance and the exit wounds to the chest had resolved themselves into quarter-sized scabs that would ultimately pucker into scar tissue.
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“I can handle it.”
“I just bet you can.”
Bob had let his beard stay. He was a tall, sunburned man with a thick shock of blond-brown hair and a powerful chest. His eyes were hard and small; his mouth was a jot of concentration. He was a man in blue; she’d gone into a Gap store in a mall in Tucson and bought, with cash, three pairs of blue jeans and three pairs of black jeans, waist 34, length 33, and ten blue denim work shirts, and had washed them all. She’d also gotten a pair of brown Nocona boots, size 11, double A width, and two dozen pair of white socks at the Pick-and-Save. It was all loaded in a duffel bag in the back of his stolen car.
“Bob …”
Bob took a last swig of coffee.
“You know, you could just stay here. In time, we’d move. We could always be a jump ahead of them.”
A small smile came over his taut features.
“Sure. But I won’t. You know, if I could walk in right now and say to them, hey, you’ve got the wrong boy, and they take a look at some things they’ve missed, and say, ‘Damn, Swagger, you’re right,’ I still wouldn’t do it. Because that just means I’m off the hook and that’s not enough. I got some idea what it’s like to live with debts to pay and no way to pay them. Well, this time, I do mean to pay them, in full.”
He turned, looking at her obliquely, and she saw an odd and powerful light in his eyes. She saw, too, that he was no longer the man he’d been a month ago, that desperate, bloody, half-crazy fugitive who’d arrived on her doorstep.
She didn’t know this man. This was the Bob that Donny had loved, so focused you felt his power even now, sitting in the bedroom as he buttoned up his shirt. Now he scared her a little.
“Julie, you listen here. When I’m gone, I want you to scrub down every surface in this house with ammonia, because it’s the only thing that will take off fingerprint oils. Throw out all your dishes and glasses and silverware. Now, you know what you have to do?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Run through it again. Tell me.”
“In five days, I drive four hours in any direction to any pay phone I can find. Then I call long distance to—uh, the number is three-three-one, four-five-two, six-seven-eight-three and I do my Lurleen accent—low, trashy, the kind of girl Elvis used to pick up in Tupelo bars before the Ed Sullivan show—”
He smiled.
“Then I ask for Memphis. Agent Memphis.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll test you. They’ll ask you what the dog’s name was, and it wasn’t Pat like they put in the papers, it was Mike. I wasn’t hit once, like they said, but twice. You’ll have to tell them that.”
“I know all that. Then I tell him what you told me.”
“Yes.”
“Then I hang up and drive away.”
“How long on the phone?”
“No more than two minutes.”
“Don’t forget to stop and have lots of change for the phone. You should have at least ten dollars in quarters.”
“All right.”
“Then you drive back here. I can’t begin to think there’s a chance in hell they’d ever track you. You don’t know about me, you never heard about me, I don’t exist. Nobody will know.”
“And then the fun part,” she said bitterly, “you get killed. The FBI kills you in some little Arkansas road-house.”
“Maybe. But I have a few cards up my sleeve.”
“Oh, Bob.”
The sun was coming over the eastern rim of the desert now, and it bled through the sky. For just a moment the room itself seemed soaked in blood—blood everywhere, red and glinting and wet and black. But blood most of all in the narrow eyes of Bob Lee Swagger.
She shuddered, and tried to think of other things.
“Nick!”
It was Howard, and he didn’t sound pleased.
“Uh, yes, Howard?”
“Would you come in here, please?”
“Sure.”
Nick left the bull pen and headed into the little office out of which Howard was running the operation.
“Nick—”
Howard did not ask him to sit down, not a good sign.
“Nick, just what is it you’ve been doing?”
“Ah, well, you know, mainly monitoring the reports on Bob’s movements as they’re routed here from Washington, and coordinating with the local officers and keeping contact with our surveillance teams sited in the area, and monitoring the readiness of our quick-react teams, you know, Howard, trying to stay alert and keep our readiness high and—”
“I’ve just had a very irate call from Ben Prine in D.C. The head of Cointelpro.”
“Yes.”
“He says a request originated from this office concerning access to Bureau files on a private security firm called RamDyne over my authorization. I didn’t authorize anything. Do you know about this?”
Nick wasn’t an adept liar. A tide of phlegm rose in his throat and he was stunned at his own sudden loss of confidence and clarity of thought.
“It was only to save you time, Howard. I know you’ve got your big picture to worry about, so I just routed the request through your office with your name … uh, it’s just a kind of …”
He ran out of words.
Howard glowered at him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Nick? What game are you playing?”
Nick bumbled into a confused account of his investigation of the Eduardo Lanzman affair, the source who’d told him Lanzman was Salvadoran, his idea that a hightech electronic eavesdropping van may have been used, his clumsy discovery of the mysterious RamDyne firm that seemed to have a line on such expensive equipment. He rambled on semicoherently about the coincidence of a Salvadoran agent maybe being killed by the Salvadoran secret police only weeks immediately before the suspiciously “accidental” murder of a Salvadoran archbishop despised by certain elements of his own regime. But he saw that he wasn’t making much progress with Howard.
“I tried all the usual channels and came up with nothing. Like, nothing. So I tried to show some initiative and …” He trailed off lamely.
“Nick,” said Howard, a deep sadness coming over his bland face, “I’m very disappointed in you. Why didn’t you come to me with all this?”
“Well, Howard, actually, um, I did and you said—”
“Nick, we have an open-and-shut case on Bob Lee Swagger. We have means, motive and opportunity. We have some circumstantial ballistics evidence. We have witnesses, including, I might add, yourself. Nick, what on earth are you doing? Whose side are you on?”
“Howard, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about the ballistics. I’m wondering if it’s technically possible to—”
“All right, Nick, this is how things fall apart. Junior agents running around on their own, not reporting to authority. Unauthorized leaks to the press. It’s the beginning of the end of Bureau discipline, which is the beginning of the end of the Bureau.”
“Howard, I—”
“RamDyne, you’re right, is very connected. To our cousins in Langley, among half a dozen other secret agencies. They do a lot of things we can’t afford to do officially. Sometimes these things don’t look so good; sometimes they’re ambiguous; sometimes they do little bad things to prevent big bad things. Their secrets are very closely held. If you pick at them, or uncover something out of context, it can lead you exactly where you shouldn’t go, and cause al
l kinds of problems for all kinds of people. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nick, you’re not supposed to see the big picture. Other people do that. You’re supposed to do the jobs we give and do them well. Let us connect the dots. You catch the crooks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nick, it pains me to do this. I’d thought perhaps after your screwups in the past, you’d turned over a new leaf, and I might have been tempted to forego your suspension. But you haven’t. I’m removing you from this detail. You’re to fly back to New Orleans immediately and begin your suspension. Sorry, it has to be this way. Some years ago you messed up. I thought you’d worked hard and overcome that mistake. But you keep messing up, Nick. You’re a loose cannon. You’re not a team player. You want too much, you want it too fast.”
Nick realized he’d just gotten blindsided. It hit him with a force he hadn’t felt since Myra died.
“All the way through, Nick, you insist on doing things your way. If you’d bumped Swagger up to the Alpha category, if you’d taken him prisoner, if—oh, Nick, you’ve done so poorly. We’ve tried so desperately to help you. And now you pull this on us.”
“I’m sorry, Howard,” blurted Nick, stunned. “I didn’t know it was so serious. I was trying to do a thorough job and I—”
“Nick, that’s all I have for you. I want you—”
“Nick?”
It was Hap Fencl leaning in.
“Excuse me, Howard,” he said, “but I have a woman on the line who swears she knows where Bob Swagger is, and insists on talking to Nick.”
“For Christ’s sake, Fencl,” blurted Howard, “she’s probably just another—”
“She says he had an arm wound. We hadn’t released that information.”
There was a long pause.
Finally, disgustedly, Howard gestured to Nick to pick up the phone.
“It’s line fourteen,” said Hap.
“Nick Memphis, FBI, can I help you?”
“Mr. Memphis,” came the voice like a bad country-western song, though somehow theatrical and a bit phony, “Mr. Memphis, Bob Lee was with me and he was my man fer a time, but he’s gone now.”
“Who is this?” Nick said.
“This ain’t nobody,” she said. “But I seen your pitcher in the magazine and if you’re the johnny what’s got to catch Bob Lee, then git yourself ready, ’cause he’s a coming.”
“When?”
“He left here today. Should be there in three days of hard driving. He’s gone a little crazy, you know. I begged him not to go.”
“How do I—”
“Because he said his dog’s name was Mike, not Pat, like it said in the newspapers.”
Another trap to weed out loony callers.
Nick took a deep breath, made a signal to Hap to indicate it was time to get going on the trace.
“He says he’s coming home to bury his dog,” said the woman. “Gonna bury his dog, don’t care who he’s got to kill to do it.”
“I—”
“Don’t hurt him, Mr. Memphis. He ain’t hurt nobody.”
Then she hung up.
The secure phone rang.
Shreck looked up at the men in his office.
“Get out,” he said.
After they left, he picked it up.
“Shreck.”
“Hello, Raymond,” the old man’s voice sang. “How are you today?”
“Mr. Meachum, you don’t care how I am. What do you want?”
“I wanted you to be the first to hear the good news. I’ve heard from a friend that the Justice Department has just alerted the State Department to inform the Salvadorans that it has formally decided against reopening its inquiry into the Panther Battalion atrocity. The archbishop is gone, and there’s nobody to pay any attention to it at all.”
This did cheer Shreck.
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yes, it is. Of course General de Rujijo and his colleagues and peers will be delighted. Certain people in certain agencies in this town will breathe a good deal more easily. The past will be allowed to die; we can go on from here. It’s the first day of the rest of our lives. You’re to be congratulated once again, Colonel. You made the impossible happen. Extraordinary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Meachum.”
“Only that one loose end, and it’s a very tiny one.”
“We’re on it, Mr. Meachum.”
“Excellent,” said the old man. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Okay,” said Howard, “now I want snipers on those two buildings, do you see. Put them on duty at four A.M. tonight. I want them there all day tomorrow, even if he’s not supposed to be in till the day after. You can never tell.”
“Yes, Howard,” said Hap Fencl. “We’ll put ’em up there, good boys. Nick? He’s the best shot.”
“No. Not Nick. Nick stays with me. Do you hear that, Nick?”
“Yes, I hear it,” said Nick, still clinging to membership on the task force by his fingernails, his exile to New Orleans forestalled by the prospect of action.
They were standing in front of the new red-brick Polk County Health Complex, which contained the county morgue. The body of Mike the dog had been removed there and now rested inside.
It was a bright afternoon, and the green Ouachitas glared down at them. They were about a mile out of Blue Eye, just off of Route 270 where it neared 71 and turned into Mena. Traffic hummed down the road.
“And I want shotgun teams on standby. Say, four-man units, ready to go, secured in the installation.”
“Yes, Howard,” said Hap. “Uh, what load? Do you want them carrying double-ought buck or deer slugs?”
“Hmm,” said Howard.
“The boys like double-ought, because it doesn’t kick so much and you don’t have to make an exact shot placement. And, Howard, with those deer slugs, you got a .70 caliber chunk of lead moving at one thousand six hundred feet a second, and if you should happen to hit a civilian, Christ, the hoot from the newspapers.”
“He’s probably not going to be wearing body armor,” said Howard. “All right, go with the double-ought.”
“Howard, do you want to coordinate with the sheriff’s office?” Hap asked. “Old Tell’s getting pretty edgy as it is.”
“No, I don’t think so. This is our operation, this is a federal warrant, and we’ll serve it. We’ll alert the sheriff after we make the apprehension. Nick?”
“Yes, Howard,” said Nick, standing there disconsolately next to Howard in the small knot of agents just outside the lobby.
“Nick, I want you to stay at the command post to handle the communications. Or. do you want to ship out today?”
“No, Howard, I’ll hang around until—”
But Howard had already turned away from Nick.
“I also want us to have people in the morgue and people on the floor and in the office. I want an observation post up near the snipers, ID-ing everybody who pulls into the lot.”
“If we get a positive, will you green light?” asked Hap.
“Yes.”
There was a quiet moment. Green light. Pull the trigger. Shoot to kill without warning. It was a rare operational condition.
“I want to take him here in the lot, not inside. We could get ourselves in some hostage situation or God knows what if he gets inside,” said Howard. “This man is very dangerous. He could take down half a dozen men in the blink of an eye, and suddenly I’m looking at more dead than Miami.”
“Howard,” said Nick, knowing it was futile, “he had me dead to rights in New Orleans with my own pistol when the smart thing was to drill me, and he passed on it. He hasn’t been found guilty of—”
“Nick, you are really disappointing me.”
“Yeah, Nick,” said Hap. “Howard’s right. Gotta tag the guy if a clean chance shows.”
Nick nodded bitterly. But what if he’s innocent? Then he realized it didn’t really matter anymore.
“All rig
ht, Hap, you get the men out and sited, very quietly. I don’t want a lot of action on this. It’s possible Bob has sympathizers in the community, and he’ll be getting advance reports.”
“Howard, he’ll also scope out this place before he moves in,” said Nick. “That’s how he works. He’s very careful. You’ll want to be real careful how you hide these people. This guy can smell a trap a mile away.”
“Nicky, we’re pros too, remember,” said Hap. “Hey, we’ll do a real nice job. He won’t know what hit him, Nicky. If he shows.”
“Nick, you come with me,” said Howdy Duty. “I want to see the administrator here and get all this cleared before we move in. I may need your diplomatic skills.”
Nick and Howard went into the lobby waiting room, a bland, government-grim office that smelled of newness and plastic—the place was only a year or so old—where beige furniture stood against beige walls and one bearded geezer was up at the desk, jawing in deep Arkansese with the girl there.
Howard led Nick to the counter and they waited politely in the otherwise empty office as the hillbilly or mountain man or whatever he was carried on ’bout the damned government or some such, and the girl listened with half an ear and half a brain, and kept saying, “But the papers aren’t ready yet.”
She was just letting him blow some steam and after a while he seemed to settle down and stepped aside, and Howard pushed his way to the counter, pulling his identification and announcing himself as Deputy Director Utey, Federal Bureau of Investigation.
It was only then that Nick looked up into the face of the man they’d rammed aside, and behind the blond beard and under the deep tan, realized he was looking into the gray eyes of Bob the Nailer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nick was fast; Bob was faster.
“Don’t you do it, son,” he said, the .45 Colt automatic a blue blur as it rose from nowhere and locked onto Nick’s chest. Bob’s voice was dead calm, dead serious.
Nick’s hand had flashed to his own Smith, his fingers were wrapped around the shaft of the piece—a very good speed draw, in fact, by Bureau standards—but he was dead by a clean three-tenths of a second if Bob so chose.