Last Man Standing

Web noted the circular outline of a can of tobacco chew in the back pocket of his jeans as they walked to a booth in the bar. They found a quiet corner and settled down with their beers.

Venables worked the night shift, he told Web. He liked it, more excitement. “Be hanging it up soon, though, right at twenty years. Go off and fish, drink beer and watch fast cars go around a little track the rest of my time, like most good cops do.” He smiled at his own words and took a long pull of his Red Dog beer. From the juke-box Eric Clapton was going on and on about Layla. Web looked around. Two guys were playing pool in the back room, a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a couple of Bud Lights siting on the edge of the table. They occasionally glanced over at the booth, but if they recognized either Venables or Web, they made no sign of it.

Venables eyed Web over the rim of his beer mug. The man’s face held enough wrinkles to be considered experienced and craggy. A man who had seen a lot in life, mostly bad, Web judged, just like him.

“Always wondered about you HRT guys.”

“What’s to wonder? We’re just cops with a few more toys at our disposal.”

Venables laughed. “Hey, give yourself some credit. I got a few FBI buddies who tried out for HRT and came back with their tails between their legs. Said they’d rather deliver a damn baby with just a stick between their teeth for the pain than go through that again.”

“From the picture I saw of Randall Cove, he looked like he could’ve cut it at HRT.”

Venables studied the head on his beer for a bit. “You’re probably wondering what Randy Cove had in common with the likes of a redneck-looking gent like myself?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“We grew up together in a backwater of Mississippi so small it never really did have a name. We played sports together all the way through because there wasn’t much else to do around there. And our little backwater was state football champs two years in a row. We also played together at Oklahoma.” Venables shook his head. “Randy was the greatest running back I ever saw, and the Sooners have turned out more than their share of those. I was fullback. First string, three years running, just like him. Blocked for Randy on every play. Threw my body in there like a damn runaway train and loved every minute of it, though I’m really starting to feel the effects of it now. See, you just needed to get Cove a little bit of daylight and that boy was gone. I’d look up from a pile of bodies and he’d already be in the end zone, usually with a couple of guys hanging on him. We were national champs our senior year and he was the reason. Oklahoma didn’t believe in the forward pass back then. We just handed the damn ball off to Randy Cove and let him do his thing.”

“Sounds like a friendship that would endure.”

“It did. I never had the talent to play pro ball, but Randy sure as hell did. Everybody, and I mean everybody, wanted him.” Venables stopped there and ran his fingers along the top of the table. Web decided to just wait the man out.

“I was with him at the combine when he blew out his knees. We both knew it, as soon as it happened. It wasn’t like it is today. Just go in and clean it up and then you’re back on the field the next year pretty much good as new. His career was over. Just like that. And football, man, football was all he had. We sat on that damn field and cried together for nearly an hour. I never even did that at my own mama’s funeral. But I loved Randy. He was a good man.”

“Was?”

Venables played with the pepper shaker and then sat back, tilted his cap farther up on his head and Web saw a lock of curly gray hair spring out.

“I take it you know what happened to his family,” said Venables.

“I heard about some of it. Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

“What’s to tell? Bureau screwed up and it cost Randy his wife and kids.”

“You saw him back then?”

Venables looked like he wanted to throw his beer in Web’s face. “I was a damn pallbearer at the funerals. You ever carry a four-year-old’s casket?” Web shook his head. “Well, let me tell you, that’s something you don’t ever forget.”

“Is that what Cove told you, that it was the Bureau’s fault?”

“Didn’t really have to tell me. I was a cop. I know how those things shake down. Ended up in D.C. because my wife’s from here. Randy started out with the Feds here too. I guess you know that. Used me as a go-between because he knew he could trust me, and that’s a rare thing in his line of work.”

“It seems to be a rare thing in a lot of lines of work.”

The two men shared a knowing look that seemed to come at a good time, perhaps strengthening a fledgling bond.

“Then Randy got transferred out to California and that’s where his family got hit.”

“I understand he took out his revenge.”

Venables laid a cold gaze on Web, a look that clearly said the man had far more secrets than he would ever care to part with. “Wouldn’t you have?”

“I guess maybe I would. Cove must really be something. The Russians are no lightweights.”

“Try growing up the wrong color in shit-poor Mississippi.” Venables leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “I heard about you. From the papers, some from Ann Lyle.” He stopped and seemed to be checking Web out. Then Web realized Venables was staring at the messed-up side of Web’s face.

“In almost twenty years on the force, I’ve pulled my gun maybe a dozen times, and fired it on six occasions. Four times I missed what I was shooting at, and twice I didn’t. I’ve never been hurt on the job, not even a hangnail, and that’s something to brag about in this town, especially these days. Now I’m in the First District, which isn’t lily white and rich Northwest, but it’s not exactly the Sixth and Seventh Districts in Anacostia, where your team got shot up. And I have great respect for guys on the thin blue line who’ve taken it and gotten back up. You seem like a damn walking ad for that.”

“I never asked to be.”

“Point is I respect you or else I wouldn’t be sitting talking to you. But the thing is you’ll never get me to believe that Randy has done anything wrong. I know undercover work screws with your mind and Randy’s got no reason to feel good about the Bureau, but what happened to your team is not something he’d ever be a party to, I want you to understand that.”

“And I want you to understand that while you seem sincere as hell and I wouldn’t mind sharing another beer with you some other time, I can’t accept a statement like that at face value.”

Venables nodded in understanding. “Well, you’d be a real dumb-shit, I guess, if you did.”

“He could’ve walked away. I checked on that. Bureau offered him a new life, full pension. Why do you think he didn’t take it?”

“And, what, spend the next forty years mowing his grass in a cookie-cutter suburb in the Midwest? That’s not Randy. What else was he going to do except keep on plugging? It may sound funny, but he took pride in his work. He thought he was doing good.”

“So do I. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to find out the truth. If Cove was part of it, I may take out my revenge just like he did. I can’t promise you I won’t, friend of his or not. But if he had nothing to do with it, I’ll be his best buddy. And believe me, Sonny, most folks would rather have me as a friend than an enemy.”

Venables sat back and seemed to be considering this. Then he apparently made up his mind and hunched forward, eyed the pool players chalking their cues, smoking their cigs and sipping their beers, and started talking in a very low voice. “I have no idea where Randy is. Haven’t heard from him since before this all went down. Way before, in fact.”

“So he never talked to you about what he was working on?”

“You got to understand, I was his contact on his first gig through

D.C. Now, I’ve seen him on his latest tour through here, but not for business, so to speak. I knew he was working on something pretty big, but he never told me what.”

“So you two weren’t that close anymore?”

“As close as you can be to somebody like Randy. After what happened to his family, well, I don’t think he could really be close to anybody again. Not even to old Sonny Venables from Mississippi and all those damn blocks I threw for him.”

“He ever mention another contact he might have been using on the force?”

“No, if he was using anybody, it would’ve been me.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Little over two months ago.”

“How’d he seem?”

“Tight-lipped, mind somewhere else. Not looking too good, actually.”

“He hasn’t been back to his place in a while. The Bureau checked that out.”

“I never knew where that was; we always met on neutral ground because of his work. We’d just talk about old times, really. Just somebody to talk to is what he wanted, I think. If he needed me to pass something on, I did.”

“How’d he get in touch with you when he wanted to meet?”

“He’d never call me at home. Called at the precinct. Used a different name every time. And each time we met he’d tell me the new name he’d be using next when he called, so I’d know it was him.”

“And he hasn’t called?” Web eyed him closely. Venables appeared to be dealing straight with him, but one never really could be sure.

“No. Not one word. I started to worry something happened to him. In his occupation, that’s a legitimate concern.”

Web sat back. “So I guess you can’t really help me track him down.”

Venables finished his beer. “Let’s take a walk.”

They went outside and strolled down a street that was pretty empty. The workday wasn’t over yet and most folks were probably still in their offices, counting the minutes until they could bolt, Web figured.

“On his first tour through WFO there was a place that Randy would use as a drop spot if he wanted to leave me a message. He told me he’d also use it to change clothes, as a safe house of sorts.”

“The Bureau know about it?”

“No. Even back then I don’t think he trusted the higher-ups at the Bureau all that much. That’s why he used me, I guess.”

“Probably a smart move. Have you been there lately?”

Venables shook his head. “Guess I’m a little afraid of what I might find, not really sure why. Don’t even know if Randy uses it anymore. It could have been demolished, for all I know.”

“Care to give me that address?”

“You smoke, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do now.” Venables pulled a pack of Winstons out of his coat pocket and handed it to Web, who took it. “Better light up, in case anybody’s watching.” Venables handed him a book of matches.

Web lit up and tried not to gag and then slipped the pack into his pocket. “I appreciate the help. But if Cove was involved . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“If Randy did something like that, I don’t think he’d want to go on living.”

As Sonny Venables walked off, Web went back to his car, ripped open the Winstons and clutched the rolled-up piece of paper inside. He looked at the address written on it. Also inside the pack of cigarettes were three small photos folded over. Web had asked Venables about any light-skinned black kids about Kevin Westbrook’s age who had been reported missing in the city in the last month, and this obviously was what he had found. Web looked at the three photos; they were all slightly different versions of Kevin, he decided. All hopes of a decent life, their expressions told him, had already been torn from them. He drove off.



Twenty minutes later Web stared out the car window, his spirits hovering near an all-time low. Venable’s offhand remark had proved to be right on target. Where once stood Randall Cove’s old safe house there was an open construction pit; a tall crane rose in the middle of this hole, and a group of construction workers were just now walking off the job after what looked to Web to be a hard day’s work. Judging from the degree of work already performed there, Web had to assume that Cove had not been using his old digs in the recent past. It was a total dead end. Web crumpled up the piece of paper with the address written on it and threw it on the floorboard. But he still had one more angle to take on Randall Cove.

He called Romano from the car. “You up for a little snooping around?”

He picked up Romano and they headed south toward Fredericksburg.

Romano looked around the car’s interior. “What a piece-of-shit car.”

“It’s a Grand Marquis, the director is probably driven around in one of these.”

“Still a piece of shit.”

“I’ll try to do better for you next time.” He glanced at Romano and wondered what Angie told her shrink about him. With Romano as a significant other, she probably had a lot to talk about to a mental health professional.

“How’re things at HRT?”

“Same old, same old. We haven’t been called up for anything. Just training. I’m getting bored with that, man.”

“Hang in there, Paulie, you’ll be getting to fire your guns pretty soon.”

“Maybe I should go join the French Foreign Legion or something like that.”

“You just won’t admit when you have it good.”

“The guys been talking about you some, Web.”

He should have been expecting this change in the conversation, but it still surprised Web. “So, what’s the word?”

“Pretty even split for and against.”

“Gee, I thought I was more popular than that.”

“It’s not that. Nobody thinks you’re a coward, Web. You’ve done too much crazy stuff over the years. Almost as crazy as me.”

“But . . .”

“But some of the guys think if you freeze once, you’ll freeze again. What happened to you wouldn’t have made a difference in what happened to Charlie Team, but next time it might.”

Web stared straight ahead. “I guess I can’t argue with that logic. Maybe I should go join the French. You armed?”

“Do politicians lie?”



Randall Cove lived on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, Virginia, roughly fifty miles south from Washington, D.C., and Cove’s work arena, which roughly doubled Ann Lyle’s twenty-five-mile rule of thumb on the minimum distance undercover agents should keep between their abode and their beat. Cove’s home address was one of the pieces of information Web had surreptitiously read from Bates’s file.

Just missing the brunt of rush-hour traffic, forty minutes later they pulled down the quiet suburban street where Randall Cove lived. It was a line of carbon-copy townhouses, many with rental signs out front. There were no moms or kids outside, though the weather was pleasant, and there were very few cars parked on the street. The community actually looked abandoned, and Web knew it would be until the commuters started arriving from D.C. and northern Virginia. This place had bedroom community written all over it, no doubt with mostly single people or childless couples living here until their salaries or expanded family demands prompted them to move. He could understand why Cove would pick such a place to live. No curious neighbors, people keeping to themselves and no one around during the day when he was probably at home. Most undercover agents in the drug arena did their hunting at night, he knew.

There was a government-plated Bucar parked in front of the house. “Fed babysitter,” commented Romano. Web nodded and pondered how best to handle it. He drove up to the Bucar and he and Romano got out.

The agent rolled down his window, glanced at Web’s and Romano’s FBI identifications and then at Web.

“You’re famous now, don’t even need to show your creds,” said the agent, whom Web didn’t know. He was a young guy, full of vigor and promise, and Web figured he was probably hating life right now, watching a house no one expected Randall Cove to ever come near again. He got out of the car and extended his hand to the pair.

“Chris Miller, out of the Richmond Field Office.” He flashed his own credentials, which he pulled from his right breast pocket so that he could shake with his strong hand, which was how the FBI trained you to do it. If the Bureau did nothing else, it enforced upon its agents a stark commonality of how they performed the smallest details. Without looking, Web knew that Miller had an extra layer of lining in his jacket so the gun he carried there wouldn’t wear a hole in it. He also knew that when he had pulled in behind Miller and approached the car, Miller’s gaze had been on the rearview mirror and then locked on Web’s eyes, for eyes always told a person’s intent.

The men shook hands and Web glanced at the quiet and dark townhouse. “You guys pulling round-the-clocks here?”

“Eight, eight and eight,” said Miller wearily. He checked his watch. “And I’ve got three more hours on my shift.”

Web leaned against the sedan. “So I take it not very exciting.”

“Not unless you count a cat fight I watched about two hours ago.” He paused, eyed Web closely and then blurted out, “You know, I’ve been thinking about trying out for HRT.”