asphalt again and they were heading back toward Rider’s office.
Rayfield grabbed Tremaine’s shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
“They suckered us. The guy and the gal. Their story was bullshit.”
“How do you know that?”
“The light in the bathroom.”
“The light? What about it?”
“It wasn’t on. The bitch was in there in the dark. It hit me when I saw the dome light go on in the car back there. There was no light coming from under the bathroom door when she was in there. When she opened the door she didn’t hit the light switch because the bathroom was already dark. She wasn’t using the can. She was standing in the bathroom in the pitch-dark. And guess why?”
Rayfield’s face went pale. “Because Harms and his brother were in there too.” While he looked at the road ahead he had another thought. “The guy said his name was John Michaels. Could it have been John Fiske?”
“And the girl was Sara Evans. That’s what I’m thinking. You better call and let the others know.”
Rayfield picked up the cell phone. “We’ll never catch up to Harms now.”
“Yes, we will.”
“How the hell can we?”
Tremaine drew on thirty years of Army training, studying what the other side would do in a particular scenario. “Fiske said he saw them get in a car. Opposite of a car is a truck. He said it was an old car. Opposite of that is a new truck. He said they were going north, so we go south. It’s only been five minutes. We’ll catch them.”
“I hope to God you’re right. If they were at Rider’s office — ” He broke off and looked anxiously out the window.
Tremaine looked over at him. “Then that means the Harms brothers ain’t running. That means they were looking for something Rider had. And that sure as hell is not good news for us.” He nodded at the phone. “Make that call. We’ll take care of Harms and his brother. They’ll have to deal with Fiske and the woman.”
* * *
Because of the high-profile nature of the case, the FBI had offered the use of its laboratory to perform the analysis on the slug found in the alley. After comparing tissue samples taken from Michael Fiske’s remains, the slug was deemed to have been fired through his brain. The slug was a 9mm of a type typically carried by law enforcement personnel.
With that information, Agent McKenna sat down in front of a computer terminal at the Hoover Building and typed in a high-priority request to the Virginia State Police. Within a few minutes he had his answer. John Fiske had a 9mm SIG-Sauer registered to his name, a carryover from his cop days. Within minutes McKenna was in his car. Two hours later he turned off Interstate 95 and headed through the darkened streets of downtown Richmond. His car rumbled over the aged and uneven streets of Shockoe Slip. He parked in a secluded area near the old train station.
Ten minutes later he was standing in John Fiske’s office, having picked the locks of the building and the lawyer’s office with remarkable ease. He looked around the darkened space using a small light. He had decided to search Fiske’s office first rather than his apartment. It only took a couple of minutes until he found it. The 9mm pistol was relatively light and compact. Wearing gloves, McKenna palmed it for a moment and then put it in his pocket.
He shone his light around the rest of the office. The beam caught on something and he went over to the bookcase. He picked up the framed picture. The flashlight kicked up too much glare on the glass covering the photo, so McKenna took it over to the window and looked at it under the moonlight.
The Fiske brothers looked like any others, standing side by side. Michael Fiske was taller and better-looking than his older brother, but the fire in John Fiske’s eyes burned with a greater intensity. John had on his police uniform, so this had been taken a while back, McKenna knew. The older brother had seen much of life wearing that uniform, just as McKenna had in his career at the FBI. Sometimes those experiences gave you that fire, or else harshly took it away.
He put the photo back and left the office. In another five minutes the FBI agent’s car was heading north once again. Two hours later, back at his home in a well-to-do northern Virginia suburb, McKenna sat in his small study and alternated sipping on a beer and pursing his lips around a cigarette. He held the pistol he had taken from Fiske’s office. It was nicely maintained, a solid piece of work. Fiske had made a good choice in ordnance. As a cop he would have relied on this weapon to survive. Years ago policemen rarely had to pull their sidearm. That had changed.
Fiske had killed a man with this gun, McKenna knew. Fired the shot that had taken another’s life. McKenna understood the complexities of that journey — a journey that was typically compressed within the span of a few seconds. The heat of the metal, the nauseating smell of exploded powder. Unlike in the movies, a bullet didn’t blow a man backward several feet. A man fell where you shot him; made him crap and pee in his pants, plunged him to the dirt without a word. McKenna had killed a man too. It was quick, reflexive; he had seen the eyes bulge out, the body twist. Then McKenna had gone back to the spot where he had fired from and noted the two bullet holes on the wall on either side of where he had stood. The dead man had gotten off his own shots. They had miraculously passed on either side of the FBI agent. McKenna would later learn that the dead man had an eye disability that threw off his depth perception. McKenna had gone on, lived to see his wife and kids because the dead man had a wobbly pupil. On the drive home, McKenna had soiled his pants.
He put the pistol down and cast his thoughts forward now. His snitch in the clerks’office had paid off. Tomorrow, both Fiske and Evans would face some tough questioning. He would get hold of Chandler first thing, lay the facts before him, and let the pugnacious homicide detective do his duty. McKenna got up and walked around the room. On the walls were framed photos of him with a number of important people. Carefully arranged on a side table were the numerous awards and commendations Warren McKenna had earned with his wits and his courage as an FBI agent. He had led a long, productive career on the side of law enforcement, but that had not made up for one event that had caused him great shame ever since. It had happened so many years ago, and yet was still one of the clearest memories he possessed. What he had done back then was, today, compelling him to frame John Fiske for a crime.
He put out the cigarette and moved silently through the house. His wife had long since gone to bed. His two children were grown and on their own. He had done all right financially, although FBI agents never earned the big dollars, unless they gave up the badge. But his wife, a partner in a major D.C. law firm, had. Thus, the house was large, expensively furnished, and basically empty. He looked back in the direction of the den. His distinguished career, neatly tallied on that table, lastingly captured in those photos. He took a long breath as the darkness clung to him. Penance was a lifelong responsibility.
* * *
The plane touched down and taxied to a stop. Commercial jets and some private planes could not land at National after ten o’clock at night because of noise-level restrictions, but the small aircraft Fiske and Sara were flying in could take off and land pretty much wherever it wanted. A few minutes later Fiske and Sara were headed toward the parking garage at National Airport.
“We flew all the way out there, nearly got slaughtered and we came back empty-handed,” Sara muttered. “Brilliant idea on my part.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Fiske said.
They reached the car and climbed in. “So what exactly did we learn?” she asked.
“Quite a few things. One, we saw Rufus Harms face-to-face. I think he’s telling the truth, whatever the truth happens to be.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“He came to Rider’s office, Sara, when he should be doing his best to get out of the country. He came to get the appeal he had written. Why would he do that unless he believed it to be true?”
“I don’t know,” Sara admitted. “If it was his appeal, why not just write it again?”
“Rider had filed his own document with it. You saw that in my brother’s briefcase. Now that Rider’s dead, that was something Harms couldn’t duplicate. He also mentioned something he got from the Army. A letter. Maybe he thought that would help, so he came to get both.”
“That makes more sense.”
“The Army guys were on a blood hunt. They didn’t come there to look for Rufus Harms. They came there to search Rider’s office.”
“How do you know that?”
“They didn’t even ask us if we’d seen anyone suspicious, anyone who looked like Rufus. I had to volunteer the information. And they weren’t doing it in their official capacity. The middle of the night, machine guns. They weren’t MPs or anything. They were of fairly high rank, judging from their age and attitude. Barging into civilian offices with machine guns at midnight, that’s not how the Army does things.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“So I’m thinking whatever was in that appeal had something to do with those guys personally.”
“But we don’t even know who they are.”
“Yes, we do. Rufus said their names at Rider’s office. Tremaine, Vic Tremaine — and the other guy’s name is Rayfield. They’re in the Army, which means they must be connected with Fort Jackson somehow. Rufus said they did something to him. I’m sure he meant back in the stockade.”
“John, even if they somehow encouraged him to kill that little girl, or even ordered him to do it for some hellish reason, the most they’d get pinned on is some sort of accessory. And after all these years? If that’s all Harms has, he has nothing, you damn well know that.”
“The problem is we don’t know enough about the actual events back then. If some people visited Harms in the stockade on the night the little girl was killed, there should be a record of that.”
Sara looked skeptical. “After twenty-five years?”
“And then there’s the letter from the Army that Harms mentioned. What sort of letter would the Army be sending a court-martialed con?”
“Do you think the letter somehow triggered this?”
“It could have had some information that Harms didn’t know about before. I don’t know what it could be or why he wouldn’t have known it before, though.”
“Wait a minute. If Tremaine and Rayfield are from Fort Jackson, why would they let that kind of a letter reach Harms? Isn’t a prisoner’s mail censored?”
Fiske thought for a moment. “Maybe it just slipped through.”
“Or maybe it didn’t come to the prison at all. Josh Harms seems to know all about it; maybe he got the letter, put two and two together and told Rufus about it.”
“And then Rufus maybe fakes a heart attack somehow, gets taken to the nearest hospital and that’s where Josh breaks him out?”
“That works.”
“I just wish we knew what happened at Fort Jackson that day. It’s pretty clear from what Josh and Rufus said that my brother visited him at the prison.”
“Why not call or go to the prison? Then we can find out if Michael was there.”
Fiske shook his head. “If those two guys are at the prison, they’ll have covered that up, maybe transferred anyone who saw Mike out of the place. And we can’t go to Chandler with it, because what would we say? Two Army guys are looking for a prisoner who escaped from their custody. So what?”
“Well, if Rayfield and Tremaine work at the prison, then Michael walked right into the lion’s den. Even though you two weren’t close, I’m really surprised Michael didn’t try to call you for help. He might still be alive if he had.”
Fiske froze at her words and then closed his eyes. He said nothing more as they drove along.
* * *
When they reached Sara’s cottage, Fiske went directly to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I haven’t for years. But I really need one right now.”
“Well, you’re in luck.” She pulled a chair over and set it next to the kitchen counter. She slipped off her pumps and stepped onto the chair’s seat. “I’ve found that if I make it as difficult as possible to get to my little stash, I crave them less. I guess I have a real lazy streak.”
Fiske watched as she stood on tiptoe and reached up over the highest cabinet, her fingers barely scraping the top edge.
“Sara, come on, let me do that. You’re going to kill yourself.”
“I’ve got it, John. Just about there.” She stretched her body as far as she could and Fiske found himself staring at the tops of her exposed thighs as her dress had risen. She started to sway a bit, so he placed a hand on her waist to steady her. On the back of her right thigh was a small birthmark, almost perfectly triangular in shape and a dull red in color. It seemed to pulse with each of her exertions. He glanced down at her feet as he continued to hold on to her, the bottom of his hand resting lightly on the softness of her hip. Her toes were long and uncramped, as though she went barefoot often. He looked away.
“Got ’em.” She held up the pack. “Camels okay?”
“As long as you can light one end, I don’t really care.” He helped her down, took out a cigarette, and then looked at her. “You in? You did all the work.” She nodded and he nudged one out for her. They took a moment lighting up and Sara joined Fiske with a beer. They went out onto the small rear deck that looked out over the river and sat down in a faded wooden glider.
“You made a good choice in housing,” he commented.
“The first time I saw it, I could see myself living here forever.” She drew her legs up under her, tapped her cigarette against the deck rail, and watched as the breeze carried the ash away. She arched her long neck and took a long sip of beer.
“Impulsive of you.”
She put the beer down and studied his face. “Haven’t you ever felt that way about something?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Not really. So what’s next? Husband, kids? Solely the career path?” He took a puff and waited for her to answer.
She took another swallow of beer and watched the car lights pass over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge in the distance. Then she stood up. “Want to go sailing?”
He looked up at her in surprise. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”
“No later than our last boat trip. I’ve got the permit and the boat lights. We’ll just do a lazy circle and come back in.” Before he could answer, she disappeared into the cottage. Within a couple minutes she came back out wearing jean cutoffs, a tank top and deck shoes, her hair pulled back in a bun.
Fiske glanced down at his dress shirt, slacks and loafers. “I didn’t bring my sailor suit.”
“That’s okay. You’re not the sailor, I am.” She had two fresh beers. They walked down to the dock. It was miserably humid, and Fiske quickly broke a sweat helping Sara ready the sails. While standing on the bow to rig the jib sail, Fiske slipped and almost tumbled into the water. “If you had fallen into the Potomac, we wouldn’t need the moon to sail by, you’d be glowing all by yourself,” Sara said, laughing.
The water was flat, no shore wind evident, so Sara fired up the auxiliary engine and they motored out into the middle of the river, where the sails finally caught a breeze and swelled with the warm air. For the next hour they moved in slow ovals across the river. The boat had a light, and the moon was at three-quarters and there were no other craft on the river.
Fiske took a turn at the helm, with Sara coaching him at the tiller until he felt comfortable. Each time they tacked into the wind, the mainsail would shudder and drop, Fiske would duck and Sara would swing the boom around and watch as the canvas filled again and propelled them along.
She looked over at him and smiled. “It feels magical to catch something invisible and yet so powerful, and compel it to do your bidding, doesn’t it?” The way she said it, so girlish, with so much frank wonder, he had to smile. They drank beer and both smoked another cigarette after several humorous attempts at lighting up in the face of a stiff wind. They talked about things unrelated to present events, and both felt relieved to be able to do so even for a short time.
“You have a nice smile,” Sara remarked. “You should use it more often.”
By the time they headed back in, Fiske had a blister on the inside of his thumb from clutching the boom line.
They docked the boat and tied down the sails. Sara went up to the cottage and came back with more beer and a bag of chips and salsa. “Don’t let it be said that I don’t feed my guests.”
They sat on the boat and drank, and whittled down at the chips. The wind started to pick up and the temperature dipped suddenly as a late night storm rolled in. They watched as the clouds turned black-edged and pops of lightning appeared on the horizon. In her tank top shirt, Sara shivered a little and Fiske put his arm around her. She leaned into him. Then a few drops of rain hit and Sara jumped up. With Fiske’s help she pulled out the vinyl covers and snapped them into place across the open compartments of the boat.
“We better head in,” she said.
They walked up to the cottage, running the last few feet as it started to pour.
“Long day tomorrow,” Sara said, looking at the kitchen clock while patting her wet hair with a paper towel.
“Especially after no sleep last night,” Fiske added, yawning. They turned the lights off and headed upstairs.
Sara said goodnight and went to her room. Fiske watched breeze in along with some of the rain. A shaft of lightning flared across the sky and connected with the earth somewhere. The boom was