Deadline

  She handed Jake five neat packets of mail, each with a rubber band around it.

  “Pushed some more buttons, didn’t you?”

  Jake nodded sheepishly “Thanks, Nellie. Sorry to create more work for you.”

  “It was worth it, Jake. Thank you for that column on those library newspapers. It stimulated a great discussion at our dinner table. Just like your abstinence articles. You got us thinking. Keep it up!”

  “I appreciate the feedback.” He didn’t know Nellie that well, though she’d worked there almost as long as he had. For the first time ever, he felt a tinge of regret at not having gotten to know her better.

  It was now the third day after his latest controversial column. This gave people one day to read the column, a second to write a fresh-in-the-mind and from-the-gut response, and the third for the post office to get it to the Trib. And judging from telephone calls and faxes the last two days, Jake figured they were split down the middle—warm support and unconditional commendation on the one hand; outrage and condemnation on the other. Maybe one out of five, at most, would be mixed reviews. It wouldn’t hit syndication for several days yet.

  He opened the first letter. No “Dear Mr. Woods.” It was a page full of profanities. There was something oddly refreshing about honest, to-the-point hate mail. No hypocrisy and forced politeness. Too many letters ripped you to shreds, then closed off “Sincerely yours.”

  As Jake opened another piece of mail, his phone rang. After vacillating whether or not to answer, he picked it up just after the second ring.

  “Jake? Sutter here. You alone? Nobody’s listening?”

  It was Sutter, all right, but Jake had never heard him so excited. “I’m sure you’d know, Sutter. I’d be the last to hear if I’m being bugged.”

  “Very funny. This call was intended as a favor. Maybe I’ll just forget it.”

  “No. Sorry. Just a little testy right now. What’s up?”

  “Major stuff.” Sutter’s voice oozed with fervor. “We’ve had the big breakthrough, finally. I can’t explain on the phone. But if all goes well in the next few hours, I’ll take you on a victory march through the whole federal building tomorrow. The beers will be on me.”

  “Sutter, what is it? Tell me!”

  “We’re outside of town, maybe a forty-minute drive, wrapping up a big surveillance. Just got off the phone with the director himself. That’s why I called. It should be safe for you to join us if you follow my instructions to the letter. You might make it here in time to see it all come down. Interested?”

  “You bet I’m interested. Where do I meet you?”

  “First the customary vow of silence. No contacts with anyone, absolutely anyone at the Tribune, the police station or anywhere else, or the whole thing is off Got it?”

  “Got it, Sutter. Just tell me how to get there.”

  “It’s in a cabin, pretty remote, out in the Hillsdale area. You know the Broder Road turn off, near Sedway, by that old country store?”

  “Sure, I’ve done some hunting out that way, a little fishing too. Bought worms at that store.”

  “Okay, this is an old hunting cabin. About five miles past the store, take the third dirt road on the left. That road takes you back another three miles into some thick trees. Don’t stop anywhere in the area, the store or anywhere else. We’ve got reasons. We’re right on the verge, Woods. I’m taking a risk calling you, but you’ve been a big help. And they were your buddies.”

  “Okay, Sutter, thanks. I’m on my way. Be there in forty minutes. Don’t do anything without me.”

  Jake kept pulling up his right foot every time he got above sixty-five. It wouldn’t do to waste time or draw attention to himself by getting a speeding ticket. He had the feeling of going out on a mission, and the macho hope of getting his hands on the enemy. He turned by the country store, just closing for the evening. It was dusk.

  Jake drove the five miles, found the third dirt road, and made the first two miles faster than you would if you cared about kicking up mud on your car. He slowed down for the final mile, not wanting to draw attention to his arrival.

  There ahead of him was a light behind curtains in an old cabin, with a brownish late model Volvo parked down below. It wasn’t Sutter’s car, but Jake remembered seeing it somewhere. It didn’t have federal license plates, which made sense. Surveillance work was hard enough without that kind of giveaway. Jake thought of all those television and movie detectives tailing people in their bright red sports cars that screamed “look at me.”

  Jake drove up slowly now, noting a shadow on the shade. Mayhew’s profile. He parked his car and hurried toward the cabin. Just before he got to the door, Mayhew opened it, to show he couldn’t be caught by surprise, Jake supposed.

  Mayhew’s suit coat was snug enough for Jake to see the impression of his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, artillery in the form of a sidearm, a formidable weapon to have on your side in a skirmish. The two exchanged glances and nods, neither warm to the other, though Jake hadn’t forgotten Mayhew saving his life.

  Inside the room Sutter was turned away from the door, peering intently through huge binoculars. From having dabbled in astronomy years ago, Jake recognized them as Celestron 20×80mm, powerful low-light lenses. He surmised the dual lenses would provide much better eye relief than a single barreled scope for long-term surveillance of whatever they were there for.

  Sutter turned around. “Oh, hi Woods. Grab a seat. Have a Red Sangria. Be with you in a second. Yeah, Charlie, we’re lookin’ good, lookin’ good.”

  Charlie? Jake noted a momentary look of surprise on Mayhew’s face as well. Maybe Sutter was just talking to himself.

  Jake sat down by four empty bottles of Red Sangria, and another unopened four pack, sitting next to Sutter’s familiar burgundy briefcase. It struck him strange that FBI guys would drink on the job. Sutter seemed in no hurry, which irritated Jake since he’d broken his tail to get there.

  “So … I’m here now, Sutter. Remember me? The guy you wanted over here pronto?”

  No response, which irritated Jake more.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Oh, you’d probably rather not know.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Pretty much what he said, bozo,” Agent Mayhew said with a smirk.

  “Breaking your vow of silence I see, Mayhew. Try not to dominate the conversation, will you?”

  “Smart guy. You’re gonna be changing your tune pretty soon.”

  This language alarmed Jake. It was totally out of character, an inexcusable departure from the respectful professionalism of the FBI, even for Mayhew.

  What’s going on here? Jake looked at Sutter for an answer.

  “You’ll have to excuse Charlie. This whole thing hasn’t been as easy for him. He never got the leads in his high school plays. Not sure he even went to high school.”

  Jake stared blankly. “What are you talking about, Sutter?”

  Sutter smiled broadly, enjoying drawing this out, like he was eating a pecan pie à la mode and postponing the last scrumptious bite.

  Jake, still standing in the middle of the room, made a quick move Sutters direction, then slowed when he saw Mayhew reach toward his shoulder holster.

  Charlie? He couldn’t remember Mayhew’s first name from the day Sutter introduced him but he was certain it wasn’t Charlie. Jake walked over to the binoculars, looking out into the now twilight. There was barely enough light to make out two images, a few feet square, propped up on rough easels of some sort, maybe thirty yards away. They were targets, both of which had been shot repeatedly, with a half dozen bullet holes within a few inches of the bull’s-eyes.

  “Not bad, huh, Woods? We’re talking handguns, not rifles. Mine’s on the left, Charlie’s the right. We figure I got six out of ten kills at thirty yards, and he got eight out of ten. He’s always been just a hair more gifted in that area.” Sutter smiled at Charlie as if they were old fraternity brothers.

  “Well
, it takes all kinds, doesn’t it, Woods? I mean, what’s that the Tribune’s always saying? Celebrate diversity? Yeah, that’s us. I guess my dramatic talents more than compensate for two less kills out of ten, eh Charlie?”

  Mayhew shrugged, with a conspicuous lack of affection.

  “Why do you keep calling him Charlie?”

  “Good for you, Woods. You’re not as dumb as you look. Come to think of it, no one’s as dumb as you look.”

  Sutter laughed hysterically.

  “Yeah, I believe ’Jeffrey Mayhew’ was the name I gave you. Rather dignified, don’t you think? Made it up myself. Sounds English, doesn’t it? I also like ’Colin Sutter,’ don’t you? Almost wish it was my real name.”

  Sutter, or whoever he was, watched Jake closely, enjoying his reaction.

  “I’m calling him by his real name, Woods, because now there’s no need to call him anything else. The production’s over. It’s a little game we play once in a while. We give out the man’s real name toward the very end. It raises the stakes, heightens the senses, increases his motivation to be sure the man who heard his name doesn’t repeat it to anybody. Of course, I don’t think Charlie really needs any extra motivation with you. I don’t think he likes you very much. Never has.”

  Charlie glared at Jake, eyes riveted to him. Lifeless eyes. That was it, of course. Charlie was a professional killer. And as the reality Jake guarded himself from sunk in, he realized that this man, unlike most of the scared young men on the other side in that Asian jungle, was going to very much enjoy killing him.

  Jake asked the obvious question that bordered now on stupid. “You’re not FBI?”

  Sutter laughed hard and long, then looked at Charlie.

  “Catches on quick, doesn’t he? No wonder he’s such a big-time journalist. Bet he just figured out Nixon was a crook!”

  Both men laughed now, Sutter carelessly like a junior high boy, Mayhew ruthlessly like a particularly cruel junior high boy, but with the trained and focused stare of a professional assassin, his eyes not flinching from Jake.

  “Listen, talk to me would you? I deserve that much. I helped you, didn’t I?” Jake’s nerves were real, but his survival instinct told him to act more confused and frightened than he was, not to let it appear he could offer any threat of resistance.

  “That’s very funny, Woods. We don’t owe you nothin’. Well … wait a minute, I take that back. When he heard I was assigned to you, one of our associates gave you a lot of credit on the capital punishment issue. Told me it was narrowly banned by the voters, as I recall. Lots of people wanted it pretty bad, with all the guys getting off murder sentences after a few years watching TV at the pen. But you spoke out against the death penalty, said it was barbaric. Who knows? Maybe you swayed enough people to make the difference.

  “Anyway, one of our best men was on death row eight years ago when the whole thing got overturned. And guess what? Six months ago he got out. He’s a friend of ours, and very good at what he does. He’s gone back to work and hasn’t lost his touch. A few afternoons of target practice and he was first string again. So, I guess we do owe you, Woods, and I’m one to pay my debts. Right, Charlie? When Jake Woods joins his friends under the dirt I don’t want him saying I didn’t pay my debts.”

  Sutter rambled like an insane man.

  “Take a deep breath and rest easy, Woods.” Sutter gestured out at the twilight. “I’d like it to get a little darker before we kill you. So, you have questions? How can I help you?”

  “Who are you?”

  Sutter laughed profusely, plopping himself on the edge of the table opposite Jake, while “Charlie” stood guard.

  “Well, you’re right. We’re not the FBI. The truth is—we’re the CIA!”

  Sutter was delighted with his little joke. Even Charlie’s chiseled face cracked a smile.

  Good, Jake thought. Get relaxed, get overconfident, think you’re dealing with a coward. Good.

  “Since you’re not going to repeat this, I admit I’m pretty proud of our little scam. Getting the use of the office in the federal building was a little tricky, but it’s amazing the favors you can call in when people think you’re someone else. Parts of the federal building are amazingly unsecured, once you show some good ID. Badges, wall hangings, business cards, official papers. Shoot, you can make half of those with your own computer and printers, alter some military surplus stuff, and you’re in business.”

  Sutter flashed his badge again.

  “This is the real thing, an FBI badge, confiscated from a man in the line of duty, God rest his soul. Not that it needed to be authentic, right? Not for you, anyway. Unless you’re more of an expert in FBI ID than I take you for.”

  Jake felt like a real sucker.

  “Why’d you follow me?”

  “Started right after the funeral. Just in case you got wind of something. Being a mucky muck reporter and everything, we figured somebody might tip you off or you could figure out something on your own. One of our guys was on you in the deli the day you opened up the envelope and the yellow note card fell out. From the look on your face and the fact you went straight to the police, he figured something big was up. He followed you to the wrecking yard, took the pictures. Even got a view of one of the cut tie rods in the enlargement. We knew it was murder. But we still didn’t know who. The big guys met the next few days and debated what to do.”

  Sutter strutted around the room like he was big stuff.

  “With you investigating anyway, and since you were pals with a police detective, we figured let’s take a risk and make contact to see what you come up with. That’s when we conjured up the FBI story. We kept following you because you were out there in the trenches, conducting our investigation for us. We had to keep tabs on you. If you started going places and meeting people we didn’t like, we had to know. In our business, knowledge is survival. We took a risk with you. You put money into General Motors, you keep your eye on how it’s doing. You watch your investment. You were our investment.”

  “But … who were the other people following me?”

  Sutter laughed again, grating on Jake.

  “There were no other people.”

  “But …” Jake stopped, not sure how to phrase it, to Sutter’s delight.

  “Part of the smoke and mirrors. A little embellishment to endear us to you, maybe make you grateful for our protection. Grateful people cooperate.”

  “But the guy that tried to kill me behind the store?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  Sutter gleefully reached in his briefcase and pulled out a crumpled up blue ski mask. Jake realized instantly the stocky man in the shadows was built exactly like Sutter. And with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he remembered where he’d first seen the late model brown Volvo now in front of the cabin. It had been parked near the employee cars behind the supermarket. After assaulting him, supposedly scared by Mayhew’s gun fire, Sutter had run into the darkness, only to walk back and drive off after Jake and Mayhew left.

  “Another role I played with consummate expertise, if I do say so myself. It takes a lot of skill to hit a man with a baseball bat hard enough to incapacitate him, but not so hard as to knock him unconscious. I’ve had to practice on a lot of people to get it just right. Some of them never woke up!”

  Sutter guffawed, like a man so full of himself he imagines everything he says is clever and entertaining.

  “I did my job perfectly. Of course, Charlie was a bit slow on the draw. I had to hold that bat up forever. I felt like I was carrying the Olympic torch or something.”

  Mayhew didn’t smile. He just twirled something around between his fingers, something metallic, with a dull burnished gold look. Jake recognized it as a shell. A huge .44 Magnum shell. The same hardware that had comforted him when he came in the door had the opposite effect now. It all came down to whose side the Magnum was on, and Jake knew now it wasn’t his.

  “Just call me Don Vito Corelone.” Sutter did a bad imita
tion of Brando in The Godfather. “Okay, so I’m not the don. I’m one of his trusty lieutenants. I told you I was in touch with the director himself. Oh, I’m sorry—did you think I was talking about the director of the FBI?” Sutter snorted.

  “I don’t believe it. Why’d you tell me all that stuff about organized crime if you’re part of it?”

  “You were already investigating. We figured in checking around the hospital you might get some ideas from a few of the doctors or somebody. So, why not get you sworn to secrecy on the organized crime angle in case something came out? Besides, I had to sound bona fide, had to make you believe in me, trust me. I’m a bit of a history buff. Unlike Charlie here, I do some pretty serious reading. Probably read half a dozen books on organized crime, and at least a couple on the FBI. I gave you accurate background information, most of it not vital but some important stuff sprinkled in. I hoped it would sound authentic enough to convince you to reciprocate. And you did. When Mayhew came to your rescue, you owed us your life. It made you more willing to talk to us, tell us everything we needed to know about your investigation, and what the police were coming up with. Reinforced your commitment to keep your mouth shut about us, like you agreed. That was the plan.”

  Charlie, alias Agent Mayhew, glared at Jake. Pretending to save his life hadn’t produced any emotional bonding between the two. Jake imagined Mayhew had probably been disappointed to play the part of the rescuer and would have been much more comfortable swinging the bat. He was likely going to get that chance in the next few minutes.

  “It’s true, my approach to these things is a little unorthodox. I made a few of our superiors nervous. Some of them think I talk too much, if you can imagine that.”

  Charlie looked like he agreed, but Sutter was oblivious.

  “But I get results. My experience with lying—and I have told an occasional untruth—has taught me it’s too easy to get tripped up. You get details wrong, you start sounding phony. People get suspicious, then they hold back. What I told you had to have the ring of truth. So most of what I told you was true, with just enough misleading info sprinkled in to protect our rears in case you violated our little contract. And the more I told you, the more you told me. I never could have gotten that stuff from Marsdon or the psychologist, much less the things you let slip from the police investigation. And even if you talked to your detective friend, I knew we were covered. You couldn’t prove anything. Besides, we were on you. If it looked like you were going to tell anybody, we could take you out any time. No problem.”