Free Fall (15 page)

In some ways he really was the jaded iconoclast he liked to see himself as. But beneath it all, he loved the FBI--the street agents who made it run, the life it had given him. And more, he needed it--or at least thought he did. Maybe she should have been more forceful in trying to drag him into reality, in telling him that his powerful sense of loyalty was just a little outdated and completely misguided. But then she'd be the cynic, wouldn't she?

Carrie was still standing in the entryway contemplating various plans of action when the shouts started deep in the house. It seemed almost certain that the evening would be more pleasant if she just waited in the car. Or maybe on one of the small boulders that adorned Tom Sherman's front yard. It was kind of a nice evening cool but not cold ... God, she was turning into a coward. She took a deep breath and started through the old house. No matter how much she wanted to, there was really no way she could sit this one out.

When she pushed through the door to the kitchen, she saw that Tom Sherman was sitting at the dining table in a pair of slacks and an under shirt. The calm, sad expression that always seemed to grace his pleasantly lined face was still there as he watched Beamon pace back and forth, gesturing wildly and spewing an enraged diatribe, seemingly without ever pausing to take a breath. The target of his barrage was a little murky it seemed to be aimed alternately at himself, the FBI, the wall, the floor, and Sherman.

Carrie took a seat on an interesting looking, but ultimately uncomfortable, seventeenth-century chair in the corner and watched the man she loved slowly run out of energy, falter, and finally go quiet in the middle of the room.

"You never cease to amaze me, Mark," Sherman said after a few moments of silence. He stood, walked around to the sink, and started casually loading dishes into the dishwasher.

"Do you ever look outside that little bubble you keep around yourself?

The economy's blown itself apart and America's looking for someone to take the blame. That caught our elected officials by surprise at first, but they eventually rallied. They orchestrated a perfect strategy of pointing fingers in irrelevant locations.

They had the people completely under control. Voters blamed everyone but their guy and everyone's job was safe. Then what do you do? You release a bunch of phone taps that show America exactly what kind of people they've been putting in office and cause the fall of some of the most powerful politicians in the country. You almost single-handedly create an environment where the media is judged solely on how much dirt they can dig up, and voters place the blame for their unemployment, or bankruptcy, or whatever, firmly in the lap of men and women they have the power to vote out of office."

"I had nothing to do with the leaking of those tapes, Tommy," Beamon said angrily.

"And you damn well know that."

Sherman was looking at him like he was a slow child.

"No one cares, Mark. In the public's mind, you are the tapes you're the one who found them. And since you and the tapes are one and the same, the powers that be figure that discrediting you is the same as discrediting them. And in the end, they might be right."

"They might be right?" Beamon seemed to have regained his energy and was shouting again.

"They're fucking cassette tapes! My being in jail isn't going to erase them! There's no subjective ground here!"

"For a self-professed cynic, Mark, you live in a strangely idyllic world.

Are you trying to say to me that the American people are too smart to let a bunch of politicians spin things right out of their heads?"

"Not this time! There is just no goddamn way!" Beamon yelled, turning his back to Sherman and facing the wall again.

"You think the media is going to back-page evidence of major felonies by some of the most powerful people in the country because I threw away a piece of paper?"

Carrie watched Tom Sherman as he let out a humorless laugh and dried his hands on a dishtowel. She was thinking about how comfortable that rock out front had looked. This was more than she really wanted to know about the workings of the American government.

"You know what the Beltway Boys are doing right now, Mark?" Sherman said.

"They're sacrificing all sorts of interesting information and people to the media cutting off a few fingers to save their hand. And all they're asking in return is that the press focus a little attention on yet another newspaper-selling scandal. You underestimate your own celebrity, Mark. The media's going to sell a lot of newspapers and ad time when your story breaks. In the end it's all about two things: power and money. And power doesn't exist without money, so there's really only one thing."

Carrie felt an almost physical pain as she watched Mark Beamon fall into a chair, his entire body bowing in defeat. He seemed to shrink and get swallowed up by the room as he sat there with his head in his hands.

Finally, he looked up at Sherman and then over at her.

"Fuck it," she heard him say as he stood and started for the door that led into the hallway.

"Wait, Mark," Sherman called after him.

"Come back in here and sit down. Let's talk about this."

He didn't seem to hear; he just kept walking and finally disappeared down the hall.

"I'm sorry, Carrie," Sherman said, turning in her direction.

"I haven't made your life any easier, have I? I could have handled that better."

She shook her head.

"It's not your fault. He should have been listening to you months ago.

But now it's too late, isn't it?"

Sherman sat back down at the kitchen table.

"I don't know anymore.

It's gotten so big, Carrie ..." He looked almost as deflated as Mark.

"I've got calls in to no less than ten people. I should know more tomorrow."

Carrie stood and walked over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You're a good friend to him, Tom. I know he doesn't tell you how much he appreciates everything you've done for him over the years, but he does. I think probably more than you can imagine."

Sherman smiled sadly and Carrie broke away, starting toward the front of the house. She paused for a moment before she left the kitchen and looked back one last time.

"Do you think he could really go to jail, Tom?"

Sherman closed his eyes and nodded.

Carrie slid into the driver's seat of the car just in time to watch Beamon shove a crumpled pack of cigarettes back into the glove compartment.

The image of him sitting there alone smoking a slightly bent cigarette was somehow the most depressing yet.

"Are you okay, Mark?"

"Sure."

She started the car but left it in Park.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

He looked over at her, his face strangely blank.

"There is no right and wrong anymore. Weren't you listening?"

"Yes, there is. You did what had to be done and you were blindsided by a bunch of people who have no sense of honor or compassion. You saved that little girl when no one else could."

Beamon took a long drag from the cigarette.

"I used to think that was what set me apart, you know? That I always did what I thought was right and didn't give much thought to the consequences. But I think now it was just ego--that I'm no different than anybody else. Maybe everybody always does what they think is right and it's all just a matter of what you tell yourself the high ground is." The smile that suddenly spread across his face surprised her.

"See what you've done, Carrie? You've made me introspective. I think it would have been safer for you to pass out matches at grade schools."

"A little introspection never hurt anyone, Mark." She wasn't actually dead sure that was true in this case, but it sounded good.

"Carrie ..."

There was a depth of emotion in his voice that she wasn't sure she'd ever heard before. She held her finger up and pointed it directly at his nose.

"You sound like you're about to say something deep. Some situations just call for quiet contemplation. And a lot of times, silent contemplation is even better." She reached for the steering column to put the car in Drive, but Beamon put a hand on hers and stopped her.

"I've been stupid, Carrie. Tom's right "

"You held on too hard, Mark.

You trusted some people you thought were your friends because if the situations were reversed they could have trusted you. There's nothing wrong with not seeing the entire world in shades of black."

Beamon nodded thoughtfully and leaned the back of his head against the passenger side window.

"Well, it looks like my rose-colored glasses have me in a hell of a bind."

Carrie let out a short laugh that sounded a little choked, even to her.

"You know one of the things I like best about you, Mark?"

"I've thought about it a lot. I have no idea."

"When all my friends at work start talking about what their significant others do for a living, it's always accountant this, lawyer that, professor this, nurse that. Then I get to say, "Oh, Mark's the head of the FBI here."

Much more interesting, don't you think? Kind of a conversation piece."

"I guess." His voice sounded distant.

"Well, just try to imagine the rise I could get at a cocktail party with, "He's doing time in a federal pen on an obstruction rap."" Beamon tried to smile but failed miserably.

"Funny, Carrie. You're a funny lady. But what about Emory? She's getting just old enough to understand some of this. How are you going to explain it to her?"

"Let me worry about that."

He shook his head.

"No. This isn't fair to you anymore."

"Mark, what are you doing?" she said in a cautioning tone.

"You're " He finished her sentence for her.

"Going to jail. And I'm not sure for how long. When I get out, my career will be gone and my prospects will be, well, let's say ... limited.

You're a beautiful woman with a wonderful daughter, a great career, and a terrific life back in Flagstaff."

He reached out and pulled the handle on the car door, opening it a crack.

"Mark, wait. I know you think you know what you're doing right now.

But don't do this to us. And don't try to make my decisions for me."

"You know I'm right, Carrie. Don't make this any harder than it has to be," he said, opening the door the rest of the way and sliding out onto the sidewalk.

"Mark, get back in the car, right now."

"I can't. I know you too well. You'll figure out a way to talk me out of this." He leaned back through the door for a moment.

"Tell Emory that I'm going to miss her."

Carrie had never seen him like this; he seemed to barely be able to get the words out.

"Don't do this, Mark."

He pushed the door closed and Carrie watched him walk stiffly down the sidewalk. When he had disappeared completely into the shadows created by the widely spaced streetlights, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and forced herself to take a few deep breaths. How could she have let that happen?

The sun had long since passed over the bright red fin of rock Darby Moore was lying on, but its heat still radiated into her chest and stomach. She couldn't bring herself to move. Somehow that fading warmth softened the image of Tristan's lifeless foot hanging from the open door of her van and drained some of the color from the pool of blood in Maryland where she'd left that man dying.

The thirty-hour drive to Utah had been agonizing. Near panic had hit her every time she passed a police car. She'd been too scared to stop anywhere familiar, thinking that someone would be waiting for her. As the little truck had turned into a self-imposed prison, she'd become more and more certain that the file Tristan told her about was the answer--the only answer. She had to get to it first, then she could use it. How, exactly, she didn't know. To expose the men who'd killed her friend? To bargain for her life? To clear her name? It didn't matter--what was important now is that she get it. Then she'd have time to think. The one thing she was certain of was that without some leverage, those men would kill her without any more thought or remorse than they'd give to swatting a fly.

Darby tried to relax and let the knots in her back loosen as she surveyed the landscape below her. From where she lay, she could see the brown green of the canyon floor some three hundred feet below, the reddish-orange rock surrounding it, and the distant sandstone arches that leaked the sunset through them. She scooted forward a few feet and hung her head fully over the cliff, examining the way it fell away to the canyon below.

They were getting closer.

There were three of them she was sure of that now. It was a long way down, but she could make out that two were rather heavyset, with short, dark hair and wearing bright blue jackets, jeans, and what looked like hiking boots or heavy trail shoes. Both seemed to be having a difficult time negotiating the broken rock, deep sand, and jagged plants typical in this part of Utah. They may not have been the same men who had kid napped her and murdered Tristan, but they certainly looked like they were cut from the same generic cloth.