Free Fall (49 page)

As lame and desperate as his current course of action was, Beamon was lucky to even get a shot at it. He felt more than a little guilty about getting Tom Sherman involved, but it had seemed rather obvious that a disgraced former FBI agent wasn't going to get a private audience with the man America expected to be its next president. Sherman was well connected at the CIA, where Taylor had spent five years as director. His former deputy had set up the meeting.

Beamon had been sitting alone against the wall for almost an hour when a woman in a blue business suit emerged from a set of double doors to his right.

"Mr. Beamon. I apologize for the delay, but you understand that the senator is very busy. He's ready for you now."

Beamon laid down his fifth cup of coffee and smiled politely as he limped through the door she was holding open for him.

Senator Robert Taylor was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his feet on what must have been an open drawer. It seemed impossible, but he looked even older in person than he did on TV. The craggy, but evenly colored, skin that had been plastered across every television screen in America was actually blotched with the red and the light purple of broken capillaries, and hung loose around his jowls and neck.

In the time-honored tradition of powerful men, Taylor ignored his entrance. Beamon approached to within ten feet of the desk and stopped, striking as respectful and submissive a pose as he could conjure up. He stood there for almost a minute, watching Taylor's pinkish-yellow eyes scan a document in his lap. Finally, the old man looked up, appraising him over the top of his reading glasses.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Beamon," he said, examining the bruises and swelling on Beamon's face, but not commenting.

"My former assistant at the Agency called and told me it was very important that I see you. He didn't know why, but was adamant."

Taylor's calm boredom and mild irritation were wonderfully practiced, but the cracks in the facade were there. Even a politician a professional liar couldn't stay completely steady under this kind of pressure.

Hallorin had already gotten to him.

"We seem to have a mutual problem, sir," Beamon stated.

"I was hoping we could work together to solve it."

"And that is?"

"David Hallorin."

Taylor smiled with a perfect balance of condescension and confusion.

"I'm not sure why David Hallorin is a problem for me, Mr. Beamon. I assume you've seen the polls."

Beamon didn't speak for a moment. What the hell was he doing here?

Politics had always been something he ran from a game Tom Sherman had always played for him.

"He has the Prodigy file, Senator. But you know that."

"The Prodigy file ..." Taylor repeated, removing his glasses and letting his old eyes drill into Beamon.

Beamon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A lot of this was still conjecture on his part.

"Prodigy was an operation put together by the FBI under Hoover. It seems that the powerful men of that era were catching on to his tricks.

He had to try something new "

"I'm sure this is a fascinating story," Taylor broke in.

"But I "

"So he set up a program that identified young up-and-comers and had them watched before they became older and wiser..." He stared Taylor fully in the face and let his voice trail off meaningfully.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I believe he can use the file to his advantage in this election."

A shadow of anger crossed Taylor's face.

"Is that accusation I hear in your voice, Mr. Beamon?"

Games. All these men did was play games. After all these years did Robert Taylor even know the truth when he saw it? Or had truth become indistinguishable from whatever shit his party was shoveling that particular day?

"At first, I thought Hallorin might use the information in the file to gain control of you, but it seems obvious that he isn't going to be satisfied with pulling strings from the background." Beamon paused for a moment.

"He wants you to drop out, isn't that right, Senator?"

Taylor snorted quietly through his old nose.

"I did some research on you, Mr. Beamon. You have no credibility. In fact, it's my understanding that you will almost undoubtedly be convicted of felony obstruction of justice and are going to spend some time in prison. I met with you out of respect for my former assistant, but I don't need "

"Who do you think is watching, here?" Beamon said, temporarily losing control of his frustration. He spread his arms wide, motioning around the room.

"There are no cameras to play to, Senator. You aren't going to make me forget what I know with a few smooth denials."

Taylor was speechless for a good five seconds. A week ago, he probably hadn't been spoken to like that in forty years. Between David Hallorin and Mark Beamon, this was shaping up to be a tough couple of days.

"Have you forgotten who I am?" he finally blurted out. Beamon rolled his eyes. He was starting to feel ... Bulletproof wasn't the right word.

Doomed was closer to the mark. The effect was the same, though. His tolerance for these tin gods had never been great, but now it was nonexistent.

"I have been a member of the U. S. Senate since you were in high school,"

Taylor continued, his voice coming up in volume.

"I've chaired the Intelligence Committee, I have been both the majority and minority leader, I was the director of the CIA, and I single-handedly stopped Russia's slide back into communism. I have done more for this country than any other "

"Spare me, Senator," Beamon said, cutting the man off before he started listing his Boy Scout merit badges.

"What you've done, you've done for yourself. I should know, I have, too.

This country's given you exactly what you need: power and prestige. And you'll forgive me if I don't think a policy of providing Russian Parliament members with enough houses, cars, and whores to keep them docile is one of the great moments in American foreign policy."

Beamon struggled to his feet and walked to the edge of Taylor's desk.

"People are already dead in this thing, Senator, and it's not over yet.

You have the power to stop it. This is your moment. Pay the people back for everything they've given you over the years. One great patriotic sacrifice. Go public. Whatever you did, it was a long time ago. Save the country from David Hallorin and stake yourself out a couple of nice pages in the history books."

Beamon stepped back and forced himself to shut up, though his anger wasn't entirely spent. The years of dealing with men like this had festered inside him even more than he'd thought, and right now Robert Taylor personified all of them.

"This file," Taylor said in a voice that was eerily calm.

"I take it you've never seen it."

Beamon didn't reply, but stood his ground in front of the desk as Taylor pushed a button on his phone. The woman who had ushered Beamon in appeared in the doorway a moment later.

"Marcy. Mr. Beamon will be leaving now."

Beamon pushed the portable computer to the edge of the table and gave himself a better view of the television. The mingled shouts of the press sounded like static as they came over the set's tiny speakers, drowning out Senator Taylor's amplified voice and forcing him to hold his hands up in a plea for quiet. Beamon pressed the volume button on the remote in his lap and notched the sound up a few decibels.

"My diagnosis is certainly not terminal," Taylor said above the fading din.

"But it's made me question whether or not I have the energy to take on a responsibility like the presidency. America needs someone at the helm right now who is capable of one hundred and ten percent."

Beamon leaned forward until his forehead rested on the table in front of him. There it was. A mere six hours after their ill-fated meeting, and after forty years in public service, this was Robert Taylor's final act.

Slinking away like a dog from a little embarrassment and leaving America, Mark Beamon, and Darby Moore in the hands of a murderous blackmailer.

"I've devoted my life to this country," Taylor continued, "so you can imagine how difficult this is for me." There was a dramatic pause, and Beamon started to feel a little queasy as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"The days of partisan politics are over. They have to be. America cannot afford to start the twenty-first century with an ineffective and bloated government. I've heard the people, and they're crying out for a system that works and that doesn't empty their pockets at tax time."

Now who was he starting to sound like?

Beamon rolled his head to the side and looked over at Darby. She was sitting ramrod straight on the other bed in the room, wearing a hotel provided terry cloth robe. Below her still-damp hair, her face had frozen into a blank stare.

"And I believe that the people are right," Taylor went on.

"Serious changes have to be made to bring this country and the rest of the world back on track. But be prepared smaller, more efficient government makes demands of its citizens. Personal responsibility will be the theme that carries us forward."

The buzz from the off-camera reporters increased in volume again as the senator began speaking in Hallorinisms.

"I've had a number of meetings with David Hallorin since my diagnosis ... " The buzz grew to a deafening level and Beamon felt an increasingly familiar sensation of helplessness overcoming him.

"I believe that he is the man to lead America forward."

"Fuck!" Beamon yelled, grabbing the portable computer next to him and throwing it in the general direction of the television. It bounced off the wall and landed on the floor with an unsatisfying thud.

"Please, please," Taylor said as Darby rose from the bed and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom.

"If my party will allow it, I would like to continue in a leadership roll, and should Senator Hallorin's bid for the presidency be successful, act as a liaison between the GOP and his administration. We have a lot to get done, but I believe that if we work together, we can accomplish more in the next four years than we have in the last twenty.

We " Beamon clicked the off button on the remote and leaned back, staring at the ceiling and letting himself sink into a state of deep relaxation.

Practice for being dead.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that no thoughts crossed his mind to mark time. What was there to think about? It couldn't be stopped.

Not by him. Not by anyone.

When he finally pulled himself back into the present, he saw that the bathroom door was still closed.

"Darby? You all right in there?"

No answer.

He pushed himself out of the chair and padded across the room in stocking feet, silently admonishing himself for losing control. She had been through enough without having to witness the guy who was supposed to be saving her throw a tantrum.

"Darby?" he said again, this time with his mouth almost touching the bathroom door. Nothing.

"You decent in there?" He put his hand on the knob and opened the door wide enough to allow him to peek cautiously around it.

She was sitting on the edge of the tub, leaning forward so that her head rested on her knees. A slight vibration in her shoulders was visible under the thick robe as she quietly sobbed.

She didn't seem to be aware of his presence, so Beamon just stood there, unsure what to do. It suddenly struck him how young she was. He wondered how an inexperienced, twenty-seven-year-old Mark Beamon would have handled being stuck in the middle of something like this.

Beamon ducked out and pulled two beers from the cooler they'd brought up from her truck. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back through the bathroom door and took a seat on the counter.

"Here, it'll make you feel better," he said, holding the bottle out to her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"This is so embarrassing."

"What?"

"Sitting here crying like a baby. You may not believe this, but normally I'm pretty put together."

"I believe you. I'd be a Marlboro-flavored Popsicle if it weren't for you."

She let out a sad half-laugh and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

"You must have been in worse spots than this." Beamon motioned toward her nose with the neck of his beer bottle.

"What about those scars? You got them walking into a blizzard, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Must have been pretty frightening."

"All I remember is that it was cold. The wind had kicked up and every where you went it looked like you were walking through a crystal whirl wind. Then the clouds came over the mountain and it got dark ..." Her voice trailed off for a moment.

"But that was different. In the mountains you know where it's coming from. It'll be the cold, or a fall, or a slide. I don't know where anything is coming from anymore. I don't understand what motivates these people, and I don't have the slightest idea of how to even try to stop them. I think about David Hallorin and Vili and the other men who are responsible for all this for Tristan and Sam and Lori and I want to kill them. I want to kill them, Mark. That's not me."