Political Suicide (19 page)

“What? On foot?”

“You seem pretty adept at traveling through the woods. And that’s a good thing, too, because there are plenty of woods to go through before you reach the main road. You just have to watch your step. As you have learned, a lot of bad things can happen out there.” Using the tip of one finger, he pushed Lou’s wallet across at him.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Lou said.

“I want you to have time … to think.”

Lou looked past Brody at the gun cases and wondered if the weapons were loaded, and how quickly he could smash through the glass and get at one of them. Fat chance.

Brody reached under his desk drawer and, without subtlety, pressed a button. In half a minute, two men knocked and entered. They were dressed in parkas, fatigues, and heavy-duty boots, almost identical to the two who had chased him through the woods. The Palace Guards. One of them carried an extra parka.

“Men, escort this gentleman to the river trail and point him toward the town. Have a good morning, Dr. Welcome. I’ll be sure to let you know if our search teams find your friend Hector. I know you’re concerned.”

The guards had moved to where Lou was seated when a man dressed in camouflage appeared behind them and knocked on Brody’s partially open door. He was tall, ruggedly handsome, and fit for any age, let alone the sixty or so years Lou guessed him to be. He wore a down vest, but had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, giving a glimpse of a faded tattoo of an explosion on one meaty forearm, and the letters
TNT
splayed across what looked to be a stick of sparking dynamite on the other. His light hair was cut short, military standard, and level on the top.

Brody flashed an aggrieved look.

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” the older man said. His leathery voice matched the weathered condition of his skin.

“What is it?” Brody demanded. “If it was anybody but you, I’d have your ass for busting in on me like this.”

“Colonel, can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Go ahead.”

“In the hall?”

Brody sighed and followed the chiseled marine into the anteroom. The door was pushed nearly closed, but remained ajar enough so Lou was able to catch most of what was said.

“Sir, the police are here,” the man said. “I was checking inventory in Building Two when they rolled into the courtyard and asked me where they could find you. Apparently, there’s a new man at the gate, and he let them in.”

“Get me the name of that guard,” Brody said. “What do the cops want this time?”

“Apparently, there were gunshots fired behind the Wildwood Motel in Hayes. The proprietor thought the men might be wearing military camo. The police are checking out if it involved anybody on the base because of the camo. I thought you should know, in case you wanted to talk with them.”

“I don’t,” Brody said.

“Hey,” Lou called out, “there were gunshots there. Some men were trying to—”

The Palace Guards were quick. One of them forced his hand across Lou’s mouth. The other pulled an eight-inch knife from his boot and held it to Lou’s throat.

From the anteroom, there was the sound of new arrivals.

“Colonel Brody, I’m Sergeant Kendall. This is Corporal Walsh. Sorry to barge in on you, but we’re investigating reports of gunshots being fired behind the Wildwood Motel.”

“Yes,” Brody said. “We have a man in there who was caught wandering on base property. If you fellas want to take him in for questioning, that’s fine with me. Just make sure he knows that the next time he trespasses on Mantis property, we may not be so charitable.”

He reentered the office and motioned for the guards to back off.

Lou reflexively rubbed at his throat. “You know,” he said, “I think I’m going to accept a ride from those gentlemen out there.” He stepped away from the two guards. “I’m fine to see myself out, boys. Thanks for the chat, Colonel.”

Brody stared at Lou, unblinking. Then the trace of a smile turned the sides of his mouth. “Lucky day for you,” he said.

CHAPTER 25

Lou understood his obsessive nature could be a great asset one minute and an even greater shortcoming the next. Friends from college still talked about the day he studied twenty-four hours straight for an organic chemistry test. He ended up getting sick halfway through the exam and, were it not for being allowed a redo by an understanding professor, would have flunked.

Once he secretly agreed to bail out his father and assume much of the burden of Graham’s tuition, nothing would deter him from that goal—not even the need to take stimulants to go from one moonlighting job to another. His addiction lasted for years. Eventually, to survive, he was forced to approach his recovery with as much determination as he had his drug use. Over the years, the intensity of his obsession had settled down, and staying straight and sober had become a way of life. Now, with his passion for recovery on automatic pilot, that intensity had been manifest in the need to learn everything he could about one man, Colonel Wyatt Brody. Hours rolled past as Lou, hunched over his laptop, picking through the endless Wyatt Brody items sent by his browser.

Seven hours … eight …

Lou’s eyes were burning from the connection with his monitor screen. He looked up only to scratch a note on his yellow legal pad, and got up only for bathroom breaks and more coffee. The wrist of his mousing hand throbbed, a warning sign the muscles and tendons were being dangerously overworked. His legs were stiff as chilled motor oil, and his stomach felt knotted and raw.

Brody!

Diversity lingered on the carpet nearby, keeping a low profile, surprisingly reluctant to resume his role as Lou’s tormentor.

Nine hours
 …

Brody’s name came up many times in Lou’s multiple searches, but never with startling information. There was nothing about the man’s personal life or career in the military that helped connect the dots. Married once. Long ago divorced. Born and raised in the East. One child—a daughter. U.S. Marine Corps since his graduation from the Naval Academy.

What was it that Hector knew that Brody wants silenced?
It seemed the more Lou looked for answers, the fewer he found.

Mantis proved to be equally enigmatic. The outfit—formed in 2002 under the direction of then Major Wyatt Brody—had, according to a Web site that tracked military statistics, the highest percentage of marines killed in action and the most number of medals bestowed for valor. It was a model unit in what many believed was the toughest, most demanding branch of the military. Unlike the SEALs, Rangers, and other Special Forces outfits, there was no recruiting Web site for Mantis. Members, it appeared, were all hand-selected by Wyatt Brody himself.

So why would a man so dedicated to his unit want to kill one of his own? Lou had been sick with worry for Hector. None of his projections were pleasant. Captured or dead. There were no other realistic options for the young marine. If he had been captured by Brody’s Palace Guards, it seemed reasonable he would be tortured for whatever information they believed he possessed relative to Elias Colston.

Lou had stayed in Hayes long enough to file an official report with the tiny police department, but from the onset, it was obvious that jurisdiction presented a major obstacle to any investigation. The police could search the national forest and the woods behind the motel, but the base itself remained off-limits.

A military matter. Lou had heard the phrase enough to put it to music if he wanted to.

He checked the
Hayes Examiner,
a small biweekly, and followed the paper’s Web site and online sources covering the surrounding towns for news of Hector. He had even called the bartender at Ralphie’s, thinking that if anybody had heard something, it would be the man whose clientele purposely loosened their lips with booze when they came in his joint. What he got from Ralphie Bell instead was zip, zero, and nada—so much of nothing, in fact, it was clear word was out, making the subject of the gunfire behind the Wildwood Motel off-limits.

Lou’s only lead, if it could be called such, came from Hector’s mother, a widow living in San Antonio who spoke only minimal English. All Lou learned from their brief phone conversation was that Hector had been officially reported as AWOL. He did not upset her by sharing his true suspicions. Captured or dead.

Ten hours
 …
keep searching
 … This man may have killed Colston.… He well might hold the key to Gary’s freedom.

Lou was clicking through pages of Google search results, when his eyes drifted to the horizontal menu, specifically the “image” option.

He hadn’t looked there earlier, simply because he already knew what Brody looked like. What else could there be?

As expected, the images—what there were of them—were not at all helpful. A few PR headshots of Brody, some random book covers authored by people with his last name, family photos (but of a different Brody family), a flower, a dog, a superhero, a baby, and on and on—randomness at its most frustrating.

Lou went forty search pages deep, scanning through image after image, when something caught his eye. It was a photograph that appeared moderately old, scanned and uploaded to someplace on the Internet. Lou positioned the cursor on top of the image and saw that it had been, in fact, uploaded to a Facebook page. He clicked the link to open the Web site for the image, and up came the Facebook page for a retired professor named Dr. Derek Vaughan.

Dr. Vaughan either did not bother to make his images private or, given his age, maybe did not know how. Emily was always teaching Lou how to do things on the Internet. Even though he and Vaughan were not Facebook friends, he could still see Vaughan’s images, and read the captions.

The picture showed a much younger Wyatt Brody, dressed in a cap, gown, and hood, receiving a plaque from a well-dressed, bespectacled man who was smiling broadly. The caption read:

I present my favorite student, Wyatt Brody, graduating from the USU’s MD/PhD program, the Dean’s Medal for Research Excellence, 1985. His thesis: Studies on the Neurochemistry of Fear.

The Neurochemistry of Fear.

Lou sat motionless, staring at the screen, unaware of the aching in his neck and shoulders, or the gritty exhaustion burning his eyes.

He knew the USU stood for Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences, a university run by the federal government, with the mission of preparing graduates for service in the U.S. Medical Corps. He strained to put the pieces together. An MD/PhD does award-winning research into the neurochemistry of fear. Some years later, he helps found a company of marines with a remarkable record of bravery, including at least one winner of the Medal of Honor. His company, Mantis, holds the distinction of having the highest percentage of soldiers killed in action, coupled with the most medals of valor awarded.

Who are these marines?
Lou wondered
. Why are they such outliers from the others in the Corps?

There was something unusual about Mantis Company and their commander, and Lou could not shake the suspicion that the explanation had something to do with Wyatt Brody’s thesis. He sent the Facebook image to his printer and listened as it materialized on his desk.

This was it, he was thinking. This was the first step on the path toward unraveling the mystery of Colonel Wyatt Brody.

He smiled grimly. Not only had he taken the initial step, but he knew precisely where to take the next one. He set his fingers on the keyboard. In seconds, he was connected to the Web site of the library of the Uniformed Services University.

CHAPTER 26

The Nimitz Library, named after Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, was a centerpiece of the plush campus of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Lou had familiarized himself with the protocol for visitors, and now approached the reference desk with his photo ID in hand.

The pert librarian, Adele Green, according to her nameplate, was at least ten years his junior. She glanced up from her terminal and appraised him. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, I called ahead,” Lou said. “I’m the D.C. doc from—”

“Dr. Welcome,” she said without breaking eye contact.

“That’s right I—”

“Wanted to read Wyatt Brody’s thesis paper from 1985,” Green said, smiling.

Of all the professions Lou had ever dealt with, librarians—and reference librarians, in particular—were high on his list of favorites.

He returned her smile. “I suppose you’ve heard this before,” he said, “but have you ever seen—?”

“
M*A*S*H
? If you’re referring to Gary Burghoff, who played Corporal ‘Radar’ O’Reilly in the 1970 film and TV show, the only actor beside George Wood to reprise his role from the Altman film on the television show, the answer is, yes, other people have told me I reminded them of a female version of him. I’ve decided to accept that as a compliment—at least as a comment on our work habits.”

Lou laughed. If there were a reference librarian’s hall of fame, Adele Green was ticketed for it.

She reached below her desk and removed a modestly thick, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven, leather-bound book. “I’ll hand this to you once I check you in and you go through our screener. You don’t want to set off the alarm.”

“You seem like someone who really enjoys her job,” Lou said.

“I enjoy connecting people with information, if that’s what you mean.”

She jotted down his pertinent identifying details, while he eyed the bound thesis eagerly.

“Funny,” she went on, “we have theses that get filed here and then don’t get requested at all for decades. You’re the second person in five years who asked to see this one.”

The statement instantly grabbed Lou’s attention. “Oh?” he said, trying for a modestly casual tone. “That’s interesting. I wonder who else was researching into Wyatt Brody’s genius?”

“I have it right here,” Green said, checking her screen. “Oh, my. The last borrower was our congressman, Elias Colston.”

“Colston?”

“It’s awful what happened to him. Just terrible. I only hope they have the man who did it.”