The President's Killers (22 page)

NINETY-EIGHT

Bambrick stared hard at Conti, waiting for a response.

The agent leaned back in his chair, his face defiant. He glanced at the other man in the room, Art Wilcox, one of the Bureau’s interrogation specialists.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Conti said.

Bambrick pushed away from the table in the small, barren interrogation room. He got to his feet slowly and stood in front of Conti.

“Let me help you, Sal,” he said in a barely audible voice. “We’re not talking about whether or not you were involved in the assassination. We’re talking about whether or not you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a nice, comfortable prison cell or you’re going to hell.”

Conti kept his eyes fixed on the conference table.

“We’re not talking about the employees at the Holiday Inn who say you registered as Denny Kinney. Or the note you sent Crittenden threatening the President’s life. Or your prints on the Remington.”

“That’s bullshit. You didn’t find any prints of mine on that gun.”

Bambrick stuck his face inches from Conti’s. “You willing to bet your life on that, Sal?”

Conti jerked away from him.

Bambrick straightened up, practically shouting, “We’re under a lot of pressure, Sal. We need someone who’s good for the assassination of a President. You follow me? You may not be the shooter. Personally, I don’t think you are. But I don’t give a rat’s ass which one of you turns a dozen different colors and slowly suffocates in front of a room full of witnesses.”

“Horse shit, what are you talking about?” Conti looked to Wilcox for support.

“It’s not a nice way to go, Sal,” Wilcox said.

Conti ran his tongue over his lips. “I’m thirsty.”

Bambrick bent over him again. “Ever read about lethal injections, Sal? You know how they work? It looks like a nice peaceful way to go. You know why, Sal? Because you’re completely paralyzed. You can’t make a sound, you can’t move while you’re slowly being asphyxiated.”

Conti put his elbows on the table and covered his ears.

“The potassium chloride they pump into your veins makes you feel like you’re on fire,” Bambrick said. “You know how long it takes to die like that, Sal? Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“And sometimes,” Wilcox said, “they have to give you another dose.”

“I wasn’t the shooter,” shouted Conti, head still down. “It wasn’t me.”

“Groark was the shooter, wasn’t he?” Bambrick said.

Conti moved his head slightly. It was a nod.

“How’d he get away?”

There was no response.

Bambrick grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

“Hey! Jesus Christ!”

“How did he get away?”

Conti squinted, almost as if he was about to cry.

“He walked away! He had his goddamn Secret Service badge, and he just walked away.”

NINETY-NINE

The terrible sense of dread wouldn’t go away. Meesh felt it in her chest.

It was there when she tried to nap, there when she awoke, there when she struggled with the tasteless hospital food.

She studied Denny’s face, still swollen so badly it hardly looked like him. She watched his shallow breathing, the movement of his chest barely visible beneath the sheet. In the thirty-eight hours since he slipped into the coma, he hadn’t stirred.

Deep down, she felt he wasn’t going to make it. He was going to leave her. She would never hear his laugh again, never feel his fingers on her skin, his lips on hers.

She thought of the foolish fights they’d had. The times they had broken up. Poor Denny was so insecure — a little boy at heart, afraid she was going to fall for some other guy. If only he realized how important he was to her.

She ran her hand over his puffy cheek, tears blurring her vision.

Please, dear God, give us another chance. This time we won’t screw up. This time we’ll get it right.

She started to cry, unable to stop the tears, and felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Meesh dear.”

She looked up. Her mother was back. She’d arrived at the hospital the previous night. After spending the morning with Meesh at Denny’s bedside, she had gone to the hospital cafeteria for something to eat.

“There’s something on TV, dear!”

“What?”

“It’s about you and Denny.” She reached down beside the bed to push the button on the TV cord.

Meesh drew back. “No.”

“It won’t bother Denny, dear. You have to see this!”

The TV screen was filled by the face of a middle-aged man with dark curly hair who was speaking very earnestly. When the picture changed, the new camera angle showed he was standing at a lectern in front of a group of reporters seated in chairs. Standing behind the speaker was the new President, Joe Merrill.

“He was identified,” the speaker said, “not only by the motel desk clerk, but also by one of the maids. The desk clerk saw Sal Conti sign Denny Kinney’s name on the registration form.”

The speaker pointed at someone in the crowd of reporters. The camera cut to a woman with plump red cheeks.

“What about the third man? The one who is still at large?”

Oh, my God, Meesh thought, they know! They know the truth.

“His name is Lee Groark,” the tall man said. “He’s —.”

“How do you spell it?”

“L-e-e Groark. G-r-o-a-r-k. He’s also with the Secret Service. An agent who was suspended several months ago for assaulting a prisoner. Our press people will give you a release with his service record.”

Meesh turned to her mother. “Who’s the one talking?”

“Oh, that’s the head of the FBI.” She made a face. “Geiser, something like that, I don’t know.”

He held up a black-and-white photograph. “This is the man.”

The image on the TV screen cut to a close-up. Meesh’s skin tingled at the sight of the face and bald head. It was Lott — or at least the man who called himself Lott.

Another reporter shouted, “Do you have any idea where Groark is?”

“Not at the moment.” The FBI director nodded toward another reporter.

“What about Kinney?” the reporter asked. “Is he still a suspect?”

“Everything we’ve uncovered so far corroborates the statement Michelle Walker has given us. We believe Kinney was simply the fall guy in all this, set up to take the blame.”

“Oh, honey!” Meesh’s mother exclaimed. “Did you hear that? I didn’t think Denny would ever kill someone.”

President Merrill stepped in front of the microphones, a shorter man with deep lines in his forehead, puffy eyes, and a sharp, prominent nose. He seemed ill at ease. He had neither his predecessor’s good looks nor his self-assurance.

“On the basis of everything we know at this point,” he said, “it appears that Denny Kinney and Miss Walker are genuine heroes. Not only was Kinney wrongly accused, but the two of them seem to have led us to the real villains in this case. If it weren’t for them — and I think Director Geisler will agree with me on this — we might never have known what really happened.”

Her mother clutched Meesh’s arm. “You’re heroes! Oh, I hope that means they’re going to leave poor Denny alone.”

Meesh started to tear up. “Oh, thank God! Thank God!”

Another reporter was on his feet. “Mr. President, what’s the latest on Kinney’s condition.”

“He’s still in a coma.” Merrill’s voice was strong and resonant, his face grave. “His condition is still very critical. I know I speak for the whole country when I say, we are praying for him, hoping he survives this terrible tragedy.”

He paused for a moment. There was a poignant silence in the room. He pointed to another reporter.

“Is there any evidence of a wider conspiracy, Mr. President? Any evidence others were involved in the assassination, besides the rogue Secret Service agents?”

Merrill turned to Geisler, who shook his head.

“No,” the FBI Director said, stepping forward. “We have no evidence of that whatsoever.”

ONE HUNDRED

His dad looked terrific, just the way Denny remembered him in his prime. His oil-smudged face was no longer old and gaunt. He hugged Denny and pounded him on the back.

“You look great, Dad! Rob and I have really missed you.”

“Come on, Denny. Come with me.” He was grinning, pulling at Denny’s hand.

Behind him the bright light was growing stronger and stronger.

“Come on, Denny.”

“No, Dad. I don’t want to.”

“Let’s go see your Mom, Denny. She wants to see you.”

“No…”

Nancy, the little nurse, hurried into the room with a grin on her face. “How’s our boy?”

Meesh managed a feeble smile. “He moved his head just a minute ago.”

“He’s going to come out of it, dear. You have to have faith.” Nancy hesitated. “The switchboard has a man on the line who insists they put him through. Says he’s your boss.”

“Jason?”

The nurse nodded. “Jason something. They told him you weren’t taking any calls, but he says it’s urgent and you would want to talk to him.”

Meesh didn’t want to talk to him, but she supposed she owed him the courtesy. “I’ll take it.”

She picked up the phone on the stand beside Denny’s bed.

“Meesh, how are you?” the voice boomed in her ear.

“I’m alive. I guess that’s something.”

“You’re big news, Meesh. You and your boyfriend. It’s really something. You’re national heroes.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t feel like a hero right now. How are you? Are you managing all right?”

“We’re limping along, Meesh. We really miss you.”

She waited for him to ask about Denny.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” Jason asked. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but I was wondering if you could possibly be here on Monday. The survey research people are coming in with some new data.”

She felt as though she would explode. Was he serious? Was there anything more trivial than those stupid commercials?

“They say the numbers on the last commercial are fabulous,” he said.

Were these the things she used to fret over? The researchers’ silly numbers? Was this why she’d knocked herself out all those years? For dubious approval ratings for a silly commercial? For this she’d put off marrying Denny?

“Have you had any chance to think about when you’ll be back, Meesh?”

Jason, the man who had wielded so much influence over her life, was an insensitive, frightened mouse. He didn’t even have the decency to at least pretend he was concerned whether Denny was alive or dead.

“No,” she snapped. “I haven’t.”

“Well, hey, I know you’ve been going through a lot… Any chance at all you could be back next week? Sue is out, too, and we’re really hurting.”

She wanted to hang up.

“I’m not sure I’m coming back, Jason.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to take some time off. There are a lot of things I want to do.”

“But… well, I don’t know about the leave, Meesh. I’ll talk to Brownlee, but —.”

“Don’t bother, Jason. I don’t give a damn.”

ONE-HUNDRED-ONE

The drifting motion had stopped, the light behind his dad beginning to fade… He felt a soft, warm hand on his.

“You’re going to be all right, sweetheart.” It was Meesh’s voice.

He tried to speak but choked on the thing in his throat. He squeezed her hand.

“Oh, honey,” she squealed. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

He felt her lips on his forehead.

“He’s coming around.” Another woman’s voice. “It’s been two hours.”

He felt a damp cloth on his forehead.

“I think he’s waking up. Oh, sweetheart, the whole country knows what happened! It’s on TV and the web. It’s in all the papers.”

He tried to speak but gagged.

“Don’t move, dear. Don’t say anything. We’re going to make it, sweetheart. I know we are.”

With a look of disdain on his lined face, President Merrill peered through his half-glasses at the letter he’d signed more than two years earlier praising Warren Crittenden.

He looked up. “Nothing really damning here.”

“No,” Christopher Weems said.

“Makes me look like a damn fool, I suppose. Under the circumstances.”

“That was my thought.”

Merrill stood up and gazed out the window at the immaculate White House grounds.

“What about that idiot Geisler?”

Weems smiled. “Our distinguished FBI Director is very pleased with himself. The case is closed as far as he’s concerned.”

Merrill sighed. “Well, thank God.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

The President’s phone buzzed. “Yes, Ellen.”

“Mr. Wickham called, Mr. President. When I told him you were with Mr. Weems, he didn’t want me to interrupt. He said he just wanted to congratulate you. He asked you to extend his gratitude to… to a Mr. Gordon Pepperday. Someone you know, he said.”

“Yes, he's a literary agent.”

Merrill put the phone down and smiled. “Arthur Wickham called,” he said to Weems. “He wants me to tell you he's very grateful for the assistance you gave him.”

EPILOGUE

Looking up from the thin Barbados newspaper, Denny Kinney watched tiny Kelly crouch over the orange golf ball with the confidence of a pro and quickly tap it with her putter.

The ball rolled three feet and dropped into the cup. Her face lit up.

“Three!” his precocious daughter shouted, jumping up and down.

“Good shot, honey,” Meesh cried.

Poor Scott had a tougher shot. His striped ball was nestled in the far corner, next to the sideboard. He swung his putter too hard and the ball flew past the hole to the other side of the miniature green. It took him three more shots to get the ball into the cup.

The slender seven-year-old hung his head, embarrassed that his little sister had outshone him.

The sunshine had grown hot, and when the kids finished their miniature-golf game, they all went over to the pool behind the resort’s main building. It was surrounded by palm trees and lush tropical plants.

The youngsters were in the water before he and Meesh could rearrange the lounge chairs. The waitress brought them fancy rum drinks in tall glasses. They clinked their glasses together and watched their beautiful youngsters shrieking in the pool.

“We’re so lucky, Mr. Kinney,” Meesh said.

“Yes, we are.”

The media no longer hounded them. Meesh had done countless interviews and talk-show appearances. When Denny was finally released from the hospital, the media descended on him, and he made the obligatory rounds. For more than a year their faces were constantly on TV and the web and in the newspapers.

New York publishers courted them with offers of huge advances. With the aid of a ghost writer, they produced a book about their experiences. It headed the best-seller lists for fourteen months, bringing them more money than either of them ever expected to have.

Both had received dozens of job offers but turned them down. All but one, which Denny was unable to resist. For three months each year, he served as an assistant coach of Rutgers’ baseball team. It was a dream job, almost as much fun as pitching.

Leaning forward in the lounge chair beside the pool, he rubbed his thigh. His therapy had been long and painful, but he’d regained full mobility with both arms and his right leg. At times the left leg still bothered him. It still didn’t function quite right.

He and Meesh sipped drinks and gazed at the palm trees and cloudless sky. The air was humid, but there was a breeze. In the shade, it was pleasant. After awhile, Meesh joined the youngsters in the pool.

Denny went back to the Barbados Beacon-News.

“Come on and join us,” Meesh yelled.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

He flipped to the fourth page of the paper, where a “News Abroad” column compressed events in the rest of the world into a dozen short items.

In the small heading above the fifth item, the word “assassination” caught his eye.

WASHINGTON (FNS) — A special joint House-Senate committee has rejected speculation that unknown co-conspirators were involved in the assassination of President Colin Patrick nine years ago.

In a 1200-page report, the committee said it believes the assassination was the sole work of three rogue members of the Secret Service. Its fifteen-month inquiry found no evidence, the committee said, that others were involved in the assassination plot.

THE END