The Short Drop (32 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Tinsley crouched in the bathroom and let the air-conditioning vent whisper truth to him. He’d been there a long time. Silent and still. Eyes closed. Listening to the room next door.

After the interruption in Charlottesville, it had taken some effort to track them down. They weren’t fools. Once they knew they were being pursued, they had done an admirable job of covering their tracks. It wasn’t until Atlanta that he’d picked up the scent again.

Calista Dauplaise was very unhappy. Understandable. The altercation at the lake house had been a bad business. Tinsley agreed wholeheartedly. Certainly, it was her prerogative to bring in a second team, but if she didn’t see fit to include him in those plans, then he could not be held responsible when the overlap led to inevitable confusion.

She had not seen it that way.

Tinsley had contemplated walking away, and under other circumstances he might have done exactly that. But she was an old client, and it didn’t serve his interests to make an enemy of her. But beyond that, something held him to these three people. A sense of history. Of unfinished business. It had been more than ten years since he’d entered this narrative. He felt an unexpected kinship with the son of Duke Vaughn, and it was important to see the boy through to his end.

The faint click of a light switch caught his attention. Was that humming? Singing? A TV or a man? The pipes hummed, groaned, and the inviting hiss of a shower came through the vent. Tinsley waited. The hiss changed, falling to a lower register—water on skin, not on tile. It was time.

Tinsley left his room and looked out over the parking lot. Jenn Charles and Duke Vaughn’s son were gone, leaving only the bitter man. He would deal with this one now while the opportunity presented itself.

Tinsley walked the eight feet to the next door and knelt as if to tie his shoe. It was a cheap motel with cheap locks—he could pick it with a Popsicle stick. He let himself into the room and drew his gun. No more interruptions. He had missed twice, and though there were extenuating circumstances in each case, Tinsley did not feel right about it. The natural course of things had been diverted like the damming of a river. And like a dammed river, Tinsley could feel nature aching to correct itself.

Apart from the glow of the television, the room was dim. The queen beds rumpled. The bathroom door ajar. The singing or humming had stopped. Tinsley moved through the room, listening for any change. He put his back to the wall of the short hallway outside the bathroom. It occurred to him almost too late that the sound the water made was wrong. It was the sharp hiss of an empty shower—water on tile.

Tinsley brought his arms up and partially deflected the crowbar away from his head. Pain lanced through his wrists, and the crowbar scraped across the top of his head. It burned like a striking match. His gun spun across the floor. Tinsley pivoted to better defend against the next blow. It would be hard to bring a crowbar around effectively in the hallway, and it should give him time to reestablish himself on an equal footing. Unfortunately, the bitter man had the same thought. The crowbar clanged off the floor as a fist caught Tinsley on the bridge of his nose. His nose had only just begun to knit back together after Pennsylvania, and the blow ruptured it again. He tasted blood as he fell.

The bitter man forced him to the floor with several well-placed blows. Tinsley appreciated their ferocity but also their precision. Such a thing was difficult to accomplish in tandem.

The blows spun Tinsley around, and he felt a knee land heavily between his shoulder blades, the hard snap of cuffs around his wrists, and the cold circle of his own gun pressed to his temple.

“You’re not as tough when someone knows you’re coming.”

“Is anyone?” Tinsley asked.

“Who do you work for?”

Tinsley fell silent.

“You understand you’re dead if I don’t get what I want,” the bitter man said. “Maybe you’ve got some kind of code about covering for your clients. I don’t really give a good goddamn. But you think on what use that reputation will be to a dead man.”

Tinsley blinked through the blood. “What’s a code?”

“Last chance. Who hired you? Benjamin Lombard?”

“Who?”

“Where’s George Abe?”

“Who?”

“All right,” Hendricks said. “Have it your way.”

The bitter man dragged him into the bathroom. Tinsley understood. The tile would be easier to mop up.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. If I don’t like the answers, then you’re going in the bathtub. And it won’t be for bath time. You understand me?”

“The tub will catch the blood when you shoot me.”

“That’s right.”

“Pull the curtain. It will help contain the runoff.”

“What are you?”

“I’m your friend.”

The bitter man snorted. “My friend? You kill all your friends?”

“We weren’t friends then. We had no basis for friendship.”

“Oh, and now we do?”

“Things have changed. You are in the position to let me go. So I would like us to be friends. And in return I will do you a favor. One friend to another.”

“You’re an optimistic son of a bitch, aren’t you?” the bitter man said, hauling Tinsley up to a sitting position. “Does this favor involve telling me who you work for?”

“No, this favor involves giving you the gun and shell casings that prove you killed Kirby Tate.”

The bitter man sat on the toilet with the gun pointed at Tinsley’s chest.

“Where is it?”

“In the trunk of a car. In a few days, if you kill me, the vehicle will be towed. The police will find your gun in my trunk. Your fingerprints. Other incriminating items,” Tinsley said. “Or we can walk out together, as friends, and I can give it to you. And go our separate ways.”

“And the body?”

“I didn’t pack it,” Tinsley said. “But the GPS coordinates where it’s hidden—I have those.”

“And you will leave me and my associates alone?”

“Yes.”

The bitter man stared at him a long time.

“So,” Tinsley said. “Friends?”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Grace put out a hand, reaching back for the arm of the chair behind her, unable to look away from the book. Her hand hung there, forgotten, and her face flooded with a pain, profound and deep, as a thousand shards began to fall into place—the fragments of a knowledge that she hadn’t known existed. But as it assembled itself from previously unconnected memories, as she stepped back and began to see not only the tail but also the entire elephant, Grace Lombard opened her mouth and let out an agonized cry.

“What is it, Mrs. Lombard?”

“Goddamn you, Gibson.” She slammed the book into his chest, the book still open to the same page, and turned to Denise.

“Where is he?” she asked Denise.

Gibson held open the book, looking for writing in blue ink. He found it in the left margin:

I wish I could explain. If I go now, before he finds out, he’ll be okay again. He will. I bring out something bad. That’s what he always says. I just shouldn’t have waited so long to leave. I was afraid. I’m sorry. Don’t be sad.

Gibson looked up in horror at Grace, but she was already halfway to the door.

“Who?” Denise asked.

“My husband, Denise. Where is he?”

“Mrs. Lombard?” Denise asked, unease heavy in her voice. “What is it? Sit down for a minute. Talk to me. What’s the matter?”

Grace spun back to Denise aggressively. “Stop handling me, Denise. My husband. Where is he?”

“Conference Room Three,” she stammered. “Mrs. Lombard?”

But Grace was out the suite door and past the startled Secret Service agent before he could react. Half running, half walking, she plowed down the hall with a look on her face that threatened dire consequences. Staff scurried from her path like field mice from a thresher.

Denise trailed after her. Gibson trailed after Denise, who glared back at him angrily, accusingly. The Secret Service agent brought up the rear.

They caught up to Grace Lombard at the elevators. The down arrow was lit, but she pounded away at the “Down” button—a morphine drip for her uncontainable agony.

The ride was one short floor down, but it felt like a life sentence in that elevator. Such was the tension in the claustrophobic space. Denise tried to get Grace to acknowledge her; when she couldn’t, she turned her anger on Gibson.

“What have you done?” Denise wrenched the book out of his hands.

He wished her luck. Whatever forces he had set in motion, it was out of his hands now. It was down to the Lombards now. He and Denise were merely bystanders.

It was standing room only in Conference Room Three. The vice president stood at the head of an enormous conference table. His jacket was off, top button unbuttoned, tie loosened, and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked like a man bellied up to a bar after closing a big deal, ready to tell stories and toast his victory. Instead he was holding court with his advisers, speechwriters, and press liaisons arrayed around the conference area in order of importance. It was like an old medieval throne room—proximity to power
was
power. The outer ring contained lesser celestial bodies: eager assistants, interns, and aides.

There was an upbeat feel-good vibe to the proceedings. Gibson heard it in the conference room before he saw anything—the murmur of generous, self-congratulatory laughter. There might be work yet to do, but an air of celebration had already taken hold.

The pair of agents guarding the door had been alerted that something was up. Each stood at least six foot three, with wrists thicker than Grace Lombard’s legs. They stood shoulder to shoulder and struck a conciliatory, soothing tone. They never stood a chance.

“Mrs. Lombard. Can I help you with something?”

“Thomas, I’m fond of you, but get out of my way or when I’m through in there, you’re next,” she said. “I’m only going to tell you once.”

Once was enough. The two massive agents parted. They closed ranks, blocking Denise and Gibson’s way. Grace came to a halt just inside the conference room, her eyes resting heavily on her husband. Those nearest saw her and fell silent, feeling a terrible change in the atmosphere—dogs before the storm. Their silence rippled across the room. Conversations drifted off. Uncertain faces looked up expectantly until the only sound was an oblivious staffer on his cell phone, talking excitedly about television spots for Iowa. Someone elbowed him, and he turned, ashen faced, to join the mute chorus.

The room waited for her to speak, but she just went on staring at her husband. The vice president cleared his throat. He was an expert politician. He’d spent his career learning to deflect questions from reporters. He’d been described as unflappable so often it had become a cliché in the press. This was something else.

“Grace?”

“Out. Everyone,” she said.

No one moved.

“Grace. What is it?” Lombard asked.

“You want to do this in front of them? Because I will.”

The room’s eyes flickered toward their boss. Lombard didn’t like the rumble that accompanied her question. He forced a smile onto his face.

“All right, everyone,” he said, a portrait of benevolence. “We’re in good shape here. Let’s take an early lunch. We’ll reconvene at twelve thirty.”

Some gathered up their things, trying not to look like they were hurrying. Others just left everything behind, anxious to be out of the terrible room. It was an awkward, tense few moments while the staff shuffled out past Grace. Lombard looked at his wife like a gambler trying to decide whether to call, fold, or possibly raise. The herd gathered in the hall, wary faces blank with questions. Some tried to pry an explanation from Denise, but she waved them off; others talked among themselves. Finally, an imposing older man with an important-sounding voice ordered them to disperse.

As the hall emptied, Gibson heard muffled, angry shouting through the thick door. The two Secret Service agents stared straight ahead and pretended they couldn’t hear the war breaking out inside. He and Denise stood before the door expectantly, like Dorothy’s inept cohorts hoping for an audience with the Wizard. The older suit approached Denise and demanded to know what was happening.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m the vice president’s chief of staff. What is happening?”

“Ask him.” She gestured to Gibson with her chin.

“Leland Reed,” the man said and put out a hand.

Gibson looked at the hand. “A little friendly advice, Leland. Get your résumé together.”

Before Reed or Denise could respond, the door flung open, and Gibson found himself face-to-face with Benjamin Lombard. God’s own minute passed between them, Grace immediately behind.

“Come back here, Ben,” she said. “We’re a long way from done.”

Gibson watched the muscles work under his face—an epic battle to resist the body’s natural responses to surprise, embarrassment, and anger. It was a remarkable display of will, and Lombard was already controlling his breathing, composing himself. Composing answers to blunt his wife’s questions.

What the man needed was a push in the wrong direction.

Gibson winked.

The effect was immediate and incendiary. Any pretense of composure fled the vice president, and a great purple swell of blood flooded his neck and face. Lombard pushed through the two agents, fists rising as he came toward Gibson.

All Gibson could think was
Please, please, please punch me.
He couldn’t possibly be this lucky. He willed his hands to stay at his side. Defenseless would play even better.
Make it a good one, you son of a bitch. Nail your coffin shut.

Calista Dauplaise remained seated at the end of the conference table, a look of anguish warping her imperious face. What was she doing there? But before he could answer his own question, Benjamin Lombard threw a haymaker and caught him flush on the jaw. The VP was a large man, and Gibson was out cold by the time his head bounced off the carpet.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Gibson came to on the floor of Conference Room Three. He lay on his back, staring up at acoustical tile. The room was empty but not emptied. It reminded him of one of those apocalyptic zombie movies—food wrappers, paper cups, briefcases, laptop cases, all strewn about the floor. The vice president’s suit jacket still hung on the back of a chair. It looked abandoned.

He had felt better. His body still carried the aftereffects of having been hung by a rope, and Lombard’s punch hadn’t done him any favors. He sat up slowly, somewhat surprised to discover his wrists weren’t shackled. Denise Greenspan sat in an armchair, studying a stain on the carpet.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

Denise, preoccupied with her own thoughts, took a long time answering. “No.”

“I’m free to go?”

“Yeah.”

He gathered up his belongings and stood. At the door, he stopped and turned back to Denise.

“You okay?”

“No, I am not okay,” she said. “How about you?”

“Head hurts. I got punched. Don’t know if you saw,” he said and offered her a smile.

Denise didn’t return it.

“Actually, I’m a little hazy on what happened.”

“What happened?” By way of an answer, Denise cupped her hands together at her waist, and then raised them up over her head. She made the rumbling sound of an explosion.

“That bad?”

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

He nodded.

“Well, you got it. Hope you’re happy.”

She held out a business card. He took it. It was Grace Lombard’s number.

“You have any trouble, you’re to call Mrs. Lombard direct.”

“Anything else?”

“Shut the door behind you.” She left without another word.

Out in the hall, staffers stood in frightened clumps, whispering among themselves. They were like children who knew the grown-ups had been fighting but didn’t understand what it was about. They watched Gibson pass but didn’t speak to him.

He rode the elevator down. The gloom that had engulfed the vice president’s floor had not yet made its way down to the lobby. Gibson threaded his way among cheery mobs of party fat cats, delegates, and convention staff. The good times were just getting rolling as far as they knew.

Enjoy it while you can, folks.

Ahead, a pair of bellman’s carts weighed down with luggage and garment bags were being wheeled cautiously across the lobby. Calista Dauplaise followed in its wake. She was barking furiously into a phone and didn’t notice him, but Gibson took an involuntary step back anyway.

What’s your sin, Calista?

Gibson was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the girl.

Little Catherine Dauplaise lagged some thirty feet behind her aunt, lost and forgotten like a stray dog following its last sure meal. She looked scared. Unmoored. The way only a child does whose world has shifted under her feet. His heart went out to her, and then something occurred to him. He stood watching her until she was out of sight, and for some time after he continued staring after her.

Hours before his scheduled acceptance speech, Benjamin Lombard resigned from the office of the vice presidency and removed himself from his party’s ticket. In so doing, he became the first candidate to withdraw from a presidential ticket in the nation’s history. It sent shock waves through American life that wouldn’t subside for years.

Looking beleaguered and exhausted, Lombard spoke for only five minutes in a faltering voice. He disclosed that recent tests had uncovered a previously undetected life-threatening condition. It would be irresponsible to continue his pursuit of the presidency under these circumstances. The American people deserved to feel confident in their president’s health. It was a heartbreaking performance.

Grace Lombard was not by his side.

Gibson watched the press conference with Jenn and Hendricks from their motel room. Initially jubilant simply to be clear of the vice president’s reach, they quickly fell silent as the ramifications of Lombard’s charade became clear. When it was over, Jenn shut off the television.

“It’s a good story,” she said.

“He’s got a future in Hollywood.”

“But will it hold up?” Hendricks asked.

“Of course it will. People will need it to,” Gibson said.

“Why do you think his wife went along with it?” Hendricks asked Gibson as if he were the expert on all things Lombard.

“Maybe to protect Suzanne’s memory?” he said. “Don’t know.”

“Should have protected her life.” It was cold, but neither of them had the words to refute Hendricks’s cruel calculus.

They found that none of them wanted much to talk about what had happened. Gibson had imagined he might feel a sense of triumph. He had dreamed of taking Lombard down since he was a teenager, but there was nothing to celebrate here. In the end, this was about a missing girl who was being systematically excluded from the conversation. It might have saved the three of them, but it had brought no justice for Bear.

They hadn’t won; they’d only survived.

After all they had been through, Gibson still didn’t know what had happened to Bear. But he had an idea now whom to ask. He considered telling Jenn and Hendricks about his epiphany in the hotel lobby, but to them it had only ever been a job. He didn’t resent them for it, but he needed to finish it on his own.

Hendricks cracked another beer and mentioned his encounter with Kirby Tate’s killer. Gibson and Jenn stared at him dumbly.

“Were you going to tell us?”

“Just did.”

“Are you kidding me, Dan?” Jenn said. “Give!”

Hendricks told them the story. To Gibson it was unforgivable. Hendricks had had a gun on the man who had killed his dad but let him go to cover his own ass. The same man who had hung Gibson by the neck and stolen Duke’s journals. That man was out there still. Free and untouched by all this.

Jenn was far more practical. “And you think this psychopath is going to honor your gentleman’s agreement? Because why? Because you were his version of ‘friends’? That’s insane.”

“I handled it how it had to be handled,” Hendricks said. “It’s not your fingerprints on the gun.”

They sat there in silence while Hendricks drank his beer. When he finished, it was the signal that it was time for bed. No one had anything left to say. In the morning, Gibson woke to Jenn packing her gear. Hendricks was already gone. They said good-bye in the parking lot of the motel. She gave him a brisk hug and handed him the keys to the car.

“Where are you going to go?” he asked.

“To get George.”

Gibson nodded. He hadn’t realized how much she cared for her mentor.

She hugged him again. “Go home,” she whispered. “For real this time. See your kid.”

“Let me help you.”

“I’ll call you if I need you.”

“If you . . . need me?”

“Exactly,” she said with a grin.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“Thank you for coming back,” she said. “And don’t even think about hugging me again.”

“You know you’re going to miss me.”

They laughed.

“I just might,” she said.