Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (34 page)

"It appears that the owner of the security company somehow got our men to fill out DOJ paperwork."

"That could have been disastrous. I thought you said this guy, this Jack Turlington, was a professional soldier?"

"It doesn't matter what he was. He's dead. McIver saw to that and now I've got the paperwork, or rather I
had
the paperwork."

"Still, McIver's seen it. Any chance that he was able to transfer it to anyone?"

"I don't think so. He didn't have it that long and he was running the entire time. Besides, it really doesn't matter. Turlington was paid in cash and now that he's dead, he can't talk about who hired him. Either way you look at it, it's a dead end. What about the wife? What do you want me to do about her?"

"According to your interview with her at the hospital she didn't actually see anything, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll deal with her later when she surfaces from whatever hole her husband has hidden her in."

"I found out earlier today that she mentioned a fishing cabin to a neighbor. The lady didn't know where it was, but it can't be too far away. There are probably two dozen rivers and at least a handful of lakes within a short drive of Roanoke, but we'll find it. I've got people on it now."

"Good. Call me in the morning once you're done and we'll get this thing back on schedule."

He set the receiver loudly down on its cradle before turning back to the window. He watched as the flashing lights of a Capitol police car patrolled the closed off section of Delaware Avenue, its driver shining a spotlight into the grove of cherry blossom trees at the edge of Upper Senate Park. Kemiss didn't like the idea of killing innocent people, but if he played this right than there wasn't an office in the land that was out of his reach. After all, it had been the war hawks in the previous administrations that had brought them to this point. Their constant imperialistic attitude towards other sovereign nations was what had set men like Ruslan Baktayev and those allied with him against the United States and set the stage for the continued acts of terrorism being suffered around the world. In the last year alone there had been three successful attacks on US embassies abroad and one had resulted in the death of a prominent ambassador. Bringing the kind of attack that was planned to the home front after nearly twelve years of avoiding any serious disasters on U.S. soil was a natural progression and with the electorate's distaste of lengthy wars and the expenditures that came with them, the success of such an attack would be a devastating blow to right-wing candidates and could all but ensure the victory of the opposite party in coming elections. And with the renewed vigor of leadership during a crisis under his belt, he'd be poised to regain much of his former prestige. What else could happen, a full scale invasion of Chechnya? He nearly laughed at the idea.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Could a man not get some peace and quiet? Who would it be this time? Certainly it wasn't some petulant voter wanting to take issue with him over a piece of legislation; constituents were only given the switchboard number and more often than not asked to leave messages. The few constituent phone calls he took were scheduled for only a few times a month and normally only lasted for a maximum of half an hour. It was probably some overly dedicated reporter looking for quotes about the latest sleazy story to ooze out of the beltway. Who did he have to pretend to be outraged by now? He had staff that was supposed to handle such things. He glanced at his watch as the line stopped ringing.

From outside the office he could hear a male voice; he quietly stood and walked around his desk. Apparently someone was still around. He'd thought that he was alone and that his conversation with Castellano couldn't be overheard, but perhaps that was too much privacy to ask for in Washington. He should have been more careful. He didn't recognize the voice but it had to be one of the interns who were constantly buzzing around during the day. Their faces were a blur to him and he had to be reminded of their names constantly, but they had their uses. He stepped through a set of double wooden doors and into the outer room where his secretary normally sat. Sitting at her desk was a thin young man with gelled hair and glasses.

"Thank you for calling," he said, as he hung up the phone and looked up at Kemiss. "I didn't realize you were still here, Senator. Sorry."

"Working late, are you?" Kemiss asked, making a motion with his hand for the boy to say his name.

"Colin Bellanger, sir."

"Right, Colin. A bit late to be answering the phones isn't it?"

"Sorry, sir."

Kemiss knew the boy could have easily overheard the conversation just by sitting where he was, but what could he do about it? This was how secrets became headline news. Castellano had started out sitting in the same chair fifteen years earlier and had probably overheard his share of private exchanges as well. That relationship had certainly blossomed so Kemiss quickly decided the best way to handle Bellanger was the same approach; give him exactly what people who applied to be interns wanted; a foot in the proverbial door.

"Why don't you put the phone through to the switchboard and come talk to me for a bit. I like getting to know the new faces around here, especially the ambitious ones that like to work late."

7:02 a.m. Eastern Time – Tuesday

Franklin County Jail

Rocky Mount, Virginia

Vertical beams of sunlight cut through the barred window a few feet above Declan McIver's head as he lay staring at the underside of the empty metal bunk bed above him. Hearing the birds chirping in the early morning light, he swung his feet off the bed and stood. Resting his elbows on the concrete window sill he looked through the six inch spaces between the heavy iron bars onto the quaint town of Rocky Mount. From his vantage point in the third floor window of the 1920s era jail house that stood adjacent to the Franklin County courthouse in the heart of the small town, a person could see the two story brick storefronts of a bygone era and in the distance behind them the tall smokestacks of the furniture factories that provided the area's primary employment. But he wasn't seeing any of it. His mind was focused on his wife.

He had promised her that he would return to the remote cabin they were hiding in by nightfall of the previous evening and he had no idea what she was doing now that he hadn't shown up. While the jailers who were holding him had offered him the standard phone call with which to contact an attorney or loved one, he'd declined. Such a call could be traced and he didn't want her location to be known. As far as he knew there were still people out there looking to kill them and by all accounts it appeared as if the FBI's lead investigator was one of them. All he could do at this point was hope that word had gone out through the local media that he had been arrested and that Constance would hear it and at least know that he was alive.

He turned away from the window as he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock of the cast iron door at the end of the hallway, which contained nine cells including the one he'd spent the night in. At nearly eighty years old and probably not having been updated since, the jailhouse had none of the mechanisms of more modern facilities. Each cast iron door was still opened by a key on the set carried by a deputy stationed at the end of each of the six hallways, known as blocks, and a team of two to three deputies responsible for transporting or releasing prisoners carried another set of keys containing a key for each of the forty eight cells. Declan had seen them come and go throughout the night to release prisoners being held on much lesser charges than the ones that would soon be filed against him. He imagined that the average inmate in the facility was probably guilty of little more than a DUI or petty theft. Having someone in their facility that was suspected of murder was probably a new experience. If only he could convince them of the truth, that he wasn't guilty of murder and hadn't in fact done anything other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time; but in jail everyone was innocent and his words would be wasted.

He listened as the door at the end of the hall slammed and two pairs of boots began walking dutifully down the hallway. Who were they coming for this time? The drunk across the way, who had finally woken up and seemed to be getting more lucid by the minute? He leaned against the edge of the metal bunk bed as the two deputies stopped in front of his cell and looked in.

"Turn around and place your hands against the wall," one of them ordered, his slow drawl clearly identifying him as a native of Franklin County. Declan looked them up and down for a moment, wondering why they were removing him from the cell. He knew he had to stand before a magistrate at some point to have the charges against him certified, but he was pretty sure that wasn't going to happen for a few hours since it was barely seven o'clock in the morning. Slowly he turned around and placed his hands against the window sill in a push up position, his legs spread wide. He listened as the deputy inserted the key and pulled open the cell door. The two men stepped inside and stood on either side of him, one holding a pair of handcuffs attached to leg irons.

This wasn't the first time in his life that Declan had been held in a jail. Internment, as it had been known in Ireland, had been commonplace and he'd been taken in at least a half a dozen times during his years with the IRA. The police in Northern Ireland, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, would hold people for as long as two weeks while they pumped them for information on the movements and plans of suspected IRA volunteers. The treatment was harsh and the governing authority routinely turned a blind eye to the abuses dealt out by the prison guards, known throughout the land as
screws
. While American jails were a dramatic improvement, he didn't like being held in one any more than he had in the Irish one.

The last time he had been a guest at such a facility had been after he'd saved Abaddon Kafni's life for the first time. As an illegal immigrant at the time, he'd been held on a variety of charges stemming from the violent incidents surrounding the attempted assassination. He'd spent two months in the Massachusetts prison known as MCI-Norfolk until Kafni had recovered from his injuries and pulled the necessary political strings to have him released. This time he doubted he would be so lucky.

After snapping the cuffs around his wrists and ankles and securing the excess chain with a heavy leather belt around his waist, the two deputies pulled him out of the cell and slammed the door behind him.

"Where am I going?" Declan asked.

"Transport van's here to take you to Regional," the shorter of the two deputies responded.

While Declan hadn't spent any time at all in any of the local correctional facilities, he knew that the term "regional" referred to the large prison that had been constructed on the southwestern side of Roanoke County and was used to hold the longer-term inmates of at least four different jurisdictions.

Shuffling down the hallway six inches at a time due to the leg restraints, he waited as they opened the door and pushed him onto an elevator that descended three stories to the bottom floor of the adjoining courthouse, where the sole interrogation room and the small cubicles of outdated computer terminals belonging to the Sheriff's Office were located. The two deputies led him past the office marked
Sheriff
with gold vinyl lettering and out onto the small parking lot behind the jail.

There, surrounded on three sides by tall pine trees and a chain-link fence, the cars of the county's civil servants sat, along with many of the police cruisers that he'd seen the previous afternoon. Parked just inside the manually operated gate was a long cargo van with green and gold markings identifying it as a vehicle belonging to the Western Virginia Regional Jail. Upon seeing the deputies approaching, two green-uniformed correctional officers got out of the van with their own set of restraints and prepared to take custody of him and load him into the secured cargo area in the rear.

"Hold on, boys," a familiar voice said from behind the two deputies holding Declan, "looks like he's not being transported to regional after all."

"Why the hell not?" the taller deputy asked, as he turned to face Sheriff Steve Scruggs as the superior officer walked around and stood between them and the two COs from the regional jail.

"Mind your tone, Deputy," Scruggs said with a grimace.

"Sorry, Sheriff," the deputy said, looking towards the ground. "I know the Sweat family well."

"I know you do," Scruggs said with a nod, "but this one's outta my hands. There's been a federal warrant issued for him and we've been ordered to hand him over to the FBI. They're here to collect him. It seems Tim Sweat isn't the only person Mr. McIver is wanted for murdering."

Declan craned his neck over his shoulder and saw a man in a suit and tie walk out of the glass door behind them. Even though he could only see him in his peripheral vision, he recognized the smug face of Seth Castellano.