Текст книги "The Simple Truth"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Have you seen him? he asked without turning around.

I went up to identify the body this afternoon.

His father whirled around, furious. This afternoon? Why the hell did you wait so long to come tell me, boy?

Fiske stood up. Ive been trying to track you down all day. I left messages on your answering machine. I only knew you were here because I asked Mrs. German.

That shouldve been the first damn place you started, his father countered. Ida always knows where I am. You know that. He took a step toward them, one fist balled up. Sara, who had risen along with Fiske, shrank back. She glanced over at the shotgun and suddenly wondered if it was loaded. Fiske moved closer to his father. Pop, as soon as I found out, I called you. Then I went by your house. After that I had to go up to the morgue. It wasnt any fun identifying Mikes body, but I did it. And the rest of the day has been pretty much downhill from there. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling guilty that his fathers angry reaction was more painful to him than his brothers death. Lets not argue about the timing, okay? Thats not going to bring Mike back.

All the anger seemed to go out of Ed as he listened to those words. Calm, rational words that did nothing to explain or reduce the anguish he was feeling. They hadnt invented the words that could do that, or the person to deliver them. Ed sat back down, his head swinging loosely from side to side. When he looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. I always said you never had to chase bad news, it always got to you faster than anything good. A helluva lot faster. There was a catch in his throat when he spoke. He absently crushed his cigarette out on the carpet.

I know, Pop. I know.

Do they got whoever did this?

Not yet. Theyre working on it. The detective in charge is first-rate. Im sort of helping him.

D.C.?

Yes.

I never liked Mike being up there.

He glared at Sara, who completely froze in the face of that accusing look. He pointed a thick finger at her. People kill you for nothing up there. Crazy bastards.

Pop, theyll do that anywhere these days.

Sara managed to find her voice. I liked and deeply respected your son. Everyone at the Court thought he was wonderful. Im so, so very sorry about this.

He was wonderful, Ed said. He damn sure was. Never figured out how we turned out such a one as Mike.

Fiske looked down at the floor. Sara picked up on the pained expression on his face. Ed looked around the trailers interior, memories of good times with his family nudging him from all corners. Got his mothers brains. His lower lip trembled for an instant. Least the one she used to have. A low sob escaped from his mouth and he slumped to the floor. Fiske knelt down next to his father and wrapped his arms around him, their shoulders shaking together. Sara looked on, unsure of what to do. She was embarrassed at witnessing such a private moment, and wondered if she should just get up and flee to her car. Finally she simply looked down and closed her eyes, silently releasing her own tears onto the cheap carpet. *����*����* Thirty minutes later, Sara sat on the porch and sipped on a warm can of beer. She was barefoot, her shoes next to her. She absently rubbed her toes and stared out into a darkness that was occasionally broken by the wink of a lightning bug. She swatted at a mosquito and then swiped off a trickle of sweat that meandered down her leg. Holding the beer can to her forehead, she contemplated getting into her car, cranking up the AC and trying to fall asleep. The door opened and Fiske appeared. He had changed into faded jeans and an untucked short-sleeved shirt. He was barefoot as well. He held a plastic package strip with two beers dangling from it. He sat down beside her.

How is he?

Fiske shrugged. Sleeping, or at least trying to.

Does he want to come back with us? Fiske shook his head. Hes going to come over to my place tomorrow night. He glanced at his watch and realized that dawn was not very far away. I mean tonight. I need to stop by my apartment on the way back so I can pick up some clean clothes.

Sara looked down at her dress. Tell me about it. Whered you get those?

I left them down here from the last fishing trip.

She wiped her forehead. God, its so humid.

Fiske looked toward the woods. Well, theres a cooler breeze down by the water. He led her over to the golf cart. As they drove along the quiet dirt roads, Fiske handed her a beer. This one is cold.

She popped it open. It felt good going down, and managed to lift her spirits a little. She held the can next to her cheek. The narrow road took them through a mass of scrub pine, holly, oak and river birch with its bark unraveling like pencil shavings. Then the land opened up and Sara could see a wooden dock with several boats tied to it. She watched as the wooden structure moved up and down with the lap of the water.

Its a floating dock; rests on fifty-gallon drums, Fiske explained.

I gathered. Is that a boat ramp? she asked, pointing to a place where the road angled sharply into the water. Fiske nodded. The people bring their cars up another road to get here. Pop has a little motorboat. That one over there. He pointed to a white boat with red stripes that bobbed in the water. They usually pull them out at night. He must have forgotten. He got it cheap; we spent a year fixing it up. Its no yacht, but itll get you where you want to go.

What river is this?

Do you remember on the drive down 95 seeing signs for the Matta, the Po and the Ni Rivers? Sara nodded. Well, up near Fort A. P. Hill, southeast of Fredericksburg, they converge and its called the Mattaponi River. He looked out at the water. There were few things more relaxing than skimming along the water, and he could think out there. Theres a full moon, the boat has running lights and a guide beacon and I know this part of the river real well. And its a lot cooler on the water. He looked at her questioningly. Sara didnt hesitate. Sounds good.

They walked out to the boat and Fiske helped her in.

Do you know how to cast off? he asked.

I actually did some competitive racing when I was an undergrad at Stanford.

Fiske watched her expertly undo the knots and cast off the line. The old Mattaponi must seem pretty dull, then.

Its all in who youre doing it with.

She sat next to Fiske, who stuck his hand into a storage compartment next to the captains chair and pulled out a set of keys. He started the engine and they slowly pulled away from the dock. They got out into the middle of the river and he eased the throttle forward until they were moving at a fairly decent clip. The temperature was about twenty degrees cooler on the water. Fiske kept one hand on the wheel, his beer in the other. Sara folded her legs up under her and then raised herself up so that her upper torso was above the low-slung windshield. She held her arms out from her sides and let the wind grip her.

God, this feels wonderful.

Fiske looked out over the water. Mike and I would race each other across the river. It gets pretty wide at some points. Couple of times I thought one or the other of us was surely going to drown. But one thing kept us going.

What was that?

We couldnt bear the thought of the other winning.

Sara sat back down and swung her chair around until she was facing him, smoothing out her hair as she did so.

Do you mind a really personal question?

Fiske stiffened slightly. Probably.

You wont take this the wrong way?

I will now.

Why werent you and Michael closer?

Theres no law that says siblings have to be close.

But you and Michael seemed to have so much in common. He spoke so highly of you, and you obviously were proud of him. I sense you had some differences. Im just confused as to what went wrong.

Fiske shut the engine down and allowed the boat to drift. He cut off the beacon and the moon became their only source of light. The river was very calm, and they were at one of the widest points. Fiske pulled his pants legs up, went to the side of the boat, sat on the edge and swung his feet into the water. Sara sat down next to him, hiked her skirt up a little and lowered her feet in. Fiske gazed out over the river, sipping his beer.

John, Im really not trying to pry.

Im not really in the mood to talk about it, okay?

But

Fiske sliced the air with his hand. Sara, its not the place to do it, and its damn sure not the time, okay?

Okay, Im sorry. I just care. About all of you.

They sat there as the boat drifted along, the noise of the cicadas barely reaching them from shore. Fiske finally stirred. You know, Virginias such a beautiful place. Youve got water, mountains, forest, beaches, history, culture, high-tech centers and old battlefields. People move a little slower, enjoy life a little more here. I cant imagine living anywhere else. Hell, Ive never been anywhere else.

And they have really nice trailer parks, Sara said. Fiske smiled. That too.

So does your segue into the travelogue mean the topic of you and your brother is officially closed? Sara bit her tongue when she finished. Stupid mouth, she berated herself.

Guess so. Fiske abruptly stood up. The boat rocked and Sara almost ended up in the river. Fiskes hand shot out and gripped her arm. He squeezed tightly and looked down at her. She looked up at him, her eyes as big as the moon over them, her legs splayed out and gently drifting in the water, her dress wet where the river had touched it.

How about a swim? she said. To cool off?

I dont have any swimsuits, he said.

My clothes are wet enough.

He pulled her up into the boat and then went over and started the engine, destroying the peace. Okay.

Why not swim here?

Currents a little too strong.

He swung the boat around and headed toward the dock. Three-quarters of the way there, he cut across and headed to the shoreline. Here the bank sloped gradually down to the water, and as they drew closer Sara could make out fifty-gallon drums floating about twenty feet apart. As they kept heading in, she could see that they were tied together by mesh rope forming a huge rectangular-shaped pool. Fiske cut the engine near one of the drums and let the boats momentum propel them along until he could reach out and touch the big container. Then he tied a line to a hook mounted on the drum and dropped a small anchor, actually a gallon paint bucket filled with concrete, over the side for added security.

Its about eight feet at its deepest point inside the ropes. Theres a fence of wire mesh that circles the whole area and goes all the way to the bottom. That way if the current catches you, you wont end up in the Atlantic.

When Sara started to slip out of her dress, Fiske quickly turned around. She smiled. John, dont be a prude. My bikini shows more than this. In her panties and bra, she dove over the side, coming up a moment later treading water. She called out, Ill turnmyback, if youre too embarrassed.

I think Ill sit this one out.

Oh, come on, I wont bite.

Im a little old for skinny-dipping, Sara.

Waters really great.

It looks it. He still made no move to join her. A disappointed look on her face, she finally turned and swam away from him, her arms cutting powerful strokes through the smooth surface. As Fiske watched her, he absently ran his finger the length of the wound, touching the two circular humps of burned flesh where the bullets had entered him. He abruptly removed his hand and sat down. The name Harms kept reverberating in his head. Anin forma pauperispetition probably would have come from a prisoner, if thats what the handwritten document amounted to. He shifted in his seat and once more looked in Saras direction. Under the moonlight he could barely make her out, in the shallow end, drifting. Whether she was looking at him or not, he couldnt tell. He looked out over the river, his mind taking him back. There was splashing in the water, the two young men swimming for all they were worth, one pulling ahead a bit and then the other. Sometimes Mike would win, other times John. Then they would race back. Day after day, growing more tan, leaner and stronger. So much fun. No real worries, no heartaches. Swim, explore the woods, devour bologna-and-mayo sandwiches for lunch; for dinner, skewered hot dogs on straightened hangers and cooked over the coals until the meat split open. So much damn fun. Fiske looked away from the water and forced himself to concentrate. If Harms was a prisoner, finding him would be easy. As a former police officer, Fiske knew that there were no categories of humanity better monitored than Americas inmate population of nearly two million. The country might not know where all its children or homeless were, but it religiously kept track of the cons. And most of the information was on computer database now. He looked back over and saw Sara swimming toward the boat. He didnt notice the glow of a burning cigarette as someone sat on the shore and watched them. A couple minutes later Fiske was helping Sara into the boat. She sat on the deck, breathing deeply. I havent swum that much in a long time.

Fiske held out a towel he had pulled from the small cabin, averting his eyes as he did so. She quickly toweled down and then slipped her dress on. When she handed him back the towel, their arms brushed. That made him look at her. She was still breathing deeply from her swim, the rise and fall of her eyelids hypnotic. He studied her face in silence for a moment, then looked past her at something in the sky. She turned her head to look too. Pink swirls were lapping against the dark edges of the sky as dawn began to break. Everywhere they looked, the soft glow of the coming light was apparent. The trees, the leaves, the water were cast as a shimmering facade, as the boat gently rocked them.

Its beautiful, she said in a hushed tone.

Yes, it is, he said. As she turned back to him, she reached up her hand, slowly at first, her eyes searching his for some reaction to what she was doing. Her fingers touched his chin, cupping it, his beard stubble rough against her skin. Her hand moved higher, tracing his cheeks, his eyes and then pressing against his hair, each touch gentle, unhurried. As she gripped the back of his neck and pulled his head toward her, she felt him flinch. Her lips trembled when she saw his glistening eyes. Sara removed her hand and stepped back. Fiske suddenly looked out over the water, as though still seeing two young boys swimming their hearts out. He turned back to her. My brothers dead, Sara, he said simply, his voice shaking slightly. Im just really messed up right now. He tried to say something else, but the words would not come. Sara slowly walked over and sat in one of the seats. She wiped at her eyes and then self-consciously gripped the hemline of her skirt, trying to smooth it, to wring out some of the wetness. The breeze had picked up and the river bounced them. She glanced up at Fiske.

I really did like your brother. And Im so damned sorry that hes gone. She looked down, as though searching at her feet for the right words. And Im sorry for what I just did.

He looked away. I could have said something to you before now. He glanced up at her, bewilderment on his features. Im not sure why I didnt.

She stood up, wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Im a little cold. We should go back now, shouldnt we?

Fiske hauled up the anchor while Sara cast off, and then he fired up the motor and they headed back to the dock, each unable to look at the other, for fear of what might happen, of what their bodies might do, despite the words they had just spoken. On the shore, the owner of the glowing cigarette had departed just as Sara had drawn close to Fiske. ["C32"]CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Fiske and Sara docked the boat, walked in silence to the golf cart and climbed in. The footsteps made Fiske look around. Pop? What are you doing here?

His father didnt answer but kept coming toward them. Fiske walked to him, his arms outstretched. Pop, you okay?

A puzzled Sara watched from the golf cart. The men were about a foot apart when the elder Fiske lunged forward and punched his son in the jaw.

You bastard, Ed shouted. Fiske fell back from the blow, as Ed pounced on his son and hammered away with both fists. Fiske pushed himself away from his father and staggered backward, blood coming from his mouth and nose. What the hell is wrong with you? he screamed. Sara was halfway out of the cart, but she froze when Ed pointed at her.

Get that slut and your ass out of here! Get the hell out of here, you hear me?

Pop, what are you talking about?

Enraged, Ed rushed his son again. This time Fiske sidestepped the charge, wrapping his arms around his father and holding tight as the older man spun wildly, trying with all his might to hit him again.

I saw you, damn you both. Half naked, kissing, while your brother lies dead on some slab. Your brother! He screamed the words so loudly his voice broke. Fiskes voice cracked as he realized what his father had seen. Or thought he had seen. Pop, nothing happened.

You bastard. He tried to pull his sons hair, clothing, anything to get at him again. You heartless sonofabitch, he kept screaming, his face brick red, his breathing becoming more and more labored, his movements sluggish.

Stop it, Pop, stop it. Youre gonna have a coronary.

The two men struggled fiercely as they slipped, pitched and swung around in the loose dirt and gravel.

My own son doing that. I dont have a son. Both my sons are dead. Both my sons are dead. Ed spat out these words in a crescendo of fury. Fiske let his father go, and the old man spun around and dropped to the ground in exhaustion. He tried to rise, but then slumped back down, his T-shirt stained with the sweat of his efforts, the merged smells of alcohol and tobacco enveloping him. Fiske stood over him, chest heaving, his blood mixed with salty tears. A horrified Sara stepped out of the cart, knelt down next to Ed and put a hand gently on his shoulder. She didnt know what to say. Ed swung his arms around blindly and struck Sara on the thigh. She gasped in pain.

Get the hell out of here. Both of you.Now! Ed screamed. Fiske gripped Saras arm and pulled her up. Lets go, Sara. He looked at his father. Dad, take the cart back. As they entered the forest, Fiske and Sara could still hear the screams of the old man. Her leg aching, her tears half blinding her, Sara said, Oh, my God, John, this is all my fault.

Fiske didnt answer. His insides were on fire. The pain had never been this bad, and he was scared. The dispassionate warnings of scores of doctors engulfed him. He kept walking faster and faster, until Sara had to half trot to keep up.

John, John, please say something.

She reached over to wipe some blood from his chin, but he quickly pushed her hand away. Then, without warning, he started to run.

John! Sara started to run too, but she had never seen anyone accelerate as Fiske had. John, she screamed, please come back. Stop! Please!

In the next moment, he had rounded a bend in the forest path and disappeared completely from her sight. She slowed down, her own chest burning now. Then she stepped on a loose clod of dirt and fell heavily to the ground amid the scattered pine needles. She sat there sobbing, her thigh already bruised and aching from where Ed had hit her. A minute later she started as a hand touched her shoulder. Terrified, she looked up, certain that Ed had come to beat her too, for blackening the memory of his dead son. Fiske was breathing hard, his T-shirt soaked in sweat, the blood already hardened on his face. Are you okay?

She nodded and stood up, gritting her teeth as the pain in her leg increased. If Eds blind swipe at her leg had caused so much hurt, she could hardly imagine what John was feeling, after taking a direct blow to the face. She balanced against him while he bent down, edged her skirt up and examined her thigh. Fiske shook his head. Its bruised pretty good. He didnt know what he was doing. Im sorry.

I deserved it.

With Fiskes help she was able to walk pretty normally.

Im sorry, John, she said. This . . . this is a nightmare.

As they neared the trailer, she heard him say something. At first she thought he was talking to her, but he wasnt. He said it again, in a low voice, his eyes straight ahead, his head slowly turning in disbelief. Im sorry.

The apology was not directed toward her, she instinctively knew. Perhaps to the screaming man back at the dock. And maybe to the dead brother? When they reached the trailer, Sara sat down on the steps while Fiske went inside. He came back out a minute later with some ice and a roll of paper towels. While she held the ice wrapped in a paper towel against her bruised thigh, she used one of the ice cubes and another paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and clean the cut on his lip. After she had finished, he stood, went down the steps and headed down the dirt road.

Where are you going? she asked.

To get my father, he said without turning around. She watched until he disappeared into the forest. While he was gone, Sara limped into the trailer and cleaned herself up in the small bathroom. She spotted Fiskes suit and shoes and carried them out to her car. She ran her hand along the smooth metal surface of the flagpole and wondered if Ed would manage to raise the Stars and Stripes today. Maybe he would, at half-mast, in memory of his son. Perhaps mourningbothsons? She began trembling with that thought, moved away from the flagpole and leaned up against her car. She scanned the woods nervously as though anticipating the abrupt charge of all sorts of terror from its underbelly. An elderly woman came out of the trailer next door and stopped when she saw Sara. Sara smiled in an embarrassed fashion. Im, uh, a friend of John Fiskes.

The woman nodded. Well, good morning.

Good morning to you too.

The woman disappeared down the road toward the cottage. Sara looked anxiously back toward the woods, clutching her hands together. Come on, John. Please, come on.

Fifteen minutes later the golf cart came into view. Fiske was driving. His father was slumped in the rear, apparently asleep. Fiske pulled up to the trailer, got out, carefully lifted his father and put him over his shoulder. He marched up the steps and disappeared inside. He came out a few minutes later carrying the shotgun.

Hes asleep, Fiske said.

Whats that for? Sara pointed at the weapon.

Im not leaving it here with him.

You dont think hed shoot anybody.

No, but I dont want him sticking it in his mouth and pulling the trigger either. Guns, alcohol and bad news dont mix real well. He put the shotgun in the back seat of the car. Youd better let me drive.

Your clothes are in the trunk.

They climbed in the car and a minute later were back at the owners cottage. Fiske went in and slapped four singles down for the guest fee. He bought some pastries and a couple cartons of orange juice. The woman who had greeted Sara was also there. I saw your lady friend, John. Real cute girl.

Uh-huh.

You leaving already?

Yep.

Ill bet your daddy wishes you were staying longer.

Fiske paid for the food and didnt wait for a bag. Ill take that bet, he told the puzzled woman, before heading back out to the car. ["C33"]CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Samuel Rider arrived at his office early after being away a few days for business. Sheila hadnt come in yet. It was just as well, since Rider wanted to be alone. He picked up his phone and called Fort Jackson, identified himself as Harmss attorney and asked to speak with him.

Hes no longer here.

Excuse me? Hes serving a life sentence. Where exactly could he have gone?

Im sorry, but Im not allowed to give out that information over the phone. If you would like to come down in person or make an official inquiry in writing

Rider slammed down the phone and collapsed in his chair. Was Rufus dead? Had they somehow discovered what he was up to? Once Rider had filed the appeal with the Supreme Court, Rufus should have had instant security. Rider clamped his fingers around the edge of his desk.Ifit had reached the Court. He tore open his desk drawer and pulled out the white receipt with the tracking number on it. The green receipt should have come back to his office. Sheila! He jumped up and raced to Sheilas work area. Normally, any return receipts would be included in the appropriate case file. However, there was no case file for Rufus Harms. What could she have done with the damn receipt? As if in answer to his thoughts, the woman herself walked in the door. She was surprised to see him.

Why, youre in awful early, Mr. Rider.

Rider assumed a casual tone. Trying to catch up on a few things. He edged away from her desk; however, she had picked up on his intentions.

Are you looking for something?

Well, now that you mention it, I was, actually. I had sent a letter out and, you know, I had sent it return receipt requested, and then it occurred to me that I hadnt told you anything about it. Stupid of me.

Her next words brought an inward sigh of relief.

So thats what that was. At first I thought I had forgotten to open a case file. I was meaning to ask you about it when you got back.

So you got it back, then, Rider said, trying to veil his eagerness. Sheila opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out a green receipt. The United States Supreme Court, she said with awe, passing it over to him. I remember thinking, are we going to be doing something with them or what?

Rider put on his best lawyers face. Naw, Sheila, just something to do with a bar function. We dont need to look to Washington for our daily bread.

Oh, here are your phone messages that came in while you were out of town. I tried to prioritize them for you.

He gave her hand a nice squeeze. Youre the essence of efficiency, he said gallantly. She smiled and started to fuss at her desk. Rider went back to his office, closed the door and looked down at the receipt. The filing had been delivered. The signature was right there. But then where was Rufus? Rider planned to spend much of the morning in meetings discussing the possible development of a shopping mall on a vast tract of land that had been used since the forties as an auto wrecking yard. One of the men he was meeting with had flown a prop plane into Blacksburg, Virginia, from Washington early that morning and was driving over to Riders office. With everything on his mind it was all Rider could do to act normal when the man arrived at his office a while later. The man had brought with him a copy of the morningsWashington Post. While the man accepted a cup of coffee from Sheila, Rider idly ran his eye over thePostsheadlines. One in particular caught his attention. The man noticed what Rider was doing.

Damn shame, he said, nodding at the story Rider was focused on. One of the best and brightest, he said as Rider silently mouthed the headline again:SUPREME COURT CLERK SLAIN.

Did you know him? Rider asked. It couldnt be connected. There was no way in hell.

No. But if he was clerking up there, you know he had to be top of the top. Murdered too. Shows you how dangerous times have become. Nobodys safe anymore.

Rider stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at the paper and the accompanying photo. Michael Fiske, age thirty. He had earned a Ph.D. from Columbia University and then gone on to the University of Virginia Law School, where he had been editor-in-chief of theLaw Review. He was the senior law clerk for Justice Thomas Murphy. No suspects, no clues, other than a missing wallet.Nobodys safe anymore. He tightly gripped the paper as he stared at the grainy, depressing photo of the dead man. It couldnt be. However, there was one way to find out. He excused himself and slipped into his office, where he called the Supreme Court clerks office.

We have no case with the name Harms, sir, either on the regular or IFP docket.

But Ive got a return receipt that shows it was delivered to you people. The voice on the other end again delivered the perfunctory message.

Dont you have some way of keeping track of your mail up there? The polite answer Rider received did not sit well with him. He yelled into the phone. Rufus Harms is rotting in the damn stockade and you people cant keep track of your mail. He threw down the phone. Somewhere between its arrival and the point where a case was actually placed in the official system, Rufus Harmss filing had apparently disappeared. And so had Rufus Harms. Rider suddenly felt chilled. Rider looked down once more at the newspaper. And a Supreme Court clerk had been murdered. It all seemed so far-fetched, but then so had the story Rufus told him. Then another thought hit him even harder: If they had killed Rufus and the clerk, they surely wouldnt stop there. If they had what Rider had filed with the Court, then they would know that Rider had played a role in all of it. That meant he could be next on their hit list. But come on, he told himself, youre just being paranoid. And thats when it finally dawned on him. The sheaf of phone messages that Sheila had collected while he had been away. He had idly skimmed through them, returning the ones he felt were most important. The name, the damn name. He clawed through his desk until he found the pink pieces of paper. His hands flew through them, scanning, scanning, finally ripping the pile apart in his rising anxiety, until he found it. He looked down at the name, the blood slowly draining from his face. Michael Fiske had called him. Twice. Oh, my God.In an avalanche of thought, visions of his wife, the condo in Florida, his grown children, all the years of billable hours, flew through his mind. Well, damn if he was waiting around for them to come get him. He punched his intercom and told Sheila he wasnt feeling well, to convey that to his visitor and the other gentlemen who would shortly arrive, and accommodate them any way she could.

I wont be back today, he told her as he hurried through the reception area. I hope I will someday. And not in a coffin, he added silently.

All right, Mr. Rider, you take care.

He almost laughed at her remark. He had phoned his house before leaving the office, but his wife wasnt in. As he drove along, he had already made up his mind what he was going to do. The two had kicked around the idea of taking a late fall vacation, maybe down to the islands, one last dose of sun and water before the ice set in. Only they might stay awhile. Hed prefer to pour his savings into staying alive than into securing the view of a Florida sunset he might never get a chance to see. They could drive to Roanoke, hop a commuter flight and take it into Washington or Richmond. From there they could go anywhere. He would explain it to his wife by saying he was just being spontaneous, something she had said he never was and never could be. Good old steady, reliable Sam Rider. Did nothing more with his life than work hard, pay his bills, raise his kids, love his wife and try to catch a few strands of happiness along the way. Lord, Im already writing my obituary, he realized. He wouldnt be in a position to help Rufus, but he figured the man was probably dead anyway. Im sorry, Rufus, he thought. But youre in a much better place, far better than the one those bastards saddled you with on this earth. A sudden thought made him almost turn the car around. He had left the copies of the filing he had made for Rufus back at the office. Should he go back? He finally decided that his life was worth more than a few pieces of paper. What could he do with them now anyway? He concentrated on the road. There wasnt much between his office and his home except windy roads, birds and the occasional deer or black bear. The isolation had never bothered Rider until now. At this moment, it terrified him. He had a shotgun at home that he used for quail hunting. He wished he had it with him. He rounded an elbow-shaped bend in the road, a rusted guardrail the only thing standing between him and a five-hundred-foot drop. As he tapped his brakes to slow down, his breath caught in his throat. His brakes. Oh, my God, Ive lost my brakes! He started to scream. But then the brakes held. Dont let your senses run away from you, Sam, he cautioned himself. A few minutes later he turned the last corner and saw his mailbox. A minute after that he pulled the car into his garage. His wifes car was next to his. As he passed by her car, he glanced at the front seat. His feet seemed to sink right into the concrete floor. His wife was lying facedown in the front seat. Even from where he was standing, Rider could see the blood pouring from the head wound. That was the next to last memory Rider would have. The hand came around and clamped across his face a large cloth that had a sickening medicinal odor. Another hand slipped something into Riders hand. As the lawyer looked down with eyes that were already beginning to close, he saw and felt the still-warm pistol as his fingers were wrapped around it by a pair of latex-gloved hands. It was Riders pistol, one he used for target shooting. The one he now also knew had been used to kill his wife. From the heat left in the metal, they must have done it as soon as he turned into the driveway. They must have been watching for him. He arched his head and stared into the cold, clear eyes of Victor Tremaine as his face was thrust deeper and deeper into the clutches of unconsciousness. This man had killed her, but Rider would be blamed for it. Not that it would matter much to him. He was dead too. As he finished this thought, Samuel Riders eyes closed for the last time. ["C34"]CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR