Click to play, p.20
Click to Play, page 20
‘It couldn’t have been that important. Duane never wrote me about any DVDs.’
‘He didn’t?’ Hunt felt himself sag inwardly, his hopes dashed. What would he do now? Where would he go?
‘Although he did send me a huge carton of stuff last week,’ she added.
He jumped to his feet, his heart pounding. ‘Duane sent you a carton?’
‘Yeah, some family keepsakes my dad wanted me to have.
As if I’d ever be—’
‘What kind of keepsakes, Annie?’
‘My first impulse was to just toss it. But, who knows, maybe twenty years from now I’ll get sentimental. Or my kids might want to check it out, if I ever have any. Not that I’m getting any younger. Or have a man in my life. But, hey, never say never, right?’
‘What kind of keepsakes, Annie?’ Hunt said, louder this time.
‘No idea. I didn’t open it. Just stuck it down in the cellar.’ She peered at him curiously. ‘You think those DVDs are in it, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Kind of. Could we please fast forward those twenty years and tear it open right this second?’
The cellar door was in the kitchen. It was a deep, dry cellar with fluorescent lighting overhead. Against one wall there was a huge workbench laden with hand tools. Above it were builtin shelves crammed with paint cans and solvents.
‘Damn, you don’t fool around, do you?’
‘Most of this stuff was already here,’ she said as Rudy made a full circuit of the basement, nose to the cement floor.
It was a big carton, at least thirty-inches square. Weighed at least twenty pounds, Hunt decided as he hoisted it up on to the workbench.
Annie wore a Leatherman all-purpose knife in a sheath on her belt. She used it to slash open the top of the carton. Hunt watched her, trying to remember if he’d ever known a woman who carried her own knife. The short answer was: No way.
Inside, they found a tightly packed layer of bubble wrap. A plain white envelope was taped to it with Alicia written across its face. She opened and unfolded a handwritten note.
Dear Alicia—Please hold on to this. If anything should happen, you may need it. All my love, Uncle Duane.
Hunt removed the layer of bubble wrap. Underneath it was a sealed clear-plastic storage bag. A yellow Post-it was stuck to the bag on which Duane had written: Do not touch any of these contents. Leave them to the authorities. Hunt held the bag up to the light. It contained dirty, bloodstained clothing and a hunting knife encrusted with dried blood. There was a tightly coiled rope in the bag, too.
‘What do you make of this?’ Annie was gazing down into the carton.
A five-by-seven-inch mailer pouch had been stuffed in there beneath the storage bag. Something small and cylindrical was wrapped inside. There was no Do Not Touch warning on it so Hunt tore the pouch open—and found an old cigarette lighter. An unusual one that was shaped long and narrow. Had a pin-up girl painted on it, one of her breasts exposed.
Hunt tried flicking it with his thumb. Didn’t work. It was dry. He found a can of lighter fluid on a shelf over the workbench and filled the lighter’s reservoir. Then flicked it three, four, five more times until he got a flame. He stared down into that flame for a long moment, his wheels spinning, before he snapped the lighter shut.
He dug deeper in the carton. There was another layer of bubble wrap. Beneath that he found the duplicate boxed set of five—five—DVDs with Tim’s Story written on the side in marking pen. Breathless, Hunt yanked the fifth DVD from the box and clutched it in his hand. Here it was, the DVD he had traveled 2,000 miles to watch. The DVD that had cost nine people their lives.
‘Annie, I’ve got to see this right away. And then we’ve got to get it out there to the public.’
‘What’s in this box?’ she wondered, searching still deeper in the carton.
It was a tin strongbox. Hunt pulled it out by its handle, set it on the workbench and opened it. Inside was a boxed VHS tape on which were scrawled the words: ‘Monty and Me’—transferred from 16mm to VHS 2-22-88. There was also a round film canister in the strongbox. Hunt pried the canister open and found a brittle, ageing reel of 16mm film. The movie itself. The original of Monty and Me, which appeared to be in an advanced stage of decomposition. The videotape wasn’t exactly in its first youth either, come to think of it.
‘I hope this tape hasn’t gone bad. They turn to shit after ten or fifteen years, don’t they?’
‘If it’s been stored in that thing it’s probably OK,’ Annie said, squinting at it. ‘What’s Monty and Me?’
‘Something pretty awful from out of your dad’s past.’ Hunt shoved it back into the strongbox, unwrapped a fresh piece of Bazooka and stuck it in his mouth, his jaw working on it. ‘Annie, do you trust me?’
‘I’ve known you for, what, twenty minutes? You say everyone thinks you killed my dad. You say you’re a wanted serial killer…’
‘Spree killer, technically.’
‘You show up here out of nowhere looking like a wild man.
You smell really, really—’
‘Been there, move on.’
‘Why on earth should I?’ she demanded, raising her chin at him.
‘No reason,’ he conceded. ‘Same as there’s no reason why you should care about any of this. You had major issues with your dad. OK, I get that. But he really wanted you to watch this final volume. He didn’t even have a copy of it at his place. This is the only one in existence. Want to know what I think? I think Duane was hoping you’d fly out there with it so you and your dad could watch it together. Tim wanted to set things right, Annie. Foil Herbie’s plans. Keep Dixon out of the White House. He wanted the world to know the real truth, and it got him killed. Now it’s up to me to finish what he started. If I don’t then his death—all of these deaths—mean absolutely nothing, understand?’
Annie studied the floor, scuffing at it with the toe of her boot before she looked up at Hunt and said, ‘What do you need exactly?’
‘A laptop, for starters. I can’t use my credit cards. You could buy us one in Dubuque. We could watch Volume Five together and then send the whole package out to all of the major news outlets and every single blogger who—’
‘Whoa, cowboy, how are you planning to send it to them?’
‘We can find a Wi-Fi signal somewhere in town, can’t we?’
‘What, you mean just war-drive around Dubuque until we latch on to someone’s signal?’
‘Well, yeah. There must be like a library or a Starbucks we can hit.’
‘OK, you’re not a techie, are you?’
‘Not exactly. Why, are you?’
‘I used to design and install computer systems for ad agencies, law firms, all sorts of businesses. I had twenty kids working for me.’
‘Good, so tell me what my problem is. Won’t they be able to download it?’
‘No, no, they’ll be fine as long as they have a high-speed line. They can stream it as it downloads. The problem is at our end, Hunt. You’re talking about uploading hours and hours of video. Ninety minutes of camcorder video translates to four-point-seven gigabytes of data. Which is to say, um, thirty-seven-point-six million kilobits. The typical max upload limit for a high-speed home user is seven hundred and sixty-eight kilobits per second. Do the math. You’re talking forty-nine thousand seconds per DVD. That’s … eight hundred and fifteen minutes—roughly thirteen hours—for each DVD. A business office with a T-One line might be twice as fast, but you’d still need six hours and change to upload each DVD.’
‘I don’t have that kind of time, Annie. Isn’t there anything faster out there?’
‘Sure. A T-Three line has an upload speed of forty-four thousand kilobits per second. That’s a fifteen-minute upload per DVD.’
‘Now you’re talking. That’s what I need. How do I—?’
‘You don’t. You’ll never get access to a T-Three line.’
‘Why not? Who has them?’
‘The big boys with server farms. People like, say, your federal government. And a handful of major, major university labs.’
He looked at her blankly. ‘OK, server farms are…?’
‘Clusters of grid slaves.’
‘If you could please dumb that down just a teeny bit more…’
‘We’re talking about a supercomputer.’
‘Gotcha, thanks.’ Swiftly, Hunt repacked the carton and gathered it up in his arms. ‘Here’s the deal. I have to get this stuff out into cyberspace before I’m arrested and/or shot. Do you know anyone who has access to a supercomputer? Someone who you trust with your life? Well, not your life but mine.’
Annie hesitated. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. And I want to help you, Hunt. Really, I do. But I gave my word that I’d never show up there again. I can’t. I just can’t. It would be … I mean, it’s a huge breach of trust and I.. .’ She trailed off, her chest rising and falling. ‘Oh, hell, we can take my truck.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Wally and Clover were on Route 20, closing in on historic Galena, Illinois, home of America’s eighteenth president, Ulysses S. Grant, when Wally’s cell phone rang. It was just after eight a.m. They’d been on the road since they left their Courtyard by Marriott in a suburb of Chicago before dawn. Wally listened to what Mrs Pryor had to say, thanked her politely and hung up.
‘I’m afraid they still can’t find us accommodations for this evening,’ he reported to Clover across the seat of their stolen silver-colored Ford Crown Victoria. ‘It seems every single motel room within a radius of one hundred miles of Dubuque, Iowa, has been booked for months.’
Clover watched the road ahead, his eyes fixed in a thousandyard stare. He didn’t ask Wally why. Had hardly spoken to him at all since that hyper talking jag of his when they were torching the apartment in Georgetown. Nor had he slept. He was still wearing the same clothes, which reeked of lighter fluid.
‘It’s leaf-peeping season. People drive here from cornfields hundreds of miles away to take in the fall color in these hills near the Mississippi River.’ Which were, Wally noted, quite lovely to behold. Mabel would adore them. ‘There also happens to be a major car show tomorrow in Prairie du Chien.’
‘That’s in Wisconsin,’ Clover said hoarsely.
Wally nodded. ‘Across the river from Dubuque. It’s a vintage Corvette show. The largest in the Midwest, apparently. Owners from as far away as St. Louis and Cleveland drive their old Vettes there to show them off.’
‘I’m tingling all over.’
‘Exciting stuff indeed.’
‘No, I’m tingling all over,’ Clover said, big hands shaking on the wheel.
‘Clover, have you gotten any sleep at all?’
‘Awake and straight. It’s all about the dreams, baby.’
‘Certainly,’ Wally sighed. ‘Whatever you say.’
Things hadn’t been going particularly smoothly since they’d left Washington. Make that tried to leave Washington. Per Mrs Pryor’s last-minute instructions, they’d headed out to Reagan National Airport to catch a one fifty-five p.m. flight to Chicago—only to discover that the plane had been grounded back in Houston due to a thunderstorm. The next direct flight to Chicago wasn’t for another two hours, and there were no seats available.
As Wally hashed over their limited options with a groundcrew person, Clover’s breathing became increasingly rapid and uneven.
‘Milwaukee,’ he growled at Wally between gritted teeth.
An excellent suggestion, in fact. Milwaukee being a mere ninety minutes north of Chicago by car. And a direct flight to Milwaukee was leaving in less than one hour. Clover said nothing the whole way there. Just sat in his seat next to Wally, grinding his molars against each other.
In Milwaukee, Clover liberated an Audi Quattro from longterm parking and they headed south on Highway 94 to the upscale Chicago suburb of Winnetka. Clover’s arms contact there fronted as the owner of an extreme sporting goods store. Mountain bikes, snowboards and such. The store stayed open evenings. It was boiling over with loud, pimply teenaged boys when Wally and Clover got there. They placed their order in the back room—the usual plus the Barrett .50-caliber longrange semi-automatic sniper rifle Wally had requested. It had been a priority to portray the New York and Washington assignments as the work of a deranged amateur. This was no longer an issue. And Wally was a huge fan of the Barrett. With one well-placed armor-piercing bullet it could turn a moving vehicle into a fireball from a half-mile away.
Clover’s dealer needed a few hours. They ate porterhouses at a nearby steak house while they waited to take delivery. Traded the Audi for the Crown Vic. But it was past eleven p.m. by the time the dealer finally made good. Since there was no point in arriving in Balltown in the middle of the night they checked into a nearby Courtyard by Marriott and ordered an early wake-up call.
Clover had been silent from the moment they hit the road. And seemed to grow even more withdrawn the closer they got to Balltown. Wally wasn’t sure which of his partner’s mood swings he found the most worrisome. Clover had truly alarmed him the way he’d called him Coop out loud in front of the Georgetown target. You never, ever used a colleague’s name. What if the target survived? What if a bystander happened to be witnessing the entire operation? It was shockingly unprofessional, and had definitely put Wally on high alert. He hadn’t forgotten the bite scar on his pinky finger. Nor the envelope of medical information Clover had passed him. Which, as promised, remained in his jacket pocket, unopened. But as long as Clover did the job they were being paid to do then Wally had no real grounds to complain. And Clover’s driving remained top drawer—even if his gaze was, well, disturbingly blank.
‘With any luck,’ Wally told him as they neared Galena, ‘we won’t even need to book accommodations. We’ll find our targets today, take them out and head for home. How does that sound?’
No answer.
‘I suggest we start out at the local town hall or whatever they call it in these parts. Research any and all land transactions over the past two years. There can’t be very many in a place the size of Balltown. Particularly to a single woman.’ Wally studied Clover carefully. ‘Unless you have a better idea.’
Still no answer.
‘Clover, do you have everything you need this morning?’ After a long silence: ‘Like what, Coop?’
‘Like water for your pills, for instance.’
Clover unlocked his gaze from the road, glaring across the seat at Wally. ‘Why are you asking me about my damned pills?’
‘I just want to make sure you’re OK. You seem a bit down today.’
‘I’m tired.’ His eyes returned to the road. ‘Didn’t sleep last night.’
‘Awake and straight, right?’
‘Awake and straight. Can’t let them mess with me. They will if I let them.’
‘Who will, Clover?’
Clover shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘Excuse me for asking, Coop, but did I just say that out loud?’
‘You did, as a matter of fact.’
After that, Clover said nothing out loud to him. Not one word.
Shortly before nine a.m. they crossed the mighty Mississippi at Dubuque and took a winding road north to Balltown, which seemed to consist of a place called Breitbach’s Family Restaurant and not much else. They hadn’t eaten breakfast along the way. It made sense to stop now. As they pulled into the lot Wally noticed a white van with California plates parked there alongside of a tour bus. Wally, who didn’t believe in elves or coincidences, called Mrs Pryor at once to have the plate run. The van belonged to a Flynn Leverett of Santa Barbara. According to Mrs Pryor, it was exceedingly likely that one of their two targets, Hunt Liebling, had made his cross-country escape in it.
And now Hunt was inside eating breakfast at this very moment. Good, good.
Wally glanced around the restaurant as he and Clover were being seated, his eyes taking in every customer. He didn’t spot Liebling. Nor anyone who so much as matched the journalist’s general description. After he’d placed his order Wally shoved his thick, round glasses up his nose and visited the men’s room, patiently checking out the adjoining dining rooms. A tour group of chattering old ladies in festive pastel pant suits was gathered in one of them. No Liebling.
Their young waitress, Dot, brought Wally his oatmeal as he was sitting back down. The oatmeal was Rose’s idea. Wally’s cholesterol levels were trending a bit high, plus he suffered from frequent irregularity when he traveled. Clover had ordered only coffee. Which he wasn’t drinking. Just staring at.
Wally smiled up at Dot and said, ‘I see from the license plates out in the parking lot that you’ve got customers here all of the way from California.’
‘That must be the real cute guy who was asking about Annie.’ Dot had a pretty smile and a peaches and cream complexion. Body on her like a young heifer. ‘He was waiting here for us when we opened up.’
‘And Annie is…?’
‘She bought the Blackwell place a few months back. It’s up the road past St. Francis of Assisi. It’ll be real cute once she finishes re-shingling. Can I get you gentlemen anything else?’
Wally said, ‘No, thank you,’ and dutifully put away his oatmeal before he and Clover went back out into the crisp fall morning.
The duffel bag of weapons was in the trunk of the Crown Vic. It was exceptionally heavy because of the Barrett, which weighed thirty pounds on its own. Wally got in the back seat with the duffel and unzipped it. Clover took the wheel. Wally passed one of the two fully loaded Sig-Sauers over the seat to him. Then, as Clover pulled out of the parking lot, Wally loaded the Barrett with its ten-round magazine of .50-caliber armor-piercing cartridges.
