Gallows Pole, page 12
“Hey,” she said in her soft Southern drawl. “Didn’t know when you were going to get here, or I’d a got you something.”
“No problem,” Melissa said with a smile. Mara had that effect on people. She was the receptionist at Roger’s physical therapist. They’d been dating for six months, and Melissa couldn’t have imagined a more unlikely pairing, Roger’s angry intensity with Mara’s eternally laid-back and sunny disposition. She handed the Diet Coke to Roger and gave him a kiss on top of his head. Melissa stifled a smile. Only Mara could get away with that. She couldn’t stop a pang of jealousy from shooting through her, however, when Roger actually smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. She remembered when he’d smiled at her like that. It seemed an eon ago.
“Nils has been on fire today,” Mara said. “Scored a goal.”
“So I heard.”
“Well go on, girl,” Mara scolded, but teasingly. “Go on down and see him. You don’t have to stay up here with us.”
“I’ll be back,” Melissa said. She picked her way carefully down the hill and approached the group of parents. Nils spotted her and came trotting over, a plastic water bottle in one hand.
“I scored a goal!” he said, beaming.
She gave him a hug. He stiffened a bit with embarrassment, and she broke the hug quickly. “Sorry,” she whispered with a grin that covered up the little stab of pain she felt. When had he gotten too big for her to hug in public?
He grinned back. “S’okay. You staying for the second half?”
“You going to score another?”
The grin got wider. “You bet.”
“It’s a deal. You want to go out for ice cream after?”
He looked up the hill and the grin faded. “Um…we were going to Mara’s folk’s place,” he said. “They just opened up their swimming pool.” He was clearly torn. He adored Mara, but then, everyone did. Melissa took him off the hook.
“Oh,” Melissa said. “Okay. Next time.” The team was headed back onto the field, water bottles and jackets returned to parents to hold. “Go get ‘em, kiddo,” she said.
He glanced at them and handed her the bottle. “See you,” he said as he trotted off after his team.
Melissa turned and looked up the hill where Mara was seated on the ground beside Roger’s chair. She started towards them, her emotions roiling. She wanted to say something to Mara, but she didn’t know what. She didn’t see the man in the blue blazer until she bumped into him.
“Sorry,” she muttered and walked on. Then she slowed.
She hadn’t noticed the man when she’d come down the hill, and unlike the other parents, she couldn’t hear him shouting encouragement to any of the kids on the field. Another strange thing was his outfit; the blazer and khaki slacks he was wearing were a little too dressy for the occasion. But strangest of all was what she’d felt beneath the jacket as she’d bumped into him.
The man in the blue blazer was carrying a gun.
She stopped and looked around. The man wasn’t looking at the game. He was looking at her. He saw her gaze and began walking away from her, down the field. She debated what to do. She’d left her own weapon in the trunk of her car. If he pulled out the pistol under his coat and started shooting, she had no way to stop him except her bare hands. She glanced at the boys on the field. They played on, oblivious. She started after the man in the blazer, resolved to at least be between him and her son if anything happened. But when she searched for him, he was gone. She stopped, scanned the groups of parents on the other fields. Nothing. She looked back up the hill. Roger was looking at her, pointing at something to his left. She glanced and saw the man in the blue blazer. He’d broken into a trot, headed towards the crowded parking area. As she watched, he disappeared behind the bushes that separated the lot from the fields. There was no way to catch up with him.
She took the hill at a run, arriving next to Roger and Mara in seconds.
“Who the hell was that?” Roger said.
“I don’t know,” Melissa panted. “Did you see where he came from?”
Roger shook his head. “No. He was just there.”
“Looking at you,” Mara said. “You got a stalker, hon?” The tone was light. but there was a line of worry between her eyebrows.
“He had a gun,” Melissa said. “Under his jacket. I felt it when I bumped into him.”
“Holy shit,” Mara said. Melissa ignored her. “Did he seem interested in Nils?” she asked Roger.
“No.” he said. “He never looked at the field. Not that I could see at least. He only seemed to be interested in you.” His eyes narrowed. “This have anything to do with what you’re working on?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’m going to find out.” She looked back down to the field. She picked Nils out. He took a pass from a teammate, fumbled a little, then took a wobbly, off-balance shot. The goalie scooped it up easily and booted it back down the field.
“I need to go,” Melissa said. “If he’s after me, I need to get him away from Nils.”
“If he’s after you,” Roger said, “You need to call for backup. Even if it’s from the local yokels.”
“You do that for me,” she said. “Let them know there was a man here with a gun. Tell them to call me.”
A cheer went up from the crowd. She looked down onto the field. Nils’ team was jumping around in celebration. Someone had scored. She couldn’t tell which player had made the goal.
“I need to go,” she said, and headed for the parking lot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Calm down,” Bishop said.
“Calm DOWN?” Melissa snapped. “I don’t think so. Somebody had me under surveillance. With a goddamn gun.” She slammed a hand down on the desk.” At my son’s SOCCER GAME!”
“Well,” Lanier offered. “It wasn’t one of us.”
“If it had been,” Sims added, “you’d never have seen us.”
“So why are you yelling at us?” Lanier said.
“She’s upset,” Bishop said. “And she wants to know if it’s anyone we know.” He looked at her calmly. “Right?”
Melissa brought herself back under control. “Well?”
Bishop shook his head. “The description you gave could fit a lot of people. But you’ve seen pictures of Heineman, and you say it’s not him.”
“This Campbell person, then. Or one of his people.”
“Possibly,” Bishop said, with that same infuriating coolness. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “But if Campbell‘s employing the kind of people that can be picked up that easily, he’s come down in the world.”
“Either that,” Lanier said, “Or the guy let himself be seen deliberately. To shake Agent Saxon up.”
“If so,” Bishop said. “It looks like he succeeded.”
Collette moved closer, standing over Bishop. “You blame her? This is her kid we’re talking about here.”
Bishop didn’t get up. “We’re not talking about blame, Agent Collette,” he said. “We’re talking about not letting your enemy into your head.”
“You think Campbell‘s turned into an enemy?” Melissa said.
“If he is,” Lanier said grimly, “we are in a world of trouble.”
Sims shrugged. “We usually are. And I never liked the son of a bitch anyway.”
“I don’t know if he’s an enemy,” Bishop said. “Yet. I think he has a different agenda.”
“Meaning?” Collette said.
“Meaning he’d like to find Heineman before we do. And keep any of the details of Iron Horse from coming out. So he’s conducting his own hunt, using us as a stalking horse. As we turn up possible threats to him, he eliminates them.”
“Sounds like obstruction of justice to me,” Collette said. “I say we try to shake him up a little.”
Sims laughed. “You can not be this naïve.”
Collette whirled around to face him. “You got a better idea?”
“Yeah,” Sims replied. “Don’t let him bait you into doing something stupid.”
“Listen, you sawed-off little…”
“That’s enough.” Bishop’s voice was quiet, but it silenced them both as effectively as a shout. “We don’t know if this is Campbell‘s game, or if it is, what he’s up to. But I’m going to try and find out.”
“How?” Melissa asked.
“I’m going to ask him.”
“Uh-huh,” Melissa said. “And you expect him to answer?”
“He may. He may not.” He looked at Lanier. “You still have the number Rusk gave you a while back?”
Lanier nodded. “He didn’t give me an expiration date on it.”
“Okay. I’ll make the call. If the number’s no good, it’ll still raise a red flag. Sims, did you set up the meet with Dayton?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at his watch. “We better get going.”
“Dayton?” Melissa asked.
“Carl Dayton,” Bishop said. “Owns Calibre Security. You’ve heard of them?”
“You could say that,” she said.
Calibre Security may not have been the country’s largest supplier of “military contractors,” but it was easily one of the most notorious. With the U.S Army stretched by operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, the government had supplemented its ranks by outsourcing some tasks to private contractors like Calibre. With little oversight in the chaotic environments they were hired to work in, allegations of misuse of funds and abuse of local populations were rampant. Calibre was the target of investigations by at least three congressional committees, and more were rumored.
“Ah. Yes,” Bishop said. “But Calibre is where Heineman went after he left the military. It’s a logical place to start trying to trace him.”
“Dayton won’t talk without a lawyer,” Melissa said.
“Hey,” Sims said with a smile, “the worst he can do is say no.”
Melissa looked at him suspiciously. There was something just a little too innocent in that smile. She decided quickly what to do.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“Of course,” Sims answered. “We’ll take the truck.”
“Good,” Bishop said. “Major Sims, Agent Collette, will you give us a moment?” The two men looked at each other, as if waiting for the other to be the first to leave. Finally, Sims shook his head and chuckled. He walked out of the conference room. Collette stared after him for a second, then looked at Melissa. “Will you be okay?”
She looked startled. “Sure. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He didn’t answer. Bishop watched him as he went to the door.
“You’ve got a problem,” Bishop said after the door closed behind him.
She turned away from the door, the look of puzzlement on her face deepening. “What?”
“Collette’s infatuated with you.”
She whirled to face him. “What!??
“Surely you’ve seen it.”
“Colonel Bishop,” she said stiffly, “that is ridiculous. And none of your concern.”
“If it compromises the effectiveness of either of our teams,” he said with equal iciness, “it better be both our concerns, Agent Saxon.”
“Don’t tell me how to lead my team!”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m asking how you intend to deal with it.”
“There’s nothing to…” she stopped, pulled up short by his calm gaze. She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. She sat down and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know.” She looked away. “He’s a good agent, Colonel. One of my best interrogators.”
Bishop nodded. “No doubt. I don’t envy you in this situation. And by the way, my name’s Mark.”
“Mark.” She looked at him. “Well, Mark, you have any suggestions? Anything like this ever happen to you?”
He chuckled. “Not that I can remember,” he said. “And if it had, I probably wouldn’t know about it. We don’t ask and don’t tell, remember? At least we didn’t when I was in the game.”
She snorted. “How’d that work out for you?”
“Not as well as we’d hoped,” he replied. Then he laughed. It was a good laugh, rich and warm. “You’ll figure this out, Melissa,” he said. “You’re a fine leader.”
“Thanks,” she said, and meant it. “Coming from you, that means a lot.” She gestured at the door that Sims had just exited. “Those guys…Sims, Lanier, Calhoun…they’d walk through fire for you.”
He nodded, his face somber. “And you’re in that small group of people who knows what a weight that responsibility can be.” She looked in his eyes and saw it, the burden he carried, and the acknowledgment that she carried it too.
“Colonel…I mean, Mark,” she said quietly. “What happened?”
His gaze broke from hers. “What do you mean?” he asked, although he clearly knew what.
“Lanier said you kept yourself locked up because you thought you were a war criminal. I’ve only known you a couple of days, but I have some trouble believing that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You don’t know me that well.” He stood up. “You’d better get going,” he said. “If I know Sims, he won’t wait long.”
She stood up as well. “Okay,” she said. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t.” The connection she’d felt only moments before was severed, the door slammed shut, locked, and barred as securely as the prison he’d built for himself down in Carolina. She got up and walked to the door.
“Melissa,” she heard him say. She stopped and turned around. His gaze met hers again. She saw again the weight on him, the burden he’d spoken of, but she saw something else, a terrible need. He’d clearly wanted to open up to her, needed to talk about whatever it was that was tormenting him. But something in him still sealed the secret behind his lips, and it was tearing him apart. The sudden rending of her own heart in sympathy caught her by surprise. Her answer came out in a whisper.
“Yes?”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He shook his head, as if clearing it.
“Good luck,” was all he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“There you go,” Heineman said. He laid the machine gun in Henry’s lap. The young man didn’t move or acknowledge the payment for the ride; his sightless eyes stared up at the headliner of the car. A slowly spreading blotch of red stained the front of his t-shirt. Heineman wiped off the blade of his fighting knife on the hem of Henry’s shorts and stuck it back in his own boot. The blade had been custom made by a master knifemaker in Indonesia who’d claimed to use the same steel-forging techniques used to make the exquisitely keen swords of the samurai. Everyone in Iron Horse had had one, a Christmas gift from Campbell after their first year in operation.
The hooded sweatshirt he’d taken from the back of the car was too big for him; the sleeves came down over his hands, so he used those to wipe down the gun and the car. He walked to the back and popped the cover open over the gas cap before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a small object from the backpack. It was a white tube the size and shape of a cigarette. He unscrewed the gas cap and shoved the tube down into the tank, then turned and walked out of the garage where Henry had pulled the car.
The garage was attached to a house that Heineman assumed belonged to Henry or his family. It was an old, one-story house with paint peeling on the warped siding. Other houses in the neighborhood were equally run down, but a few had been recently painted, and here and there Heineman spotted a window box with a few defiant geraniums adding a spot of color to the dingy surroundings. He walked away down the sidewalk, moving quickly but not running. It would take the outer shell of the “cigarette” he’d shoved into the gas tank at least thirty minutes to dissolve, at which point the chemicals inside would react with the gasoline and ignite. The car would go up like a bomb, hopefully destroying any last trace of DNA evidence he might have left inside.
A small child sitting on the porch of one of the better-kept houses watched him walk by, eyes wide in his dark face. Heineman pulled the hood down over his forehead and jammed his hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt. A white face in this neighborhood stood out. It drew unwanted attention. In the pocket, he felt a slip of paper between his fingers. Immediately upon reaching Henry’s car, he’d rummaged in the glove box, finally coming up with a McDonald’s receipt and a stub of pencil. He’d written down the license number of the SUV he’d seen at the motel. If he could get to a computer, he could find out who it belonged to. He wasn’t the cyberspace wizard that Lanier was, but he had resources of his own.
He saw three young men standing on the corner ahead of him, watching, not moving towards him yet, but not giving ground. He felt the comforting presence of the knife in its sheath at the top of his boot. As he drew nearer, the men fanned out in a line to block the sidewalk. Damn it, Heineman thought. I do not have time for this. He heard the sound of a vehicle behind him, pulling up to the curb. He turned and felt a coldness in his gut.
A Raleigh police car with two officers inside had stopped at the curb. They hadn’t turned the lights on, but they were definitely giving him the once-over. Heineman looked down the street. The three men on the corner were walking away, in different directions. He returned his attention to the cop car.
“Sir, are you lost?” the cop sitting in the passenger side said. He was young, but trying to give the impression of being a hard-ass. He almost pulled it off; his hair was cut short, almost shaved to the scalp, and he jutted his jaw impressively. The baby face spoiled the effect, though.
Heineman pasted an embarrassed smile on his face. “Car ran out of gas,” he said, with a little laugh. “You know where there’s a station?”
Baby Face got out of the car, sliding his baton into its holder at his belt. “Kind of the wrong neighborhood to be driving in, sir,” he said. “Any reason you’re down here?”
They think I’m down here to buy drugs, Heineman realized. It was the most logical explanation for a white guy coming to this neighborhood.
“Take your hands out of your pockets, sir,” Baby Face said, the aggression in his voice negating the courtesy. “And put the backpack on the ground.” Heineman took the slip of paper between his fingers and pulled his hands out, deliberately dropping the paper as he did so.
