Gallows Pole, page 7
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rutledge was cleaning the pool when he heard his cell phone go off. It was lying on a glass-topped table beneath the pergola by the side of the pool. He put down the skimmer and walked over to pick it up. He glanced at the screen to see who was identified by the caller ID.
PRIVATE CALLER.
Rutledge felt a chill. Any number of people could have their numbers blocked, of course. Still, there was one in particular who always called from the most secure of secure lines, and the possibility that it was that caller was enough to send a trickle of cold sweat down his back, even though it was a warm day. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Dr. Rutledge?” the familiar voice said.
Rutledge swallowed. It was him. “Yes?”
“Your dry cleaning is ready.”
He closed his eyes. It was the prearranged signal for a meeting, with the exact place determined by which thing it was that supposedly needed to be picked up. Dry cleaning meant one location, suits another, prescriptions yet another. He looked nervously into the house. Through the kitchen window, he could see his wife setting the table for lunch.
“I can’t pick it up today,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
The voice hardened. “I’m sorry, we’ll be closed tomorrow. Family emergency. Maybe you could send your wife to pick it up. Or your daughter.”
Rutledge clenched his fist. Damn you, he wanted to scream, leave my family alone! But to give voice to his anger would accomplish nothing. And he needed to keep his family in the dark.
“What time do you close?” he asked.
“One thirty.” The satisfaction in the voice at Rutledge’s capitulation made him want to scream again. He glanced at the phone display. It was already 12:46. He’d barely have time to make it if he left immediately. He knew that the caller knew it. It was part of the mind game. Rush him. Make him so worried about being late that there was no time to plot resistance. He knew the game for what it was, and he knew he had to play it anyway. “I’ll be there.”
“See you soon, Doctor.”
The connection broken, Rutledge stood still for a moment. He leaned against one of the supports of the pergola. Bands of sunlight came through the open cross-beams overhead and striped the concrete and furniture beneath: light, shadow, light, shadow. He took a deep breath, then went into the house. His wife looked up as he took the car keys off their hook by the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked irritably. “Lunch is almost ready.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but walked to the door between the kitchen and the living room and called out. “ALICE! LUNCH!” An incomprehensible shout came back in reply.
“I have to go out for a little bit,” he said. “Don’t hold lunch.”
“I’m not going to,” she said. “Where are you going?”
Rutledge’s mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible cover. “Jim called,” he said, naming his former boss at NextGen. “He’s got a line on some free-lance work.”
“And you’re going to see him dressed like that?” his wife said. He was still dressed in faded jeans and a t-shirt.
“This guy doesn’t care about that,” he said, knowing as the words left his mouth how flimsy the lie sounded. He could tell she didn’t believe him by the way her mouth tightened. “Fine,” she said. When she knew he was lying, she stopped asking questions. Asking questions might lead to revelations she didn’t want or need. Like why they were still able to pay the mortgage with him unemployed for so long. Or what he was doing out in his workshop. If she even dared to speculate, he figured, she probably thought he was cooking Ecstasy or methamphetamine. She may have thought that, but she didn’t want to know. She didn’t look at him as he walked out.
His daughter passed him on his way down the hall to the front door. “Did you clean the pool?” was her only greeting.
“I didn’t get finished,” she said. “I have to go out for a little bit.”
From the look on her pretty face, his betrayal would apparently go down in history as only slightly less than that of Judas.
“I have friends coming over,” she said, her voice rising. “You promised.”
Rutledge could feel the minutes ticking away in his head. The Hangman had stressed repeatedly that he wouldn’t be kept waiting. Rutledge was afraid of testing him, and the fear sharpened his voice. “You’ll have to finish it yourself, then,” he said,
“Why?” she said. “It’ s not like you have to work.”
He didn’t answer, just turned and left.
Rutledge lived in an exclusive gated community in the Raleigh suburb of Morrisville. He almost scraped the electric gate with the fender of his SUV in his impatience to get through. Fortunately, traffic was light, and he made it to the meeting place with a minute to spare. Still, he was sweating as he got out of the car, and not just from the summer heat.
It was an undistinguished Chinese fast-food place in a strip mall a few miles away. Heineman seemed to favor places where the staff spoke no English beyond that required to take orders and make change. The restaurant seemed to cater mostly to the after-work take-out trade; the three brightly-colored plastic booths by the plate-glass windows in front were almost always empty. Rutledge slid into the seat across from Heineman. He was drinking a bottle of Tsingtao Beer and eating from a plate of sesame noodles.
“Hello, Doc,” he said mildly. “Have a beer.”
Rutledge shook his head. “You interrupted my lunch,” he said.
“Sorry,” Heineman said. “I know those lunches with your family mean a lot to you. Now that you’re out of work and all.”
“What do you want…” he almost added “Heineman,” then remembered that the Hangman had warned him never to use his real name in public or on an unsecured line.
Heineman took a sip of beer. “You know what I want, Doc,” he said. “I don’t call these meetings because I enjoy the company.”
“It’s getting more difficult,” Rutledge said. “The people at NextGen are all over me. Their lawyers sent me a letter warning me about nondisclosure and non-compete clauses. I think they suspect I’m working with my old formulas.”
“Which you are,” Heineman said. “But that’s not my problem. I need more of that voodoo juice, and quick. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll add in a twenty percent bonus. If you get it to me within three days.”
“Impossible,” Rutledge said.
“I’d hate to believe that,” Heineman said. “I really would. That would really throw a monkey wrench into my plans. I’d have to find something to do with the couple of doses I have left. But you know it’d be enough for me to throw a little party with, say, Jenny and Alice.”
Rutledge almost rose from his seat. “You…”
“Sit down, Doc,” Heineman said. He sounded almost bored. “You aren’t going to do shit to me. Not in here, not ever. Not even if I turn your wife and daughter into fuck-puppets for a couple of hours and video the results.”
Rutledge sank back down. “I can’t do it in three days,” he said. “The process takes longer than that.”
Heineman arched an eyebrow. “I already got you the best equipment money can buy,” he said. “You’ve got a lab in your backyard that’d make Monsanto turn green.”
“It’s not the equipment,” Rutledge insisted. “It takes at least four days to cook.”
Heineman shrugged. “Four days, then.”
“I need to get the materials. Some of them I can only get from the same suppliers as NextGen. I think that’s why they’re on to me.”
“Not my problem.”
“I can’t make the stuff out of thin air,” Rutledge said desperately.
“Jesus,” Heineman said. “Are you crying?”
“I need at least five days,” Rutledge said.
Heineman sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Five. But day six, it’s party time at the Rutledge’s. Got it?”
“Got it,” Rutledge said.
“Now,” Heineman said, “I’d invite you to stay for that beer, but you need to get busy.”
Rutledge’s hands shook all the way home. When he got there, his wife met him at the door.
“Some people were here to see you,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “You just missed them.”
He could hear the sounds of splashing and shouts from the pool in back, “Who?” he said.
She didn’t answer, just handed him a business card. He looked at it. When he looked back up, her eyes were wounded, accusing.
“Melissa Saxon,” he repeated. “FBI.” the words hung in the air between them. After a moment, she turned without speaking and walked back into the cool dimness of the house.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Director leaned back in his desk chair and folded his hands across his broad chest. He stared at his desktop for a moment, not meeting Melissa’s eyes.
“That,” he said, “is an extraordinary story.” He looked behind Melissa. “Comments, Mr. Rusk?”
Melissa resisted the urge to turn and look around at the man seated against the wall behind her. The thought of having Rusk there, even in the safe environment of the Director’s private office, caused her to feel a cold spot on her back, as if a sniper was drawing a bead on her. It wasn’t anything outward in the man’s demeanor; he had been nothing but courteous to her since the meeting began, and certainly, the slim, balding man with the wire-framed spectacles was not physically intimidating. Maybe it was what Bishop had told her that Rusk represented that made her skin crawl. If that was it, she chided herself, she ought to consider giving the man a break. She barely knew Bishop, and despite the fact that Sims and Lanier seemed to give everything he said absolute credence, he clearly had a couple of screws loose. Maybe more than a couple.
“Colonel Bishop,” Rusk said in his dry, precise voice, “was involved in several highly classified anti-terrorist operations. But this story about a team with no oversight, no rules? Sheer fantasy.”
“You know about Bishop, then?” the Director said.
“We know him, yes,” Rusk said. “It’s a shame, really. He was a brilliant man and a great soldier. A true hero. We hadn’t known his condition had become so severe.”
“What about this Heineman character?” Melissa asked. “Is he real?”
“I believe there was a Sergeant Heineman who worked with Colonel Bishop at one time,” Rusk said. “But this story about him killing people, entire families, in such a lurid fashion, using some kind of mind control drug…well, I don’t know that I’d take Colonel Bishop’s accounts at face value.”
“Still,” the Director said, looking at Rusk with an inscrutable expression on his face, “It’s a lead. And we’re going to run it down.”
“Agent Saxon,” Rusk said. “Would you be so kind as to step out for a moment?”
The Director’s face reddened at the insult of having someone else order one of his people out of the room, but he got himself under control. He nodded to Melissa. “I’ll be back with you in a few minutes, Agent Saxon,” he said. “Please wait in the outer office.”
She stood and walked to the door. Before leaving, she turned. “I’m going to need to lean on these NextGen people,” she said. “And Rutledge. Neither of them called me back, but their lawyers did. There’s something there, sir. I know that much.”
“Thank you, Agent Saxon,” the Director said.
After she closed the door, Rusk took the seat Melissa had recently vacated.
“So,” the Director said, “how much of it really is true?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Rusk said.
“Meaning that the answer to my question is, ‘every word of it,” the Director said.
“If it was,” Rusk answered, “And I’m not saying that it is, it’s not something that should be handled on a law-enforcement basis. And certainly not something that would need to end in a public trial.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it would be a situation that should be dealt with internally. Hypothetically, of course.”
“Terminate with extreme prejudice,” the Director quoted. “That about it?”
“This isn’t a movie, Mr. Director,” Rusk said.
“But that’s the gist, right? You find this Hangman and kill him yourself.”
“That would certainly be preferable to the scandal that would erupt if it were even suggested that the government had set up some sort of rogue anti-terrorist cell and that one of its operatives had turned killer. Not that the story has an ounce of truth to it, of course. But do you think the country could afford such a scandal right now, Mr. Director?”
“Maybe you don’t give the people of this country enough credit,” the Director said.
‘”Please,” Rusk said, “This isn’t a campaign speech. This goes far beyond politics. I realize you’d like to discredit the previous administration, but…”
The Director stood up, his face reddening again. “Are you suggesting that the only reason I want to catch a man who’s been slaughtering entire families is to score political points?”
Rusk remained calm. “No sir,” he said. “I’m not suggesting that at all.” There was a thin, ironic smile on his face as he said it. It was the first time the Director had ever seen Rusk smile.
“Get out of my office, you bastard,” he grated. “Before I come over there and kick your ass out myself.”
Rusk looked pained, as if the threat were nothing more than a gross breach of etiquette. He stood up.
“I’ll call you,” the Director taunted, “when we bring the Hangman in. Maybe we’ll offer him a deal. Life without parole rather than lethal injection, but only if he rolls over on you. And your boss.”
Rusk didn’t answer, just shook his head sadly, as one would at a friend who’d gotten drunk and was making an ass of himself. He left without another word. The Director walked to the door and called Melissa back in.
“Saxon.” he said, “Go get this Hangman. And bring him in alive. “
“Yes sir,” she said. “I’d like to start with the NextGen connection.”
“But they’ve lawyered up, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “I’ll make some phone calls.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“So,” Campbell said. “The FBI’s not playing ball.”
“No, sir,” Rusk said. “I’m sorry.”
They were seated in Campbell‘s living room. Rusk was on the sofa, holding a coffee cup uncomfortably on his lap. Campbell stood by the picture window, a glass of Kentucky bourbon in his hand, looking out over the breathtaking view of the Blue Ridge. The old house had been built in 1841 and sat in the center of a sprawling horse farm in the lower Shenandoah Valley.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s mine. We should have just handled this ourselves.”
“The FBI was already investigating, sir. Using their resources was a logical choice.”
“And yet,” Campbell looked down at his drink reflectively, swirling the dark amber liquid around, “it was, apparently, the wrong one.”
“Perhaps some pressure on the Director might be more effective,” Rusk said.
Campbell shook his head. “There are pressures I could bring to bear. But I’ve been saving those, for the right moment. I’d like to continue doing so. ” He took a sip of his drink. “How much does this Saxon woman know?”
“I don’t know how much Bishop told her,” Rusk said. “But she knows who Heineman is. And she knows about Lot Seventeen.”
“Which means she knows about Rutledge.”
“Yes, sir.”
Campbell grimaced. “And Lanier and Sims seem to have gone off the reservation.”
“Yes sir. Colonel Bishop seems to have become something of a loose cannon as well.”
“And before the end of the weekend, Saxon’s entire FBI team will know about Iron Horse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Far too many people, Mr. Rusk. This changes things.”
“I agree, sir. We’ve gone beyond the point where usual methods of containment would be effective.”
“That many bodies would be hard to explain away,” Campbell agreed. “Which leaves us with one option. Heineman himself.”
“He’s going to be hard to kill.”
“Anyone can be killed,” Campbell said. “But what if there’s another alternative?”
“Sir?”
“What if Heineman could be brought back into the fold?” He turned from the window to face Rusk. “We think he’s doing this out of some idea of revenge against Bishop, or maybe to try and draw him out. He thinks he’s been wronged. Fine. I don’t disagree, actually. So we give him what he wants. We give him back Iron Horse.”
“Sir, Iron Horse was shut down.”
“Officially, yes. But there are channels other than official ones.”
“You mean to reconstitute Iron Horse as independent contractors?”
Campbell nodded. “It’s how I originally envisioned the program,” he said. “Another layer of plausible deniability. But,” he sneered, “that made some people nervous. So, as always, they took half measures. And, as always when half measures are taken, it went badly.”
“Something like that needs funding,” Rusk protested. “Where would the money come from? And the personnel?”
“Don’t worry about funding,” Campbell said. “And as for personnel…” he smiled. “I have some people in mind.” The smile faded. “We’ll need to move quickly. We can’t eliminate all of the leaks, but Rutledge certainly needs to be shut down. Immediately. That will at least slow the FBI down. And then we try to have a talk with Sergeant Heineman. Who knows?” He finished off his drink. “Given the right incentive, perhaps even Colonel Bishop can be persuaded to come in from the cold.”
“I don’t think he would do that, sir,” Rusk said.
Campbell shrugged. “Then we give him to Heineman for disposition. That alone might be incentive enough for our Hangman.”
“I still don’t understand how you hope to accomplish this,” Rusk said.
Campbell smiled. “Have faith Mr. Rusk,” He walked over to a table by the door and picked up a phone. “Tell Anna and Diego to prepare the upstairs rooms. We’re going to be having a few people in from out of town.”
