A Slow Walk to Hell (31 page)

Focusing on Sam, Amanda asked, “What about Major Coller, sir? We know he’s the one who betrayed Major Talbot—”

“He
what?”

She seemed puzzled by Sam’s surprise. “Betrayed Major Talbot, General. He also planted a gun on Colonel Kelly to incriminate him for the priests’ murders. You didn’t know, sir?”

“Why would he?” Simon said. “I never told him.”

“Jesus,” Sam said. “I knew he was an ambitious little prick, but—” He broke off with an angry head shake.

Amanda said, “So you wouldn’t have an idea who might have killed him, sir?”

Sam seem to tense at the question. Before he could respond, Simon said, “We still can’t rule out Mrs. Harris or the possibility that Ms. Gillette is also a marksman.”

Amanda eyed him dubiously, mirroring my sentiment. Since we couldn’t completely discount either scenario, neither of us pursued the matter. Once we ran a background check on Gillette and interviewed Secret Service agent Hassall, we’d be able to narrow down the shooter’s identity. If neither Harris nor Gillette had the opportunity to kill Coller—and in Gillette’s case, the marksmanship expertise—then we were looking for a fourth person.

“Anything more, Amanda?” Simon asked.

She shook her head. When Simon looked to me, I told him I had no questions.

Smiling at Sam, Simon clicked off the tape recorder. “Thank you, General. You’ve been most cooperative.”

“Glad to help, Lieutenant.” Sam’s tone indicated anything but.

Simon and Amanda rose. Sam watched them, but chose to remain seated. He seemed in no hurry to leave. As everyone edged toward the door, he reluctantly stood. With a sigh, he said to me, “Now comes the hard part.”

“The hard part?” I said.

“I’m going to Blacksburg to tell my parents.”

E
nrique, Simon, and Amanda quickly left the room, sensing Sam wanted to talk to me privately. As we trailed them into the corridor, Sam remained quiet, preoccupied by his thoughts. Walking beside him, I could almost feel his dread over what he was about to do.

“Will your father understand?” I asked.

“No one in my family will.”

“Once they get over the shock, they’ll come around. Just give them time.”

“They’re
Baldwins,
Marty.” As if that summed everything up.

It didn’t for me. I pointed out that he was still his father’s son.

“That’s the problem. I
am
his son. That’s precisely why he won’t understand.” Seeing my frown, he said, “You still don’t get it, Marty? How about telling me how
you
would react.”

“Excuse me.”

“If you were in their position. If Emily came to you and said she was…different.”

“She’s my daughter,” I said. “I’d try and be supportive and—”

“Would it bother you?”

I hesitated.

He abruptly swung around and faced me.
“Exactly.
It’s not something you’d want. Sure, you’d try and accept it, but it would eat at you. You’d feel embarrassed; you wouldn’t know what to tell friends and family. It would feel like the death of all the things you’d hope and want for her. You’d drive yourself crazy, trying to figure out what made her that way. Was it your fault? Were you responsible? At some point, you’d start blaming her, that this was somehow a choice she was making. Don’t shake your head, Marty. I’ve seen this play out too many times.”

“She’s my daughter,” I insisted. “No matter what, I’m always going to love her—”

“And my parents might still love me. But the point I’m trying to make is that they’ll never understand or accept me. They’d always consider my lifestyle a perversity, a violation of a fundamental law of nature. Men aren’t supposed to be attracted to men. Period.”

His eyes were riveted on me, challenging me to respond. I didn’t even try. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I realized what he was saying was true. It would be hard for me to truly accept having a gay child.

Perhaps even impossible.

But that still wouldn’t change the fact that I would always love my daughter. That’s another inviolate law of nature.

When I told him this, Sam said, “Then Emily is lucky. That’s something I can’t count on. That’s why I said my parents
might
still love me. The thing is, I don’t know. You probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I have a cousin who’s an alcoholic. The family got him into rehab a number of times, but he could never shake it. Five years ago, he killed a couple kids in a DWI. When he got out of prison, he was ostracized by the family. Emily is a lucky girl and not only because you’re her father. She’s damned lucky she wasn’t born a Baldwin.”

And with that pronouncement, he turned and continued down the hallway.

Entering the lobby, we detected signs of life. Two older men in jogging clothes were talking to the woman at the reception desk. One of the men appraised us with a look that lasted a couple beats too long. Ignoring him, I glanced out the glass doors and saw Simon, Amanda, and Enrique waiting beside the limo.

I said to Sam, “I could go with you, if you like.”

His face softened even as he shook off the offer. “Thanks, Marty, but I’ve got to do this alone.”

“It’s a long drive. You might need company.”

We’d arrived at the doors and as Sam opened one, he said, “How about I call you when I get back? We could get together for a beer.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Stepping into the brightness of the morning sun, we both knew he wasn’t going to call anytime soon. But he would eventually. I’d made the offer and he realized I’d be there for him, when he needed me.

I suppose that’s the reason Sam became emotional when we shook hands at his car. Despite our recent difficulties, we managed to mend our friendship before it was irretrievably broken. In the scheme of things, that might not seem like a big deal, but it was to us. For a four-year period, we’d been the closest persons in each other’s lives. You don’t sever a connection like that without a fight.

And we were fighting hard.

As he drove away, Sam kept waving until he disappeared behind the trees. When I was sure he couldn’t see me any longer, I lowered my hand. To be honest, I was relieved I didn’t have to accompany him on the drive. I was dead on my feet. I just wanted to go home, have a heart-to-heart with my daughter about her escapade last night and go to bed. That was my game plan when I went over to the limo. Just go home and get some sleep.

I never counted on Simon.

“We’re going to Blacksburg
now?”
I said.

This was the announcement Amanda had blindsided me with, the moment I’d strolled up. She was scowling as she said it. She had no desire to make this trip and I damn sure didn’t either. She jerked a thumb at Simon. “Talk to him. It’s not my idea.”

It dawned on me why Simon wanted to do this. But I thought he was crazy to think we could pull it off. I said to him, “You can’t just walk up and throw the cuffs on Mrs. Harris. You’re going to have to present your evidence to the DA. Have him lay out a case and obtain a warrant. Without one, you’ll never get past the Secret Service. Even then, you’re probably going to need their approval—”

“Time,
Martin,” he said. “That will take time.”

“So what? The DA has enough evidence to indict. So it takes a month or two or three? What’s the hurry?”

His smooth face contemplated me. “Think about it, Martin. Think about what happens if we wait.”

I frowned, my eyes going to Amanda and Enrique. Both had blank expressions. Neither had a clue what Simon was intimating. I said to him, “What? You worried about Colonel Kelly sitting in jail? You know the DA will order his release once he sees the evidence—”

And then I saw the problem. Enrique and Amanda began nodding; they’d figured it too. “Oh, shit,” I said. “The primaries.”

“Yes,” Simon said. “Within weeks, Congressman Harris will have enough votes to win his party’s nomination. If we wait, the entire process will be in turmoil. It’s better to do this now. Get it out in the open.”

Amanda gave me a knowing look. It wasn’t necessary. My tired brain was still working well enough for me to grasp the significance of what Simon had just said.

“Hell,” I said to him, “you’re not planning to arrest Mrs. Harris, are you?”

He shrugged. “If the opportunity presents itself—”

“You’re going there because of the press. You’re going to make an announcement, publicly accuse Teresa Harris of murder. Once that happens, it doesn’t matter how long a formal murder charge takes. The Harrises’ poll numbers will plummet. In a week, they won’t even be able to get elected dogcatcher.”

Simon was silent, looking at me. We noticed a hint of a smile.

“Your reporter friend,” Amanda said, following up with a possibility I hadn’t considered. “He going to be there? You going to maybe give him the tape with Harris and Talbot?”

Simon’s smile disappeared. He signaled the discussion was over by opening the right limo passenger door. “Mrs. Harris’s speech is at eleven. I don’t want to be late.”

That was close enough to a yes. We also understood that Simon’s actions had little to do with his professed desire to prevent chaos in the upcoming election. What really motivated him was a much more human instinct. He hated Teresa Harris and wanted to destroy her.

Couldn’t fault him for that.

As Amanda and I settled into the back of the limo, Simon watched me take out my cell phone. He asked me if I intended to call General Hinkle.

“Yeah. Let him know that we cracked the case.”

“Call him later.”

“Why?”

“It could cause problems. It’s better if you wait.”

“What kind of problems?”

Simon wouldn’t say anything more.

“ ’Night, Marty.”

Amanda smiled sleepily. She and I were lying across from each other on the seats alongside the limo. The drive to Blacksburg would take four hours and unlike our trip to the club, we had no illusions about remaining awake.

I smiled back. “Night.”

She closed her eyes and within seconds, I heard a steady breathing. My eyes went to her big engagement ring and I shook my head.

“You’ll never know unless you ask,” Simon said softly.

Looking to the rear, I saw him watching me. “What if she says no?”

“Then you will know.”

I nodded and closed my eyes. We were several miles from the compound, winding though the countryside. As I waited for sleep, my thoughts turned from Amanda to my daughter. I reminded myself to call her later. I also thought about Sam and the torment he was going through. If he didn’t contact me in a few days, I would phone him. Despite his bleak assessment of his family’s reaction, I was convinced they would accept him eventually. Until they did, he would need someone to confide in and by default, that responsibility fell to me.

As I drifted off, a question floated up to me. If Simon had intended to go to Blacksburg, why hadn’t he mentioned it sooner, so I could have ridden over with Sam?

The limo accelerated as it merged onto the highway. From somewhere in the darkness, I heard a voice call to me. I was irritated. I wanted to sleep.

A hand shook me. “Marty, wake up. Marty…”

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

More shaking. Insistent. “We’re almost there, Marty.”

I opened my eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight. Amanda was leaning over me. I sat up and saw a sign affixed to a stone wall.

WELCOME TO VIRGINIA POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTE AND STATE UNIVERSITY
it said.

T
here can’t be many universities larger than Virginia Tech. Set on twenty-six hundred sprawling acres, the school included something like a hundred buildings, a sixty-five-thousand-seat football stadium, and its own airport. We were cruising along South Main, toward the academic center of the campus. About a half mile ahead, I could make out the green of the mall and the quadrangle of buildings that housed the corp of cadets—my home for four years.

“When did you graduate?” Amanda asked.

She and I were wiping our faces with Perrier-moistened napkins. A waste of designer water, but it wasn’t like we had a choice unless we wanted to go alcoholic. Other than Perrier, the limo’s fridge was stocked with beer and wine.

“Geez, you’re that old, huh?” Amanda said, when I told her.

As if she didn’t know.

Enrique asked, “Anybody know where we’re going?”

Simon was on the phone, checking with someone. I said, “Probably Burruss Hall. When you come up to the mall, make a left and head toward the drill field.” Burruss was the central administration building and had a large auditorium, where most of the speakers made their presentations.

“It’s Burruss,” Simon announced, cupping the mouthpiece. “How long until we arrive?”

“Five minutes,” I said.

He relayed the information into the phone and punched off.

“Was that Agent Hassall?” Amanda asked him. She was reapplying her makeup. This was a first. In the past, I’d never known her to
carry
makeup, much less use it.

“I spoke to Hassall earlier,” Simon replied.

She looked at him.

“When you were asleep,” he added.

Not the answer she wanted, so she kept staring at him.

He sighed. “I was speaking to a friend of mine.”

“He got a name?”

He avoided answering her by looking out the window.

Of course Amanda and I realized the person on the phone had to be the reporter, Eric Olson. Simon didn’t want to reveal his name because of the reason I’d alluded to earlier. Since leaking information to a reporter broke about a hundred department regulations and was borderline illegal, he was protecting us and himself. What we didn’t know, we couldn’t testify to.

The flap for the trash was tucked under a seat. After shoving the napkin through it, I checked my watch. A shade past eleven. Mrs. Harris would be starting her speech. “The next left,” I told Enrique.

We cruised past the mall. A smattering of students were lounging on the grass, studying or bagging rays. Rolling under the war memorial archway, we continued right around the parade field loop. Most of the buildings were formidable, turn-of-century structures constructed of Hokie stone, mined from nearby quarries. I pointed Enrique to a massive brownish gray building, fronted by two flagpoles and a circular drive. “That’s Burruss.”

“No kidding.”

Reporters were by the building’s entrance. About a hundred yards ahead, we saw the telltale fleet of press vehicles.

“What are the reporters doing outside?” Amanda asked. “Congressman Harris said yesterday he wanted the speech to be covered.”

“The murder,” I said. “He probably reconsidered and doesn’t want to deal with questions about the murder.”

Enrique pulled in front of Burruss Hall. The moment we stopped, the press descended the stairs and surrounded us. This rock-star treatment was getting old.

“Wait, Martin.”

I’d been about to open a door. Glancing back, I saw Simon reach into a compartment and remove a videotape.

Amanda said, “Is that smart? Giving Olson your only copy?”

“It can be reproduced within minutes.” Simon was referring to the highspeed dubbing machines that were standard equipment in television vans.

Nodding to the reporters, I said, “Not going to be easy to slip Olson the tape with them hanging around.”

Simon shrugged, unconcerned. After he wedged the tape in his waistband, he covered it with his jacket, then stepped outside. Immediately, he was bombarded with questions. Amanda and I followed Simon out the same door and we forced our way through the crowd and up the stairs toward the building entrance. As we walked, I looked for Olson, didn’t see him.

As we approached the double doors, one opened and a large black man in a suit appeared, ordering the reporters back. To us, he said, “Lieutenant Santos?”

At Simon’s nod, the man stepped aside to let us inside.

We were in the large foyer with two curved marble staircases rising to the second floor. The man had a spy-guy earpiece—Secret Service. A second agent stood at a table with two metal-detecting wands.

“IDs?” the black agent said.

After studying each one, he handed them back. Since we were members of the law enforcement brotherhood, we didn’t get the wand treatment.

“Follow me,” the agent ordered.

He was the strong, silent type, with an emphasis on silent. He never said a word as he led us up one of the staircases. I casually mentioned I’d heard there was a problem with Mrs. Harris’s security yesterday. The agent looked at me and kept on walking.

“In fact,” I said, “I heard they lost her for four or five hours.”

This time he didn’t even bother with a look.

We reached the second floor. Before us was a lounge area and beyond, the doors of the auditorium. They should have been closed, but instead most stood open and we could see that the house lights were on. The place appeared to be packed and we could hear a buzz emanating from the audience, as they conversed among themselves.

Amanda and I checked our watches. Simon, I noticed, didn’t. Amanda said to the agent, “Wasn’t Mrs. Harris supposed to speak at eleven?”

“Yes.”

His only response. He made a sharp left toward a hallway, which I knew led to a series of administration offices and eventually descended to an access for the stage.

Simon said, “I need to freshen up.”

I said, “You should have tried some Perrier.”

He appeared less than amused. I told him the restrooms were just ahead. I added, “I’ve got to go too.”

He froze me with a look. It took me a second to understand what the problem was. When we came to the restrooms, Simon and Amanda disappeared through their respective doors, while I remained in the hallway with the agent.

Noticing his frown, I said, “Bladder’s bigger than I thought.”

No reaction. Apparently, Simon wasn’t the only one without a sense of humor.

As the agent and I watched the walls, I wondered how Olson had managed to get in the building. It had to be that certain reporters had been allowed to cover the speech. The ones who promised to behave.

Amanda alighted from her restroom first, followed by Simon a few seconds later. I cocked an eyebrow at him. He ignored it and the question that came with it.

As he went past me, I brushed against him. That generated a glower from Simon; he knew why I’d done it. I didn’t care. He’d forced my hand and I wanted to know whether he still had the tape.

He didn’t.

The hallway seemed to go on forever. In actuality, it’s something like seventy meters and change. I only knew this because, as a freshman cadet, I was required to measure
all
the hallways in Burruss. One of those hazing pranks that seemed senseless then, but looking back, I realized it had been crucial in my development as a military officer.

Uh-huh.

We continued past more offices. Since it was the weekend, they were unoccupied. As we walked, I lagged behind, firing glances toward the restroom. After a dozen steps, I saw a man emerge. It wasn’t Olson or anyone I’d ever seen before. The man was pushing forty, small and bookish, and wore black-framed glasses that seemed too large for his head.

He also carried a briefcase.

When he noticed me looking, he quickly walked away in the opposite direction.

What are you up to, Simon?

Prior to reaching the stairs that descended toward the stage entrance, the agent turned into a spacious office with an elegant reception area. Two tense-faced twenty-somethings were pacing circles in the carpet, talking into cell phones. Several others sat at desks, clicking frantically on laptops. No one looked more than thirty. Campaign staffers out to change the world.

“In there,” the agent said, pointing us to a door marked “Conference Room.”

As our escort departed, we headed for the door. From within, we could hear the loud voices of an argument. A man was saying he thought the speech should be canceled. Someone—a woman—interrupted him. It sounded like Teresa Harris and she was clearly furious.

“I
spoke
to General Murdock,” she said. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Half the members of Congress and the president have called him to reconsider. The VFW has launched a letter-writing campaign against him. We wait and we can kiss his endorsement good-bye. Rollie, what are we running against conservatives?”

“Under thirty percent according to the latest Gallup,” Roland Slater said. “And conservatives vote. They go to the polls. If we can’t raise our unfavorables by at least three points, we could still lose the general election.”

“That settles it,” Teresa Harris said. “I’m giving the speech.”

“Honey,” a third man, who was obviously Congressman Harris, said. “Agent Hassall is right to be cautious. We shouldn’t compromise security because—”

“Garrison, let me worry about that. I’m making the speech, not you.”

“Mrs. Harris,” Hassall said. “A door was breached. There’s no telling who might—”

“I don’t give a damn.
I want General Murdock’s fucking endorsement.”

We waited a few seconds. There was only silence.

Simon knocked.

Filing inside, we saw six people standing around a conference table. Four we’d previously identified: Teresa Harris, Congressman Harris, Slater, and Agent Hassall. The fifth person was Hassall’s sidekick from last night, Agent Coleman, and the sixth, another guy with an earpiece. No one looked happy, but I knew that wasn’t our fault.

Yet.

Teresa Harris dismissed us with a cryptic glance and returned her attention to Hassall. “I’m going on stage now. I’ll shorten my speech. Once General Murdock gives us the endorsement, we’ll leave. That’s the best I can do. If you can’t protect me for twenty minutes from some imagined threat—” Her face went glacial when Hassall started to speak. “Not a word. You
told
me those doors are often breached by students as a prank. You
said
it happens dozens of times each year. Is that true or not?”

I realized what doors she was referring to. And Teresa Harris was right. They were broken into all the time.

Hassall said, “According to Dr. Peters, that’s true, but—”

“Peters should damn well know. He’s the president of the university, for Christ’s sake. Now get out of here, Hassall. You’re giving me a headache.”

Hassall’s face reddened. He looked to Congressman Harris, seeking support. For a moment, it seemed as if Harris was on the verge of doing so. But when he saw his wife glaring at him, the man who would be president reconsidered and remained silent.

Congressman Harris’s reaction was telling. Yesterday, when I’d met the two of them, I’d assumed he was the one who called the shots in their relationship. Now I realized it was the other way around.

Teresa Harris said to Hassall, “I told you to
leave.”

Without a word, the emasculated agent turned away from her and departed the room.

“You too, gentlemen,” Teresa said. “Wait outside. Go.”

Coleman and the third agent followed their supervisor out.

Addressing her husband, Teresa said, “I want Hassall replaced.”

“Let’s not be hasty. He’s only doing his—”

“Tomorrow,
Garrison. He’s disrespectful and incompetent. I won’t put up with him. I simply won’t.”

Congressman Harris sighed, nodding.

Watching Teresa Harris, I found it inconceivable that she was the same person who had been so distraught over viewing her nephew’s body. Everything about her manner, from the tilt of her beautiful head to the arrogant set of her perfectly formed jaw, projected a sense of innate superiority and open disdain. Up to this moment, I still had difficulty believing that she’d carried out the murders with her own hands, but now there was no doubt. This was a ruthless calculating woman, who was capable of anything.

A total bitch.

Her eyes went to a television mounted on a wall. It was on a closed circuit and showed the center of the stage. Angled behind an empty podium, we saw a single row of chairs. Perhaps a dozen. Some were occupied—I recognized the university president and the dean—but most weren’t. Teresa asked Slater how long it would take to get everyone to return.

“I told them to remain nearby until we made a decision.”