Frames Per Second (36 page)

“So they don’t know yet?”

“Not yet. But somebody’ll spill. Then all hell will break loose.”

“How about McGuire?”

“Still looking for him and his boat. Coast Guard’s on the job, state police, Boston Police.” Ludlow looked at him intently. “So did the shot work out?”

Ben took him into the light of the hallway. “See for yourself.” He showed him the contact sheet. “We can get the final print a lot clearer than that.”

The agent shook his head, admiringly. “Goddamn. You’ve got it.” He looked at his watch. “OK, let’s get moving. I’ll need the negative and any prints for safekeeping.’’

“Well, we need to discuss that,” Ben said. “We can’t have the shot showing up on the evening news before we release it ourselves. And I know you need to keep the negative for safekeeping, but we need some time to make more scans.”

Ludlow’s eyes hardened. “We’ve got no time for that. I’ve got to insist you give me everything, including any prints, right now.”

Ben put his palms up. “I’m afraid I’ve got to insist, too.”

Sarah joined them. “What’s the problem?”

Ludlow ignored her. Then, he gave a short little laugh, as if to himself. “Goddamn reporters.” He reached under his arm and pulled out a gun. An automatic.

“What’re you doing?” Sarah cried.

Ben backed away, pushing her behind him.

“Let’s try it again. Give me all the negatives, all the prints. Do it now.” He snatched the envelope from Ben’s hand, and looked in at it. “There’s only one strip here. I want the entire roll.”

“Parker’s going to crucify you,” she said.

“He’s not working for Parker,” Ben said. “Or the FBI.”

“Smart boy.” Ludlow drew Sarah from behind Ben and put the gun to her head. “Now give me everything or get ready to watch her bleed.”

CHAPTER 42

BEN SAW KURT’S OFFICE LIGHT WAS OFF.

He purposely looked away and headed to the lab.

Up ahead, Ben caught slight movement inside Ed Liston’s office— Kurt ducking down behind the desk.

Ben took a quick right, making a little jog around Huey’s cubicle to get to the lab. Hoping that Kurt wouldn’t try anything then with Ludlow holding the gun on Sarah’s head.

Ludlow said, “Match every negative against each of these shots on this contact sheet. I want to see every one accounted for.”

“And then what?” Ben asked. Speaking loudly enough so that Kurt could hear.

“And then we go have a conversation. McGuire wants to see you.”

“Wants to kill us himself?”

“Maybe,” Ludlow said with a small shrug. “He
is
a hands-on kind of guy. Probably just a function of youth.”

Sarah balked. “So why should we move an inch if he’s going to kill us anyhow?”

“The best reason of all,” Ludlow said. “You get to live between now and then.”

* * *

Ben’s mind raced as he stood over the light table.

Kurt.

Ben could just as easily walk them back to the elevators past Ed Liston’s door as the way they had come.

If he took them by Kurt again, what would he do?

Ludlow was bigger than Kurt, strong-looking. No doubt he was well trained physically. Kurt alone would be no match for him.

But together … Ben put the negatives and the contact print on the light table and matched them number for number while Ludlow watched with the gun at Sarah’s head.

The agent grunted when he was finished. “All right, put them in the envelope.”

Ben nodded for Sarah to go in front of him, and Ludlow let her. Ben placed his hand on her side, giving her the faintest pressure to go around the cubicle toward Liston’s office. He said, “We’ll be all right, honey. We’ll work this out somehow.”

She moved under his hand easily, certainly aware of Kurt somewhere in the office, too.

“Don’t count on it.” Ludlow shoved him.

Ben’s breathing began to quicken. He tried not to make it obvious. It was as if everything slowed as the door came in view. He felt the rush of adrenaline.

The door had been partially closed. About halfway. Kurt would have had to come around the desk to do that.

Good.

Ben envisioned him just on the other side of the door. It would take Kurt time to open it further, get out into the hallway, and take Ludlow from behind. Ben slowed as they came parallel to Liston’s open office. Ludlow crowded up behind him slightly and Ben tensed himself as they continued past the door, telling himself that he should spin to the right, toward the office. The gun touched the back of Ben’s head and he prayed that Kurt had the foresight to sweep the agent’s arm up.

But it seemed Kurt had more foresight than that.

He didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t make a move.

He didn’t do anything.

Five minutes later, they were in Ludlow’s car with Ben at the wheel and Sarah beside him. The agent got in the backseat, right in the middle.

“Is Parker in on this?” Ben asked. His anger at Kurt roughened his voice, swept away some of the near debilitating fear that had been surging through him.

Ludlow snorted. “Get serious.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he doesn’t have the imagination that I do. Or the debts.”

“So everything you said before is bullshit. No one knows about Cheever.”

“That’s right,” Ludlow said, drawing it out. “No
Globe
and
Herald
questioning a team of FBI agents down at the construction site. No Coast Guard search for McGuire. It’s just your little story and I’m afraid you’re going to find it seriously edited before the night is out.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you along the way,” the agent said. “You’ll get a kick out of it.”

Ben looked into the mirror. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. Now drive.” It had begun to rain and the streets were black and slick, reflecting the lights and colors of the buildings surrounding them. They continued down Boylston Street and took a left between the Boston Common and Boston Garden. Ludlow said to take a left onto Beacon Street.

Ben looked over at Sarah. Her face was pale in the light from the dashboard. Her eyes flickered to the dashboard itself, and then she looked away.

He looked down, and saw what she’d been looking at.

And he remembered the click he had heard when they first got into the car. She had put on her seat belt. Her hand rested on the belt now, her other clasped to the door handle. She met his eyes again and looked away.

Ben reached for his shoulder harness and snapped it in.

“What kind of shit is this?” Ludlow said, sitting forward.

“What do you mean?” Ben asked, as he began the hard left onto Beacon Street. And then he let the wheel go straight and stood on the gas pedal.

Ludlow threw himself forward and tried to wrest the wheel back, but Ben held it with all his strength.

They popped over the curb of the small island and slammed head-on into a light pole.

It was one of the black ones surrounding the Garden. Heavy, ornate, and strong as stone.

The dual airbags deployed. Something that Ben felt as much as saw, a white explosion that punched him in the face and body, holding him off as his body tried everything it could to shove its way through to the windshield.

They were no longer moving.

Ben could feel that. He touched his chest.

Still alive.

The gun went off. An impossibly loud noise in the cramped space.

Sarah screamed. Ben twisted violently in his seat, banging his head against the roof as he tried to move from the sound without being fully conscious.

The gun went off again.

Ben came to, fully, and recognized the noise for what it was. But the car was so cramped, he could hardly move. The steering wheel was just inches from his chest, the deflated bag lying on his lap. There was a soft/hard weight pressing down on him to the right.

“Sarah!” he cried.

His right knee hurt like a bastard.

“Are you hit?” he said.

He couldn’t see her. For some reason he couldn’t see her beside him.

“No. I’ve got it,” she said. “I’ve got his gun.”

Ben shoved at the door, but it wouldn’t open. And then he realized that the pressure to his right, that soft/hard mass, was Ludlow. And that his head was through the windshield.

“I’ve got his gun,” Sarah repeated.

“So you’re alive,” Ben said, stupidly.

“You are, too.”

Ben reached over and touched Ludlow’s neck. Right before the rim of broken glass. Bits of safety glass stuck to Ben’s knuckles, what with all the blood. “He’s not.”

People came running up. A young guy, most likely a college student, stood beside the window. Big, scared-looking kid. Two girls behind him.

“Is it going to blow up?” One of the girls said.

The other saw Ludlow and turned away abruptly.

“Oh Jesus, mister,” the young guy said, looking at the agent, too. “Your friend.”

Ben fumbled for the seat belt and released it. “Give me a hand, will you? Ask the girls to help her.” His voice was not much more than a croak.

“You’re not supposed to move hurt people,” one of the girls said.

“Please,” Ben said.

The kid shook his head. “No, mister. I really shouldn’t …”

He backed away.

“Damn it,” Ben said, straining against the door. It wouldn’t budge. “Come on, help us!”

“We’ll call the cops for you,” the kid said, turning away.

Ben hit the wheel in frustration.

And then Kurt was there at the window. He was out of breath. “Thank God,” he said. “How bad are you hurt?”

Ben was stunned. “Where were you?”

“It took me a while to get the car out. I followed down the stairs, and I just saw you driving out, and then I had to run back and get my car.”

Kurt tried to open the door, and couldn’t. He reached in through the window. Ben put his arm around his shoulder and he was able to pull himself out. Kurt immediately hurried around the back of the car to help Sarah.

Ben looked at Ludlow’s head outside the window.

The agent’s face was practically gone. Ben swayed and then abruptly knelt down and vomited. “Jesus,” he whispered to himself, and then got to his feet and made it around the car just as Kurt was pulling Sarah through.

Ben held her, touching her face, her arms, her body. “Are you all right?”

Her face was bloodied and she was shaky. But she smiled wanly. “I’m OK.”

He looked back into the car. “I guess I better get those negatives.”

She looked back into the car and shuddered. “I guess.”

Ben leaned in through her window, making a conscious effort to control the impulse to gag again. Ludlow’s blood covered the dashboard; the car reeked of gasoline. Ben braced himself against the passenger seat, found the envelope folded inside Ludlow’s inside pocket, and tugged it free.

Sirens began to wail in the distance.

Good,
Ben thought.
Somebody called the cops.

And then Ludlow’s car phone began to beep.

Ben picked it up and extricated himself from the window. He said into the phone, “Ludlow.”

“You got them?” a voice said. It was McGuire.

“Uh-huh.”

The phone went silent.

“Who’s this?”

Ben paused.

“Who the hell is this?” McGuire repeated.

Ben identified himself.

Then it was McGuire’s turn to hesitate. Finally, he said, as if asking after an irresponsible buddy who never showed up on time, “So where’s that goddamn
Ludlow?”

“He’s dead.”

“Jesus Christ,” McGuire said. “You can’t buy good help these days. So all right, I’ll deal with you directly. Bring me the negatives and you can name your price.”

“No deal. The cops are on the way.”
 

“Then you better get your ass out of there.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Far as I can tell, you’ve got four good ones.” He heard McGuire moving, a car door opening and closing.

“Four reasons? And what would those be?”

“First is you’re already dirty. You already tried to blackmail Cheever, so I know you’ve got nothing against selling your pictures for profit.” McGuire’s voice was cheerful. “So that’s reason number one.”

“Wrong guy,” Ben said, his eyes on Kurt. “I never blackmailed the senator.”

“Bullshit. Then who did?”