Nature of the Game (60 page)

“We took it off the guy at Union Station,” said Nick. “You better take it.”

The gun was a familiar weight in Jud's hand.

“No,” he said.

Jud scanned the Archives documents. “The Marine knows all this?”

“Yes.” Nick put on his left blinker, eased into a lane where the cars crawled faster. “He says you know you can trust him because of the desert, when he could have killed you but didn't.”

Jud's eyes floated beyond the windshield.

“Tell me,” said Nick.
Before
, he wouldn't have pushed.

“Dean.”

“Shit,” said Nick, another notch on his conscience.

“You did what you had to do,” said Jud. “We all set it up. Dean pushed it over the edge.”

The windshield wipers thumped for half a mile. Tears streaked Jud's cheeks.

“What happened in the desert?” asked Nick.

Jud shook his head, wiped his eyes. “I say what I did, it's all over. Give something a name, you die with it.”

“What about Dean?” asked Nick.

“If the Marine made it, Dean didn't.”

A passing truck splashed water over the Jeep.

“You know the ultimate truth about us?” said Jud.

Nick drove, waited.

“You always wanted to be me,” said Jud. “A spy, a tough guy like in one of your books. Out there, on the line. Dark knight for a good cause.
Dangerous
.”

And Jud laughed. “What romantic bullshit.”

“And I always wanted to be you,” Jud added. “A straight fuck who was his own somebody. Who people knew. Picket-fence parents, clean hands, easy sleep, a wife, a kid … A life.”

“And you for a friend,” said Nick.

“I targeted your ass.” There was ice in Jud's words; warmth, too. “My mission was to tag your columnist boss's sources. You were there. You wrote a novel about my world, were a journalist, had some legal immunity. I profiled you, folded you in … I thought you would be my—”

“Your redeemer,” interjected Nick. “That I'd write something because of knowing you and that would redeem you.”

“You've thought about it, too?”

“No,” said Nick.

They laughed.

Jud shook his head. “You were my confessor. And I taught you about hell. But you never got your wish,
Mr. Dangerous
. Congratulations.”

They rode in silence for a moment.

“Neither did I,” said Jud.

“Is that what you want?” said Nick. “Straight life?”

“I gave up wanting the impossible in Nebraska,” said Jud.

“Then what?” asked Nick. “You can't stay in this life. You lost your stomach for it. If spy games don't kill you, the booze will. Both are shit ways to go. What do you want?”

Jud said nothing for ten miles.

“All these years,” Nick finally asked him. “How much of what you told me was true?”

“I don't know,” Jud honestly answered.

They followed Nick's headlights and the compass of Jud's memory. The map lay between them. Their route circled D.C. toward Annapolis. Traffic was thick as commuters shuttled along the Washington-Annapolis-Baltimore corridor. Exit 424 was a two-lane state highway through cornfields and groves of trees. This land held too many houses with twinkling lights to be pure country, too few homes to be suburbia or a town of its own.

Their rearview mirror was empty.

“You're sure you know the way?” said Nick. If they got lost, he could convince Jud to turn around; link up with Wes.

“There's a bar up ahead somewhere.”

The white lines in the road arced to the left. A red neon light glowed along the road a mile beyond the curve.

“We're not stopping to drink,” said Nick.

“Just a landmark.”

They whooshed by the tavern, where four cars were parked.

“What do you want from Varon?” said Nick. When Jud didn't answer, Nick said, “What if he's not there?”

“He's got nowhere else to go either,” said Jud.

“We could …,” began Nick, and then he caught Jud's stare. Nick sighed, said, “No, I guess we couldn't.”

“Up there,” said Jud. “Turn left at that general store.”

Later, they went left again, then again, and then a right that Jud decided was a mistake. They backtracked to the preceding intersection, made a left off their original route.

The compass on Nick's Velcro watchband spun.

This road was only two lanes and erratically striped. At every intersection, Jud made Nick slow the car to a crawl while he peered through the rain and darkness.

“Here,” Jud finally said. “I remember that basketball court where the streetlight is shining down on the road.”

A battered green road sign read
AULDEN DRIVE.
They left paved highway for its bumpy gravel path.

“It's a straight shot,” said Jud. “Down this road maybe four, five miles. The house is on the right. There's a mailbox.”

The path was a tunnel through swaying sycamore trees; their bark shone black and pale gray in Nick's headlights. Shadows of pines and scrub brush waved behind the sycamores. Rain fell through wisps of fog.

“The Chesapeake Bay is close,” said Nick. “When I was in fifth grade, we had to trace it over and over for history.”

“Stop,” said Jud.

A mailbox stood sentry by the road. Nick braked the car, turned off his headlights. The wipers kept up their heartbeat. He pushed the button, and his electric window slid down. The air was cool, damp, smelled green and wet and gravelly. The rain in the forest sounded like a thousand rushing streams.

Through the woods, Nick saw the glow of house lights. A chipped-rock driveway led toward the house in the trees.

“It's about a hundred feet off the road,” said Jud. “The trees have grown up around here. I'll hump it in. You go home, I'll—”

“No,” said Nick. “We have a deal.”

“I'll keep it,” insisted Jud. “But you're not coming with me—that would be stupid. When I'm done, I'll call a cab or—”

“A cab?
That's
stupid! Cabs don't—”

“Go home, Nick,” said Jud. “You've done enough.”

“I didn't get in this car to drive away,” said Nick. “I'll buy that you go in alone, but I'll be right here. On the road. Waiting.”

Jud looked at his old friend, saw enough not to argue.

Nick held out the revolver. “Here,”

“No,” said Jud. “Not now.”

“You're just going to walk up to the front door?”

“Balls to the wall.” Jud opened the Jeep's door. “Stay in the car.”

He laughed. “If shit happens, somebody has to go get the Marines.”

“Sure,” said Nick.

“See you later,” said Jud.

Then he was gone, a hulking form slogging up the driveway through the rain. Nick strained: through the storm and the trees, he thought he heard a doorbell, thought he saw a shaft of light escape into the night as a door opened. Imagined he heard voices, questions asked and answered. Then the light vanished; he was alone in the tunnel with only the sound of the rain.

YELLOW SNAKE

B
ad weather's rush hour traffic trapped Wes; it took him an hour to get into D.C., another half hour to get through it and find the Maryland suburb. The Beltway would have looped him around the city, but he preferred the straight line to the curve, even if it wasn't the easiest way.

The house looked wonderful, even in the dark: big, rambling, blue. Gables, covered front porch. Oak trees. A yard for kids.
Did Beth like this kind of place?
He parked, took his attaché case, and hurried up the sidewalk through the rain.

Like a husband home from a hard day's work
, he thought.

A dog barked inside the house. A big dog.

She didn't answer the first time he rang the bell. Nor the second. When he didn't leave, he heard her quiet the dog behind the wooden door.

“What do you want?” came her muffled voice.

“I'm a friend of Nick's!” said Wes. “Please open the door: the dog sounds like he can keep me out, and I hate shouting our business for the neighbors.”

The door swung open. She was pretty: black hair, smile lines on a grim face. She held tight to the rottweiler.

“Who are you?”

“Wes Chandler, a friend of your husband's.”

“I don't know you.”

“I'm new,” said Wes. “Is he here?”

“He'll be right back! You can't wait!”

Right back?
Nick had said he'd go home, wait. “Where did he go? Does this have something to do with Jud?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Her face said she lied. “Now please leave.”

“You've got to trust me, Mrs. Kelley.”

“Why?”

“I'm a Marine officer. A lawyer and—”

“I'm a lawyer, too. Big deal.”

Her hand grabbed the door: he was losing her.

“You work for a congressman!” blurted Wes. “Nick said!”

She frowned, stayed her push.

“Suppose the congressman vouches for me?” said Wes.

“If you knew him, I'd know you.”

“Wait.” Wes took his cellular phone from the attaché case. “We can't use yours.”

He saw her blink.

“What's the congressman's name?” When she didn't answer, he said, “I can call and get your listing in a staff directory.”

She told him.

Wes called a number he'd been given weeks before. “General Butler, it's Wes Chandler. A while back, you told me that if I needed help, you would send up some flares.”

“From what I hear, you've been burning up the sky yourself,” said the Marine who was Wes's mentor.

“Not enough, sir. There was some confusion the last few days. I was reported AWOL. That report has been corrected.”

“Shitty business, Major.”

“Yes sir. And I'm taking fire. Flares, sir.”

“What?”

“I need you to call a congressman—now. Vouch for me.”

“What the hell are you doing, Wes?”

“
Semper fi
,” was his reply.

General Butler sighed. “Which son of a bitch do you want?”

Sylvia made him wait on the porch. They didn't try small talk. The dog waited by her side, mouth open, eyes on Wes.

Seventeen minutes later, the cellular phone buzzed.

“Who's this?” growled a man when Wes answered.

“Congressman?” asked Wes.

“I know who I am, who the hell are you?”

“One moment, sir.”

Sylvia hesitated; took the phone.

“Yes?” she said. “Yes…. I appreciate it…. No…. I can't tell you now…. No, it won't affect you…. Thank you…. Okay.”

She handed the phone to Wes. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Major,” snapped the congressman, “Sam Butler played a chit for you. I don't know your bullshit, but I've got your name, rank, and serial number, and
you've
got
my
word that if Sylvia ends up with so much as a frown on her face, you'll be bulldozed so deep you'll forget you ever saw sunshine!”

The connection died.

“You can come in,” she told Wes.

The dog stayed between them as they stood in the hall.

“Where's Nick?” said Wes.

“He left.” She licked her lips. “With somebody.”

“
Jud Stuart?
He was here?”

Sylvia nodded.

“Why didn't they wait?”

“Nick wanted him to—Nick's doing what he thinks is right! He has no knowledge of or active participation in—”

“I'm not a judge,” said Wes.

“Then what are you?”

“Where did they go?”

“I don't know. Nick drove him in our Jeep. Jud went to see somebody, then he's agreed to meet
a friend
of Nick's: you?”

“Did they say who they were going to see?”

“They wouldn't tell me.” She hesitated, bit her lip.

“Mrs. Kelley, if you know anything …”

“This is how it starts, isn't it?” She shook her head. “I
spied
on them. I snuck up the stairs, listened to … They went to somebody's house. Jud had been there before. They took Route Fifty. I heard them say something about Exit Four Twenty-four.

“Now I'm just like all of you, aren't I?” she whispered.

“Where off of Four Twenty-four?” said Wes, who'd gone to the Naval Academy not far from that road.

“I can't give you an address,” she said.

“But somebody can.” Wes pushed
REDIAL
on his phone. After his call, he asked her, “You heard me mention General Varon?”

She nodded.

“If something happens—”

“
What?
” said Sylvia. “If
what
happens? What kind of—”

“You'll know,” said Wes. “General Byron Varon. If anything happens, call your congressman, tell him Varon is the one. Tell him he'll need a giant bulldozer.”