Seven Grams of Lead (38 page)

Rolling after the gun, he saw Canning rise, the disposable cell phone in hand, his index finger settling on the center key. The 5, Thornton figured, to speed-dial the phone that would trigger the E-bomb.

As Canning pressed the key, he fell to the driveway, landing on his side and lying completely still. Thornton noticed the dark cavity where Canning’s left temple had been; he was down permanently. Not that it made any difference: The E-bomb would have the same effect, momentarily. On Thornton, too. And everyone else in the vicinity of Washington.

Thornton flung himself toward Canning, landing beside him and snatching the phone from his lifeless hand. The LED read,
DIALING
—the wireless network was still in the process of routing the signal to the bomb.

Thornton stabbed the
END
button.
DIALING
faded, replaced by
CALL TERMINATED
. He lay still on the dirt, holding his breath and praying that the signal hadn’t touched its recipient despite the message on the LED. A connection lasting just a fraction of a second could be enough to initiate detonation. He heard only choppy gusts off the bay and a wave sizzling onto the rocky shore. Which didn’t necessarily rule out detonation.

He staggered up and into the house to get Mallery. Tripping on the threshold, he grabbed at a curtain to
regain his balance, but only tore fabric, loosing the metal tension rod. One of its fleur-de-lis finials sliced his forehead. Just a scratch in the scheme of things; it felt as if the bullet were exploding inside him. Hot blood poured over his brow, stinging his eyes, blinding him. He used the tension rod to prop himself up. He was hurrying in the direction of the broom closet when everything went white.

Thornton awoke to
the blips of an electrocardiograph, opening his eyes to a fluorescent haze that gradually subsided to reveal fresh flowers. A galaxy of them, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, packed into temporary shelving units that must have been brought into the hospital room for that reason. The sweet scent took him back to Barbados, until motion to the right of his hospital bed drew his focus. The boxy man in a rumpled gray business suit was Special Agent Jim Musseridge of the FBI.

Thornton raised his head from the pillow, sending fiery pain the length of his spine. But the pain was nothing compared to the fear that he’d dreamed the events leading to his being shot—and that he’d dreamed Beryl—all while lying here in Staten Island
University Hospital. He looked to his patient identification wristband. Gone.

He asked, in a croak, “What happened—?”

“Hoagland wasn’t telling us shit, but the LoJack in his car showed us where to find you,” Musseridge said. “Ms. Mallery managed to get out enough about the E-bomb that we made it to South Atlantic before anyone could detonate—”

Thornton cut in. “I meant, what happened to her?”

“Got you.” Musseridge lowered himself into an armchair.

Thornton felt a prickly foreboding.

“I take it you noticed all of these flowers?” Musseridge pointed a thumb.

“I did.” Thornton braced himself.

“She keeps ordering them for you from her room upstairs—these are just today’s. Other than that, she’s okay.”

Thornton sat up, intent on getting out of bed and taking the elevator up to see her. Nausea flooded him, however. The room tilted.

The FBI man restrained him. “Don’t go just yet, bud.”

Thornton grasped the metal side rail. “Am I under arrest?”

“No.” Musseridge appeared puzzled. “But I figured you’d want the exclusive on why Washington is still standing—”

“Good.” Thornton tried to prop himself up, but
bandages practically mummified his torso, causing him to topple forward. Blood jumped from the vein as the IV detached. He fell to the floor, landing face-first. It felt like he’d been shot all over again.

It was the best day in a long time, he thought, scrambling up and stumbling out of the room.

When news broke of the corrupt Department of Commerce officer’s plot to bomb Washington, D.C., blogger Russ Thornton and Senator-elect Beryl Mallery had no comment. They were aboard a small yacht in the Caribbean, unreachable by phone, e-mail, or text.

This book would still be a bloated Microsoft Word document if not for extraordinary editing by Phyllis Grann, and that Word doc would have had humongous gaps if not for information generously and patiently provided by Bill Abelson, Elizabeth Bancroft, Kyra Tirana Barry, Tim Borella, Fred Burton, Keith Eure, Christian Floerkemeier, Emily Giglierano, Mark Greaney, Kam Kuwata, Steve LeVine, Jane Mayer, Steve Nelson, Gary Noesner, Bob Noll, Elizabeth Pyeatt, Fred Rustmann, and one other source who wisely wants his name kept out of this. Thanks to all of the above, as well as to Richard Abate, Grant Bergland, Rachel Clevenger, Michele Crawford, John Felleman, Chuck Hogan, Melissa Kahn, Edward Kastenmeier, Jennifer Marshall, Barbara Peters, John Pitts, Nora Reichard,
Jake Reiss, Roy Sekoff, Liz Sullivan, Karen Shepard, Southside Ball, Adrienne Sparks, Henry Steadman, Bill Thomas, Angie Venezia, Holley Wesley, Adam White, and anyone else who has read this book to this point.

Please send any questions or comments to
[email protected]
.

SEVEN GRAMS OF LEAD