The Accused (37 page)

At the house, finishing up the details of the night, she followed her usual routine. She checked all the doors to make sure they were locked and secure. She set the alarm system. And she walked into her bedroom,
washed up, brushed her hair. Then she climbed into the big bed…a bed that, without Will, seemed more empty than ever that night.

Reaching over to the nightstand, she took some lotion and rubbed it on her hands. Then she folded them in front of her, closed her eyes, and prayed for Will's safety. For justice to be done in his case before the ICC. For their marriage. She also prayed that the two of them might soon be able to start a family. Very soon.

Glancing over at the photo of the two of them on the opposite nightstand, she said a quiet good night to her husband's picture and then turned out the lights.

She did not see the man walking up along the winding driveway that led to their log home on the hill—nor could she have—because he was dressed all in black. He stopped behind one of the large, spreading trees, took out a pen flashlight, and flashed it inside the black bag he was carrying, double-checking his equipment. The cutting tools, screwdrivers, needle-nosed pliers. And then he removed and fingered a large, tempered-steel knife with a serrated edge. Placing it back in the bag, he closed it and continued walking up toward the house where Fiona had just turned off the light.

58

I
N THE
M
EXICAN JAIL
, W
ILL BEGAN LOGICALLY
, methodically describing the fact that he represented Colonel Marlowe. That he wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened at Chacmool, Mexico. He described a little about the military operation—Marlowe's involvement—and the charges now pending against his client. Then he indicated to the prisoner that he needed to find out everything he knew about the incident and the involvement of any Mexican officials in setting up the trap for the colonel and his unit.

The man's head continued bobbing slightly as the attorney spoke. And when he finished, the prisoner flicked his cigarette to the floor and crushed it with his black boot.

As he stretched and straightened his back, Will caught sight of the tattoo on the left side of his neck. A black eagle.

“So, Mr. Black, I need to get this information from you, and I need to get it today. What can you tell me?”

The man tilted his head slightly and stared at Will for a few seconds with a blank look. Then he began giggling. He giggled, then laughed, staring up at the ceiling and shaking his head back and forth.

“What's so funny?” Will asked, his irritation growing.

“Oh man, oh man, this is something…you are really something else,” the prisoner said, sitting up straight in the bunk with a hand on each knee and his feet spread in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” Will asked, starting to flush with anger.

“You—you I'm talking about!” he said. “You're talking about all this stuff—your client—your law case—what kind of a man are you? Are you a man? Or are you a little girl?”

Now Will was incensed.

“Is your name Rusty Black? Were you told that I was going to be coming to interview you?”

“Oh, yeah. That's right. I'm Rusty Black,” he said, giggling some more. “That, and a lot more. Oh, yeah. A lot more…what's the matter with you?” the man asked, pointing both of his index fingers at the lawyer's face.

“There's something I'm missing here,” Will said, standing up but not knowing why.

Suddenly, Black leaned back on his bunk and stroked his shaven head. Studying his face more closely, Will saw that his nose was bent, obviously broken in the past. The man was smiling and showing his stained teeth as he continued to laugh and just shake his head at his questioner. Finally he stopped laughing. And then he spoke.

“Oh, man. I think I see…I get it now. Chambers, Will Chambers, lawyer. Doesn't get it. And nobody told you. You jerk!” he laughed again. “You really don't know who I am, do you?”

As the man leaned forward on the bunk, he pulled his T-shirt down slightly to scratch his neck. As he did, more of the black eagle tattoo on the left side of his neck was displayed. It caught Will's attention, and he looked at it more closely. The black eagle—it was a symbol he had seen somewhere. Documentary film perhaps. A historical symbol…of hatred…where had he seen it?

Then he remembered. It was the same eagle that had stood atop the Reichstag building during the reign of the Nazis in Germany.

As Black continued to scratch his neck, tugging slightly at his T-shirt, the attorney could see more of the tattoo. He looked at it in horror. A sense of nausea, dread, and fury rose up—an electric convergence of emotion that flashed through his brain and clouded his reasoning.

Now there was only visceral, blind reaction. Will stood and stared. Then he shot his hand, unthinking, toward the man, grabbed his T-shirt, and yanked it down even farther. There, at the base of the eagle tattoo—there it was.

A Nazi swastika.

Black jumped to his feet, slapping Will's hand away, and began screaming profanities at him.

But Will was numb. It was all starting to make sense—it was all beginning to become clear…in its irrational, horrifying reality.

“So…now you understand. Yes, I'm Rusty Black. And a lot of other names. Like Victor Viper. You know that one?” he asked, pushing at Will's chest and knocking him back slightly.

“And I'm also a lot of other people…” he said, shoving the other man back again.

“You know my name. Don't you?” he demanded, pushing Will a third time, this time down onto the bunk.

“Say my name. Say it!” he yelled.

Will jumped to his feet so he was only inches away from the man's face. But he wouldn't say the name…he couldn't say it.

“So, let me make this short. Sweet. So even a stupid lawyer like you can understand…I'll give you a statement. I'll give you any statement you want about this Chacmool incident. And believe me, I can name names. And I know exactly who it was in the government who was playing ball with the AAJ to set up Marlowe and his military goons. I know it all. And I'll tell it to you on one condition…”

Will was struggling to understand…to comprehend how he could be conversing with this animal in the jail cell. The man with the Nazi tattoo. Will didn't want to admit who he was. And yet he knew—he knew the awful truth.

“I'll give you the statement,” the prisoner continued. “My sentence is almost up, and you've got to promise me that, when I'm done, I'm walking out of here. No calls to the cops. No calls to the FBI. I disappear into the night. You call the cops on me and they nab me here for what happened up there in Georgetown, and I give you no statement. Nothing.”

The man was standing nose to nose with the lawyer, waiting for his reply.

Finally, Will uttered the name. A name he didn't think he could speak aloud. But he said it.

“You're Damon Lynch, aren't you?” he asked almost inaudibly.

“Hey, you guessed right, moron,” Lynch sneered. “I'm the guy who was there. I'm the guy who was watching when your wife—what was her name—Audra Chambers—that's it. I was there when she got it. I know exactly
how
she got it. I know what she said when she was pleading for her life. I know it all because I was there.”

And then he started to giggle again. Will stepped closer to him and the man took a step back.

“So we got a deal or what?” Lynch asked. “Hey, gutless—you leave your tongue in the briefcase on the floor there? You gonna talk or what?”

Every sinew and muscle in Will's body was tensed. He felt as if his brain was on fire.

“I don't deal with scum like you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not now, not ever.”

Will grabbed his briefcase and headed to the metal door of the cell. Then he turned to Damon Lynch, who was standing with his mouth open and a serious look on his face.

“And now I'm going to walk out of this cell, and I'm going to call the authorities. And they're going to drag you up to a jail cell in the United States. And I'm going to make sure you get tried for murder. And I'm going to make sure you get the death penalty.”

“Wow, suddenly you grow a spine, Mr. Moron!” Lynch jeered as he followed Will to the door and shoved him from behind.

“You wanna to know what happened right at the end?” Lynch taunted in a whining, tittering voice. “You wanna know what we did to your precious wife before we killed her? You wanna know how we did it—and how she screamed when we were doing it?”

Something clicked. Like a switch. In one motion, Will dropped his briefcase and whirled around.

His fist flew in an arc into Lynch's face, connecting with his nose in a crunch that sent the man spinning in a half-circle against the wall of the cell. He tried to maintain his balance, but slowly collapsed like a rag doll to the floor, leaving a bloody smear on the cement surface. He was bleeding from his nose and mouth, his eyes were unfocused, and he was trying to hang on to consciousness, reaching out weakly in a directionless attempt to grab onto something.

Will leaped on Lynch and wrapped two hands around the other man's throat. He struggled weakly, trying to fight back, but Will began pressing on his voice box, and as he closed his hands around Lynch's throat, he felt the cartilage of the airway begin to collapse. The other man was starting to lose consciousness again, and he was no longer able to gasp for air. Will tightened his grip—and as he did, he stared at the Nazi tattoo on the neck of the man who had helped to torture and murder Audra.

And as he continued to squeeze, he closed his eyes…not caring, not thinking.

59

T
HE MAN IN BLACK CLOTHING, WITH
the little bag, was at a side window of the log house on Generals' Hill. Quickly retrieving a small pair of cutters, he cut through the alarm system telephone wire. Then he moved rapidly over to another side window, pulled out some tape, and covered the entire pane. With a small hammer he tapped the window. The tape kept the broken glass in place. He removed the shards carefully, without a sound. After reaching through, unlatching the window, and raising the sash, he climbed into the kitchen. He had left his bag on the outside of the house, taking only one thing with him.

The military-style knife with the long stiff blade and serrated edge. Such a weapon was capable of gutting a human being in a matter of seconds.

The scene would be violent—messy—with an excess of blood. He would have to be careful not to leave any DNA—no footprints, no evidence. But he did want to leave plenty of gore. That was the point.

He knew that Will Chambers would have to see the photographs—the lawyer would insist on that—and he would see his precious bride slaughtered—disfigured.

In rubber-soled shoes, the intruder deftly stepped through the kitchen, through the great room toward the bedroom. Fiona had tossed and turned for a while. But now she was asleep. She was breathing easily.

The man had the military knife in his right hand.

With his other hand he reached out and turned the doorknob. The door swung open quietly, gently. He saw Fiona in bed, sleeping on her side with her back to him.

Just a few more seconds now.

“Stop right there, slime bag!”

The intruder whirled around.

Tiny Heftland was poised near the front door, revolver in both hands, pointing it at the man's chest.

He froze for a second, considering his options, and then he sprinted, like a leopard in the night, out of the great room, through the kitchen, and dove through the open window.

Tiny bolted through the front door, down the steps, and around the side of the house.

As the detective rounded the corner of the house at full charge, the other was waiting for him. With a pistol from his bag, he fired two shots.

The first missed, but the second caught Tiny in his left bicep.

But the detective needed only one shot. Pointing at the intruder's chest, he squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore into the man's heart, dropping him immediately.

Tiny stumbled over and made sure the attacker was dead.

Then he heard Fiona screaming. Grabbing his arm, he made his way to the porch, where she was standing in her robe, steadying herself on the railing.

“What…oh, please, Tiny…what's going on?” she cried.

But then she saw that his left arm was bleeding. She took him inside and grabbing some towels, wrapped a pressure bandage around his arm.

“Fiona, you'd better call the police. Tell them an intruder's been killed by a licensed private investigator. Tell them the investigator is waiting here for them and that the area appears to be secure—and no other shooters are involved.”

Fiona's hand was trembling so much, her mind so shocked that she hit 4–1–1 instead of 9–1–1. An information operator answered. She hung up, pushed her hair back, took a deep breath, and then punched 9–1–1.

She dutifully relayed all of the information, as Tiny had told her. And then she added one more thing.