The Last Day (17 page)

Ward handed it to Natasha, who held the gun as though it were a dead rat. Gracelessly she managed to open the cylinder, load the plastic bullets, and close it.

Todd smiled. “Don't put your finger in the trigger guard until you are going to squeeze it. As soon as you decide to use it, point and squeeze like you're making a tight fist. Firmly and slowly, because the gun will go off target if you jerk it. If you imagine that you're aiming at a saucer your enemy is wearing on his chest you'll hit vital organs—heart or lungs. I don't expect that I have to tell you where the vital organs are, Doctor.”

“I don't intend to fire it.”

“Don't extend the gun. Keep it close to your
body. If you point the gun at someone, fire immediately Anyone who knows what he's doing can take it from you and use it against you.”

“I would never shoot a person,” Natasha said with certainty.

“Okay. Then aim to hit something directly behind him and let the bullet find its own path.”

“It would go through him,” Leslie said.

“If that's the path the bullet has to take, so be it. Natasha, if your target gets the gun, he'll probably use it on you and Ward. Could you kill to save your husband's life or your own?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding as she met Ward's eyes. “I would kill to save him. But I'm a doctor. ‘First, do no harm.’ ”

“You're a living
woman first,”
Todd said, smiling. “After you shoot the son of a bitch, as a wife protecting yourself and your husband, you can give him CPR as a doctor until the paramedics arrive.”

Ward laughed nervously.

Natasha didn't.

“Again. You will only point the gun at someone you have decided to shoot,” Todd said, seriously. “Do not hesitate. A man who knows what he's doing can move thirty feet in less than two
seconds. A decision to fire through the trigger pull takes an average of three. It's longer if you are a civilian. If that man has a knife he can bat the gun aside and kill you before you can squeeze the trigger. So make the decision when you raise the gun and fire then.”

“I'll keep the gun,” Ward said.

“That would probably be best,” Natasha said. “I'd be thinking about all the gunshot wounds I've tried to repair. The damage it would do.”

“Regardless, you should familiarize yourself with the weapon. Just in case.”

Natasha pointed the Smith at the stove, closing her eyes; when she pulled the trigger, she jerked visibly at the snap. Natasha handed the gun to Ward, and he did the same thing. He play- fired the gun, killing the windows, the refrigerator, the Mixmaster, the fridge, the stove, and Mr. Coffee. By the end of the session, Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson were not quite old friends, but they were acquaintances.

FORTY-ONE

The driveway guard called ahead so that when the doorbell rang, the occupants of the McCarty home knew who was at the door. Gene had left and Leslie was out running a list of essential errands for Natasha.

“Agents,” Ward said, after opening the door. “Come in.”

Agent John Mayes nodded at Ward and Natasha, but Bill Firman looked like a man who was there for a colonoscopy Mayes wore a wedding band, wingtips, and a cheap suit. Firman had an expensive haircut and manicured nails.

As Todd, Natasha, and Ward watched from a few feet away, the two agents inspected the hide on the hill. While Mayes looked at the same things Firman was looking at, Mayes looked at the McCartys as often as he looked at the hole, the binoculars, the cigarette butts, and the diamond sharpening stone. Finally Firman took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was ninety- seven degrees
and there was not the slightest breeze to stir the leaves.

“So who, or what, is Gizmo?” Firman asked.

“No idea,” Natasha said. “He, or it, didn't introduce himself.”

“All I know is what everybody knows. That word is slang for electronic devices, widgets, thingamajigs,” Ward said.

“Is that a fact?” Firman asked. “And you didn't know this hole was out here?”

“No, I didn't,” Ward said.

“Then you wouldn't know how long it has been here?”

“No,” Ward said. “We rarely come up here.”

“Like to collect firewood in the fall?” Firman mused.

“We buy firewood in the fall,” Natasha said.

“We don't even own a chain saw,” Ward said. “And we like our trees standing.”

“So, Mr. Hartman, you didn't get a good look at this person who scurried out of the hole and fled through the woods?”

“No,” Todd said. “I saw a light reflection. I thought it was probably a cameraman sneaking shots. I called for backup, and Bixby Nolan and I converged, but the subject was already running
away. I couldn't close on him. He seemed familiar with the terrain, because there's no path, and he was very fast and agile.”

“Maybe it was a raccoon,” Firman said flatly.

“Your sarcasm is uncalled for, Agent Firman,” Natasha said sternly. “Someone has been using this hole to watch our home, which I would think might be of interest to you. Todd Hartman found listening devices in our home, and it's very likely we have been systematically drugged by someone, perhaps the person who was in this hole. If you aren't going to take this seriously, we'll call the actual police. I think they will be more open to investigating this than you seem to be.”

“Digging a hole, scratching on the walls, and watching your house. Not federal crimes,” Firman said, shrugging. “Who knows who planted those bugs, but breaking and entering even to plant eavesdropping devices and drug liquor supplies are also not federal crimes. And drugs would be easy for you to get your hands on. I saw the toy casket you let your child have. So, I suggest you do call the sheriff, or maybe you could hire a really good private investigator.”

“We'd never seen that casket before and it was
not anything our son would have had. We would have seen it in the room. Whoever was in this hole must have planted it to freak us out and your people found it before we did,” Ward said angrily.

Todd glared at Firman. “My excuse, if I needed one, is that I've only been working on this for a day. You've got the FBI lab and a lot of support personnel behind you. Maybe we should ask the attorney general to send some actual FBI agents to investigate.”

Firman laughed, but Mayes didn't. In fact he appeared thoughtful.

“Agent Firman, there's a medical term that fits you,” Natasha said.

Ward knew what was coming because he'd heard this come out of her mouth once before, and he would have said something if he'd thought her contribution might be counterproductive, but he didn't think it could be.

“And what would that medical term be,
Doctor?”
Firman asked.

“Hemorrhoid.” Her delivery was perfect.

Mayes laughed.

Firman didn't.

FORTY-TWO

Mayes took samples of liquids away with him in a plastic shopping bag, promising Ward and Todd he'd have them analyzed by the FBI lab. Based solely on Firman's attitude, a speedy response by the lab seemed unlikely to Ward.

Thanks to the tinted windows in Todd's Denali, Natasha and Ward were able to sit up in the backseat without being visible to the few remaining members of the media milling about outside their vans on the road. Nolan and his partner, arms crossed and wearing sidearms and frowns, were keeping them at bay.

“Gizmo,” Natasha said. “I keep thinking I've heard that nickname somewhere before.”

“So have
I,”
Ward said. “There was a kid in high school who was always building electronic equipment. His nickname was Gizmo. He died our senior year, from leukemia. He won our science fair with a listening device he made from metallic tubes of varying lengths bundled together. The Army actually bought the device from him.”

“Him dying pretty much rules him out,” Todd said. “Ghosts don't dig holes in the ground and carve their own nicknames into the walls.”

In downtown Charlotte, Todd parked in the lot underneath the building where Wiggins & Associates took up half of the fifth floor. Gene was waiting for them in the reception area when they arrived, and he led them back to Tom Wiggins's office. Lawyer Wiggins greeted them warmly and shook everybody's hands. He and Natasha made small talk about the fund- raising for the children's cancer center. Wiggins was involved because he'd lost a granddaughter to bone cancer four years earlier.

“First off,” he told them, “they haven't got anything to hang their hats on but theories. What they have might get them an indictment, but I doubt they'll go for one on hunches alone. That doesn't mean they won't arrest Ward if they get him indicted, but for the moment I seriously doubt it. In order for them to convict, they have to prove that you knowingly had the illegal material in your possession, and that you disseminated it.”

“Gene's filled me in on the stalker and the possible drugging. Obviously, someone released this virus on purpose, and it appears they set you up to take the blame. Mr. Hartman can verify the facts, and based on his expertise and reputation, his word should carry weight.”

Todd, seated to one side, nodded.

“Computer experts are going over the virus and we should have everything figured out except for whoever planted it. Someone has been accessing porn sites using your office computer for over a year. From what I have been able to put together using what the prosecutor shared with me, someone used your computer many times over the past ten months to visit unsavory sites. Usually when you were there, according to the receptionist's time sheets.”

“How is that possible?” Ward asked.

Todd said, “It can be done remotely using spy-ware programs.”

“Todd probably knows more about this than I do, but I am told the program can be tracked back to the originator,” Wiggins said.

“Good,” Natasha said.

Todd nodded his agreement.

“Your son Barney died, what, about a year ago?” Wiggins asked.

Natasha said, “Today is the one- year anniversary.”

The meeting lasted less than thirty minutes, but Gene assured Ward and Natasha on the way out that they'd be billed for an hour.

FORTY-THREE

Filled with outrage that clinched his stomach like a vise, Ward pressed down hard on the pedal and tossed
The Charlotte Observer
into the trash can's open mouth, letting the lid slam shut.

Natasha rubbed his forearm. “They only say you are the CEO of RGI, and that the virus originated from a computer in your office. Nothing we can do about it. It's all just innuendo and speculation.”

“Innuendo sucks. Unk gets the mud splashed on him, too,” Ward said. “I sure as hell can do something about it. I'll cancel our subscription.”

Natasha laughed. “That'll teach them.”

“Perception doesn't go away.”

“They'll find out who doc'd the box,” Natasha said.

“ ‘Doc'd the box’?” Todd asked.

“I think it sounds really techy,” Natasha said.
“A
play on … you know.”

Todd laughed easily.

“I've really missed your sense of humor.” Ward smiled, leaned over, and kissed his wife. “I've decided that I'm going to sell the company.” He looked up into Natasha's eyes, waiting for her response.

“To Dibble?” Natasha asked, taking a sip of water.

“It's the only offer on the table. With the money we can move and start over somewhere. Maybe Seattle.” When he said it, he had a thought that rocked him to his core.
And leave Barney here?
He wondered if the same thought hit his wife, because he saw her eyes lose their focus for a second. Or was she thinking about the partnership offer from her old professor?

“I just can't picture Trey Dibble running your father's company. I'm afraid I'm going to have to vote against it.”

“I think Dibble is behind the virus,” Todd said.
“I don't think it's Lander Electric. Except for your son's accident, they're squeaky- clean. This is just business with them, and with Dibble it's probably more personal than business. Everything I've found out about Trey Dibble tells me he's one seriously ruined bowl of fruit. He hangs with some pretty rough customers—some of which are known drug dealers and one connected to organized crime.”

“I have no choice, Natasha. You've seen how people look at me, how your own patients turned against you. How many of our many friends have showed up at the driveway or tried to see us to show their support?”

“The problem is my patients’ parents,” Natasha said, smiling sadly “My patients like me.”

FORTY-FOUR

Security in the downtown condo complex was hardly more than a showy illusion designed to make the owners feel secure and intimidate amateurs. Only the cameras in the lobby, the elevator
cabins, and the main hallways were monitored by staff security. Watcher overrode the alarm on the fire door and fried the circuits in that camera without worrying it would be discovered anytime soon.

Watcher wasn't even breathing hard after climbing twenty- three floors of stairs. Once in the service hall, he slipped to the rear door that opened into the kitchen of Trey Dibble's penthouse. The expensive and complicated lock on the steel security door slowed Watcher less than ten seconds. Once inside, he heard the voices of two men radiating from the living room. Watcher moved to the door and listened.

“The FBI saw me earlier this morning. I figured they'd come see you.”

“Well, why didn't you call and warn me?” Trey whined.

“I told them to check you out,” Flash said. “If you did have anything to do with that virus, you're going to prison with my blessings.”

“I have to have the six hundred thousand today,” a third voice chimed in.

This voice reflected some anger, but that was covered over by fear.

“As I said before, Mark, I will advance it to you in a personal transaction. But the deal has to go through. That's a lot of money.”

“You'll get it back,” Mark Wilson said.

“Ward is not going to sell to me,” Flash said. “But if you say you can make it happen, I believe you, Mark. You're both a horse trader and his uncle. And you know better than to try to screw me.”