XO (41 page)

He now stood in a den behind the living room, reviewing text messages on one of his many anonymous and untraceable accounts. He peeked out into the living room where the irritatingly smart Kathryn Dance, Congressman Davis and Deputy Dennis Harutyun sat, looking at—though probably not really watching—an old TV. Some game was on. Davis wasn’t happy to be here but he didn’t look particularly scared.

Simesky turned and walked into the kitchen in the back of the safe house.

The plan …

Whose goal was quite simple: to eliminate the traitor to America, Congressman William Garrett Davis, the politician who would sell the country out to people who didn’t belong here, who used it for their own gain, who despised the red, white and blue but were happy to rob this glorious nation blind. How difficult it had been for Simesky to feign admiration and undying devotion to Davis and get a job on the staff, then work his way into the man’s inner circle. He had, however, done a damn good job of it, spending more hours than virtually anyone else on Davis’s team. He’d done whatever was necessary to ingratiate himself into the man’s inner circle and gather as much information as he needed so they could stop the traitor, who—if elected president, as might very well happen—would ruin our great nation.

A little over a year ago, when Davis’s popularity began to surge, Simesky was with a think tank based in Texas, with offices in Washington,
New York, Chicago and L.A. It was part of an informal association of wealthy businessmen in the Midwest and South, who ran companies and nonprofits and even a few universities. This group of men—and yes, they were exclusively men and, by the way, white—had no official name but informally, and with some wry humor, they’d adopted one, which had been bestowed by some demonic liberal media blogger. The journalist had referred to the cabal contemptuously as the Keyholders, because, he reported, the senior leaders believed they held the key to curing all of the nation’s woes.

The group loved it.

The Keyholders funneled huge sums to candidates they thought would best uphold proper ideals to keep America strong: reduced federal government, limited taxation, minimal participation in world geopolitics and, most important, the elimination of virtually all immigration. Curiously, the Keyholders had little patience for what they considered, in their opinion, unfocused and often simpleminded movements like the Tea Party, the religious right and those railing against abortion and homosexuality.

No, the main issues that mattered to the Keyholders were the death of American self-reliance through socialism and the dilution of the purity of the nation through immigration. Leaders like Bill Davis would drive the country straight to bankruptcy and moral corruption.

Generally, the Keyholders’ efforts involved financial support for candidates, publicity, misinformation campaigns against traitorous politicos and reporters, personality smears and stings.

But sometimes more was needed.

And that’s when Peter Simesky’s obscure think tank would receive a call, asking him to handle a particularly critical matter.

However he thought best.

However extreme the solution.

The Keyholders knew that whatever the mission, Simesky would create an effective and careful plan, so it was obvious that the death of this muckraking liberal journalist had to be an accident, or of that environment activist was a suicide, or of that reformer congressman was an assassination spawned by a stalker’s love for a famous singer.

And those clever plans often involved a fall guy.

Hello, Edwin.

Using the stalker came to mind last winter after he and Myra Babbage—his business partner and occasional lover—had infiltrated Davis’s ranks. Doing his typically exhaustive research, Peter Simesky had learned that Davis was a huge fan of Kayleigh Towne. The congressman had used the bitch’s pro-immigration song “Leaving Home” at rallies and in campaign ads.

Simesky reviewed Kayleigh’s websites and learned of a fanatical fan named Edwin Sharp, who posted hundreds of comments about the singer and was described by other fans as a “weirdo.”

Perfect.

The Keyholders had quite some significant resources and it took only a day to get into the Internet service providers handling Kayleigh Towne’s and Edwin’s email accounts. Unfortunately there didn’t seem to be anything particularly threatening about Edwin’s letters and posts. But he was clearly unhinged and troublingly persistent and that would be enough for Simesky’s plan. He and Myra sent Edwin emails and letters posing as Kayleigh, reporting that she was flattered by his attention and even suggesting that she’d like to get together with him. But she had to be careful, put on a facade of indifference, or her father would cause terrible problems.

Delete all the emails, burn my letters. You have to, Edwin. I’m totally afraid of my father!

The notes suggested that, whatever she said in public, she’d enjoy seeing him at the concert on Friday. If possible she’d see him later too. In private.

Edwin, I was thinking about you last night. You know girls have those kinds of thoughts too….

Myra Babbage had come up with those lines.

And Edwin had done just what they’d wanted, descended on Fresno in all his psychotic glory, far more of a nut job than they’d hoped.

He and Myra Babbage had conducted surveillance at Edwin’s rental in Fresno to learn his routine and steal some evidence that could be planted at the site of Davis’s assassination to implicate the stalker. Then, today, it was time to act. Myra had called Edwin, pretending to work for Kayleigh. She explained the singer had decided she wanted to see him but they had to be very careful. He should go to the Fashion Fair shopping mall and lose the police, then wait at Macy’s loading dock.

Myra had cruised past and waved. The poor fool had jumped into the stolen SUV, grinning in anticipation. When he turned to put his seat belt on she’d hit him with the stun gun, injected a sedative and taped him up. She’d then gone into the mall and uploaded the announcement from Java Hut that someone was about to do something that would make Kayleigh remember him forever. The context made clear that Bill Davis was to be the victim.

And now, Myra and a barely conscious Edwin Sharp were en route to the safe house.

In a few minutes the plan would be completed: Myra would arrive, smile at the security man, Tim Raymond, and then blow him away with her pistol. At the same time Simesky would step into the living room and shoot the congressman and the others. Then he and Myra would drag Edwin into the room, shoot him in the head with Harutyun’s gun and dust the stalker’s hand with gunshot residue.

Simesky would make a panicked call begging for help and an ambulance, explaining that he’d gotten the gun away from the stalker and shot the psycho himself.

Plan your acts and act your plans …

But sometimes there were variations.

Kathryn Dance.

Her appearance could help smooth over one matter he’d been worried about—that there might be some suspicion if only he and Myra were left alive. If Dance survived too the scene would seem a bit more legitimate. Though he’d have to orchestrate it so that, of course, she couldn’t see him as the shooter.

Simesky would shoot Dance in the back, paralyzing but not killing her, then he’d murder Davis and Harutyun. After they were dead, Simesky would call out something like, “Edwin, no! What are you doing?”

Ideally Dance would be conscious and she’d hear his cry. She’d later report the story to the police, confirming that Edwin was the sole shooter. If not, and she died, well, no huge loss.

After all, Simesky thought angrily, you could’ve gone out to dinner with me, bitch. What would it’ve hurt?

SIMESKY GLANCED AT
his Rolex.

Three minutes to go.

Myra Babbage would be heading toward the safe house now, moving up the drive. Easing closer to the living room, Simesky couldn’t detect the sound of the tires because of the thick walls, but, over the noise of the game on TV, he could hear Dance saying, “What’s that? You hear something? A car?”

“I think so. Wait, no, I’m not sure.” The voice was Davis’s.

Two shots in Kathryn’s spine. Two in Harutyun’s head. Two in Davis’s.

What should Simesky shout? “My God, it’s him! That stalker!” Was that credible? Maybe: “Edwin, Jesus, no!”

In the living room Davis’s phone trilled. “Hello … Hi. Yeah, we’re inside.” Then, to the others: “It’s Myra. She just got here.”

Harutyun said, “You know, we didn’t tell her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”

Simesky thought he heard Dance say something to the effect that Edwin did a lot of research but it would be pretty unlikely that he even knew who Myra was, let alone been able to find and follow her.

Ah, if you only knew …

One minute, according to the Rolex.

Dance was saying, “No, Congressman, please stay back from the window.”

“We know who it is.”

“Still, let’s just be on the safe side.”

Out of sight in the den Simesky pulled on latex gloves, opened his computer bag and removed the pistol, a cold one—stolen. That was one thing about this great country; if you wanted an untraceable gun you could get one, real easy. He knew it was loaded and he knew exactly how
it worked. And he’d already fired it a dozen times to extract some GSR, gunshot residue, now in a Baggie, which he’d plant on Edwin’s hands. But he checked the weapon again.

Two shots, then two, then two.

“Peter?” the congressman called from the living room.

Simesky replied, “Be there in a sec. Anybody want coffee?”

“No thanks,” Davis said absently. “Myra’s here.”

“Good.”

“Kathryn, Dennis? Coffee?”

They both declined.

Simesky slipped closer to the doorway to the living room, pressing his back against the adjoining wall, staying well out of sight, waiting for Myra’s gunshots, killing Raymond.

Harutyun said, “We had a real president stay here once. He’d come for a conference with the governor. Had to sign something so I wouldn’t tell who it was.”

“Can we play Twenty Questions to find out?” Dance asked.

The detective laughed.

Davis said, “I was at Camp David last week. It’s not as fancy as you’d think.”

Would those be his last words?

And what was Edwin Sharp thinking as he was enduring, though probably not enjoying, his final moments on earth?

“Hey, look, the game,” Davis said. “Triple play!” The volume on the TV went up. Spectators roared.

A glance at the Rolex. Right about now Myra would shoot.

Simesky would step into the doorway and do the same.

Two.

Then two and two more.

Edwin, no! My God! …

He wiped his hand on his slacks and took the pistol again.

Now!

But no shots sounded.

Another minute passed, silence except for the televised crowd and baseball game announcer on the TV.

What was going on? Sweat on Simesky’s brow.

And then at last: gunfire from outside.

A half dozen shots. The snapping clatter of a firefight, small arms.

Shit, Simesky thought. What’s this about? He considered his plan and how the rattle of weapons might fit into it. Had there been another deputy on the scene who’d gotten here earlier? Or had a local cop happened by and noticed a woman with a weapon or a hog-tied Edwin Sharp?

Now, all was silent.

Act your plan …

Simesky, thinking: Sometimes you
couldn’t,
though. Sometimes you needed to improvise. But to do that, you needed facts.

Only there were no facts.

He decided to go ahead anyway. The three in the room would be focused on what was happening outside the windows, staying down, staying silent.

Two, two and two … Kill Raymond when he walked inside, if he was still alive. Then clean up as best he could. Too bad about Myra; he assumed she was gone.

But there were larger issues at stake.

Simesky gripped the gun firmly, slipped the safety lever forward and took a deep breath. He turned fast and stepped through the arched doorway into the living room, aiming at where Harutyun and Dance had been—the most immediate threats. He was adding poundage to the trigger, when he froze.

The room was empty.

The alarm pad was blinking green. Someone had disarmed the system so Davis, Dance and Harutyun could leave silently. What the hell was this? He walked further into the room. And then he saw the side window was up. That’s how they’d escaped.

Simesky noticed too in the middle of the floor a pad of yellow paper. On it was scrawled a message:
Plot against your life Simesky involved Myra too Maybe others We leave NOW Side window NOW

Oh, no …

Who? he thought.