“Right. Every company in America wants to get their people blown up and be accused of poisoning toddlers. It’s every CEO’s dream.”
Carlton was in a panic, and he forced himself to sound conciliatory. “Randall, we don’t need to fight like this. What is it you really want?”
“You pay for security for the first year, and you announce it in your statement. Say you’re trying to protect innocent people from these vigilantes, and say that Hanson is a responsible corporate citizen who is committed to preserving clean air and water. We’ll release the same kind of statement.”
“OK. That’s fair,” Carlton said. “Done.”
It was an easy promise to make, because it would be an impossible one to keep.
In a very short time, providing security would be both unnecessary and impossible.
Lucas … did I ever tell you I had decided to follow you and Dad and become a cop? In my junior year, I decided to chuck it and I signed up to take the test. But I never took it, I went down there but left before it started. I decided I wouldn’t have the courage in dangerous situations. I guess I was right, because right now I’m scared to death, and not handling it well.
I haven’t thought about it in ten years. It’s amazing how old memories come back when you think you’ll never again make new ones.
That’s it for now … power on the computer is getting low.
Make Gallagher understand. Please.
Chris Gallagher spent almost two hours gauging the level of security.
It wasn’t so much that he was concerned that he couldn’t handle whatever was presented. He had entered Taliban strongholds undetected; getting into Richard Carlton’s house would be a comparative piece of cake, no matter how many guards he employed to protect himself.
What Gallagher learned in two hours he could have learned in ten minutes. There was no outside security in place, other than motion detector floodlights, which he could easily elude.
The wreckage of the guesthouse had been mostly cleared away, and Gallagher could see the foundation with his night vision goggles. It just added to the question that had already formed in Gallagher’s mind; why would someone like Carlton, already the victim of violence, not have more security?
It certainly couldn’t be financial; just based on the house, and the money Carlton was getting from Hanson, he could have hired an entire army division to protect him. And with his guesthouse destroyed, and a Hanson employee already dead, surely Carlton couldn’t be oblivious to the danger.
People like Carlton did not react to physical danger well. Things like that happened to other people, not them. So they overreacted, spending whatever it might take to shield themselves from that world.
Yet Carlton didn’t even have his curtains drawn; Gallagher could see him sitting serenely in what looked like his study, on the main floor, reading.
So the question answered itself beyond any doubt in Gallagher’s mind. Carlton was not afraid, because Carlton was behind the violence. It was why he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of.
But he was about to find out otherwise.
Gallagher could only see one other person in the house; he looked like he could be a security guard, but there was no way to be sure of that. The challenge was going to be putting him out of commission while not giving Carlton enough warning or time to call 911.
So he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Carlton didn’t move, showing no concern whatsoever. Through the glass window at the top of the door, Gallagher could see the other man in the house walk towards the front door. As he approached, while his momentum was still going forward, Gallagher kicked in the door. It was a sudden, violent move that he had perfected long ago.
The door smashed the man in the face, probably rendering Gallagher’s blow to his head unnecessary. He was not dead, Gallagher saw no reason to go that far, but he would not be waking up for a while.
For Gallagher, it represented the final crossing of a line. His life was essentially over; he recognized that and was comfortable with it. After tonight he would either soon be dead or live on as a fugitive. But he was positive that the answer to Steven’s death was in this house, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.
Gallagher raced to the study, just as Carlton was getting to his feet in response to the crashing noise. When he saw Gallagher coming towards him, he looked towards the phone, but even in his panicked state he knew there was no chance of that.
Gallagher grabbed him at the front of his throat and pushed him against the wall. Choking, Carlton tried to strain upwards and away, but Gallagher just pushed him higher, cutting off his air supply. But Gallagher was not there to kill; he was there to get information.
Maybe fifteen seconds before Carlton would have passed out, Gallagher released his grip and pushed him into a chair. He waited until Carlton could speak his first words: “Who are you?”
“I am Steven Gallagher’s brother.”
“Who is that?”
“He is the person you framed after you had Judge Brennan killed.”
“No, no, no.”
“You don’t know me, but I am telling you this. Right now I control you, I control your pain, and I control your life. Do not lie to me.”
“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”
Gallagher was surprised by the statement. Carlton was petrified; there was no question about that. Gallagher would have guessed he would have caved by then; perhaps the man was tougher than he thought.
So Gallagher tried another approach.
He broke Carlton’s arm.
He did it like one would snap a twig, only arms make a louder cracking noise than twigs. Carlton screamed in agony, an appropriate response considering the circumstance, and then started to mix in sobs with the screams.
“Why did you kill Brennan?” asked Gallagher in a calm voice, stepping back.
“NO, NO…”
“Why did you frame my brother?”
“NO, PLEASE … I DIDN’T … I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT.”
Gallagher started walking back towards him, and saw the total panic in his eyes. The fact that Carlton was not caving was a major surprise to him, and he was not often surprised.
It was a dilemma, in that inflicting more pain would get Carlton to confess to anything; Gallagher could have him admit to killing Kennedy. But Gallagher didn’t want a confession that way; he wanted the truth.
“You’re lying.”
By now Carlton was whimpering. “I swear, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything about that.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
And Carlton did exactly that.
I should have done it long ago, even though it had little chance of success.
I hadn’t wanted to spook Gallagher in the process, but I could no longer worry about that. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost thirty-six hours, and in any event I couldn’t be confident that I would be able to convince him to give Bryan more time.
I needed Barone’s help, and wasn’t positive I could get it, at least not on my terms. But I was waiting in his office to make my pitch when he got in.
“Uh-oh,” he said, when he saw me. Then, “Let’s hear it, fast. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”
“I need your help.”
“I thought that’s what you’ve been getting.”
I nodded. “And I continue to appreciate it. But we’ve got to elevate it a notch.”
“I’m listening. Reluctantly, but I’m listening.”
“We’ve got to go wide with this.” In our parlance, that meant I was saying that so far the investigation had been limited to the officers in our precinct. Going wide would mean bringing in other precincts.
“How would that help?” he asked.
“I believe he’s in a bomb shelter in one of three counties. I need every cop that can walk going door-to-door, asking people if they know of bomb shelters in their area, so we can check them out. I also got a list of abandoned missile silos from the Defense Department, which we can do as a follow-up if this doesn’t pay off.”