“You know as well as I do that evil is always banal and common, if you look at it closely, and it must find other evil, and feed. And so I will go down in history as the man who killed a Justice of the Supreme Court and two of his law clerks—those young acolytes who supped and slept with him, and drank in his words, and knew what he was, and reveled in it.”
Savich said, “You garroted Danny O’Malley and tried to kill Elaine LaFleurette because you believed they sanctioned Califano’s affair with Eliza Vickers?”
“They all knew what he was doing, and they did nothing. Just as no one did anything when my mother slept with that judge. They enjoyed his power, lusted after such power for themselves. They deserved to die.”
He was breathing hard, the gun jerking slightly in his hand. He was near the edge. Savich said quickly, his voice low and steady, “Why haven’t you told the world why you killed these three people? Don’t you want everyone to know why you made an example of Justice Califano?”
For the barest moment, Günter simply stared at him. Then he shrugged, and his voice was as empty as the still air itself. “I destroyed him. That is all I need. Whatever the world thinks, it doesn’t concern me.”
Savich said, “What makes you think I won’t tell the world?”
Günter smiled. “Because you’ll be dead, as dead as I will be. Three corpses know the truth. It is enough.”
Sherlock said, “But you weren’t alone in this, were you? Who was the woman with you the night you fired into our house?”
Günter laughed, but his gun never wavered from her chest. “Who cares anyway? That woman in my car was just a drunk I picked up at a bar. She was good camouflage, to help me get through roadblocks.”
“But you know it stops here, Günter,” Sherlock said. “It stops now.”
Günter laughed. “It doesn’t stop until I say it does. I’ve spent enough time with you. I’m going to die, but you’re going to hell with me.”
Ben shouted from behind Günter, “Don’t you even think of shooting or I’ll blow your head off!”
Günter whirled, fired, and kicked out all in the space of a moment. The bullet slammed into the wall not two inches from Ben’s head as Günter’s left foot struck his arm, numbing it instantly, and sending the gun crashing to the floor, skidding toward the front door.
Ben dived at Günter, slamming him onto his back to the hall floor, but Günter’s locked fisted hands smashed hard into Ben’s throat, just as his legs kicked up against his back, throwing him off. Ben fell against the areca palm, gagging, trying to get his breath. Günter fired into the living room, sending Savich and Sherlock diving behind the sofa. Then he fired toward Ben as he rolled away, shattering a beautiful Chinese vase, and sending the palm tree crashing to the entrance hall floor. It was the palm tree that saved Ben’s life. The next bullet shot through fronds, striking so close he could smell the singed material from his jacket sleeve. Günter burst through the front door, slamming it behind him, and leaped down the front steps.
Ben heard Savich shout at him, but he didn’t stop. He grabbed his gun up in his left hand, threw open the front door, and raced after him, Savich three feet behind him.
From the darkness, Jimmy Maitland yelled, “No, hold your fire!”
“There’s no escape, Günter,” Savich shouted. “Agents are everywhere. Stop where you are and drop the gun.”
Savich switched on the front lights, held his SIG in front of him as he looked at Günter. Ben was just to his left, behind a large urn that held an Italian cypress tree. For an instant, their eyes met.
Günter didn’t drop his gun, he shot from the hip, missing Savich by inches. Before he could fire again, a single loud rifle shot pierced the air. Günter whirled about, thrown forward as he slapped one palm against his neck. The last thing he saw was Dave Dempsey stepping from out behind a car at the curb, a sniper rifle aimed at him.
A half-dozen agents came running from their positions, guns aimed at the unmoving body. They walked to where the man who’d wreaked so much devastation lay, unmoving.
There was absolutely no sound for a good thirty seconds. Finally Jimmy Maitland said, “Jesus, am I glad that’s over.”
Ben nodded, stood up. “Sherlock, are you okay?”
“Yes, fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “He doesn’t look all that scary now, does he? He just looks like a dead old man with a slack jaw. Nice shot, Dave. And thank you, Ben. You shaved it a little close, but you got him out to us.”
He turned to Savich, who had Sherlock pressed against his chest. “I was watching through the living room window, Savich. When he put that bullet through Sherlock’s arm, I nearly shot him myself then. Okay, I guess it’s time to call Dr. Conrad and get the trash taken away.”
Two paramedics came quickly forward, stepping over Günter to see to Sherlock. Ben looked at Savich, but Savich was focused on his wife.
He turned back and smiled at Dave Dempsey. “That was a good shot, Dave.”
“I guess it’s something for Luther’s family. But not enough. It’s never enough.”
“Ben,” Savich called out, “check him for I.D. Find out who he is.”
Günter lay on the sidewalk on his back, his gun still in his hand. Both Jimmy Maitland and Ben went through all his pockets. They came up with nothing at all, not even a fake driver’s license. Slowly, they both rose. Ben called out, “Nothing, Savich. Nothing at all.”
“It’s not a surprise,” Jimmy Maitland said, staring down at Günter. “He lived with another man’s name and died with no name at all.”
Savich had bared Sherlock’s arm. “The bullet came real close to your knife scar.”
“I’ll be fine. Dillon, before you turn the paramedics loose on me, I think you, Ben, and I should talk. You know we do.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, of course you’re right. Ben, could you come into the house for a minute?”
Ben nodded.
Savich picked her up and carried her inside over her protests, leaving the paramedics to wait in the ambulance for another ten minutes before Savich called them in.
Jimmy Maitland wondered if Savich would ever tell him what the three of them discussed.
CHAPTER
37
TUESDAY NIGHT
IT WAS JUST after eleven o’clock when Ben pulled his truck into Margaret Califano’s driveway.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Callie said. “And you never said a word to me. I could have stayed outside with the other agents.”
“I couldn’t, direct orders from Savich. You’ve been saying that all evening. I guess that means I’ll never hear the end of it, will I?”
“Probably not. But I’ll forgive you since Savich gave me that great inside interview for the Post this morning. Coombes is dancing on the file cabinets, high-fiving everyone he runs into, an idiot grin on his face. You said you liked my story, but what do you really think? Did you notice it was above the fold on the front page? Right there with my own byline?”
She was so proud, he smiled. “Yes, I really did like your story. It was excellent. Congratulations. So this means your job is safe?”
“Oh yes. Suddenly I’m valuable to him again. I was relieved to see Sherlock looking back to normal, well, nearly so. Dillon kept going on about the sling.”
“He told me it reminded him of a night he didn’t want to remember. He wouldn’t tell me about it.”
“Maybe I can get it out of Sherlock.” Callie settled back against the seat and closed her eyes. “It’s all happened so fast, I still can’t quite process it, even after writing my story. I’m glad Günter’s dead, but the fact that he picked my stepfather by chance? It didn’t matter which Justice he murdered? Stewart was such a fine man—” She stopped and drew a deep breath.