Madison Bowe stood behind the etched-glass insert in the front door, watching as Howard Barber climbed out of his car, straightened his tie, patted his pockets as though checking for keys, then headed up the walk onto the porch. He was wearing the usual wraparound blades–style sunglasses and dark suit. He was reaching for the doorbell when she opened the door.
He stepped inside, took his sunglasses off, said, “Maddy, what happened, you sounded . . .”
She hit him hard. Not a slap, but with a balled-up fist, hit him in the cheekbone as hard as she could; but she was not a big woman, hadn’t thrown many punches, and he twitched away before the punch landed and that took some of the impact out of it.
She tried again, but he was ready this time, brushed her off. “Hey, hey, what the hell?”
She shouted at him: “You killed Lincoln and you killed Schmidt and now the whole thing is coming down on us.”
“No, no, no . . .” He had his hands up now, backing away from her.
She was spitting, she was so angry, the words tumbling out of her. “Don’t lie to me, Howard. I know about the brain tumor, I know about the medication. I stayed up all night, trying to work out explanations, and there aren’t any. You killed Howard and you killed Schmidt. Now Jake Winter knows about the package and he’s looking for it.”
“Ah, jeez,” Barber said, dropping his hands. She took a step toward him and he said, “Maddy, don’t hit me again. That hurt like hell. Just listen for a minute, huh?”
“Howard . . .”
“Linc died at . . . a friend’s place. He’d worked out the whole thing, the whole thing involving Schmidt. When he’d died, we took him down to the basement and shot him. We shot him in a way that would keep the slug in the body and we planted the pistol at Schmidt’s place.”
“And killed Schmidt,” Madison shouted: but she was pleading for a denial.
He gave it to her. “We didn’t kill Schmidt. Schmidt’s in Thailand, screwing twelve-year-olds. We’re not gonna kill some innocent guy.”
“Thailand?”
“Schmidt has a thing about hookers,” Barber said. “Young brown hookers. He’s also tied to Goodman. They were on the same base at Latakia, at the same time, and he kept trying to get into the Watchmen. And he likes guns.”
“Guns . . .”
“Guns. On top of it all, he was desperate for money. We told him about a job possibility in Thailand, tending bar in an American place down south of Bangkok. He took the job. We’d fixed it up through a pal of mine—had to pay most of his salary, so the Thai guy who runs the place essentially has a free American bartender for a couple of months.”
She wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him, but she pushed ahead. “Lincoln was dead?”
“I sat with him until he stopped breathing. He took an overdose of Rinolat.”
“And Schmidt?”
“Schmidt’s in a beach town about the size of my dick,” Barber said. “We told him he was hired to play the part of an old expat China hand. He’s grown a beard, makes drinks, he’s getting along pretty well for the first time in his life.”
“Why don’t they know this? Why don’t the police know this?”
Barber shrugged. “You don’t have to check out of the country yet. You just have to check in. We gave him the ticket, so there’s no financial record.”
“Howard, if you’re lying . . .”
“I’m not lying. Schmidt has no idea of who we are, of who bought him the ticket, of how it worked,” Barber said. “He just saw a good deal being handed to him by a guy in a bar, and he took it. If somebody thinks we killed him, if there were ever any legal question . . . he’ll be ‘discovered’ by an American tourist.”
“Jesus, Howard. How can you keep this shut up? There must be so many people involved . . .”
“The same people who’ve kept their mouths shut about Linc and friends all these years.”
She stepped back to think about it; reeling from information overload.
Barber said: “Now tell me about Winter. How’d he hear about the package?”
“I don’t know how he heard about it, but he tracked down Tony Patterson, and Tony gave him the outline,” Madison said. “He doesn’t know where it is, or who has it. He doesn’t even know if it’s real. I told him about Al Green out in Wisconsin. A wild-goose chase. I mostly wanted to get him away from here. Away from you. You guys are the ones who mugged him, right? You could have killed him . . .”
“Listen, listen . . . He goes to see Green, that’s another day or two. Maybe I can talk to a couple of people, get him shunted off again, in another direction.”
“You didn’t answer the question. You’re the guys who mugged him . . .”
Barber’s eyes shifted: that was an answer. She stepped toward him again, lifted her fist, but he stepped sideways, one hand up to block, and asked, “Is he the one who told you about the brain tumor?”
“Yes. He . . .” She started to tell him about Rosenquist, but suddenly shifted, suddenly thought she might not want to. She still wasn’t sure about Schmidt, what Barber might have done to him. And her feelings about Jake were confusing: Wasn’t he the enemy? “He apparently found a computerized medical record somewhere. He’s got all kinds of computer access, intelligence services, the FBI.”
“That sounds a little hinky,” Barber said.
“That’s what he told me.”
“You gotta manage the guy, Maddy,” Barber said, his voice urgent. “He’s talking to you, he’s coming to you, you gotta manage him.”
“I’m trying. That’s why I sent him to Wisconsin.”
Barber nodded: “That was quick thinking. If I hadn’t grilled Green myself, I would have said he’d be the guy who’d know . . .”
“I just hope he doesn’t,” Madison said. “I just hope he wasn’t lying to you.”
“Nah. He would have told me. He knew about me and Linc . . .”
“So where is it? Why can’t you find it?”
“We’re still looking, but we’ve decided that if we can’t find it, we wait until after the convention, and then we leak what we’ve got. We get people looking at that highway project. We have enough details that we can redo it—maybe even force the guy with the package out into the open.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “How did this ever start? How could you and Lincoln . . . What could possibly be worth it?”
Barber examined her for a moment, as though he were puzzled, and then said, “We’re talking about the presidency, Maddy. We might be talking about changing the history of the country. If people like Goodman get their way, this place could go down like Rome. A hundred years from now, two hundred years from now, people will look back . . .
“Spare me,” she said. “I don’t need any historical analysis. I need to get back to the farm. I need to go riding. I need to get away.”
“Hang on, baby. We’re almost there. Hang on.”
The whole thing had gone to hell, and Darrell Goodman didn’t quite know how to get out of it. He and George had flown to Chicago on a state plane, on Watchmen business. At O’Hare, they’d rented a Dodge van, the most inoffensive and invisible car that he could think of, and had headed north for Madison.
The trip had taken longer than he thought. Both he and George were wasted from the overnight flight, and the stress; and Darrell was annoyed with George, because George kept having to stop at roadside rests and gas stations to pee.
George had been an operator with the CIA, a contract guy, but wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Arlo Goodman had once said to Darrell, “Even the CIA needs guys who carry stuff. That’s what George did.”
Darrell had driven: George had ridden silently along, half asleep, waking up every hour or so to ask if they could stop. George thought he had an infection, Darrell thought it might be his prostate, but whatever it was, George couldn’t drink half a Coke unless he was standing next to the can.