He was younger now, perhaps by more than thirty years. Like King, he had re-created himself. He munched on a buttered bagel, sipped his black coffee and quietly pondered King’s reaction to the discovery of the body in his office. Shocked at first and then perhaps angry, but not surprised—no, not really surprised when one thought about it.
As he considered this, he turned on the radio, which was always set to the local news channel, and he got the eight o’clock report, which started off with the abduction of John Bruno, the lead story for just about every news service worldwide. It had even chased the Middle East and professional football from the minds of many Americans, at least temporarily.
The man licked his fingers clean of butter and sesame seeds as he listened. The story had to do with Michelle Maxwell, the Secret Service detail leader. She’d been officially placed on administrative leave, which, he knew, meant she was one foot from the professional grave.
So the woman was out of the game, at least officially. Yet unofficially? That was why he’d memorized Maxwell’s every feature as she passed by him that day. It wasn’t out of the question that he’d confront her again at some point. He already knew her complete background, but the more information, the more intelligence, the better. She was a woman who might sit home and grow bitter, or one who’d charge forward and take risks. From the little he’d seen of her, he thought the latter more likely.
He refocused on the scene unfolding in front of him now. Some of the townsfolk, just showing up for work or opening their shops, were wandering toward the lawyer’s office as yet another police car and then a crime scene van pulled into the small parking lot. This was clearly something new for the respectable little metropolis of Wrightsburg. The men in uniform hardly seemed to know what to do. It was all so heartening to the man as he munched on his bagel. He’d waited so long for all of this; he intended to enjoy it. And there was much more to come.
He noted once again the woman standing outside the office. He’d seen Susan Whitehead when she approached King in the parking lot. A girlfriend? A would-be lover was probably more accurate, the man deduced from the encounter he’d witnessed. He raised his camera and took a couple of shots of her. He waited for King to come out for air, but that was probably not going to happen. King had covered much ground in his rounds as a deputy. So many back roads to traverse, lonely roads they were too. Anything could be out there, in the thick woods, waiting for you. And yet where was one really safe these days?
Inside a zippered bag in his trunk was a very special item that had to go to a special place. In fact, now was the perfect opportunity to do so.
After tossing the remains of his breakfast in a garbage can on the sidewalk he put the rusted Buick in gear and drove off, muffler rattling. He pulled down the street, glancing once in the direction of King’s office and flippantly gave a thumbs-up sign. As he passed by Susan Whitehead, who was staring at King’s office, he thought, Maybe I’ll be seeing you. Sooner rather than later.
The Buick disappeared down the road, leaving a stricken Wrightsburg in its wake.
Round one was now officially over. He could hardly wait for round two.
8
Walter Bishop, a man very high up in the Secret Service, paced in front of Michelle Maxwell, who sat at a small table and watched. They were in a small conference room deep inside a government building in Washington filled with people reeling from recent events.
Over his shoulder he said, “You should feel relieved you’re only being placed on admin leave, Maxwell.”
“Oh, yes, I’m thrilled you’ve taken my gun and badge. I’m not stupid, Walter. Judgment has already been passed. I’m gone.”
“The investigation is ongoing—in fact, it’s just beginning.”
“Right. All those years of my life, down the toilet.”
He whirled and snapped, “A presidential candidate was kidnapped right under your nose—a first in the agency’s history. Congratulations. You’re lucky you’re not in front of a firing squad. In some other countries you would be.”
“Walter, don’t you think I feel that too? It’s killing me.”
“Interesting choice of words. Neal Richards was a fine agent.”
“I know that too,” she snapped back. “Do you think I knew that this rent-a-cop was in on it? There is no one in the Service who feels worse than I do about Neal.”
“You never should have allowed Bruno in that room alone. If you’d simply followed standard procedures, this never would have happened. At the very least that door should have been open far enough for you to see your man. You never, ever take your eyeballs off your protectee; you know that. That’s Protection Detail 101.”
Michelle shook her head. “Sometimes, on the job, in the middle of all the things we have to put up with, you strike compromises, to keep everybody happy.”
“It’s not our job to keep people happy. It’s our job to keep them safe!”
“Are you telling me this is the first time a judgment call was made in the field to let a protectee in a room without an agent?”
“No, I’m saying this is the first time that call was made and something like this happened. It’s strict liability, Michelle. No excuses will avail. Bruno’s political party is up in arms. Some nuts are actually saying the Service was paid off to knock Bruno out of the race.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I know it is and you know it is, but you get enough people saying it, well, then the public starts believing it.”
Michelle had perched on the edge of her seat during this exchange. Now she sat back and looked calmly at the man.
“Just so we’re clear, I accept full responsibility for what happened, and none of my men should be affected. They were following orders. It was my call and I blew it.”
“Good of you to say. I’ll see what I can do about that.” He paused and added, “I suppose you wouldn’t consider resigning.”
“No, Walter, I really wouldn’t. And just so you know, I’m hiring an attorney.”
“Of course, you are. This is America. Here any screwup can hire a lawyer and actually get money for being incompetent. You must be so proud.”
Michelle suddenly had to blink back tears at this stinging rebuke, yet part of her thought she deserved it. “I’m just protecting myself, Walter, just like you would if you were in my position.”
“Right. Of course.” The man put his hands in his pockets and glanced toward the door in a show of dismissing her.
Michelle rose. “Can I ask one favor?”
“Certainly you can ask. Although you have unbelievable balls to do so.”
“You’re not the first person to notice that,” she said coolly. He waited expectantly, without replying. “I want to know how the investigation is going.”
“The FBI is handling all of that.”
“I know, but they must be keeping the Service informed.”
“They are, and that information is for Service personnel only.”
“Meaning I’m not?”
“You know, Michelle, I had my doubts when the Service started actively recruiting women. I mean you spend money to train an agent, and then, poof, she gets married, has babies and retires. All that training, money, time, down the drain.”