Shooting somebody from ambush is not exactly the ail-American way of doing things, but I was more intent on survival than etiquette. When I got back toward Dallas, I called the Denton Police Department non-emergency line. A woman answered"Denton Police, can I help you?"and I said, "Hi, this is Jack Hersh from the Morning News. Can you tell me who's handling that shooting a couple of days ago at the Eighty-Eight Motel?"
"I, uh, think that's Sergeant Frederick. He's out right now."
"I'll check back," I said. "What's Sergeant Frederick's first name?"
"Hal."
"Thank you."
Got back to Bobby.
still trouble?
yes. busted curtis meany. say he will chain to many more hackers. never heard of him. you?
no. have they busted anybody we know?
not since ladyfingers.
need home phone number for sergeant hal frederick of denton police department.
wait one.
A moment later, he was back with the unlisted number. Bobby is very deep in the telephone system.
what happens?
working. any more on satellites?
yes. but may miss necessary info. possibly can reconstruct. do you have access to ammath docs?
No.
will try to crack computers from here.
take care. they're watching.
and you take care.
I stopped once more before heading back to the motel. From an outside phone, I called Hal Frederick's number. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding cranky. "Yeah?"
"Sergeant Frederick? I have a tip for you."
"Who is this?" Even crankier.
"A benefactor. You're investigating the shooting at the Eighty-Eight Motel. About two hours ago, there was a shooting in Dallas, a man named Lester Benson. He's been taken to the hospital with a wound in the thigh. If you check, you will find that he has another recent bullet wound in one leg. He was the man who was shot running out of the Eighty-Eight after the murder. If you check his blood DNA against the blood you found in the parking lot, you will find a match."
"Who is this?"
"Remember the name. Lester Benson. He was admitted to the hospital a couple of hours ago. The Dallas police should have the details," I said, and dropped the phone back on the hook.
If that didn't create some serious heat, I'd just pack up and head home.
I had no more ideas.
CHAPTER 25
ST. JOHN CORBEIL
Corbeil smeared his face and his hands, pulled the black hat on his head, and shuffled across the parking lot to the Emergency Room at Health North. Inside, a nurse behind the reception station glanced at him, an old man, maybe blackcertainly black, with the X baseball hat on his headas he looked uncertainly around and then shuffled down toward the patient rooms.
"Excuse me?" she asked. "Are you looking for somebody?"
"Bafroom," Corbeil said. "Men's room."
"Do you have a family member here?"
"My wife. Upstairs. Kicked m' ass out 'fore I could pee." Corbeil had to keep it short: he didn't sound that much like an old black man.
The nurse bought it. "All right, then. Just straight down the hall. On your right." She went back to her paperwork, and Corbeil shuffled down the hall.
Took the elevator, up four floors, turned out in the hallway, and walked down to the right. Room 411. The door was shut, but not locked. He stepped inside. Hart had said there was only one bed.
One bed with a man sleeping. In the ambient light from the window, he could see Benson lying on his back, one leg suspended in a trapeze, a saline drip hooked into his arm. Corbeil reached into his pocket, took out the cigar tube, slipped out the needle inside, jabbed it into the saline bag, and emptied it. Enough sedative to kill an elephant.
Well, he thought, looking down at Benson, he was supposed to be sleeping.
He couldn't hang around. He had a long way to go this night.
Down the elevator, out through the Emergency Room entrance, driving back home. Scrubbing his face with clean-up packs from a barbecue joint, in case he met somebody in his apartment stairwell. But he met no one.
He glanced at his watch: A long way to go. In the bathroom, he washed his face and hands, scrubbed away the last of the Cover Mark. After drying his hands, he got the pistol from the dresserdetoured around the living room on the way out, unwilling to look at the wrecked walland headed for Hart's place. Hart was expecting him. Had to talk about the next move.
Hart was worried. "I don't know if it'll hold," he said. "I don't know if Benson will hold."
"Take it easy," Corbeil said. They were in Hart's study, a converted family room. In some ways, it aped Corbeil's study: a leather chair, but not quite as sleek. Books, but not as many, and with a narrow range: karate, guns, camping, travel.
Corbeil found it irritating. "If he's caught, he knows that we're his only chance. Giving us away won't help him: he'll wind up with a public defender instead of the best defense money can buy."
"I'm not sure he's that smart," Hart said. He dropped into the leather chair, brooding. Corbeil paced in a lazy circle. As he passed Hart, he took the pistol out of his pocket, paused, and, moving unhurriedly so the motion wouldn't catch Hart's eye, put the muzzle next to the other man's temple and pulled the trigger.
Crack!
Hart slumped. Corbeil waited a moment, listeningrealized that if there were anything to hear, he probably wouldn't, being deafened by the shotthen reached for Hart's throat, pressed his fingers just under his jawbone. No pulse. He hadn't expected any. William Hart was thoroughly dead.
All right. Now: one more shot, with Hart's finger in the trigger. the Webster's should do as a backstop. He fired again, into the heavy hardback dictionary. The little.380 slug penetrated to page 480, and stopped. Corbeil picked up one of the two ejected shells, carefully added one loaded shell to the top of the gun's magazine, pressed the shell against Hart's thumb, replaced the magazine, and dropped the gun on the floor next to the chair.
He looked at his watch. Still a long way to go.
He picked up the dictionary and left.
He drove through the night to Waco, his mind crowded with possibilities. Stay and fight. Run and hide.
The simple fact was this: if nobody knew about the satellite intercepts, none of the killing made sense. Even if somebody knew, it could be blamed on Tom Woods, and then he would kick free. The conspiracy never required his involvement, he thought. Woods could have set it up with the other two. He had the technical backgroundbackground that Corbeil didn't have.
As of now, the danger to himself had narrowed to a single point.
A car was parked in the driveway at the ranch, and there were lights in the main house. Corbeil parked, got out, felt the second gun nestled next to his leg. Took a moment to stand in the driveway, to look up at the stars.
Woods came out on the porch: "Hey, John. What's going on?"
"Hey, Tom. Need to talk about next week. I've got an order from Azerbaijan."
"Jeez, those guys."
Corbeil was looking up. "Look at the stars. You can really see the stars out here."
Woods walked down the three steps of the porch and stood beside his friend to look at the sky.
"Glorious," he said. Then he said something that prolonged his life for a few seconds. "By the way, I'm not sure about this, but there might be something going on out here."