“I’m on it,” said Marilyn. She marched inside the building. Thorne looked over at Robert. “Well?”
“She’s with us on this.”
“She’d better be. I don’t need much of a reason to blow her away.” Robert ran his eyes across the grounds, searching. “Let’s just get the evidence and get the hell out’a dodge.”
“Here she comes,” said Thorne.
A heavyset man in a dark gray pinstriped suit accompanied Marilyn.
His eyes puffy and red, he waddled more than walked.
“This is Larry Welsh. He’s agreed to cooperate fully, no questions asked,” said Marilyn.
Mr. Welsh sweated profusely. “Did you hear the news? Those towel heads shot the President. I told my wife we can’t trust the bastards, not as far as we can throw’em.”
“Thank you Mr. Welsh,” said Marilyn. “Now if you’ll just arrange to have the crypt opened for us, we’ll be on our way.”
“Right away,” said Welsh. “On your way out, stop by the office and sign the release.”
“No problem,” said Marilyn. “And thanks again for your cooperation.”
Flustered, Mr. Welsh hustled across the lawn towards the groundskeepers, about a hundred yards away. Robert, Thorne, and Marilyn drove to the mausoleum and parked. Robert looked back at Marilyn.
“Have you heard anything about President Claymore we haven’t heard on the news?”
“Not much. It looks like the work of Islamic fanatics, but the shooters haven’t been identified and no group has claimed the attack.” Robert looked at Thorne. “We think it’s the same group that attacked us a few nights ago.”
Marilyn sat forward, mouth agape. “Attacked you?”
“Yes,” said Robert. “We’ll fill you in after we secure the evidence, but we think Rothschild may have hired them.”
“Two Presidents,” mouthed Marilyn, anger in her voice. “I’m gonna make sure I’m there when they haul his ass in.” They got out and went inside. Robert quickly located the crypt with Julie Rice’s name on it.
“Julie Rice,” said Marilyn. “Who’s she?”
“She was a friend of Charlie Ivory,” said Robert. “They both lived on the street.”
“How did you figure it out?” Marilyn asked.
“What does it matter?” snapped Thorne. “Let’s just get this over with, fast!”
Marilyn smiled. “Just a little professional curiosity, that’s all,” she said. “No need to get your thong twisted.” The groundskeepers entered, to Robert’s relief. Thorne looked as though she might shoot Marilyn between the eyes.
“Over here, gentlemen,” said Marilyn, waving them over.
Four groundskeepers went to work on the crypt, removed the bolts that held the marble headstone in place, and lowered the slab of rock to the floor. They pushed a long wooden gurney into place just below the tomb, less than six inches from the wall, and carefully placed the dark wooden casket on the gurney.
Robert gently ran his fingers across the top of it. “Ok, let’s get it loaded in the truck,”
The groundskeepers pulled weapons from their overalls, screaming for them not to move. Robert reached for the Uzi, but froze when he felt the cold tap of steel against his temple. He raised his hands in the air and turned. Marilyn!
“Well, well, Mr. Veil,” she laughed. “Don’t look so glum. Did you really think you’d get to waltz out of here with one of the few wonders left in this world?”
“I knew I’d have a problem, but obviously I didn’t think it’d be you.”
“Better luck next time. Oh I’m sorry, there won’t be a next time.” She kissed Robert on the cheek. “What a shame. I thought I’d get another little taste before we killed you.”
“You sick bitch,” said Thorne, her hands raised, her face calm. “I knew it’d be your sorry ass.”
“That’s funny,” said Marilyn, taking Robert’s guns. “If you know so much, then why am I about to kill your sorry ass?” The groundskeepers disarmed Thorne. “That remains to be seen,” she said, smiling.
Marilyn stomped over and backhanded Thorne across the face. His partner’s head snapped backward. When it returned, the smile remained.
“Ok, let’s get it loaded in their truck,” said Marilyn. “I’ll call the others.”
Two of the men quickly rolled the casket outside while the others held them at gunpoint. Marilyn spoke into a small walkie-talkie, and a few minutes later Mr. Welsh, a silencer stuck in his back, walked in, trailed by the weasel they’d run into several times earlier. Welsh, shaking, and sweating profusely, urinated in his pants. Marilyn tossed the weasel Robert’s gun.
“Well, hello Mr. Veil,” said Simon. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Go to hell,” said Robert.
“I’m sure that’s in the cards one day,” said Simon, putting Robert’s gun to the back of Mr. Welsh’s head. “But not today.”
“What about the real groundskeepers?” asked Marilyn.
“They’re in the tool shed,” said Simon. “None of them will talk, I assure you.”
Simon walked over to Robert and Thorne. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Simon Lynch. I’ll be executing you today.”
Simon turned, pointed Robert’s gun, and shot Mr. Welsh in the head.
“You idiot! You shouldn’t have done that here!”
“He said don’t kill them here,” said Simon. “Now let’s get everyone tied up and in the truck.”
Robert wanted to attack but couldn’t find an opening. He looked over at Thorne. Still calm. A good sign.
Marilyn pulled a large black gun from her coat and pointed it at Thorne.
“He said not here,” barked Simon.
She ignored him, and fired.
A dart hit Thorne in the shoulder. Marilyn turned the gun on Robert.
“When you wake up, Mr. Veil, you’ll be dead.” She fired into his thigh. Thorne crashed to the floor. He watched the room spin, and didn’t fight it.
A fog fell over his mind, and Robert fought for one last thought. He thought of Fiona, Jessica and his mother, praying they were safe, and begged God, for one last chance to make things right.
35
Robert saw everything clearly. He ran down the street behind a black convertible limousine. A crowd lined up along the sidewalk, waved, cheered, and hurled insults. Motorcycles led the procession and several more men in black suits, white shirts and dark ties, ran with him.
In front, riding in the back of the limo, sat a beautiful woman in a pink dress and pillbox hat; waving to the crowd. To her right sat a very handsome man doing the same. Robert heard a popping sound. The man stopped waving and grabbed his throat. Robert struggled to catch up to the car, but couldn’t no matter how hard he tried. He looked up ahead to his right, saw Charlie Ivory’s face at the fence on the grassy knoll, and pumped his arms and legs harder.
A shot, louder than the others, rang out. President Kennedy’s head jerked backwards to the left, exploding in a mess of blood and brain, some splattering Robert’s suit. Jackie Kennedy climbed along the trunk, reaching for a piece of skull. This time his legs worked, and he pushed her back into the car. He threw his body on top of Jackie and looked over at the President. He was gone.
“Robert! Robert!” an echoing voice called. “Robert, wake up!” Robert struggled to fend off the clouds, shaking his head like a wet collie. Slumped over, head hanging down, a pungent odor stampeded his nostrils, but not enough to shake the fog.
The familiar voice grew closer.
“Robert!”
Groggy, he struggled to focus his eyes. “Thorne,” he finally whispered.
“I’m right here, Robert. We’re tied to a pole in somebody’s barn.
Wake up and shake it off.”
“How long have you been awake?” he asked, the pounding in his brain clearing with each breath.
“I’ve floated in and out for a couple of days. I’m really not sure.”