Kate finally spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m working.”
“You… you were in the North Tower…”
“Actually, like you, John, and other people, I was late.” He said philosophically, “Isn’t it funny how fate works?”
I replied, “Yeah. Fate is a barrel of laughs. What’s the deal, Ted? Are you going to tell me you’re here to stop Madox, but once again you were a few minutes late?”
He smiled and replied, “I’m not here to stop Madox.” He glanced again at the late Mr. Madox. “But apparently you were.”
“I was just here for dinner.”
Then, before we could engage in any more witty repartee, he pulled his pistol, which was a Glock similar to my own, and said, “You guys really fucked things up.”
“No, Ted. We just saved San Francisco and Los Angeles.” I said, to be sure he understood, “We’re heroes. The bad guys are dead.”
He was getting a little pissed, the way he always does with me, and now that he had his gun out, and we all knew where he stood on this issue, he said, “You have no idea how you’ve fucked things up.” He stared at me, and glanced at Kate. “The world as we know it was about to be forever changed. Do you understand that? Do you?”
He was getting himself all worked up, so I didn’t answer his stupid question.
He went on, “This was the best, most ingenious, most daring and courageous plan we have ever come up with. In one fucking day-one day, John-one fucking day, we could have wiped out a major threat to America. And you-you and this bitch, here, fucked it up.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry.”
Kate took a deep breath and said sharply, “First of all, Ted, I’m not a bitch. Second, if this government wants to destroy Islam with atomic weapons, or threaten to destroy them, then they should have the balls to do that without faking a fucking terrorist attack on two American cities, and killing millions of Americans-”
“Shut the fuck up! Who gives a shit about Los Angeles and San Francisco? Not me. Not you, either. Don’t take the moral high ground with me, Kate. We had a chance here to bring this Muslim shit to a happy conclusion, but you and this fucking clown you’re married to-” He glanced at me, and for the first time noticed the sling on my shoulder, and the black muzzle of the M16 peeking up from behind my back. He pointed the Glock at me. “Get that fucking rifle off your shoulder. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch anything. Let it slide to the floor. Now!”
I leaned left so that the sling started to slide off my shoulder and down my arm, while trying to figure out how to get a grip on the rifle, click off the safety, aim from the hip, and get off one good shot.
Apparently, Mr. Nash was tired of my slow response and said, “Don’t bother. Just stand there and die.” He aimed his Glock at my chest. “Just so you know, I pulled some strings to get you sent here, and hopefully killed, instead of poor Harry Muller, who you will be joining in about three seconds. Also”-he nodded toward Kate-“I did screw her-”
I heard a loud blast but didn’t see his muzzle flash. He did, however, toss his gun into the air. Or so it seemed. His body went straight back, as though he’d been kicked in the chest, and he slammed into the wall next to Luther. As he was sliding to the floor, Kate emptied Carl’s Colt.45 into Ted Nash’s body, which jerked violently each time another bullet hit him.
I watched her get off the last three shots, and there was nothing hysterical or frenzied about the way she was shooting. She was holding the big automatic with both hands in the correct grip, knees bent, arms straight, aim centered, squeeze, fire, breathe, hold it, squeeze, and so forth. Until the slide locked in the empty position.
I went over to her to take the pistol, but she threw it aside.
I said, “Thanks.”
She kept staring at Nash’s body, covered now with blood and gore from a head wound.
She said, “Not a bitch, Ted.”
I’d have to remember not to use that word when we argued.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ifound a landline phone and called Major Schaeffer, who, as it turned out, was totally clueless about where we were or what was going on.
I gave him a very edited, need-to-know briefing, mentioning murder and mayhem, and requesting troopers, an ambulance, a CSI team, and his presence.
Kate and I, carrying Luther’s fully loaded M16 and Nash’s thankfully fully loaded Glock, explored and secured the other rooms in the subterranean living quarters, which could have been featured in Better Homes and Fallout Shelters.
We found the canvas bag with our stuff in it, and got ourselves back together.
There’s nothing interesting or educational about being a helpless prisoner, especially if your jailers are psychotic and homicidal, so I never quite understood the Stockholm syndrome thing where the prisoner starts to identify with his or her captor and begins to sympathize with whatever bullshit the captor is using as an excuse for his bad behavior.
Now and then, however, what the psycho is doing or saying actually does appeal to what the prisoner already believes, or has thought about himself in the dark parts of his mind.
But enough about that.
Kate and I found Mr. Madox’s barroom, which was actually a smaller version of the one upstairs, and she liberated a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 1978, which she opened and drank from a water tumbler.
I found some warm bottles of Carlstadt beer, which doesn’t improve with age, and, in fact, had gotten a little cloudy since 1984. But it hit the spot.
Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, this was his second and hopefully last time back from the dead. I counted seven-count ’em, seven-holes in him, which was not bad for eight shots. In fact, I felt silly feeling for a pulse, and Kate asked me what the hell I was doing. But I needed to be really sure.
Also regarding Ted Nash, in less than three minutes, he’d managed to totally piss me off. First, I’m not a clown, Ted, and my wife is not a bitch. As for the other thing… well, it happened. Even Kate can make a mistake with men. I’m sure not all of her boyfriends were John Coreys.
She must have guessed what I was thinking about, and she finished another glass of champagne and said, “It never happened. He was lying.”
Well, I couldn’t ask Dead Ted, so I let it go. “CIA guys lie,” I said.
“Believe me.”
She had Ted’s Glock, so I said, “I believe you, sweetheart.”
Being a lawyer and an FBI agent, she informed me, “I can explain the first and second shot as self-defense. I can’t explain the other six shots.”
I suggested, “Let’s say Ted challenged you to hit him eight times.” I added, “Actually, I’d be happy to take the rap-or the credit-for killing him.”
“Thanks, but… I’ll handle it.”
We moved back into the ELF room to check the security monitors, and we saw Schaeffer’s guys arriving in marked and unmarked cars, with an ambulance, all lined up on McCuen Pond Road behind the closed gate.
Oddly, the gate wasn’t opening, and the lead car smashed through it.
Then, two uniformed troopers went into the gatehouse, and a few minutes later, two EMS guys from the ambulance carried a body on a stretcher out of the gatehouse and back toward the ambulance.
Kate asked me, “What’s that about?”
“I’m pretty sure Derek is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Madox needed him to tidy up the lodge and get rid of the van I borrowed from Rudy. But Madox didn’t want Derek talking about that, or talking about where everyone was in the fallout shelter… so he got someone to get rid of Derek.”