The President's Assassin Part 32

"Turn there, on Glebe." She added, "Way I see it, only problem I got's how to spend all that cash."

"Fine. Good luck."

"Yeah? Well, n.o.body kin prove s.h.i.t on me."

"Except your partners." I smiled.

She raised her pistol and pointed it at my head. With a quick glance I saw that her trigger finger was white with pressure and her pupils were dilated with anger. Uh-oh. She said, "I think I'll jus' blow yer friggin' brains out."

"Boy, is that my thanks for trying to help you out here?"

Her fingers tightened a little more, and she was about a millimeter short of ending this conversation. "Don't, MaryLou. I'm driving, we'll crash, the cops will come, and you might have a little trouble explaining those suitcases in the truck bed." I very reasonably added, "Take a deep breath. Forget everything I said."

She obviously couldn't, however. She said, "Clyde's smart-erin' you anyway"

"Probably"

"He thinks things through."

"Sure does. I'll bet he knows exactly what he's going to do if you're apprehended."

"What's that mean?"

"Think about it."

"Yer tryin' to f.u.c.k with my head."

Exactly. "No, I'm simply suggesting that if you're apprehended, your reality changes. Maybe you and Clyde are as close as brother and sister. Or maybe you're not."

"Clyde always played me square."

"And the big guy?"

"Hank? Well, he's a little slow. Stupid, actually."

"You see . . . that's exactly what I'm talking about. If you're caught, somebody's going to squeal. They always do. The Feds will separate you, sweat you a little, and then offer you each one chance to live. First to squeal gets the deal. Maybe it'll be the smart guy who thinks ahead, or maybe the dumba.s.s who can't think two seconds ahead."

She appeared to be pondering which of her partners, Hank or Clyde, would be the first to rat her out. I added, "The thought often thousand volts popping your eyeb.a.l.l.s out of your skull. . . your teeth exploding . . . smoke curling out your hairtips and pouring out your ears . . . Some people . . . well, you know, they go all squirmy just thinking about it."

A little revolting imagery is always sobering. We were still headed west on Glebe Road, and she had cooled off a bit and was cradling her gun in her lap. Off to the left was a turn into a large and slightly run-down complex of red-brick townhouses and apartment buildings. She pointed at a turn into the complex and said, "Go past that. Circle 'round a bit."

"Fine." I now knew where we were going to end up.

After a moment, she said, "All right, Mr. Smarta.s.s Lawyer, say I git caught. What am I supposed to do?"

"First, don't hesitate. Like that game show. . . you know, Jeopardy, that Alex guy asks the question and whoever hits the buzzer first gets first shot."

"What's that mean? First shot?"

"Well, I didn't say it was automatic, did I?"

"No?"

"No. Maybe Hank, or maybe Clyde, or maybe both, will also jump at the deal." I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe how often that happens."

"I thought you said first to squeal gets the deal."

"Didn't I also say that somebody has got to fry?"

She nodded.

"See the problem here? The prosecutor's going to tell the cops the quota's for one. Only one. Whoever games it best gets the deal."

"Uh-huh. How's that work?"

"Well, it weighs on what they call extenuating factors. Like . . . for instance, who murdered the most people?"

"Uh. . . well, that would be Clyde and Hank, for d.a.m.ned sure. I only did . . . like two. Uh . . . maybe three."

"Which three? The lady at the door at Belknap's?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh."

My grip on the steering wheel got a little tighter. "Belknap's driver?"

Another nod.

"And was it you who planted the mine beside Justice Fineberg's door?"

"Nah. Clyde did that. He's really into bombs and s.h.i.t. He don't let n.o.body near 'em. I jus' pushed the b.u.t.ton that blew the old fart in half."

"That it?"

She had to think about it a moment. This was surreal. "Maybe one more," she said after a hesitation.

"Maybe"

"Okay, one more . . . Belknap's old lady" She looked at me and said, petulantly, "Clyde and Hank did like ... I don't know . . . like maybe ten people."

It's always amazing, not to mention dismaying, when you talk to killers and discover what idiots they are, and how shockingly little remorse or even guilt they feel. I shook my head.

"What? You got a problem with that?"

"No, but you will. MaryLou, you need something else to offer the Feds. Exactly how dumb is Hank?"

"Real dumb. Clyde and I got all the brains. We'd get the targets, and plan 'em out." She laughed. "OF Hank, you tell him to stick his head up a cow's b.u.t.t, he don't even think about it. That boy's stupider'n dirt."

"Well, that's not good."

She stopped laughing. "What ain't good?"

"You have to understand, the law gives idiots all the breaks. Like, the stupider you are, the less guilt you bear. You've got to balance that out."

"Yeah? How?"

"Maybe show you had a stab of conscience. Do something good to outweigh the bad. Remember, you only have to look slightly better in comparison to them." I added, quite sincerely, "That's not hard, is it?"

She studied me a moment. She said, "Like I should let you live? That's what yer edgin' at, right?"

"Not at all." After a moment, I added, "Well, obviously it wouldn't hurt."

"Uh-huh. And you'd say nice things about me?"

"It's a little late to make you sound like a saint. I'd be as complimentary as circ.u.mstances allow."

She said, "Go back to that turn I showed you."

"Sure." I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"Don't know yet. Gotta think about it."

Neither she nor I said a word the rest of our way. I had planted the seed, and either it would sprout or I was screwed.

I made the turn into the complex, then two rights and then a left, and we ended up in a tight cul-de-sac, where I pulled into a s.p.a.ce right beside Hank's red pickup. Clyde's black pickup was nowhere in sight.

MaryLou hung a cloth over her pistol and ordered me out of the truck. We looked a little suspicious walking up the sidewalk, me in my underpants, her three paces behind me with her right arm locked. But the neighborhood was run-down and decrepit, and neighbors probably tended to mind their own business.

We entered a two-floored colonial-style townhouse, and I was directed down a narrow hallway that led into the spa.r.s.ely furnished living room. I observed a small TV, a foldable card table, and some plastic outdoor furniture; otherwise, the place was bare. Martha Stewart would have a fit.

Hank stood off to our left, in the efficiency kitchen. He was a bit older than I expected, maybe fifty, dark-haired, slack-jawed, sugar-sabotaged teeth, and there was sullen dullness in his dark eyes, like somebody forgot to turn on the lights inside his skull. He was just knocking off a Bud; he tipped, it at MaryLou and said, "Hey"

"Hey," she replied.

"Him?" he commented, directing the beer can at me.

"Him," replied MaryLou, which seemed to end their monosyllabic discussion.

Incidentally, seated in a chair in the middle of the living room was a guy with his hands tied behind his back, with a black gag taped around his mouth, and with a face I instantly recognized: Jason Barnes.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Hank put down his beer, grabbed a knife and coil of rope off the counter, approached me, and swiftly tied my hands behind my back. Next he drew black tape across my lips, as MaryLou pushed another outdoor chair into the center of the living room. Without a hint of gentleness, Hank shoved me toward and then into it. He then tied the rope around my hands to a rear chair leg, and my feet to a front leg.

Hank was quick and strong, with a sailor's dexterity with knots. Probably he had worked with cattle at some point in his life, and it showed. The bonds were so tight I would have gangrene within the hour.

But it was interesting, I thought, that MaryLou failed to inform him that their ident.i.ties were now known to the cops, or that her, his, and Clyde's a.s.ses might be a little exposed.

Maybe she was worried that Hank might fly off the handle. Or maybe she didn't care what Hank thought. Or maybe Mary-Lou did care and was preserving her edge.

I noted Jason's gray eyes following me throughout this drill. I was surprised to observe that he did not look at all like a crazed dog or even a schizoid nut. In fact, he looked like a perfectly ordinary guy in an utterly helpless state, a little afraid, monumentally befuddled, and more than a little curious about the new guest.

It further struck me that Jennie had been right about what was happening hereas she had been right about so many other matters in this convoluted case.

As they are wont to do, the thieves had had a falling-out. The Texans wanted their money now, Jason still frothed for blood, and the odd man found himself out, with a mutiny on his hands. I wondered, though, why the captain of this ship hadn't been forced to walk the gangplank in the venerable tradition. Why keep this guy alive? The Texans had the money, the killing was overor nearly over, I reminded myselfand I couldn't see how Jason was still useful to them.

Then I recalled MaryLou informing me that her cut was about twelve million. Divide fifty million four ways, and it sounded like Jason was still getting his share. Honor among thieves? Why was I having trouble believing that?

MaryLou said to Hank, "C'mon, let's git packed and ready to split."

"Okay."

For the next fifteen minutes I could hear the sounds of Hank and MaryLou opening closets and drawers and throwing clothes into suitcases. Jason sat quietly beside me, breathing easily, apparently bored out of his mind.

Then the front door opened and a guy walked in. He was about my size, dark hair sprinkled with gray a broad, hard-looking face, thick nose, and mean eyes.

He looked at Jason, then at me, and yelled, "Hey, what the h.e.l.l we got here? MaryLou, you sneakin' men in here behind my back?"

From the bedroom, MaryLou yelled, "d.a.m.n it, Big Daddy, you took yer d.a.m.ned time."

"Traffic," he yelled. "Seems like some crooked people did a bad thing somewheres, and the cops shut down a buncha roads." He laughed. "Ain't that some bulls.h.i.t?"

Dressed in only her panties and bra, MaryLou came traipsing down the hallway, straight toward Clyde, then into his arms. He lifted her off the floor with his hands on her b.u.t.t and they kissed for a long time. Uh-oh. Maybe she and Clyde were closer than she'd let on.

Clyde said to her, "Well, baby, you'n me are now rich as s.h.i.t. What'd Id tellya, huh?"

"You said it jus' right, Big Daddy."

He laughed. "Tol' you we should take the deal."

She leaned away from him and said, "Only we got a big problem we din't figure on."

"How's that?"

She pointed at me and said, "That a.s.shole there. Said the cops got you ID'd already Said they know all about the weapons we stole." s.h.i.t. I was hearing the sounds of my best-laid plans falling apart. Actually, my only plans.

Clyde asked, "He said that?"

"Yep. Also said a buncha cops are runnin' 'round Killeen dig-gin' up our histories."

Clyde stared at her a moment. He appeared at first astonished, then his mood shifted and his face turned dark. He looked at me. "Yer sure he wasn't jus' bulls.h.i.ttin' ya? MaryLouy'know all them lawyers lie."

She laughed.