Call to Treason o-11 Read online

  “Yeah. Especially the part about people not getting retired.”

  Kat smiled. “You know, I didn’t even think of that.”

  “I am curious, though. Why was Kendra running interference over there instead of you?”

  “We wanted to make the senator’s departure seem like a security concern rather than blocking the press,” she said.

  “That makes sense,” Rodgers said. At least in an image-sensitive Washingtonian way. “Meanwhile, what’s happening with the Wilson matter?”

  “You mean did the other murder take the pressure off?” she asked. “Somewhat, though a few reporters privately wonder if we were responsible for both.”

  “Were you?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Kat replied dryly. “This whole thing is like a homicidal ‘House That Jack Built.’ This is the candidate who hired a killer to slay the realtor to cover the assassination that got him the attention for the campaign that Kat built.” The young woman shook her head. “There are always—always—going to be three groups of reporters and commentators. Those who think you’re guilty of something, those who think you’re innocent, and those who think the topic is a sideshow. You only need the last two groups to stay in the race.”

  “As far as public relations are concerned,” Rodgers said.

  “Right. It doesn’t help if you’re actually guilty.”

  Lucy O’Connor caught up to the two. She looked tired. Rodgers noticed the red light on her microcassette recorder was on. The tape was still turning.

  “Good morning,” the reporter said. “That was a terrific speech.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell the senator you thought so,” Kat replied.

  “Is anything new, on or off the record?” Lucy asked. She looked at Rodgers, and he looked at her. She repeated the question with her eyes.

  “Apart from the senator running for president of the United States? Nothing,” Kat said. “What are you hearing?”

  “A lot of backlash from the rush-to-judgment mentality everyone had yesterday,” Lucy replied.

  “Did people really think Senator Orr was behind the assassination?” Rodgers asked.

  “I would categorize it as a perverse hope,” Lucy replied.

  Rodgers shook his head. “Perverse is a good word.”

  “A story like the Hypo-Slayer is where above-the-fold by lines and book deals come from,” Lucy added. “Speaking of stories, General, are you ready to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “There will be a press release at the appropriate time,” Kat told her. “You will have it early, of course.”

  “Any word on a likely running mate?” Lucy asked. “I noticed Kenneth Link was here.”

  “The ticket will not be announced before the convention,” Kat said.

  “Come on, Kat. Off the record. I promise.”

  “Sorry,” Kat replied.

  Lucy turned to Rodgers. “What about the Op-Center investigation, General Rodgers?”

  “What about it?”

  “I hear that a gentleman named Darrell McCaskey is on his way over to talk to Admiral Link.”

  “What?” Kat said. She stopped, took her cell phone out, and speed-dialed the admiral’s number.

  “How do you know that?” Rodgers asked.

  “Friend of mine with the postal police was talking to him. McCaskey wouldn’t tell him what it was about. Ed thought I might know.” Lucy smiled. “He wanted to help.”

  Kat had turned her back to the others. She was only on the phone for a few seconds when she snapped it shut. “I’ll see you later,” she said to Rodgers and Lucy, and hurried off.

  “Come on, Katherine,” Lucy said, running after her. “I just gave you a major heads-up—”

  “I know that, and I appreciate it.”

  “Show me!”

  “When I can,” Kat promised.

  That did not make Lucy happy. Rodgers started after Kat, and Lucy tugged his arm. “General, I can help you,” she insisted.

  “Thanks.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Lucy said, giving him another tug. “You have to help me, too.”

  Rodgers withdrew his arm and started walking after Kat. Lucy followed him. Her persistence did not bother him. That was her job. What frustrated him was something that was roiling in his gut.

  “General, talk to me. Just tell me what you’re doing with Senator Orr. Are you working for him or for Op-Center?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that if you were working for Op-Center, Kat would have known about the Darrell McCaskey interview,” she said.

  “Makes sense,” he said.

  “I know. That’s a direction, but it isn’t a story. Give me something I can use. Anything. A lead, an off-the-record observation, a quote I’ll attribute to an anonymous source—”

  “The Hypo-Slayer,” Rodgers said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Is that what you came up with last night when you said you needed a name for the killer?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “It was the best I could do before deadline.”

  “It’s good,” he said.

  “Thanks. Now, how about it? Lend me a hand here.”

  Rodgers stopped. “You know what? I’m out of the hand-lending business. It’s nothing personal, but I helped Japan. I helped the United Nations. I helped the entire Indian subcontinent. Do you know what it got me?”

  “Not a lot of personal press.”

  “I don’t care about that,” he said. He was about to cross the fail-safe point but did not care. “It got me downsized.”

  “You were released from Op-Center?”

  “Released is what you do to a wounded condor or a seal with a coat of crude oil. I was canned, Lucy.”

  “Jeez. General, I’m so sorry. May I quote you?”

  “Why not? You can also quote me as saying that loyalty is missing in action, along with honor and integrity. Not just at Op-Center but throughout society. Real service is rewarded with lip service, and opportunists are calling the plays. I’ve been invited to join the senator’s team in some capacity to try to change that. I plan to accept because I trust in the American people to see the difference between arrivistes and people of character and principle. Close quote,” he added.

  “Would you mind if I asked Paul Hood to comment?”

  “No,” Rodgers said. “But Lucy?”

  “Yes?”

  Rodgers hesitated. He wanted to tell her not to make him sound bitter. However, he did not know how to say that without acknowledging that he was bitter.

  The reporter seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make it come out right.”

  Rodgers smiled softly.

  Lucy thanked the general and left. Rodgers stood there for a moment, not sure how he felt. He had not planned to say those things, but then he had not planned on being downsized, either. Or losing Striker in the field. What was it Trotsky had said? The more time you have to plan, the more mistakes you’ll make. This came from the heart.

  Rodgers jogged after Kat. He wanted to let her know what he had done, though he did not think she would mind. His comments were not about Orr; they were about Mike Rodgers and Op-Center. Besides, there was a benefit to what he had just done.

  He was with them now, mind and soul.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Fallbrook, California

  Tuesday, 5:45 A.M.

  For Tom Mandor, it was about the money. For Wayne Richmond it was about the money, but it was also about the danger. That was why he had gone to Alaska to drive a rig. That was why he came back to work as muscle.

  At five A.M., he had left his cabin and had walked a quarter mile east, into the cold, dark hills. He did that once or twice every week in the late spring, summer, and early fall. That was when the peak was a place of perfect danger. Here, Richmond could confront as much danger as he wanted. He chose more than he needed just to test himself. Life should be a constant series of trials. It was the only way to gr
ow, to be alive rather than simply act it. It was a way of controlling your adversaries and, thus, have a measure of control over your own life.

  Wearing high tan western boots and carrying a finely honed Bowie knife, Richmond walked through the windy predawn darkness. He was dressed in a heavy denim jacket and black leather gloves to protect him from the near-freezing temperatures. Here, nearly four thousand feet up, there was even occasional sleet and snow. As he neared the ledge, he saw the dimly lit tops of white clouds a thousand feet below. Above there were still only stars and navy blue sky. When the sun finally began to rise over the sharp, curving ridge and warmed the rocky ledge, danger also wakened. That was where the diamondback rattlesnakes lived.

  The snakes nested in a line of boulders right at the edge of a cliff. Each season there were hundreds of them to be harvested. The first light of dawn woke the poikilotherm quickly, raising its blood temperature to the temperature of the new day. The triangular-headed snakes, anywhere from one to three of them, would move out in search of field mice, wild hares, early birds, or any small animals they could devour. It was not necessary for them to see their prey, which was why they could hunt before the sun had fully risen. The pits on the head of the rattlesnakes sensed the warmth of a living creature while their extended tongues could taste the prey on the air, the equivalent of Richmond smelling cooking in the kitchen. It allowed the snakes to pinpoint prey with deadly accuracy. An average adult diamondback was four to five feet long and could leap nearly that far.

  The snakes were the color of dirt, invisible to the casual observer until their distinctive rattle warned potential attackers away. It sounded like the buzzing of a large hornet unless the snake was coiled to give it height and striking distance. That position raised the rattle completely off the ground, making it sound more like a pepper grinder. The coiled position also brought the snake’s head up in two or three seconds.

  The diamondbacks were defensive rather than offensive creatures. Typically, they minded their own business and sought to avoid confrontations with larger animals like bobcats, coyotes, and humans.

  That was why Richmond liked to poke them first with the end of his fifteen-inch blade. He did not want them to shy from a confrontation. He usually crouched and touched the tip of the knife to the tail. Most of the time the snakes moved away. If they did, he circled widely and blocked their retreat. He forced them to coil, which gave him the fight he wanted.

  This morning, as Richmond sat on a rock and watched the dawn, he saw two snakes emerge from the rocks. One was fully grown, and the other was about ten inches long. Parent and offspring, out for a hunt. The smaller snake stopped behind a rock and curled into a tight spiral. It obviously was not happy with the chilly wind. The other snake continued to move away from the nest.

  Diamondbacks are born live, and Richmond figured the smaller one to be about two weeks old. There were probably more in the nest. They would feed on whatever insects passed by, perhaps click beetles. Richmond decided he would kill them both, starting with the youngster.

  Richmond moved from the large, cold rock. He did not carry a cell phone on these excursions. If he were careless enough to get bitten, Richmond felt that he deserved to die. Besides, calling 911 would be pointless. By the time an ambulance or helicopter reached him, he would be dead. The venom would instantly cause hemolysis, the destruction of red blood cells, preventing tissue oxygenation. That caused the major organs to shut down. He would be dead within ten or fifteen minutes.

  The smaller snake sensed his approach. It moved closer to the rock, uncoiled, and slid onto the opposite side. Richmond smiled. He put the sole of his right boot on the top of the rock. It was a pyramid-shaped rock about a foot high and relatively flat. He waited until the tail disappeared then tipped the rock over. It landed on the snake, pinning it in the center. The tongue shot in and out and the tail wriggled angrily, but it was helpless. Richmond checked to see where the other snake was. Its beaded skin reflected the first yellow rays of sun as it moved from the ledge. The creature was intent on feeding, not on aiding its spawn. Richmond stepped on the rock, putting his weight on it, to make sure the smaller snake was truly pinned. Then he went around front, crouched in front of it, and drove the knife straight down into the tapered area behind its head. The head dropped off, the tongue still flicking for several moments as the black soil swallowed the blood seeping from its body.

  Richmond wiped the knife blade on the dirt. Then he rose and went after the other snake.

  That was when he heard it. Richmond turned back to the ledge. He crouched and listened.

  There was a fire road to the east, a narrow, rain-rutted dirt path he could use to escape in case the only paved road were ever blocked by a blaze. Below it, about two thousand feet down, was a housing development. Occasionally, people hiked here to look out over the valley. They rarely walked up this early to watch the sunrise because they would have had to set out in the dark. But once in a while they drove out to see the sunrise. What he had heard sounded like a car.

  Richmond moved toward the fire road. There was a Jeep parked on a landing. The vehicle was black with a gold star on the side. There was a lone occupant, a sheriff’s deputy. He probably had the night shift and had come up here before heading home. The deputy opened a thermos.

  The lawman would be up here for a few minutes at least. That was good. Richmond had an idea. He doubled back, slipping the bowie knife into the leather sheath attached to his belt and removing his windbreaker as he walked. He passed the dead snake, lying on the ground muddied with its blood. He continued after the larger one. His eyes moved slowly from side to side. He paid special attention to stones and underbrush.

  The snake was in a narrow gully, cut by erosion and filled with rocks that had washed down the slope. There was a gopher hole hidden among the small stones. The snake was going to warm itself on the rocks while it waited for breakfast to emerge. At least, that was apparently the snake’s plan. Richmond had a different idea. He walked alongside the gully and lay his windbreaker on the rocks. He knotted the ends of the sleeves, spread them out flat, then went back behind the snake. Scooping up a handful of stones, he began tossing them at the reptile one at a time. They hit the animal in the tail and body, and it moved ahead, rattling. Richmond followed. He continued to pelt the snake, driving it toward the windbreaker. As he expected, the snake crawled into the only shelter nearby: one of the two sleeves. Once the creature was inside, Richmond quickly grabbed the sleeve at the armpit. The snake had tried to coil itself inside. As a result, it was completely within the sleeve. Richmond carefully folded the body of the jacket around the sleeve so the diamondback did not slip out. Then he put his left hand around the sleeve and moved it toward the snake’s head. He held tight as the snake squirmed to get loose, its body twisting and undulating inside the sleeve. When the diamondback finally relaxed, Richmond untied the mouth of the sleeve with his right hand. If he released the head, the snake would drop free. Richmond then wrapped his right hand around the rattle. The creature was now his silent prisoner. Without removing his hands, Richmond hugged the windbreaker toward his belly and walked forward. Having the snake beside him, a captive, was almost like carrying a gun. The snake was just as potent, just as feared. Even better, Richmond realized, was that the snake would take the blame for the killing.

  Richmond reached the rocky ledge. The sun was well above the distant mountains now. In the distance, a trio of hawks had begun to search the hillsides for small animals. He never tired of watching them circle as their wings and tail feathers shifted this way and that as they rode the changing thermal currents. Whenever a bird saw a potential meal, it called to the others, then pulled in its wings and plummeted like a lawn dart. Unlike the defense-minded snakes, the offense-oriented birds were nature’s most perfect hunting machines.

  Defense and offense, Richmond thought. What looks inherently dangerous on the dirty ground is not. What seems graceful and beautiful in the blue heavens is lethal. Appearance is
rarely an accurate yardstick for danger.

  Richmond started down the fire road toward the Jeep. The driver’s side window was open.

  “Good morning, Deputy,” Richmond said as he approached.

  The deputy glanced into the side mirror. “Morning, sir.” He regarded Richmond a moment longer. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Looks like you got your arm bundled up.”

  “No, no, I’m just collecting birds’ eggs for my aviary,” he smiled. He was speaking in a soft, fair voice. Laying a trap was part of the fun.

  “Collecting eggs — with a bowie knife?” the deputy asked.

  “That’s for snakes,” Richmond said as he reached the window.

  “I thought so, though I suggest next time you bring a firearm. Carrying anything larger than a pocket knife is a felony.”

  “But not a handgun?” Richmond said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Lord bless the NRA,” Richmond said.

  The deputy took a swallow of coffee, then replaced the cup on top of the thermos. He was wearing a wedding band. He could not have been more than twenty-six. Richmond wondered if he came up here to slack off in secret or to contemplate the universe. Was he deciding whether to leave his wife or wistfully remembering how they used to come up here at night to make out? Richmond tried to guess how far ahead this young man had planned his life. To the next day? To the next promotion? To his first or next child?

  “I’m Wayne Richmond, by the way,” the man said.

  “Andy Belmont,” the deputy said. He extended his hand, then withdrew it when he remembered the bundle of eggs. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Richmond replied. “I walk here often, but I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I was transferred from Southwest Station last week,” Deputy Belmont told him. “I thought it would be a good idea to familiarize myself with the area in case I’m ever called up here.”

  “Good thinking,” Richmond said. “Tell me, Deputy, is this the start or end of your shift?”

  “The end,” the deputy said. “I get the morning baby-sitting chores so my wife can go to work. Then her mother relieves me so I can go to sleep.”