69
“Where’s Buchanan?” Simms asked, looking about the room as paramedics rushed Jennifer Pearce from the room on a stretcher, one of them calling ahead to George Washington University Hospital and clearing an emergency OR.
“He went running out right after Allenby shot himself,” a shaken Keith Thompson said. He was sitting in one of the chairs, aghast that he had just seen a person die. It was a first for him, and he didn’t like it.
“Christ, he’s heading for Richmond,” Rothery said. “He’s going after Bruce Andrews.”
“You want to get some men out to Andrews’s house?” Simms asked.
Rothery thought about it for a minute. “The less commotion we cause right now, the better. We’ve got a containable situation at this point. Allenby killed himself and Dr. Pearce took an accidental bullet. We can put a decent spin on it. But if we start involving our resources in Richmond in this, it’s out of our hands. Let’s keep a lid on it. Christ, if the general public finds out one of the task force leaders was involved in creating the crisis, the shit’s going to hit the fan like you won’t believe.”
“What about Buchanan?” Simms asked. “He’s out there and he knows what’s going on.”
“We’ll worry about Buchanan when we catch him. We might be able to convince him that keeping this thing quiet is in the best interest of the country. If we can’t, we’ll have to deal with it.”
“And Dr. Pearce?” Simms asked.
Rothery shook his head. “She won’t make the hospital. Probably dead already. It’s Buchanan we have to work on.”
“What if he beats us to Bruce Andrews?”
Rothery shook his head again. “Not a chance. I’ll call down to the airport and get the Gulfstream ready. By the time he drives down or catches a commercial flight, we’ll be at Andrews’s house.”
“Maybe it’s best that we just give the press exactly what happened in here,” Simms said. “That would be the easiest way of dealing with this mess.”
Rothery was thoughtful. Then he said, “I’m not sure, Craig. Maybe we’ll have to. But for right now let’s see if we can contain it. Okay?”
“Not a problem.” Instinctively, they both knew that the lid was going to come off, but it was first nature in their business to try to minimize the damage.
Rothery stood in the middle of the room and stared at Allenby’s body. Then he turned to Tony Warner and Craig Simms and asked, “Where is Jim’s gun?”
70
Twenty-seven minutes after storming out of L’Enfant Plaza, Gordon boarded the Lear 31A at Reagan International. He and Jennifer had decided that leaving the plane on the ground and driving up to D.C. for the second time was being overcautious, so they had flown up in the jet. He had used the cabbies’ cell phone to call ahead and have the pilots file a flight plan for Richmond. When he pulled up to the private terminal, the Lear was already fueled and waiting.
Access to the private section of Washington’s terminal is much easier than the main commercial area, and Gordon moved quickly out to the plane, the Colt 1911 still tucked in his belt. He boarded the private jet and they were rolling down the runway inside three minutes.
“Third in line for takeoff, Mr. Buchanan,” the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.
Gordon cursed the delay. Every moment counted. He knew the three remaining men in Rothery’s office would be scrambling to get down to Richmond. It was a race. They wanted Bruce Andrews for prosecution. He wanted Andrews dead.
The plane was equipped with a phone, and he busied himself calling about for the location of Bruce Andrews’s house. When he called, he identified himself as J.D. Rothery, which wasn’t a hard sell as most of the country had just seen Andrews and Rothery on television together. One of the staff at Veritas, thinking he was speaking with the Under Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, dug into the files and found the CEO’s home address.
“It’s a rural address in Chesterfield county,” the man said. “He had a barbecue out there a year ago and he supplied all the employees with directions. First, you take the 360 south out of Richmond until you cross the Appomattox, about twenty miles outside the city boundaries. Turn south on the 153 until you reach Scott’s Fork. Then take a left and drive back to the river. Mr. Andrews’s estate is the third driveway on the left.”
“Thank you,” Gordon said. He hung up the phone and stared out the window. It was still light and would be for another hour or two. Enough time to find the estate, but it would likely be dark as he approached the house. Probably a good thing. He reached down and pulled the handgun out of his belt. He had fired a lot of rifles and was a decent shot, but he had never fired a handgun in his life. He looked over the gun, found the safety, and snapped it on. Then he set the gun on the leather seat next to him and closed his eyes.
Jennifer Pearce. The image of her body jerking back with the impact of the bullet replayed through his mind. So much blood. Rothery and Simms trying desperately to stem the flow. All hell breaking loose. Jim Allenby lying on the floor with his head blown apart. Keith Thompson staring at the scene in horror. Elizabeth Ripley standing quietly in a corner, watching with scared eyes. What a mess.
He let his eyes open and felt the tears spill out. Christ, why were all the people he cared about dying? First Billy, now Jennifer. He felt the plane begin to descend and he tucked the gun back in his belt. He could think about that later. Right now, Bruce Andrews was foremost on his mind.
He rented a car at the booth that serviced the private section of the airport and checked the map for the best route across the southern tip of Richmond to Highway 360. It was a bit convoluted, but half an hour later he pulled onto the 360 just north of Swift Creek Reservoir and double-checked the directions. He crossed the Appomattox, took the turns the man had dictated to him, and finally pulled onto a paved lane running parallel to the river, perhaps half a mile to the north. In the waning daylight, he counted until he reached the third driveway. Bruce Andrews’s estate.
The front gate was impenetrable without calling up to the house and getting someone to open it-that or crashing through it with a vehicle. Neither option appealed to him. He continued driving down the road, looking for an opening to the river. Most of the frontage along the river was taken by other large estates, but about a quarter mile to the east he found an open lot with access directly to the river. He parked the car and set off at a quick jog. The ground was mostly clear, with groves of trees punctuating the rolling grasslands. He kept to the edges of the trees as much as possible until he reached the river. As he doubled back to the west, the first two estates were not fenced flush to the water, and he simply ran along the gently sloping riverbank toward Andrews’s estate.
The acreage next to Andrews was fenced right to the river, and he had to cling onto the edge of the fencing while hanging over the water in order to broach it. He made it without falling in the water, then ran quickly across the grassy expanse to the next property boundary. Usually, fenced yards meant dogs, and the last thing he needed right now was to have to shoot a guard dog. He reached the perimeter of Andrews’s estate and repeated the procedure of skirting the fence by hanging over the water. He was in.
The house was set on a knoll to the south and, with the advent of the approaching night, lights were coming on in the house. He moved quickly along the fence, hugging the small groves of trees wherever possible. He was within a hundred feet of the house and could see the dogs in their enclosure. They were standing at the wire mesh fence, staring at him. Excellent guard dogs: trained not to bark, just to attack. Lucky for him, Andrews had chosen to kennel the dogs. He ran the last hundred feet to the house and tried the basement door. It was locked. He set the gun down and took off his shirt. He wrapped it around his fist and gave the glass a good punch. The glass shattered, but didn’t make much noise as the broken shards fell on carpet. He reached inside and unlocked the deadbolt, then quietly let himself in. He set the gun on the pool table and slipped his shirt on as he looked about.
