car.”
Clearly relieved to have something to do other than talking, Boxers went right to work. He effortlessly manhandled Neen’s corpse into a textbook fireman’s carry and headed out the door.
Jonathan reached out to touch Sam’s shoulder, but withdrew his hand when she flinched. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No. I want you out of my house.” As the shock drained from her features, fear invaded them.
“I understand,” Jonathan said. “In five minutes, we will be. But there are a couple of logistical issues I need to discuss with you.”
“I don’t want-”
“Hush, Mrs. Shockley.” Jonathan shot the command sharply, and it worked. “You need to listen to this. First of all, the quicker you wipe up the blood from the floor, the easier it will come up. In this case, it’s good you don’t have carpets.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God. You’re so cold.”
“Whatever. It’s your call, one way or the other. And bleach will not only get out whatever stain is left, it will also kill any blood-borne pathogens.”
“Not to mention wipe away any DNA evidence,” she said. It was a gotcha.
Jonathan shrugged it away. “Actually, that’s not always true, but think what you want. Here’s the rest: As soon as we’re gone, you’re going to want to call the police. I understand that. Remember, though, that Kendig Neen was the police. Something to think about. That, and the fact that he and another person were killed here. You’re not going to like to hear this, but we’re not traceable, so any efforts to catch us or punish us will be futile. Plus, we’re the good guys.”
Sam hugged Jilly more tightly and took a step backward. Apparently, the “good guys” comment frightened her.
“If you do want to roll the dice that way do yourself a favor and call the FBI, not the local police. When they tell you that murders are a local matter, you tell them that the local policeman was one of the killers.”
“Except you’re taking his body away.”
Jonathan gave a commiserating wince. “Yes.” He stepped aside as Boxers reentered the front door to head to the kitchen for Colleen’s body. “Again, I’m sorry about all of this.”
Sam looked to Gail for something, and got more or less the same look of apology.
As Boxers passed behind again, this time with Colleen’s remains over his shoulder, Jonathan and Gail followed him out to the car. Both bodies fit easily into the trunk of the unmarked Ford.
The last they saw of Sam Shockley, she was standing in the doorway, with Jilly in her arms. The little girl waved good-bye.
CHAPTER THIRTY – FIVE
Jonathan had never given a lot of thought to the convenience of abandoned drift mines, but as they tied up loose ends in West Virginia, it became apparent. They left the bodies in the trunk of the Ford, dismantled the anti- trespasser mechanisms at the mouth of the mine shaft, and then Boxers drove the vehicle itself into the narrow passage as far as he could go and still be able to get out of the vehicle. When that was done, they replaced the wooden block and barricades and erased their tire tracks. By 8:45, they were back in the Agusta chopper and airborne again, on their way back to civilization.
Jonathan didn’t like what he saw in Gail’s expression. Not that long ago, she had sworn an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegiance to the same. She had built a life around the rule of law, and now she was a player in an operation that broke every rule to achieve the intended goal. She sat quietly in her seat in the opulent executive helicopter, speaking to no one, visibly aging with every passing minute.
He left her with her thoughts, convinced that he could say nothing that would make anything any better.
When they were on the ground, a little before noon, and before climbing into the custom-designed Hummer that would take them back to Fisherman’s Cove, Jonathan pulled her aside. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
She wouldn’t make eye contact. “What choice do I have?”
Interesting point. “When we get back to the Cove, you should sit down with Father Dom,” he said.
“I’m not Catholic.”
“When he’s got his psychologist hat on, he can be anything you need him to be. Mostly, he’s a good listener.” Jonathan knew whereof he spoke, having spent more hours than he could count in his counsel.
“I don’t need a shrink to tell me right from wrong,” she said. With that, she headed to the truck.
After a scalding shower and a shave, Jonathan felt mostly human again. He missed the long-gone days when occasional ten-minute naps could keep him functioning for days on end. Today he’d been up for a mere thirty-six hours and he felt like milled concrete.
One floor below, Boxers had chosen to crash in the guest room rather than drive back to the District, something he rarely did. He was always welcome, of course, but Jonathan did begrudge the loss in water pressure caused by competing showers.
Jonathan padded naked from his bathroom to his bed, where JoeDog had already staked her claim by lying crosswise on her back, as if to extort a tummy rub in exchange for surrendering her territory. On a different day, it would have worked. Today, though, he wolf-whistled and she scrambled to her feet, tail swinging, waiting to play. Or not.
Jonathan stripped the covers from one side of the king bed and climbed under. JoeDog read the signs and curled up on the spread at the foot of the bed on the opposite side. Jonathan stacked his pillows just so against the leather headboard, lay back, and closed his eyes.
Three minutes later, Jonathan realized that while exhausted, he was too spun up to sleep, so he lifted the television remote from the nightstand and thumbed the ON button. The thirty-inch TV mounted on the opposite wall jumped to life immediately, set, as always on his favorite cable news station.
He wasn’t so much interested in the content of what was on as he was in the white noise of droning voices that rarely failed to lull him into unconsciousness. The current top story dealt with another machine-gun attack in middle America, this one killing over a dozen people at holiday street festival in Davenport, Iowa. The squeaky tenor newsreader reported that experts were considering the possibility that this incident might be linked to recent similar incidents in Washington and Kansas City, and the school bombing in Detroit.
“Gee, ya think?” Jonathan asked aloud.
“On a related story,” the anchor continued, “administration officials are questioning the legitimacy of a sensational Web video that purported to show the execution of a young man by Islamic terrorists last night.”
Jonathan shot upright, causing JoeDog to leap for cover on the floor. The television showed grainy images of Ryan Nasbe being prepared for execution. The images were blurry enough that faces were hard to discern.
“We warn you that this next part is rather graphic.”
This by way of introducing Jonathan’s nick-of-time marksmanship. Actually, there wasn’t much graphic about it at all, just the sound of gunshots and the images of people falling down. An instant later, the webcam went black.
“That’s all there was of the video,” the anchor continued, “leading experts to suspect that the transmission was a prank intended to raise concerns among independent voters that the current administration is not up to the task of protecting the American people.”
From there, they cut away to an interview with some K Street pundit who said exactly the words that were necessary to get him on television to prove the network’s thesis.
Jonathan took that as his cue to lay back against his pillows again. “Okay, Joe,” he said with his eyes closed. “It’s safe now. You can come to bed.”
Seconds later, the whole mattress shook as she resumed her spot.
The anchor closed his story with, “Despite increased violence across the country, Secret Service and administration spokesmen say that no extraordinary security measures are necessary to protect the president and
