Dismiss image of bullet smashing into your brainpan.
Return to analysis. And hurry up.
Potential solution: Escape.
Analysis: One, you’re facing the ignition and steering wheel. Two, you can push yourself forward and offer a minimal target. Three, you’ll be out of good fire angles quickly.
He thought it was the best solution. If he could only get himself to move. An unfamiliar emotion suffused his being: humiliation. He recognized that he had the contemptible deer-in-the-headlights syndrome, and he was-for the first time in his life-deeply humiliated.
Overtime resolved there and then that if he ever got out of there, he was going to kill someone for this.
Charles Whiting couldn’t make up his mind.
He recognized the problem. He was inexperienced in solo ops-the bureau just didn’t do them. If this was a bureau operation, there’d be a dozen well-armed agents in several rooms, on the roof, and on the street. They’d give one warning on the bullhorn and then open fire.
And he was too old for this. His legs already hurt from crouching and he wasn’t sure he had the agility or speed to make the requisite moves.
And I’m scared, he thought.
That revelation hurt almost as much as the realization that he loved Mrs. Landis. Life had become an uncertain experience after he’d left the bureau.
Now or never, he thought. He pulled his. 38 from its shoulder holster and duckwalked to the door.
Overtime sensed the motion and threw himself forward. His head smashed into the steering wheel and the gun butt slammed into his upper ribs. Lying on the seat, he turned the ignition, put his foot on the gas, reached up to the steering wheel, then cranked it hard to the right.
The car careened in a wavering arc out into the road. Overtime’s foot found the brake and got just enough of it to stop the car. He straightened the wheels and hit the gas again. When the car was ten yards down the road, he sat up.
His vision was blurred from the blood dripping into his left eye and he felt like someone had lighted a match and stuck it into his ribs.
I hate these people, he thought.
Whiting picked himself up. He’d tripped on the threshold and gone sprawling across the landing. Relieved and embarrassed-and embarrassed that he was relieved-he watched the car speed away.
It was almost time for Carey’s call. This time, at least there’d be something to tell him.
And he was looking forward to getting back to San Antonio, even if it did mean blaspheming his religion.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Neal said to Graham. “Why would Foglio put a hit on Polly Paget?”
“To shut her up,” Graham answered. He was having a hard time holding the receiver with his chin while trying to pack with one hand. “I’m telling you, I sat there and watched her make the call. Then you tell me a hit man shows up at the Bluebird Motel. You don’t need motive if you’ve got evidence.”
Neal sat back on the bed. Karen dozed beside him.
Neal pressed the point. “Why shut her up? What is she going to say that she hasn’t already said?”
“Son, we traced the leak: Polly to Gloria, Gloria to Harold, Harold to Foglio, Foglio to the hit man. What more do you want?”
Neal said, “Certainty.”
“Not in this life, kid,” Graham said. “Sit tight. We’re reaching out.”
Sit tight, Neal thought. What else am I going to do?
He knocked on the adjoining door and went in to tell the ladies the happy news.
“Gloria wouldn’t do that,” Polly said when Neal told her about the dye test that ended at the Bluebird Motel.
She was sitting up in her bed. Candy sat on the other twin. An old black-and-white movie flickered in the background.
“But she did,” Neal answered. “Joe Graham watched her do it.”
“Are you sure Chuck is all right?” asked Candy. When Neal nodded, she asked, “Why would this Joey Beans person want to kill Polly?”
That was the question Neal thought Polly might have asked, but he guessed she was too focused on Gloria’s betrayal.
“You’re not going to like this,” he warned Candy.
The woman was just getting used to the fact that her husband was an adulterer and a rapist. Now she was going to get to hear that he was a crook.
“Joey Foglio has been skimming off your construction project,” Neal explained. “Polly’s rape allegation is busting his rice bowl. If he can shut Polly up, money will start flowing through Candyland and into his hands again.”
He watched Candy absorb this new information.
Then she said, “It’s hard to imagine this could happen without Jack knowing about it.”
“It iS.”
“Or participating in it,” Candy continued. “Do you think he’s involved in the murder attempt?”
Neal shrugged. “I would say that’s a possibility.”
“Dear Lord,” Candy said. “What can I do to start making this right?”
“Nothing right now,” Neal said.
All we can do right now is wait for my boss to go see an old man in prison.
19
Ethan Kitteredge stood in the waiting room of the visitors’ center of the Adult Correctional Institution clutching a brown paper bag of expensive yellow peppers.
Kitteredge was not happy. He had never gone to visit any of the several bank customers who had passed time in white-collar federal facilities with tennis courts, manicured lawns, and well-appointed lounges, so he was especially displeased to find himself in this impossibly squalid human storage bin.
Why Dominic Merolla preferred this hovel to, say, Danbury was a mystery to Kitteredge. But Merolla had told the prosecutor and the judge that if he had to do time, he wanted to do it in Providence, prompting one wag on the local paper to observe that living in Providence at all was like being in prison, so going to prison in Providence was an irrational redundancy. But Merolla owned the prosecutor and the judge, who checked their law texts, bank books, and life-insurance policies and agreed that justice demanded Dominic Merolla be confined to the state prison for twenty years or the rest of his life, whichever came first.
Kitteredge felt horribly out of place in the waiting room, among the sweating mob composed mostly of overweight young women dressed in stained frocks that resembled used tents. Each woman seemed to have the same tired, blank expression, and oddly, they all seemed to have at their hips carbon copies of the same three filthy children, who in turn each seemed to have an identical health condition, the most apparent symptom of which were layers of dried mustard yellow mucus caked between their nostrils and upper lips.
Kitteredge had intended to spend this weekend cruising the blue water south of Newport on his boat Haridan. He had acquired several bottles of excellent wine and ordered some very good smoked salmon from his grocer. It was going to be a lovely weekend. Instead, he was standing in the visitors’ waiting room, feeling sartorially inappropriate in his brown three-piece corduroy suit, white button-down shirt, and knit tie, all because Dominic Merolla would talk only to “the boss.”
After a Dantesque eternity, a guard shouted, “Kitteredge!”
Kitteredge made his way through the crowd to the double-chambered doorway. The guard looked at his clothes suspiciously.
“You a lawyer?” the guard asked.
“No.”
Ethan Kitteredge did not realize the significance of the question, unaware that prison guards loathed
