“Sit down, John.” Shafer patted his arm. “Sit.”
Wells sat.
“But you didn’t think it through,” Shafer said. “You left the CO and the XO. And now they’re defended.”
“I would have gotten to Murphy if you hadn’t found me.” Callar lay on his back, spoke to the ceiling. “Any more questions, gents? Or is this where you call those FBI cyborgs and turn me in?”
“You’re sure you don’t know what happened at the end over there? Or the specific intel they got?”
“You’re going to have to ask Murphy and the colonel.” Callar sat up again. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to uncuff me, give me a minute with that Beretta of mine? One round would do. Spare us all the indignity of a trial.”
“Maybe we need some indignity,” Wells said.
Shafer stood. “Maybe. Step into my office, Mr. Wells.”
UNDER THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS of the bathroom, Shafer outlined his plan.
“You’re insane,” Wells said.
“Then let’s call the FBI, be done with it. Like we should have already. Whitby will drop Callar in some rathole and that’ll be the end of it. We’ll never know what happened in Poland. We’ll have no leverage at all. This is our best shot.”
“Duto didn’t ask us to figure out what happened over there, Ellis. He asked us to figure out who was killing the squad. Which we have.”
“Somebody needs to know who those detainees were, what happened to them. If only to tell their families. Somebody needs to find out what was going on at the Midnight House. What
“What if Murphy won’t bite? Would you really go through with it?”
The look in Shafer’s eyes was answer enough.
AN HOUR LATER, Wells parked his Subaru in the driveway of the vacant house in Kings Park West where he had spotted Callar’s Tercel. He unholstered his pistol, tucked it under the seat.
He walked down the driveway and along the road toward Brant Murphy’s house. He was wearing only a T- shirt and jeans and holding his hands at his shoulders. As he reached the property line of the house, still fifty feet from the front door, a spotlight from the van caught him. He stopped walking, raised his arms over his head. The guards stepped out of the van, hands on their holsters.
“John Wells?”
“Yes.”
“Down on the pavement.”
Wells dropped to his knees. The guard stepped closer.
“Lie down.”
“I need to talk to Brant.”
“Lie down, Mr. Wells. That’s an order.”
Wells lay down, prone, arms above his head like he was a kid playing at Superman. He was tired of having strangers point guns at him. But then nobody had made him come over here.
The guard stopped six feet away. He had shiny black eyes and a long narrow chin and a halo from the spotlight behind him. He reminded Wells of a Jesuit priest in a seventeenth-century Spanish painting.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to Brant.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“I’ve got no gun,” Wells said. “If I’d wanted to hurt him, believe me, this isn’t how I’d go about it. I’ve got a message for him, and it’s urgent. Frisk me and tell him I’m here to see him. Please.”
The guard glanced up at the house. “Stand up and raise your shirt.” Wells did. “Over to the van. Slowly. When you get there, put your hands against the passenger door.”
At the van, the guard frisked Wells, slowly and expertly, squeezing his legs, working down from thigh to ankle and then back up. Wells hoped the guard wouldn’t go too high. He was still throbbing from Callar’s knee.
“Sit down.”
“Tell him his life is at risk,” Wells said. “And that he shouldn’t call anyone until he talks to me.”
The guard walked up the driveway.
TWO MINUTES LATER, Murphy emerged, holding a flashlight. The guard stood beside him, his pistol trained on Wells’s chest.
“I should have you brought in right now,” Murphy said.
“Good news. Shafer and I, we know who’s after you.”
“Prove it.”
“Give me five minutes.”
“Come on, then.” Murphy stepped back up the driveway.
“It’s better if we do this outside.”
They walked side by side down the empty street, the van trailing, in what was without doubt the strangest meeting ever held in Kings Park West.
“What happened to your face?” Murphy said.
“The guy, the killer, he’s in custody. Not far from here.”
“You’re full of shit, John.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“How come I haven’t heard, then? When was he arrested?” Murphy stopped, put a hand on Wells’s arm. “Who has him in custody?”
“At the moment, Ellis Shafer.”
“You personally found the killer.”
“Ellis and I, tonight, yes.”
“And have him.”
“Ellis does. The guy was casing your house. You were next on the list.”
“You are going to be very sorry you woke me up at two thirty in the morning for this.”
“Look at me.” Wells waited until he had Murphy’s attention. “It’s no joke. So, the good news, we have him. There’s bad news, too. The bad news is this is very personal for him, and he’s willing to die. And you, Poland was as close as you ever got to the front lines, so you don’t know what it’s like, that mind-set. But I’m telling you that a man who’s willing to die is unstoppable. Especially if he’s patient. I mean, if you’re the President and you have an unlimited budget and a thousand Secret Service officers and you never go anywhere that hasn’t been vetted first, maybe you have a chance. But you’re not the President, Brant. This is all the protection you’re going to get. In a year or two, you’ll have less. The agency’ll take it away bit by bit. It’s expensive. People forget. But this guy, he won’t forget. He’ll wait and wait. Then he’ll hit you. I wouldn’t bet against him.”
“I’m calling Whitby right now. Have you brought in.”
“Sure. Only one problem.” They were at the crux. “You do that, Shafer’s gonna let him go.”
“You wouldn’t.” Murphy grabbed Wells’s arm, leaned in close. He looked around, side to side, his eyes darting, as if the killer might even now be lurking behind a tree or under a car.
Behind them, the van stopped. The Jesuit guard opened his door. “There a problem, Mr. Murphy?”
“No problem,” Murphy said. He hissed at Wells, “You’d let him go? Knowing that he’s killed Americans? Soldiers? Our operatives? You’ll be an accessory to murder, spend the rest of your life in jail. You’ll—”
“Shafer can’t help it if this guy overpowers him.”
“I’ll tell everyone what you said.”
“And I’ll deny it.”
Murphy stopped. The only sound was the low grumble of the Ford’s engine.
“So let him go. We’ll find him. The FBI—”
“Hasn’t had much luck so far.”
