“Hey, kid,” I said, putting my hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “You hold on now.”
“Bastard blindsided me. O’Brien son of a bitch was the-” he began and then coughed bloody phlegm onto the floor. “I should have figured it out. S-sorry for letting you down.”
His voice was almost gone. I took his hand and held it just as I’d held Roger Jefferson’s, and like Jefferson, Ollie held on tightly as if through it he could cling to life.
“He fooled us all. It wasn’t your fault. If anything, Ollie,” I said, “it was mine.”
He shook his head. “Was it Skip? Was he the one?”
“Yeah.”
“You get him, too?”
“Top did.”
“He had that baby face.” He smiled weakly. “Guess guess it was easier to think it was me.”
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Ollie.”
He coughed. “Shit happens, Cap.” He tried to turn his head. “I can’t hear gunshots. Is it over?”
I listened and he was right. There was only silence from the Bell Chamber. I turned to look down at Ollie, wanting to give him some comfort, but for him it was already over. His eyes were open but he was looking into a whole different world.
I bowed my head and held his hand.
Behind me, down the hallway, I could hear new sounds. Running steps. Voices. It took a lot for me to raise my head and look as several figures rushed into the room. Bunny was first, his face streaked with blood and his pistol in a two-hand grip. Gus Dietrich was right behind him. And then she was there.
Grace.
Alive. All of them, alive.
“Joe!” she cried and rushed to me and I pulled her to me, down on the floor.
“We stopped it, boss,” growled Bunny, who was bending over Top, his face lined with concern.
Grace wrapped her arms around me and I held Ollie’s hand-a man I’d mistrusted and wronged-and I wept for all of us.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five
The Liberty Bell Center / Saturday, July 4; 12:28 P.M.
A FRESH WAVE of Secret Service agents were the first to enter the Liberty Bell Center. Dressed in hazmat suits, they surged through the building until they found the First Lady. They whisked her away through a back door. Paramedics came to get us. Bunny lingered in the doorway to the office where Ollie and the others lay dead. EMTs worked on Top Sims, putting compresses on over a dozen slashes and stab wounds before loading him onto a gurney. Bunny hovered over them like a mother hen, giving them evil looks every time he thought they were a little too rough. He followed them out, offering a string of suggestions on how to do their jobs. They were probably happy their protective suits hid their faces.
I later learned that Skip Tyler had sixteen broken bones and a ruptured liver, apart from all the pencils Top had rammed through his kidney. Must have been one hell of a fight, but I was only marginally sorry I missed it. I’d had enough of violence. Maybe enough for the rest of my life. Even the Warrior who lurked in the back of my soul was glutted for now.
Ollie Brown and the fallen Secret Service agents were zippered into black rubber body bags. Skip and El Mujahid were left to lie where they were. Forensics teams would need to take pictures first. They could rot for all I cared. The EMTs all stopped and stared at the two pieces of El Mujahid. They gave me strange looks and didn’t get too close.
Grace sat beside me, her hand on my shoulder, as the EMTs plastered me with bandages and ice packs. When they were done, I said, “How bad was it?”
She was a long time answering that. “Bad,” was all she said.
I took her hand and held it. Her fingers were cold as ice.
“Rudy?” I asked, afraid of the answer.
She nodded. “Safe.”
When I felt able to walk she and I went back to the Bell Chamber. Brierly saw us and came over. “They tell me you and your man saved the First Lady.”
“Men,” I corrected. “First Sergeant Bradley Sims and Lieutenant Oliver Brown. They both did their part and Ollie died in action.” I paused. “I wanted you to know that Ollie died serving his country.”
Brierly nodded. “Thanks, Captain. He was a good man.”
“Yes,” I said. “He was.”
We shook hands and he took Grace aside for a conference call with Church. “I’ll be back,” she said.
“I still owe you a drink.”
“Yes,” she said, giving me a sad little smile, “you bloody well do.”
There were no more crowds. The victims lay in rows and men in white plastic suits were draping sheets over them and searching for identification. Someone had rigged blue Tyvek tarps over all of the windows, but the crowds were gone; all of Independence Mall had been cleared and the whole city was under martial law. The National Guard occupied Center City and dozens of choppers packed with federal agents, scientists, medical personnel, and a lot of other folks were descending on the town.
Rudy sat on the edge of the podium, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the ends of his tie hanging limply from either side of his throat. He looked up at me and started to offer his hand, but both of our hands were stained with blood. He withdrew his hand and sighed.
“Dios mio, cowboy.”
“Yeah.”
“Bunny told me that it was Skip after all. Not Ollie. We were wrong.”
“Everyone was. Even Church thought that it might be Ollie. Ollie looked best for it. These bastards probably picked Skip as much for his innocent face as for his greedy black heart. They fooled us and it almost cost everyone here their lives.”
I sat down next to him and for a long time neither of us said a word. His gaze was fixed on a point across the room and I followed his line of sight to where a man in a Hawaiian shirt lay sprawled. Someone had rammed the broken end of a wooden flagpole through his eye socket.
“I didn’t know it could be like this,” Rudy said at length. “I mean, I’ve counseled hundreds of cops, but ” He shook his head.
I understood and I could hear the deep hurt in his voice. But what could I say? We’d all had to do our parts; and I knew there would be long summer nights to come where we’d sit out in his backyard and watch the stars wheel overhead and drink beer as we talked it through. But that time wasn’t now and we both knew it. Across the room some of the Secret Service agents were standing like ghosts, their faces pale, their eyes haunted, as they tried not to look at the bodies lying under sheets.
“It must have been terrible for them,” Rudy said.
“For you, too, man.”
He shook his head. “I mostly watched. I I’m not sure I could have done what they did. They had to shoot congressmen, civilians ”
“You blame them for gunning down these people?”
“God, no. They’re heroes. Every one of them.”
I nodded. “They don’t think so.”
“No,” he agreed.
“They’re marked,” I said. “This is what you were talking about. The look on their faces, in their eyes. It’ll never go away. Violence always leaves a mark. You taught me that.”
He sighed. “We ask so much of the people who protect us. Firemen, cops, soldiers They sign up to do some good, to make a difference, but we sometimes ask too much.”
“They’re warriors,” I said softly. “Some of them will be stronger because of today. For some people battle is a clarifying experience. It forces all of the senses to come awake, it makes you become totally aware, totally
