Mortal Fear

my life at risk, you implicitly risked your own, and also those under your protection. Learning one’s limitations is always a painful lesson, but it is only through pain that we grow. Perhaps now you will understand that some “lawbreakers” are best left alone. (Besides, considering what you were forced to endure each night in the name of love, perhaps I did you a favor.) We shall not speak again. My condolences in advance.

“He killed somebody,” Miles says in a flat voice. “Right now, somebody close to Lenz is dead or dying.”

My hands are shaking. Before I can speak, my office line rings.

“Don’t answer it!” Miles commands.

“It’s Moroney,” I reply in a hoarse whisper. “The machine’ll get it.”

I steel myself against dreadful news.

After my outgoing message ends, a voice says: “Hello? Guys? Guys! This is Sid! All hell’s breaking loose up here!”

I am rooted where I sit, but Miles reaches the phone in three lightning strides. “Keep talking, Sid, what’s happening?”

“I’m going to hold the phone to the radio.”

Static-filled radio chatter bursts from the tinny speaker of my answering machine: “Alpha, what the hell? What’s going on in there?” More static, then: “Stand by, Green, stand-shit! Stop him, Ressler, goddamn it!”

“That’s Baxter!” I cry. “I recognize his voice. Alpha is Daniel Baxter!”

The first voice comes back: “Alpha, we’ve got a guy running down the walk, wait-he’s turning back for the garage.” Then a new voice, eerily calm: “Alpha, this is Gamma Leader. I have a male adult in my scope. Looks like your shrink.”

The voices merge into a babel of confusion. “All units, this is Alpha. That’s Dr. Lenz outside. Repeat, friendly personnel outside the house. What the hell’s going on, sir? Uncertain, Green. He’s in the Acura, Alpha! He’s burning rubber out of the driveway! Please advise! Green, follow the doctor but do not attempt to apprehend. Gamma Leader, this is Alpha. I am standing on the sidewalk. Stand down until the car is clear, then converge on the house and secure it. Green, don’t let the doctor hurt himself, we don’t know what’s happening. Roger, Alpha, in pursuit. He’s turning onto Dolley Madison. Yellow here, Alpha. What about the UNSUB? Contact too brief, Yellow. No useful bearings. UNSUB could be anywhere. Stay sharp. Green, stick to the doctor’s tail. We’re there, Alpha, turning onto Chain Bridge Road….”

A flurry of street names fills the airwaves.

“Does Lenz have any kids?” Miles asks.

“Yes.” I’m still too stunned to move. “A son, I think he said.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know. It’s not the kid, though.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s his wife.”

Miles looks at me. “How do you know that?”

“When I was up there, we stopped off at Lenz’s house for a few minutes so he could get some papers and clothes. She actually hit on me while Lenz was upstairs.”

“And?”

“She’s a bad drunk. That’s what the end of Brahma’s message was about.”

“Christ. Where does she live?”

“Ten minutes from the safe house. That’s why Lenz chose that location.”

The disjointed radio chatter is suddenly interrupted by Sid Moroney’s voice. “You guys got any idea what the hell’s going on up here?”

“No,” Miles says into the phone, his eyes still on me.

“I got traffic on the regular police band. They just dispatched two patrol units to an address not far from the stakeout. That anything to do with us?”

“Could be,” says Miles. “Don’t hang up, Sid.”

“You kidding? I’m putting the phone back to the receiver. I’ll give you whichever channels have the most traffic.”

The ensuing chatter tells a simple story of pursuit, very like an episode of Cops, but for the profanity of the FBI agents attempting to stay up with the racing Acura. After four minutes by my watch, we hear the denouement.

“He’s stopping, Alpha. Six-fifteen Whitehall. Repeat, Six-fifteen Whitehall. Large residential house. The doc just parked in a closed garage. We have Fairfax County blue-and-whites arriving at the scene. What do you want us to do?”

“Green, this is Alpha. I’m en route now. Get inside that house. One of you follow Dr. Lenz, the other tell the locals what’s what. Move it.”

“Understood.”

“Green, make SURE the locals know Lenz is a white hat. Whoever goes in the house, give me play-by-play. I’ll take over when I get there.”

“Alpha, this is Green. I’m in the garage. I’m ahead of the police. It’s dark… my weapon is out. I’m moving through a slightly open door. It’s a laundry room. No sign of anybody. Wait… Alpha, somebody’s yelling. Screaming. I think it’s a man. I have a man screaming-howling really. He… oh sweet Jesus… oh my God, we got a body here, sir. We have a female down. She’s-Jesus, she’s on a kitchen table. She’s naked. The doctor’s giving her CPR, but… I think she’s dead, Dan. She’s got to be dead because her-her head. Jesus, I’ve never seen one this bad-”

“Terminate contact,”snaps a rigidly composed voice. “I’ll be at the scene in less than a minute. Is that understood? IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

“Understood, sir. Sorry I lost my head… Green out.”

There’s another long burst of static. Then Sid Moroney’s voice drifts through my office in a hushed interrogative:

“You guys heard that?”

Miles doesn’t answer.

“Guys? Hey. Somebody just got wasted. A lady just got wasted. I, uh… wasn’t expecting that. I think maybe you guys better tell me what’s going on, huh?”

Miles shakes his head and puts his mouth to the telephone. “We didn’t expect it either, Sid. We knew it was serious, but nothing like this. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

“The hell I’m not. I’ve already broken about fifteen statutes that I know of. Now what the hell is this about? You guys really working for a newspaper or what?”

“Yes, Sid. The Times Picayune, out of New Orleans. You can call the office and check us out. But please tell me first what’s happening on the radio.”

After a moment, Moroney says, “Nothing on the FBI channel. I got some McLean P.D. stuff. They’re reporting a one-eighty-seven-a homicide-at Six-fifteen Whitehall.”

“Did they mention a name?”

“They don’t do that on the radio. Female Caucasian is all. They’ve alerted paramedics. Some patrolman’s asking for brass on the scene, complaining about the FBI. And um… uh… I think that’s about it for me, guys. Next time call somebody else, okay?”

“Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Moroney,” Miles says with overdone formality. Then he hangs up.

“This is bad,” he says.

Only now do I realize that Miles was consciously disguising his voice on the phone, adding the drawled Southern rhythms he worked so hard to eradicate during the past few years. “Bad?” I echo. “It’s a goddamn nightmare.”

“I meant the telephone call. It won’t be long before Baxter finds out we were monitoring what happened.”

“You mean that I was. We were using my phone.”

“I may have to split,” he says, rocking in place like a nervous sprinter. “We’ve got to accelerate the plan.”