Dream of a Falling Eagle

operating across the country for the past few months. I know how this will thrill you, hut the FBI is going to want to know about this right away. You should call them first chance you get.'

The detective had been writing in his notebook. Now he stopped, looked at me. 'Jesus, I hate the FBIs.'

'Yeah, well,' I said, choking back a sob, 'into each life a little rain must fall. You'll be working with them on this.'

'You care to elaborate a bit for me, Mongo? There have been six other killings just like this one?'

I nodded, swallowed hard. The sun was hot on the back of my neck, and my mouth was very dry. I looked away from the body. 'Garth and I have been working for a Presidential Commission, investigating possible violations of U.S. law by the CIA in Haiti over the past few decades. The other victims were all Haitians who were potential informants or witnesses.'

Stamp grunted. 'This Dickens was Haitian?'

'No. He's American, born in the South. He spent most of his life in prison. I don't know how long he's been out. He was a member of the Fortune Society, so you can check with them for details. I suspect they'll want to make the funeral arrangements; if they don't, Garth and I will.'

'So what's the connection between this guy and the Haiti thing?'

'There isn't any.'

'That makes the two of you the connection between the six other vies and this one.'

'I guess.'

'I take it he was a client of yours?'

'Yes.'

'What was his problem?'

'Nothing important-and nothing to explain this. Lou Skalin down at the Fortune Society referred him to us. I told you he was a poet, and he took his work very seriously. Somebody was plagiarizing his poetry-altering it slightly and submitting it to poetry journals under another name.' I paused, glanced at Garth. He was staring at me impassively, watching and waiting to hear what I was going to say. 'I told him we'd look into it sometime in the future, when we weren't so busy with this other thing.'

The detective thought about it, shook his head. 'A man comes to you because somebody is plagiarizing his poetry, and he ends up being killed in the same manner as six other victims who were all Haitian and linked to an entirely different investigation. That doesn't make any sense, Mongo.'

'That's right,' I said, again glancing at Garth. My brother was still staring at me, and he had raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. 'It doesn't make any sense.'

'That's it?'

'That's it, Henry. Sorry we can't be of more help.'

Back in my office I stared down into my coffee cup, seeing Moby Dickens' face on the surface of the steaming black liquid. Rage had supplanted sorrow, and the strong coffee did nothing to wash away the taste of bile in my mouth.

'You kind of caught me by surprise back there, Brother,' Garth said quietly from where he was sitting on the couch. 'Why didn't you tell Henry the whole story? Kranes is the connection.'

'Sure he is,' I said to the black face floating in my coffee. 'I want another crack at Kranes myself, and I don't want to have to stand in line.'

'Mongo, have you thought this through?'

'Ah. A metaphysical query if ever I've heard one. You mean, do I appreciate the irony in the fact that I gave up Moby Dickens to a right-wing prick, and thus somehow marked Moby for death, but won't give up said right-wing prick to the police, who would then immediately move to apprehend the people responsible, all the way up the ladder?'

'You've thought it through.'

'Now here's a poser for you. How many police, FBI agents, reporters, public relations spokesmen, and baying politicians does it take to change a lightbulb?'

'So many that we'd never see the light. I get it, Mongo. This time I'm going with you.'

'For sure,' I said, looking up at him and nodding. 'I'll need your take on whether or not he's giving me straight answers. As far as the police and FBI are concerned, they're going to find Moby's poems and Jefferson Kelly's imitations anyway, if and when they search his apartment, and they can do with them what they want.' I paused and took a deep breath, but my rage still burned. I abruptly swept the computer printouts and other papers off the top of my desk with my forearm. 'Fuck this report. I'll give them a report. I swear I'm going to find out who killed him, Garth.'

'And why he was killed.'

'Yes.'

'You think Kranes could be directly involved?'

'Anything's possible, but I can't see it.'

'Maybe he whispered to his CIA buddies something to the effect, 'You've got a problem, and I've got a problem, and will nobody rid me of this potential embarrassment?''

'So the CIA says, 'Yes, sir, we'll send out our voodoo hit squad right away, and dump the body in the Fredericksons' backyard so they'll know you're not a man to mess with. Teach 'em a good lesson.' That's more stupid than even they're capable of-and Kranes himself may be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. Kranes sits on the Intelligence Committee, so he pretty much knows what we're up to. He'd know about the voodoo ritual killings. He doesn't want to be embarrassed by having the fact that he's a plagiarist made public. So his solution to the problem is to arrange for an unbelievably brutal murder where we could immediately link him to the victim? I don't think so. In less than a dozen words to Henry, or to the press, I could have made sure that William P. Kranes did nothing else for the rest of his life but answer questions about plagiarism and murder.'

'Whatever the reason, it was unbelievably stupid, if for no other reason than they've made you seriously angry.'

'You've got that right.'

'But we're agreed it was our same voodoo boys who did the killing, not some copycat who may have read about the others?'

'And who picked Moby as a random victim?'

Garth nodded. 'Just making sure we look at all the possibilities.'

'That surgery is bloody, but distinct. It was our boys.'

'Agreed.'

'Why?' I said, pounding my fist on the desk. 'Even in the unlikely event that the CIA would do any kind of wet work to protect Kranes's little secret, why not just put a bullet in Moby's head and dump him off some pier? Why whack him in a way that immediately focuses our attention on them and Kranes?'

'Good question. And yet we're agreed that the company is responsible, in the sense that they run these killers, and somebody ordered them out.'

'It is most seriously bewildering.'

Garth smiled thinly as he gestured toward the papers strewn over the floor at the side of my desk. 'Maybe their intent was to distract us from our pressing work at hand.'

'If that's the case, they've certainly succeeded.'

'Could we be looking through the wrong end of the telescope? Maybe they intended to embarrass Kranes by linking him to a murder investigation and exposing his secret.'

'Kranes is not only the best friend the company has, but the most powerful. Why would they try to gut him in what promises to be their greatest hour of need?'

'Just moving the ball around the court, Mongo.'

'There's no shot there.'

'Which brings us to your visitor this morning. From the way you described the conversation, Taylor Mackintosh is at the top of the stupid chart.'

'Deranged is a more accurate description.'

'A perfect match. Deranged is also a very accurate description for Moby Dickens' murder, and the manner in which it was done.'