routine check, a hint or two from Gordon, and it mushroomed. Forester’s suicide — legitimate, as far as Ball knew — must have provided the catalyst. Ball realized now that at some point they must have suspected it wasn’t suicide, and that he was involved.
Or McSweeney set it all up. It played out that way as well.
Ball just couldn’t decide which it was. McSweeney was devious enough to try to kill him, but Ball didn’t think he was smart enough.
He should have done Gordon in Vietnam. That would have been the sensible thing to do.
Voices began to murmur in the other room. The reporters were snapping to. McSweeney would be there any second.
Ball took a deep breath, then turned around.
tommy karr continued his seemingly casual tour of the house, methodically checking each room while planting video flies.
“Oh, so there’s the food,” said Karr, spotting a server leaving the kitchen with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “What are these?”
“Liver pate on herbed crackers,” said the man.
Karr took one and plopped it in his mouth.
“Tastes like liverwurst,” said Karr.
The man made a face and started to walk off.
“Hey, I like liverwurst,” said Karr.
Just as he grabbed two more crackers, a tall, balding man walked from the kitchen past him.
Ball. And he hadn’t even bothered to don a disguise.
senator mcsweeney swept into the house with a surge of energy, leading the President as if he were the host.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” announced McSweeney, injecting as much bravado into his voice as he could muster.
The crowd parted. McSweeney raised his hand.
I’ll get through this easily, he thought to himself. I’ve been in much worse situations. It happened a million years ago, and they can’t prove a thing.
Tommy Karr pushed the waiter to the side and started after Ball. But Ball was already going through the door, three or four steps ahead of him.
There he was; there was the bastard right in front of him, raising his hand, waving as if he were the King and everyone else peasants.
Ball knew he’d made the right decision. He pulled the gun out.
Someone yelled. Someone started to duck. Someone dove at him.
There were others — the President and his bodyguards.
Where the hell had they come from?
Ball pushed the gun forward and squeezed the trigger.
Charlie Dean didn’t realize what was happening at first. He saw a blond flash of hair flying out of the other room and realized it was Tommy Karr.
The Secret Service people grabbed at Marcke.
What’s going on? wondered Dean.
And then he knew.
Jimmy Fingers saw it from the side of the room, saw the man coming from the crowd. He recognized him, knew exactly who he was: Christopher Ball, small-town police chief from Pine Plains. The bastard had once threatened to lock him up during a particularly nasty committee fight years ago.
What the hell was he doing here, and with a gun?
McSweeneysaw sergeant Tolong in front of him, just to the side of his Secret Service bodyguard. McSweeney blinked, thinking it must be an apparition, a vision brought on by his unsettled nerves.
The vision didn’t disappear. It was Tolong, not as he’d known him in Vietnam, but as Ball. He’d helped him settle years and years ago when the former sergeant hit rock bottom.
McSweeney, then a county legislator, had felt sorry for him — and guilty as well.
Plus, Ball had hinted that he might talk about what they had done if he had no other choice.
There was anger in Ball’s eyes, anger that McSweeney hadn’t seen since Vietnam.
He had a gun.
Something popped, and McSweeney felt a pain in his side.
Tommy Karr threw himself forward. He grabbed Ball’s back just as he fired the gun. Karr’s momentum sent them both crashing to the floor.
Ball had more energy in him than Karr expected. The chief squirmed to his left, and worked his elbow up into Karr’s ribs. Karr grunted with pain — he’d broken the ribs a few months back and they were still tender — then leveled a fist into the side of Ball’s face.
“Secret Service!” yelled Karr. “I’m with the Secret Service! He’s down! He’s down!”
His cry was too late to stop the three burly agents from jumping on top of him, squeezing him against Ball, who still had his elbow in Karr’s ribs.
“Just get the gun,” said Karr, fishing under Ball for his arm and the pistol. As he grabbed it, there was a muffled shot and a shudder beneath him.
Jimmy Fingers caught himself as he fell back against the table, propping himself against one of the dishes of fancy desserts.
McSweeney was down. Chief Ball was down. The President was being hustled from the house.
It was like a dream, a very, very bad dream.
But it was happening, right in front of him.
All Jimmy Fingers could think of was that the President had set this all up.
Of course he had. If Jimmy Fingers could arrange a mock assassination attempt, then it would be child’s play for the President to arrange the real thing.
Someone with a tackle box came from outside.
A paramedic. The President had sent one of his Secret Service paramedics.
Jimmy Fingers pushed himself forward toward McSweeney. His legs were so rubbery that he nearly tripped, and after three steps he collapsed to his knees, right over the senator. The paramedic had pulled away part of his shirt and had what looked like a large towel pressed against the side of his stomach.
“Jimmy Fingers,” said McSweeney.
“Are you all right, Senator?”
“I know him,” said McSweeney. “Tolong.”
“No, it’s Chief Ball,” said Jimmy Fingers. “I can’t believe it. A police chief? You’ll be OK.”
As the words left his mouth, he glanced up at the paramedic. The man grimaced and continued to work.
“I’m not going to run,” whispered McSweeney.
“Why?”
“I can’t.”
“Did Marcke set this up? Did the President set you up?”
“The President has it all figured out.”
“You’re going to be OK. You’ll
“It’s over.”
Karr finally managed to convince the men on top of him that it was safe to get off his back. He slid his feet to
