Worst Case Scenario, page 27
“A high-octane antibiotic. You have a little infection, but this should knock it out.”
Bishop slid his shirt back on and faced him. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Here.” Trevor held out a white paper bag. “There are antibiotic capsules, ointment, and pain medication. Take as directed.” Trevor flashed an embarrassed smile. “There’s also a few sleeping aids—you know, for the lady.” He smiled again. “Happy to see you back in mostly one piece.” Trevor turned to Maxwell and nodded. “That should do it, sir.”
“Thanks,” Maxwell said.
Trevor got out, and Maxwell eyed Bishop for a moment before speaking.
“Cook wants you to get some rest right now, but he has something else for you tomorrow.” There was surprise in Bishop’s eyes, and Maxwell continued before he could be interrupted. “It seems Fuller doesn’t want to let this go. He thinks since we’ve carried the water on it so far, it wouldn’t be right to let the FBI finish the job without our help.” A thin grin crossed Maxwell’s lips.
Bishop sat back and sighed. “What does he need me to do?”
Maxwell shifted in the seat. “We’re deploying all personnel to assist in intercepting McFadden. Since you and Cora can personally identify the guy, we’re putting you in a command center outside of Washington. If we encounter a disguised suspect, they can flash a photo to you for a confirmed identification.”
From Bishop’s demeanor, it was clear he wasn’t happy. Maxwell didn’t blame him. Had no reason to be. He’d given so much already, and now being asked to give even more seemed worse than unfair. But Fuller wanted to capture as much credit as he could, and Bishop was the guy in the middle.
Bishop only gave a slow nod. “Okay, but I don’t want Cora put in harm’s way—she’s already been through enough.”
“Understood. She’ll be with you, and you’ll be in a fortified, secure location well away from the Capitol. If, by some chance, he gets past us, you two will at least be out of the blast zone.”
“And you?” Bishop asked.
Maxwell shrugged. “Cook requested I take command of the off-site—he’ll stay at the Pentagon.” He handed Bishop a slip of paper. “Be at this location by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Bishop stared at the note. “How do we know he’s not already in Washington?”
Maxwell’s forehead wrinkled. In a shaky voice, he said, “We don’t.”
Newman Smith looked into the pit at the lifeless body of Ochoa. Sheba and Sampson tore away at his thigh and leg, feasting on their former tormentor. Smith walked around the area and looked for evidence of what might have happened. It seemed clear the fool had accidentally ridden the four-wheeler into the pit, but something about the scene troubled Smith. He went back to the hole and called Bishop’s name—only silence. He couldn’t tell if he was still in the cage. The door remained closed, so he must be there. The angle of the pit made it impossible to know if the cage contained a body—living or dead.
“Bishop!” Newman called again. No answer. He looked for the remote control to raise the cage, It wasn’t anywhere in sight. “Bishop!” he called again louder. Only silence. Newman dialed his cell. “Ochoa’s dead. Get someone over here and help me get the cage out of this damned pit.” Before hanging up, he had a second thought. “Also, find out what’s taking the guys so long at Cora’s—I want them back here, now.”
McFadden studied the map and talked on his cell. “Yeah, we’re making good time. Should be in Nashville this evening. Is everything all set?”
“Everything’s ready—I’ll meet you at the warehouse,” Daniel Piedmont assured him.
“You hear anything from your sources?” When Piedmont didn’t immediately answer, McFadden repeated the question.
“I was transferred off the case,” Piedmont said.
“What?” McFadden laid the map in the seat and sat up straight.
“I can’t talk about it right now—don’t exactly know what’s going on, but it couldn’t come at a worse time.”
“I understand.” McFadden glanced at Monk. “Keep us informed about any changes.”
“Will do—I suggest we go secure from here on.”
“You think it could be that bad?”
“Don’t know, but no use taking any chances.”
McFadden closed the phone and stared at the freeway traffic. His eyes pinched. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Had they somehow started to suspect Piedmont at the FBI—is that why he’d been relieved from the case? McFadden and Smith had worked out everything to the last detail. Even the long, three-day drive to Washington had been planned to the hour. They’d reasoned a mobile target would be harder to track. That became the rationale for traveling during the day. A group of vehicles moving at night might draw unwanted attention, but a few cars, spaced out over a mile, traveling with the normal freeway traffic flow, wouldn’t arouse suspicion. And since no one knew they were coming, no one would be looking for them anyway. McFadden had arranged warehouses on the route to hide the vehicles while they rested in nondescript hotels. Could the cabal’s plan have been comprised?
Monk lifted the sunglasses to his forehead and glanced in McFadden’s direction. “Everything okay?”
McFadden removed a cigar from his jacket and studied it a moment before lighting it. He’d taken up cigar smoking shortly after Coleen’s death. What started as a nervous habit had developed into a love affair. McFadden’s humidor at the ranch overflowed with expensive cigars. Some he nurtured for months before enjoying. But still, he never smoked one without a fading thought of Coleen. That incident had kicked off the habit.
Clark had done what his dad had told him that night in Vegas. He had turned off the lights, laid in bed, and waited for the phone call. In less than an hour, the hotel room phone had rung. Clark’s heart had skipped as he reached for the receiver.
“Hello.”
A non-familiar voice had asked, “Is this Clark McFadden?”
Clark’s gut had knotted. “Yes.”
“I’m an attorney in Las Vegas, an associate of Tom. Are you okay, do you need anything?”
Clark had relaxed a little. “I’m fine. Where’s Tom?”
“In the air right now. Picking him up in less than two hours.”
Dizziness had flowed over Clark, and his hand had been so weak it had been a challenge to hold the receiver.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Don’t return to the stairwell. Clean up the room and remove any signs of a physical quarrel. Put on your pajamas and go to bed. Be sure to turn off the light. If someone discovers the body, make sure to allow the hotel staff to appear to wake you. Say you were asleep and had no knowledge she’d left the room during the night. There was never a fight or any disagreement. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, sure. I understand, but I can’t sleep, not in my state.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’ll still relax you. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. Tom and I will be there in a couple of hours. Everything I just said came from Tom’s mouth. He’ll handle it when he arrives. Think you can remember all that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, take a big swig of some alcoholic drink and swish it around in your mouth like a mouthwash. Want plenty on your breathe for later. After that, hit the sack.”
With that, the line had gone dead.
Two hours later, a soft knock had sounded on Clark’s door. He had gazed through the peephole at Tom, standing alone in the deserted hall, his head on a swivel. Clark had swung the door open, and Tom had rushed in.
Thomas Arnett was a tall, slim man with predator-like features. Eyes set a little too close, and a Roman nose suitable to sniff out any hint of deceit or treachery decorated the rather ordinary face. He’d worn his dark hair short and closely plastered to his head. He’d looked like a KGB interrogator you see in old black and white B movies. He always insisted everyone call him Tom. He and Clark’s dad had attended Pennsylvania State University back in the day, Clark’s dad in the College of Earth and Mineral Sciences, and Tom in Law. He was one of those smooth-talking Houston criminal defense attorneys that typically only accepted three of four cases a year to continue living his multi-million-dollar lifestyle. He and Clark’s dad were still best friends.
“Has anyone else knocked on your door or called you except my colleague?” he had asked, setting his briefcase on the small table.
“No, no one.”
“Good, there’s still time.” Tom’s forehead had creased, and he touched Clark’s cheek. “What happened here?”
Clark had touched the raw scratch marks Coleen had made earlier. “We fought.”
“Not good. Any marks on her?”
“What?”
“Pay attention.” He’d raised his voice. “Any marks on her? Did you choke or strike her?”
“Yes, I slapped her.”
“Wonderful, just bloody wonderful,” Tom had muttered, walking away, massaging his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Okay, this complicates things but don’t lose heart.” He had withdrawn a flask from his inside suit pocket and handed it to Clark. Take a drink.”
Clark had held up his hands in surrender. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Tom had unscrewed the top and shoved it into Clark’s hand. “It’s not for you; it’s for the police later.”
Clark had taken a long swallow.
“Now, take a shower. Wait until eight o’clock and make sure you’re seen in the lobby. Ask the desk clerks if they’d seen or heard from your wife. Go to the restaurant and have breakfast. Inquire if she’d been down this morning. Pretend to be worried—concerned. Return to the room about nine. Wait until ten and go back down and insist on speaking with the manager. Tell him your wife appears to be missing and request the staff do a floor-by-floor search. Say she had too much to drink last night, and you haven’t seen her since you both retired. She may have wandered off and be on another floor. You just realized all her clothes were still there, but her nightgown was missing. Be sure to sound confused and concerned for her wellbeing.”
Tom had paused, catching his breath. “Then return to your room and brace yourself. They’ll find her soon enough. The police will be notified and will interview you. Don’t deny the altercation. Say you were both a little drunk. But insist you made up and went to bed at the same time, and when you awoke, she was gone. That’s all you know, period. Don’t let them pin you down on specifics. They’ll have two or three detectives ask the same questions in several different ways to trip you up. Say you had been drinking and can’t remember details, talk in generalities, don’t get caught in a lie when they compare notes later. Understand?”
Clark had been numb. The only thing he could do was nod.
“Now, take another drink, and repeat it on the hour until she’s either found or the flask is empty. You must be able to say you were a little tipsy during the interview.”
McFadden had nodded.
Tom had collected his briefcase and walked to the door. “Don’t answer any questions. Don’t even say hello to the cops until I’m back here. Call your dad. He knows where I’m staying.” Tom’s expression had softened. “The best they could hope for is second-degree murder or involuntary homicide. I can defend those without a problem. Don’t worry, young Clark. Your father won’t allow you to spend your formative years in a Nevada prison.”
Tom had been right about everything. Within a half-hour of being notified, the hotel’s staff had discovered Coleen’s body in the stairwell. The police soon showed up, and the interviews started. Clark had kept up the regimen of sipping from the flask every hour. He could tell from the detective’s expressions they’d smelled it. They’d interviewed him for only an hour that day with Tom present. The next day, they must have suspected something because they’d asked him to the police station for an additional interview, which had soon turned to an aggressive interrogation. They’d tried the flim-flam of double-teaming and then triple-teaming him in the interrogation room. Through it all, Tom had sat beside him, unflappable. They’d put together a signal. When a detective asked a question Tom didn’t want Clark to answer, Tom would twist the diamond pinky ring on his left hand. At that point, Clark would shut up, and Tom would object to the question, cite some obscure Supreme Court ruling or the US Constitution, and advise Clark he was not required to answer. At one point, the lead detective had looked like he would have a coronary. His face had turned so red McFadden had to stifle a laugh.
With no forensic evidence, witnesses, or confession, the medical examiner had no choice but to rule the death a tragic accident, and Clark had walked. But Tom hadn’t been through with him just yet. He’d advised Clark and his father it might be best if Clark left the country for a while. Not too far, but outside the borders and far enough away from Vegas that it would prove difficult for detectives to corner him for another interview.
That began Clark’s banishment. Ostensibly, he had relocated to Bouck Township in the wilds of Ontario, Canada, to study uranium mining techniques from the engineers at the Denison Mine. Clark’s dad owned a substantial interest in the place, and they had been happy to welcome a significant investor’s son for an extended visit.
Old Tom had been right, as usual. A month hadn’t passed before Vegas detectives notified Clark they wanted to close the case but first needed another chat. He had assured them he had no problem sitting back down for a chat. When would you want to come to Canada? That took the starch out of their socks a bit. They had hemmed and hawed and said they’d get back to him. A couple of days later, they’d called again and requested he travel to Vegas for the interview. Clark had told them that was impossible, that he was up to his neck in work and couldn’t possibly make what would amount to a two or three-day trip for an interview. But Clark had reiterated his desire to cooperate if they would only travel to Canada. When they’d used an implied threat, he’d reminded them of the medical examiner’s ruling. They had again said they’d get back to him.
Tom had coached him well, and the detectives had followed the script almost to the letter of what Tom had predicted. And Tom had known another thing. He’d know, with the department’s limited investigative travel budget and ever-increasing case load, the Vegas detectives wouldn’t leave the case open forever. Within seven months, Tom’s Vegas contacts had reported it had been quietly closed. Without fanfare, Clark had slipped back into the country in time for his dad’s birthday and the balloon festival.
Clark lit the cigar as he glanced over at Monk, lowering the sun visor to block the afternoon glare. Yeah, that Vegas incident had taught Clark a valuable lesson. He could get away with anything, but only under certain conditions. He needed a place where only he called the shots, made all the rules, and controlled everything. It was at that moment when he was still a young man that the idea of his own ranch, own town, own world began to take shape—a place away from everybody and everything—a place he could populate with whom he wanted. The thought of being an English lord with a colony of serfs somehow appealed to his sense of history. He never realized one day he and the serfs would be strong enough to rise and take back the country from the mealy-mouthed, lily-livered, socialist threatening the American way of life. This was his cause. This was his moment in time. Children reading history a hundred years from now would know the name Clark McFadden.
Newman Smith pulled the rain jacket tighter and stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the grinding winch as it lifted the cage from the dirt pit. A ranch hand manipulated the levers of the temporary overhead winch manually from its master control panel. Smith looked up at the dim sunlight streaking through the clouds as the afternoon came to a close. Just then, the cage surfaced, and, as he feared, it was empty. Bishop had escaped. Smith’s cell rang just as he peeked into the hole one last time. “What?”
A voice answered. “The boys we sent to Cora’s.”
“Yes?”
“They’re all dead.”
Smith opened his mouth but said nothing.
“Did you hear me?” the voice said. “They’re all dead, and Cora’s gone. Do you want us to start a search for Bishop?”
“No.” Smith released a tired breath. “He’s gone, too.”
McFadden hung up the phone and gazed at Monk Cole.
“Bishop’s escaped.”
Monk’s ashen expression caused him to explain further. “Ochoa’s dead, and so are four warriors we sent to Cora’s.”
“But, how?”
McFadden dialed his cell. “I don’t know. I knew there was something about him—he sure as hell wasn’t a reporter.” Before Monk could respond, McFadden’s call went through. He spoke into the phone. “You guys drop back; we’re taking the lead.” He hung up and surveyed the map again. “Assuming he’s a fed, he may have figured out certain parts of the plan—we can’t take that chance.”
Monk’s troubled eyes met his. “If he knows about the plan, then he knows we’re involved.”
McFadden gave a nod of acknowledgment. “We have to figure it that way.” He glanced at the map and then back to the freeway. “We’ll take the exit twenty miles up ahead,” he pointed at the map.
“We’re not going to Nashville?”
“Nope, they’ll be looking for us to be on a freeway. We’re getting off up here. We’ll get lost in the back roads and take an indirect route. They’ll never find us the way I’m going.”
Monk remained silent until the exit. As he turned off the freeway, the realization must have hit him. “We’ll be wanted men—we’ll never be able to return home.”
McFadden shot him a glance. “Do you have anything or anybody you want to return to?”
Monk showed a sheepish look. “No, I guess not.”
“Don’t worry; I have a plan to get us out of the US after this is over if it doesn’t go as planned—I still have a few million in an offshore bank.”
