Freeze Frame (16 page)

"Bad news?" he asked.

"Why would you say that?"

"Your face. You look surprised, even
scared."

"I'll get your aspirin." I brushed by the man
and walked to the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. I held
out the bottle.

"Take it."

The man took the aspirin and started for the
door. He got as far as the kitchen alcove when he turned. "Jack?
You called your friend Jack."

"That's right. That's his name...Jack."

"Not Sean?"

"I think it’s time for you to leave.” My legs
suddenly felt like rubber bands. I leaned backward against the
stove for support, almost scorching my hand on the burner heating
the pot of water.

"I’ve got a better idea," The man's tone
changed, no longer the friendly, apologetic neighbor. "I'm going to
stick around and see who your friend really is."

He reached behind his back and closed the
door.

"What are you going to do?” I fought to keep
my voice from shaking. My palms felt sweaty.

"I just want to talk to you both. Relax."

It was a lie, of course. With stakes as high
as a Presidential election, no way could we be left alive.

The intruder stood in front of me, motioning
toward the living room. Leaning against the stove, I felt the
handle of the pot on the burner. The water should be boiling. My
hand shook as I made a half-turn to the right and grabbed the pot
handle. Spinning back to my left I hurled the contents directly
into the man’s face.

"Ahhhhhhh...!" A horrible, high-pitched
scream erupted from the man’s throat as he grabbed his face with
both hands. I bolted past, jerked open the front door, pounded the
handle of the storm door and ran into the cold night air. I tore
around the cottage, heading for the back, dodging trees, my feet
fighting for traction against sandy soil. I raced across the
lighted clearing behind the cottage and into the dark forest. Ferns
whipped against my jeans as I dashed through the darkness.

"Bitch! I'll kill you!" The voice wailed
somewhere behind me. I hoped the scalding water had blinded him. I
stopped to look back, lungs burning. Hiding in the trees, I
crouched sixty feet behind the cabin. The light over the back door
shone brightly.

Just as I began breathing easier, the man
bolted around the corner of the building, stopping in the center of
the spotlighted area. Even from this distance I could see he
suffered immense pain. He rocked back and forth, making some sort
of noise, moaning. He reached inside a coat pocket and withdrew
something. As light spread in front of his feet, I realized it was
a flashlight.

The man stood stock still, cocking his head
one way, then the other. Listening...listening...straining to hear
the slightest crackle of leaves underfoot, the sound of a twig
snapping. Hearing nothing, he began walking toward the stand of
trees.

Toward me.

The flashlight’s beam came closer. I snatched
a look behind me. The dirt trail leading to the road lay fifty more
feet away. I doubted anyone resided in the cottages along that
road; the buildings had been boarded up when Higgins and I
arrived.

The man walked faster now, his light
extending past the first few trees. I eased backwards, toward the
dirt road.

CRACK!

Betrayed by a footstep. The dry twig snapping
seemed like the report of a rifle shot. I froze. To the left stood
a huge pine. I took a single giant step and slid behind it.

The sound hadn't escaped my pursuer. He
pointed his flashlight toward my position and began walking. The
light danced through the pines, coming dangerously close to where I
huddled behind the tree. Pine needles crackled under his feet, the
sound growing louder. He now moved to within inches of me, on the
opposite side of the tall pine. His footsteps stopped and his
breath rasped as he sucked in the night air. I pinned my arms
against my body, locking my elbows under my rib cage. My heart
pounded with such force it hurt. The light played around the trees,
stopping here, there...as the man tried desperately to find me.

I fought to keep my breathing under control;
terrified the man might hear me. The moment seemed frozen in time.
Then the footsteps began again, this time moving past. I inched
around the tree, keeping the trunk between me and the source of
crackling leaves and snapping twigs. The man moved to the rear of
the lot, circled back and traced the property line toward the front
of the cottage. I let out a breath as I watched the flashlight
disappear around a corner.

I suddenly became aware of another sensation:
cold. The night was painfully frigid. Racing from the cottage, I
hadn't worn a coat or sweater, and the cold bit through my jeans
and thin cotton blouse.

To my left I made out the shape of the small
tool shed behind Mrs. Gordon's house. Was it possible a sweater or
jacket hung inside? I crept toward the shed, gingerly at first,
grimacing as my footsteps caused crackling sounds against dry
leaves and pine needles. As the cold became overbearing, my steps
came faster. I kept my arms folded in front of me, my hands rubbing
them in an attempt to keep warm.

The shed couldn’t have been more than six
feet square. Inside, I saw nothing but darkness. Crouching low, I
crawled in, reaching back to close the door. My purser was out
there, and could be coming back.

Wrapped in darkness, I found myself shivering
violently. I quickly but carefully felt along the wall behind
me.

Nothing.

Feeling backwards, now along the floor, I
felt...a sweater. I tugged, but it was caught. Remembering the
matches in my jeans pocket, I retrieved the pack and struck
one.

As the sudden flash of brightness died and my
eyes became accustomed to the dim light, I saw to my horror what
the sweater had caught on.

The cord around poor Mrs. Gordon's neck and
an agonized expression on her old wrinkled face told a horrific
story: death had come with a great deal of pain.

63

Higgins guided the blue Lumina onto Peninsula
Drive. Driving as fast as the narrow road allowed, he found a
grassy area just off the sandy trail where he killed the headlights
and engine.

Still a half-mile from his uncle's cabin, he
climbed out, eased the car door closed and began walking quickly.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sandy road appeared as a
light gray strip, with the trees on either side black silhouettes.
He half walked, half ran on the edge of the road, ready to duck for
cover if headlights appeared.

He’d had time to think in the hour since
leaving Traverse City, and a lot to think about. He feared for
Darcy's safety, and dreaded what he might find at the cabin.

He had weighed the significance of what he
discovered. Darcy’s guess had struck the bull’s eye. Bacalla and
his people were using Adams & Benson, its facilities and
employees, to carry out an outrageous act of deceit on the American
people. And to do that, they had chosen the commercials of the AVC
account, his account.

Higgins wondered how many were involved, how
many of the people he knew and talked to every day? The thought
that he worked side by side with people involved in this conspiracy
made him sick.

He’d stopped twice along the way from
Traverse City and called the cottage from pay phones without
success. He tried to force speculation to the back of his mind;
reality would come soon enough.

Higgins continued along Peninsula Trail as it
wound to the right. Close to the cottage now, he moved slower. Mrs.
Gordon's cabin came first, on the left, and as he stared through
the trees, he caught a glimpse of light.

Strange to see light coming from Mrs.
Gordon’s place this late, but he continued on. Uncle Frank's cabin
was next. Higgins stole past the sandy driveway, spotting lights in
the kitchen and living room. Another sixty feet and he left the
road, slipping through the trees toward the lake. Reaching the
beach, he turned into his uncle's front yard and crept along the
water's edge. Hidden in the darkness, he had a clear view. The
living room was brightly lit, and empty. He cocked his head,
listening. The only sound came from the lake behind him, its waves
rippling softly into the shore.

Crouching low, he inched closer to the
cottage, vaguely aware of sweat beads forming on his forehead and
upper lip. The inner, wooden door stood wide open. He walked
quietly to the storm door and tried the handle, pulling it
open.

"Darcy?"

Nothing. He listened for sounds from the back
bedrooms. Silence.

Moving slowly, he nearly tripped over a pan
upside down on the floor. Stooping to pick it up, he noticed wet
carpet surrounding it.

"Mr. Higgins, I presume."

Higgins jumped, startled by the sound.
Looking up, the sight shocked him more: a man of medium height in a
red and black hunting jacket, pointing a pistol at his chest. The
man's face was as red as the shirt, and horribly distended. One eye
was swollen shut, the other open and wild looking.

"Your girl friend did this," the man hissed.
"Boiling water."

"Where is she?"

"Screw you. You know too much already."

"Enough to put you away for a hell of a long
time."

"Let me guess. You found the message in that
Avion DVD. Too bad you won't get a chance to tell anyone." The man
raised the pistol.

There was movement in the darkness of the
bedroom behind the gunman. Darcy? It had to be.

"Someone already knows,” Higgins said. “A TV
reporter in Traverse City. Anything happens to me, he'll tell the
cops what he saw."

The man lowered the pistol. "So you didn't
leave the DVD with him. You have it."

"How can you be sure?"

"If the reporter had the DVD, he wouldn't
have to tell what he saw. He would show them."

The pistol came up again. "You've told me all
I need to know."

64

I entered the rear door of the cottage
moments after the man who had been chasing me.

I heard voices from the living area, and
peering out from the darkness, I saw Sean with the man in the black
and red jacket. The man had his back toward me, but the
conversation made it clear he held a gun.

So did I; a loaded single-shot .22 rifle I
found in Mrs. Gordon’s shed.

One shot.
One chance
.

Would I have the nerve to shoot? Did I have
to? If I just pointed the rifle, could I convince him to drop his
gun?

Or, would he shoot me instead?

I stepped into the living room, rifle at my
shoulder. The man in red and black couldn’t see me, but Sean’s eyes
went hubcap wide as he spoke. “When the reporter calls the cops
they’ll investigate.”

The man raised his gun. “They won’t find
diddly. By then your DVD will be at the bottom of that lake out
there.”

Sean screamed. “Good god, Darcy. Shoot.”

One shot. One chance.

The man whirled toward me and uncertainty
vanished with the squeeze of the trigger.

The report of the rifle was magnified inside
the cottage, the air smothered by the smell of cordite. The man
fell to the floor.

I dropped the rifle. “I didn’t want to kill
him.”

“If you hadn’t pulled the trigger, I’d be
lying there.”

Sean’s eyes went from the body on the floor
back to me. “Where’d you get the rifle?”

“The shed next door.” I suddenly remembered:
“Mrs. Gordon. He killed her. She’s there in the shed.”

I looked at the man on the floor. “What do we
do about him? And how about poor Mrs. Gordon?”

“We call the police now, they’ll be on our
tail. We’ll have to hide him in the shed.

“Then we pack, lock up and get out of
here.”

The body on the floor sent a shiver through
me as I was struck by the realization that I had killed another
human being. I felt guilty. But strangely, the guilt didn’t spring
from the shooting. It came from the fact I didn’t feel a bit guilty
that I killed him.

Does that make sense?

65

Saturday, Oct. 23 2:06 a.m.

The headlights of the Chevy Lumina pointed
the way south on I-75, Higgins at the wheel. As we rode, the
conversation centered on what Higgins found at the studio: the
frames with "VanBuhler" and "leadership" repeated throughout the
commercial. We both agreed there had to be more AVC commercials;
probably with VanBuhler's name matched with words like "diplomacy"
and "economic savvy."

"Those are the qualities pollsters ask people
to rate candidates on," I said. "No wonder the man’s off the
charts."

Sean’s eyes were nearly closed.

"Sean, let's find a place to stop."

We took the next exit and found a motel not
far from the expressway. I donned the same “disguise” I’d used at
the Gaylord library, pulling my hair back, wrapping it in a scarf
and applying eye makeup darker than usual.

I needn't have bothered. The night clerk, a
young man about eighteen, was half-asleep. After I filled out a
card and paid in cash, he handed me a key.

"Two-eighteen. Around back, second
floor."

The room contained one king-size bed. Too
tired to argue over propriety, we climbed under the covers and fell
asleep.

***

On the expressway by noon, we drove south
past towns with names like West Branch, Rose City and Pinconning.
Sean seemed wide-awake after eight hours of sleep.

I kept thinking about the shooting the night
before and picturing the stranger in the checkered jacket lying
lifeless as we placed him in the shed next to Mrs. Gorden. Trust
me: no matter who’s at the other end of the bullet and how
justified the shooting may have been, it’s not easy getting over
killing someone.

As we drove, the stress of the shooting was
slowly replaced by the satisfaction of finally having the evidence
to prove the existence of a conspiracy, a conspiracy to overthrow
the Executive Branch of the United States Government.