Term Limits (36 page)

Jennings pulled out her gun and flipped off the safety. “I'm going in with you!”

Without looking back McMahon said, “No, you're not!”

“What if someone's still in there?”

“What do you think… the people that did this are waiting around to get caught? Just stay where you are, and I'll be back in a minute.” McMahon walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked. Swinging the door inward, he saw the next marshal lying on the floor with one leg still up on the chair. Standing over the body, McMahon's eyes were drawn to the three red dots marking the dead man's face and then down to his holstered gun. Sighing, he looked up to shake his head and saw the bright red streak on the wall at the top of the stairs. Only a pair of shoes were visible, and McMahon started the slow climb to the first landing.

He'd seen the congressman on TV before but wasn't quite sure the body he was looking at was Turnquist's. Unlike the other bodies, this one was riddled with more than a dozen bullets. It has to be him, he thought to himself. McMahon's phone rang, startling him slightly. He reached into his jacket and answered it. “Hello.”

“What did you find?” It was Director Roach on the line.

“Well, I'm standing over what I'm pretty sure is Congressman Turnquist's body.”

“Could you be more precise?”

“The man has a half a dozen bullet holes in his face and chest, but it has to be him.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.” McMahon stared down at the body by his feet and waited for Roach to speak.

“Any sign of the people that did it?”

“No.”

“I'd better tell the president before the media catches on. What else do you need from me?”

“Nothing right now.”

“All right, call me if there are any developments.”

“Will do.” McMahon hung up the phone and looked down at the body, contemplating the precision of the wounds in Turnquist's head.

Scarlatti and O'Rourke were sitting in the corner booth of a new and yet to be discovered Italian restaurant. It was located in the basement of a building about two blocks from Dupont Circle. The booth was a dark-stained wood, and the table was covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The only light in the restaurant was provided by a candle at each table sticking out of an old Chianti bottle. O'Rourke looked around and thought he might enjoy the place under a different set of circumstances. His
mostaccioli
tasted good and the wine wasn't bad.

Michael had told Liz that Coleman wasn't responsible for the deaths of Senator Olson and his four Secret Service agents, but he had neglected to mention Seamus's involvement in the first four assassinations. He didn't quite have the stomach to tell Liz that her future grandfather-to-be was an anarchist or revolutionary or whatever the term would be.

Liz was attempting for the third time in twenty-four hours to convince Michael that he should go to the FBI. “Michael, I know you and his brother were best friends, but the man killed the Speaker of the
House, two senators, and the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Liz moved closer. “You have to turn him in. I don't care if he had nothing to do with Erik's death.”

“For the last time, Liz, I am not going to turn him in.”

“I don't understand you.”

Michael looked at her for a long while and then answered, “I don't expect you to understand why I feel the way I do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Liz said defensively.

“You have no reason to think those men deserved to die. You have lived a very nice life.” Liz shot him a scowl and Michael said, “I'm not saying you haven't worked hard, I'm just saying you've had a nice life. Your parents are still alive. Your brother and sister are alive. Nothing has happened to you that would cause you to look at our political leaders with a truly critical eye.”

“So, just because I haven't lost someone close to me”—Liz folded her arms across her chest—“I'm not fit to judge my political representatives?”

“I didn't say you weren't fit to judge. I'm only trying to say that I don't think you understand why I feel the way I do.”

“Oh, I understand why you feel the way you do. Despite you not letting me in, I understand. The death of your parents and Mark is a horrible thing, but I don't think these bizarre assassinations are going to solve anything. You have got to let go of the past and move on with your life.”

Michael placed his anger in check, but even so his voice became a little louder. “Liz, it's easy to say you understand something when you haven't experienced it, and it's even easier to tell someone to get over something when you've never been through it. You can say you understand, but you will never really understand until you've lived it.”

“So what? Do you want me to lose my parents so I can empathize with you?”

“No, darling.” He reached for her hand. “I never want you to go through that kind of pain. When my parents were killed, my brothers and sister were robbed. They were robbed of dreams never realized and moments that should have been. They never got to look up in the stands during one of their games and see my mom and dad cheering. When the games were over and they came out of the locker room… all the other kids were getting hugs and kisses from their moms, but my brothers and sister didn't have one. When they came home from school, they didn't have a mother or father to help them with their homework, and when they ate dinner, there were two empty seats at the table. My parents never got to see the five children they brought into this world grow up.” Michael stopped and looked away.

Liz looked around the candle flame and asked, “What about you?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.” She pulled his hand closer. “What dreams did you miss out on?”

Michael paused for a moment. “My father was my childhood idol. He was everything I ever wanted to be. My mother… she was my best friend… the
nicest, most caring person I've ever known. Every holiday, every event for the last ten years, has been incomplete, and that's the way it will be for the rest of my life.” Michael's eyes glassed over. “When we get married, it'll be the happiest day of my life, but I'll still look down at that first pew, at the two empty seats, and think about how nice it would have been to have them there.” Liz squeezed his hand tight, and Michael forced a smile. “When we have our first child, he or she will only have one set of grandparents, and my parents will have never had the chance to hold their grandchild.

“I have been robbed of all of these moments and many more… and why?” In a quiet voice he said, “All because some drunk, who had proven time and time again that he was going to keep getting hammered and climb behind that wheel, was allowed to walk free. And why was he allowed to walk the streets? Because we don't have enough money to keep him in jail.” Michael poked himself in the chest. “Let me let you in on a little secret. We have the money. We have more than enough of it, it's just that the egomaniacs who run this country would rather spend it on programs that get them votes. That's why I think they deserved to die. It's more personal to me because their inaction cost the lives of my parents and the life of Mark Coleman, and that is why I'm not going to the FBI.

“I don't expect the average person to agree with me. Most people have enough to worry about just getting through their day-to-day lives, but when you lose someone or something close to you, things take on a more serious tone.”

Liz wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. Michael reached over and brushed her cheek with his napkin.

The hostess approached the table and asked, “Excuse me, sir. Are you Michael O'Rourke?”

“Yes.”

“You have a phone call at the hostess stand.”

“Who knows we're here?” asked Liz.

“I told Seamus in case he needed to get ahold of me. I'll be right back.”

Michael got up and followed the waitress across the small restaurant. Liz watched him talk on the phone and became concerned when she saw him close his eyes and shake his head. After talking for only about ten seconds, Michael handed the phone to the hostess and walked back to Liz.

“Was that Seamus?” she asked.

Michael nodded yes and pulled out his money clip. He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stuck out his hand for Liz. “Come on, let's go. The networks are reporting that Congressman Turnquist has been assassinated.”

McMahon was sitting upstairs in Turnquist's study by himself. His eyes were closed and he had a pair of thin leather gloves on his hands. His large frame rested comfortably in an old wood rocking chair. The rocking of the chair had a hypnotic effect, and Skip was in the midst of trying to re-create how Turnquist and the marshals had been killed. He envisioned a group of darkly clad men moving into position and then simultaneously killing the three guards outside with silenced
weapons. They had to have used silenced weapons. All of the clues indicated that the marshal inside had had no idea that the others had been killed.

An agent poked her head through the open door. “Skip, there're two people downstairs who are asking for you.”

“Who are they?”

“I don't know. One of them is a Marine. They said you were expecting them.”

McMahon sprang the chair forward and bounded out of it. He'd been excitedly waiting to compare notes with Heaney and Kennedy. Taking the back staircase, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and down the hallway onto the front porch. The Quick Response Team had arrived and was setting up their equipment. Turnquist's house looked more like a movie set than a crime scene. Floodlights were everywhere, illuminating the entire yard. The hum of generators droned through the still night air. General Heaney and Irene Kennedy were standing by the steps on the front lawn talking to each other. McMahon approached and said, “Thank you for coming so quickly. Have you seen any of the bodies yet?”

“We saw the one in the driveway and the other one right over there.” General Heaney pointed to the dead marshal on the front lawn.

“Well, before I start picking your brains, I'd like you to look at all the bodies.” Skip led them up the steps, saying, “All of the marshals were wearing body armor, but it didn't do much good.” A photographer was taking photos and several agents were taking notes and talking. McMahon asked them to step aside for a moment.

Heaney and Kennedy examined the dead marshal lying at the foot of the stairs. They looked at the three bullet holes in the center of the dead man's face and then at his holstered gun and radio. Kennedy looked into the dining room and pointed at the shattered glass. “The shots came from there, I assume.”

McMahon nodded. “We found five shell casings on the porch.”

Heaney looked up at the bloodstain on the wall of the landing. “Is that the congressman?”

“Yes.”

“Can I go up there?”

“Sure.”

Heaney and Kennedy walked up the stairs while McMahon stayed by the foyer. Standing over the body, Kennedy said, “Jesus, they really unloaded on him.”

“Yeah, I count at least eight hits. Maybe more,” replied Heaney.

“Any idea why they pumped so many into him?” asked McMahon from the bottom of the stairs.

“Two possibilities,” answered Heaney. “The first being they obviously wanted to make sure he was dead, and the second”—Heaney pointed toward the shell casings by McMahon's feet—“two or more men fired the shots. Your ballistics people should be able to answer that for us.” Kennedy and Heaney trotted back down the stairs.

“Let's take a look at the one out front again.” McMahon led them out the front door and down the steps. “This guy got two to the face and one to the neck.” McMahon bent over and lifted the man's jacket. “His gun is still holstered, but his radio is
missing. We found it up there on the porch, by the broken window.”

Kennedy looked to the broken window and back at the man by her feet. “They took the radio so they could find out if the guy inside knew what was going on.”

Heaney looked toward the side of the house. “Were the shots fired from over there?”

“Yes.” McMahon moved toward the side yard. “We found some shell casings over here. It looks like the perp took three shots. Two hit the man square in the face and the third hit him in the neck.” Heaney and Kennedy looked at the shell casings and judged the distance of the shots.

“I assume the last marshal is out back?” asked Irene.

“Yes. Follow me.” The three of them walked around the side of the house and to the backyard. As they approached the body, McMahon said, “Single shot to the head.” Skip bent down and opened the marshal's jacket. “His gun is holstered and his radio is on his hip.”

Heaney and Kennedy looked at the body for only a second, then turned their attention away from the marshal and the house. They took the whole landscape in without saying a word, swiveling their heads from side to side, their eyes focusing tightly on the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights. Without turning, Heaney asked, “Skip, can you get them to turn these lights off?”

McMahon said something to one of the agents, and the lights were cut, leaving only the small light over the back door on.

The general started walking across the yard for the tree line. McMahon and Kennedy followed several steps behind, and a moment later they disappeared into the woods.

Heaney navigated the dark forest with ease, ducking under branches and over fallen limbs that McMahon and Kennedy struggled with. Upon reaching the creek they stopped and turned back toward the house. Kennedy asked, “What do you think, General?”

General Heaney looked at the FBI agents standing by the back door. “They can't see us, can they?”