The Legacy (9 page)

Magee shook his head. No, hes positive Im a private investigator working for the company holding Cole Egans mortgage. Gebauer is an idiot. Hes got no idea whats really going on. He just wants to screw up Egans life. For some reason they hate each other. Of course, Gebauer would be an easy man to hate.

As are you, Seward thought to himself. Is Gebauer still useful?

Magee knew what that meant. Yes, if you want to maintain close surveillance on Cole Egan. It meant that Gebauers days were numbered.

All right, Seward said, more to himself than Magee. He was beginning to calm down. You leave for Colombia tonight, Commander, Seward reminded Magee, holding up his left hand and studying the nail of his index finger as he spoke.

Im ready, Magee answered confidently.

I hope you dont find anything alarming down there.

I hope not too, sir.

Seward heard the derisive tone again as he picked up his cane and the tape, rose stiffly from the chair and limped out of the living room. At the doorway he hesitated momentarily. Have a pleasant trip, Commander, he said, then closed the door behind him and limped down the hallway toward his study.

Magee shook his head and rose from the chair. What a bastard Seward was. And he had to endure a five-hour round trip just to put up with that crock of shit. Magee picked up his leather briefcase and headed toward the cabin door.

Seward watched through the studys tinted window as Magee strode to the silver government sedan, slid behind the steering wheel, gunned the motor and guided the car back down the driveway. He kept watching until the car had disappeared into the forest, then turned to face General Avery Zahn, who was sitting in a chair across the room.

Did you get all that? Seward asked. He was still angry.

Zahn gestured at the television in one corner of the study. He had observed the conversation between Seward and Magee via a tiny camera and microphone concealed in the stones of the living room fireplace. Yes, he said calmly. I got it.

Commander Magee went over the line in New York. I told you he would. He could have screwed up everything. He still might.

He got the tape, Zahn observed.

Yes, Seward agreed. But Commander Magee was specifically ordered not to harm Cole Egan. If he had, we might have had real trouble on our hands.

Relax, Zahn urged. Commander Magee did what he had to do.

Why would we have had real trouble? The short man dressed in a charcoal suit spoke up for the first time from his seat on the couch. His voice was gruff, as if he were suffering from laryngitis.

Seward glanced at the man. Though short, he exuded natural power. Not political power, but a cruder, rawer power. He wasnt military, and Zahn wouldnt explain his presence. Zahn even seemed slightly intimidated by him.

There is always the possibility that a second tape exists, Seward said without awaiting Zahns approval to offer the information. There was more than a possibility, Seward judged. Even though Seward had never met Jim Egan, he felt as if he knew him very well after studying him for so many years. Jim Egan was an intelligent man. He could have easily made another tape. Cole Egan is our link. Without him wed be blind again.

The short man pursed his lips twice as he processed this new, disturbing possibility.

Jim Egan could have given someone the original film, too, Zahn snapped, obviously irritated at Sewards unauthorized editorial. But he didnt.

Sewards eyes narrowed as he studied General Zahn. So the president hadnt told Zahn everything. Yes, he did give someone the original film, Seward corrected Zahn quietly.

Huh? Zahn lurched forward in his chair, and the short mans eyes flashed to Sewards.

Eight years ago a woman delivered the original film of the assassination to a civilian CIA employee who lived in the womans apartment building, Seward explained. The woman claimed to have come upon the film while she was clearing out her fathers attic after he had died.

So we have possession of it? Zahn asked. So the president was holding back on him.

Seward nodded.

Why did the woman give it to a CIA employee? the short man wanted to know. Why didnt she sell it for a great deal of money?

Seward smiled. Those are excellent questions, and ones I might have asked if Id had a chance. Unfortunately, the woman died in a terrible car accident on the Capital Beltway only a few hours after giving away the film.

And you think the woman got the film from Jim Egan? Zahn asked.

Seward nodded again.

Why do you think that? the short man asked.

I checked the woman out. Her father wasnt dead at all. He was still alive and had no connection whatsoever to President Kennedys assassination.

That doesnt mean anything, Zahn argued. Maybe she found the film some other way and was being patriotic. Maybe Jim Egan never really had it at all.

Jim was throwing me a curveball, Seward said softly. He wanted me to think he no longer had the film so Id stop watching him. Im certain he gave the film to the woman with instructions to give it to that specific CIA employee, because in fact that CIA employee wasnt really a civilian at all. That was just his cover. That CIA employee was my direct assistant for Operation Snowfall at the time. He is now dead. Seward hung his head for a moment. The man had died in one of those unfortunate accidents at the end of his tour of duty. Jim must have somehow found out who I was and who my assistant was. He was a clever man. Seward paused. Im also certain that the woman who delivered the film to my assistant didnt die in an accident. Im certain Jim killed her.

What? This was too much for Zahn. Why in the hell would he do that?

Because he didnt want her telling anyone else what she had delivered, Seward responded. He wanted the existence of that film to remain secret until now.

The short man nodded subtly. So you think he might have made one or more videocassette copies? the man asked in his gruff voice.

Yes, Seward answered definitively. He was a careful man. He knew he was being monitored.

Is that our only potential problem? the short man asked. Seward was obviously much better informed than Zahn, and while he had the chance he was going to ask questions.

Theres Colombia, Seward offered.

Enough, Mr. Seward, Zahn interrupted. Well deal with that if we have to. He was annoyed. I think youre being paranoid.

Seward nodded stiffly. All right, he said. If that was the way Zahn wanted to play, so be it. He was the general.

Play the tape, Zahn ordered.

Obediently, Seward moved to the VCR positioned beneath the television and inserted the tape. He had seen the images many times while watching the original film, so this would be nothing new for him. But he was interested in seeing the reactions of the other two men to the shocking footage.

THE LASSITER RIVER begins in the remote forest of northern Wisconsin and flows through deep gorges and towering pine trees until it empties into Lake Superior forty miles east of Duluth, Minnesota. The river is fast-flowing, rocky-bottomed, relatively shortjust thirty miles point to pointand accessible only after an arduous trek through the dense pines or at two small bridges maintained by Oswego County. The property on either side of the river is owned by a small group of monied individuals as well as the federal and state governments.

Except at the tiny town of Hubbard, through which the Lassiter runs, only an occasional home is visible among the trees as one travels downstream, because there are only twelve estates along the entire length of the river. During the late spring and summer months these estates are occupied by members and guests of wealthy Minneapolis and St. Paul families, but the mansions are rarely inhabited from October to March. During these months the homes can be buried beneath mountains of snow dropped by a constant barrage of Alberta clippers and lake-effect storms.

The town of Hubbard, ten miles south of Lake Superior, is little more than an outpost in the middle of the forbidding pine forest. The town consists of a gas station still displaying a rusted Esso sign, a diner, a motel, a few modest clapboard homes and a drinking establishment known as the Kro Bar. The townspeople, mostly farmers and loggers, are not overly friendly to strangersnot even to sportsmen who journey to the Lassiter in the summer to enjoy some of the best rainbow trout fishing in the country and to spend money on rooms at the motel, food at the diner and alcohol at the Kro Bar. It is an isolated land, and most of the natives, including a few Chippewa Indians, seem to prefer it that way.

The sleek green-hulled canoe gathered speed as it cruised into the top of Devils Run just above a half-mile stretch of the river called Big Lake where the Lassiter expands to several hundred feet across and slows considerably. The few canoeists who find their way to the Lassiter are usually nervous at this point. Devils Run is a wild stretch of white water, and the odds of losing control and capsizing in these rapids are high. But Cole paddled confidently toward the first drop. He knew the Lassiter like the back of his hand and after years of experience had learned to identify submerged objects by reading surface swirls and shadows. He had grown up on this river fly-fishing, hunting and canoeing with the friends of his youth, most of whom he had lost contact with after moving to New York City. They couldnt understand why he would abandon the pristine woodlands of Minnesota and northern Wisconsin to live in a place where crime was a way of life and the real outdoors was hours away. To them, no amount of money was worth that sacrifice. Maybe he should have listened to them, Cole thought to himself as he maneuvered the craft into the top of the rapids.

Cole guided the bow of the canoe through the boiling water, deftly avoiding sharp rocks and submerged logs as he bounced downstream. Finally he steered to the right of a huge boulder at the bottom of Devils Run and slipped into the calm headwaters of Big Lake. He pulled the dripping paddle from the water, placed it across the gunwales and allowed the canoe to drift freely with the current as he relaxed and enjoyed the serenity of the fall afternoon. The only sounds on the river were the fading roar of the rapids behind him and the shrill screech of a territorial bald eagle overhead as it vacated its perch atop a dead birch tree, irritated at the uncommon human intrusion into its domain. The sky was a cloudless deep blue, and the scent of a far-off fire drifted through the air as the sun sank toward the horizon.

The temperature turned chilly over the calmer water, and Cole zipped up his wool jacket, then took a tired breath as he gazed into the dark pine forest rising from both banks of the river. The New York City Fire Department had officially ruled the explosion that had killed Maria Cooper an accident, but Cole knew the truth. Dammit! Coles voice echoed through the pines. Maria was dead and it was his fault.

He had comforted Nicki all the way out on the flight from New York to Minnesota. But she was inconsolable, believing that Marias death was her fault because she had left the key for Maria at the front desk. Cole had assured her over and over that there was no reason for her to feel guilty, that nothing she could have done would have prevented the accident. He hadnt yet told Nicki of the Dealey Tape and the frantic chase through Manhattan two nights agolet alone how the man with the scar, as he stood in front of Cole with a smug smile on his face and the Dealey Tape in his hand, had boasted about the apartment being set to explode. Cole didnt want to scare Nicki any more than she already was. More to the point, he realized that Nicki might want nothing to do with him if he told her the whole story. If she found out that he had been withholding information from her before he left Emilios to retrieve the Dealey Tape from the Gilchrist screening room, she would blame him for Marias death. And rightly so.

Cole shook his head. He should have contacted someone at the apartment building and ordered the doorman not to allow anyone into his place before leaving Emilios. He slammed the side of the fiberglass canoe with his fist, and noise reverberated through the trees again, this time frightening a flock of sparrows from a branch hanging over the quiet water. He watched the birds fly away, wishing he could turn back time.

As the birds disappeared into the distance, Cole picked up the paddle and headed slowly toward shore. He and Nicki had rented a car at the airport yesterday after the morning flight from New York to Minneapolis, then driven four hours north up Interstate 35 to Duluth. He wanted to get Nicki out of Manhattan for a while, and he needed time for himself too. He needed time to deal with the death of his father, the loss of the Dealey Tape, and his guilt about Marias death. He couldnt do that on a crowded trading floor with Lewis Gebauer hassling him and the trading losses hanging over his head. He was fairly certain he would have been safe in New York now that he no longer possessed the Dealey Tape, but he wanted to leave all that behind for a few days and convalesce on a river he adored rather than in a city he endured.

The canoe slid into a small cove and he guided the bow between two large rocks protruding from shore. Fifty feet into the forest was a campsite consisting of a crude stone grill and an old picnic table constructed by the family who owned this stretch of the Lassiter. The uninitiated would have paddled past the campsite without seeing it, but Cole had used this place many times on previous trips.

He jumped from the small craft onto the shore and looped the bow line around a low branch, then knelt down, picked up a stone, tossed it into the calm water and watched the waves move outward in growing concentric circles. Last night Nicki and her parents had eaten a somber dinner at his aunt and uncles house. Afterward he and Nicki had taken a short and mostly silent walk through the neighborhood. She was still too grief-stricken about Maria to say much. Then he had seen her home and given her a quick kiss on the cheek as her mother, who had come straight home after dinner, spied on them from the living room window. For several minutes he had stood outside the door after she disappeared inside, staring at it, wondering if he would ever be able to tell her what had really happened in Manhattan.