The List (30 page)

Another coughing fit. Phil drained the scotch and reached for the bottle.

“Maybe I should come down to the house, visit for a few days.”

His father was silent.

“I’ll free up my schedule.” Phil thought out loud. “I haven’t seen you in a while, anyway. Maybe we can throw the ball around, like old times.”

“We never threw the ball around.”

“Yeah, well, it’s never too late to start.”

His father’s voice became very cold. “I don’t need you to worry about me. I need you to do your fucking job.”

“I’ll see you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”

He hung up the phone and called his travel agent to book the flight. Dad was wrong. Phil wasn’t worried about his father in the least.

He was worried about himself.

Springfield

1 cordless drill

1 portable step ladder

1 funnel

1 crowbar

9 cans foam insulation

1 20# bag powdered cement

2 rolls duct tape

1 caulking gun

1 gravity knife

2 M18 Taser guns

1 can Guard Alaska bear repellent

1 aluminum police baton

4 Kevlar vests with trauma plates

Tom looked at the equipment spread out on the motel bed. Bert and Roy arrived the day before Joan and Tom, and had done the shopping.

“It’s a good thing Springfield had an Army surplus store.”

Joan seemed unimpressed. “This is all we’ll need to break into Stang’s place?”

Roy nodded. “Bert and I checked the place out. Security is tight, but can be beaten. The only rough spot will be Stang’s assistant, Jerome Huntington. Did a background check. Would you believe that guy was a Navy SEAL?”

Tom could believe it. Not too many people in the health care industry carried pistols. Besides, there was something about Jerome, some sort of vibe he gave off, that frightened Tom.

“Shouldn’t we get some guns or something?” Joan gave Tom a nervous glance. They’d left theirs in LA rather than risk taking them on an international flight, and Roy had lost his in the river. Illinois had a mandatory waiting period to buy firearms, so they couldn’t get any by tonight.

“The taser is almost as good. It shoots two probes up to fifteen feet away, a hundred feet per second. Sends a pulse that completely overrides the skeletal muscles, causing uncontrollable contractions and massive disorientation for up to 15 minutes. Even works through a bullet proof vest.”

“And I’m fine with this.” Bert picked up a can the size of a small fire extinguisher and read from the label. “Shoots a thick fog of blinding pepper spray up to twenty feet away, guaranteed to stop a rampaging grizzly or your money back.”

Tom wondered who would be alive to receive the refund if the product didn’t work, but he kept that to himself.

“Bert and I got you a police baton, Joan.” Roy handed her an aluminum billy club with a black rubber grip, roughly two feet long.

“We figured, with your martial arts background.”

Joan palmed the weapon and did something very fast with her fingers that made it twirl. Tom detected the tiniest trace of a smile on her lips.

“This will do,” she said.

When 2am finally rolled around, they loaded up the gear and drove to Stang’s place. Tom parked off road in a copse of trees about a mile away. The night was windy, and dark in the way it never got in the city.

They hoofed it the remainder of the way, ducking in the ditch alongside the road when the infrequent car drove past. It was slow going—the equipment was heavy and everyone was nursing injuries.

Even though he was cold, Tom’s hands were sweating in his latex gloves. There was no doubt that Stang would recognize them, but none of them were keen on leaving fingerprints.

The iron fence around the perimeter of the mansion was for show rather than security. Roy was able to pry a bar loose and they all slipped through, onto the grounds. The house and lawn were reasonably well lit. After a brief discussion, it was decided the northwest corner of the building would be the best approach. Not only was it harder to see things on an angle, but most of the windows on those two sides appeared to have their shades drawn.

Between the fence and the house was about an acre of carefully maintained grass. They took it in a sprint, moving as fast as they could.

Midway there Tom tripped over a recessed sprinkler head, the step ladder clattering to the ground before him. Roy and Joan helped him up, kept him going. When all of them finally had their backs against the cool brick wall of the mansion, they took a few minutes to catch their collective breath. Tom listened to the wind, expecting at any moment to hear a police siren approaching. None did.

They began the break-in. Roy pointed out the first annunciator. It was a large metal box, the size of a medicine cabinet, painted white and attached to the wall about ten feet high off the ground. Inside was the horn, and a big one by the look of it.

Tom set the ladder underneath and climbed up to get started.

There were slats cut into the box, like vents in a school locker. Using a penlight, Tom peered through a slit to see the cover lock. It was wired.

Opening the box would set off the alarm.

Bert handed up a can of aerosol foam. Tom attached a tube to the nozzle and stuck it through the slats, filling up the annunciators horn.

The foam was used in basements and attics to seal cracks and leaks and prevent heat loss. It dried quickly and had excellent insulating properties.

When the throat was full, Tom used two more cans to completely cover the outside of the horn. Then he sealed the vents with caulk, drilled a hole in the top of the box, and used the funnel to pour in dry concrete. That would fill in any remaining pockets of air inside the box.

The principal was simple. Sound traveled through the air in waves. By replacing a gas with a solid, the sound waves had no way to escape, and were effectively muffled. It would be like trying to scream with your head under water, except powdered concrete and foam insulation were quite a bit denser than H2O.

After getting the knack of it, Tom was able to finish the second and third annunciators quickly. When he was done, he found Roy and the others at a first floor window. They’d completely covered the glass in duct tape.

It was no longer a question of finesse. They were simply going to jimmy the window open. The alarms would go off, but hopefully they’d been dampened enough so that no one would hear them. The duct tape was to prevent the glass from shattering and making noise.

Tom and Roy shoved their crowbars in the window jamb and jacked it up. There was some soft creaking when the pane splintered. Tom found the magnetic switch, recessed in the frame and fully open.

“Check the annunciator.”

Bert walked under the nearest one and cocked up an ear.

“I hear a faint whining sound, really quiet.”

They were in.

Tom eased himself through the window and onto the carpeted floor of a dark room. He briefly flicked on his penlight. Shelves.

Books. A library. Tom made his way to the door and put his ear to it.

No sound. He gripped the handle and turned slowly, easing it open. It let out into a hallway. To the right, around the corner, was a faint light.

Tom motioned for the others to follow.

The hallway ended at the foyer. The wall sized aquarium glowed blue, peppering the grand staircase with streaks of muted light.

Tom went up quickly—the stairs were a bad place to get surprised.

The taser felt comfortable in his hand. It was lighter than the revolver he’d been carrying, but his muscle-memory treated it like any normal gun; finger on the trigger, ready to point and shoot. In the darkness, the horrific pictures on the wall looked even worse. Shadows seemed to intensify the many expressions of pain. Tom ignored them, pressing onward.

Movement, at the top of the staircase. A pair of glowing eyes stared down at him. Functioning on instinct, Tom leaned to the side and fired. The two probes hissed through the air and made a faint crackling sound when they found their target. Tom climbed the last few stairs, taking a look.

On its back, four legs sticking straight up in the air, was a cat. It jerked every few seconds as the gun continued to pulse.

“You get him?” Joan whispered from behind.

Tom turned off the juice and pulled out the probes. He reloaded them into the gun barrel. The cat went limp, but it seemed to be breathing fine. He changed the gas cartridge and checked the battery.

The feline rolled onto its feet and stared at them, one eye crossed. All of its fur seemed to be standing on end, so it kind of resembled a porcupine.

“Sorry, kitty.”

The cat walked on wobbly legs to the second floor railing and squeezed through the bars. Then it fell twenty feet straight down, hitting the foyer floor with a thump.

“I thought cats always landed on their feet,” Joan whispered.

Tom put his fingers to his lips and looked down the hallway. Dark and quiet. If Stang was still recovering from his operation, there was a good chance he might still be in the drawing room. That’s where Tom decided to check first. He moved warily, as if he were in a haunted house and anything might jump out at any moment. When he reached the door there was a dim light coming through the bottom crack. He held his breath and listened. Faint snoring.

Tom went in fast. Stang was on the bed, his head propped up against the giant headboard with pillows. A thin line of saliva was escaping his open mouth. The dialysis machine next to him was silent, and a small night light plugged into the wall bathed the room in a faint yellow glow. Tom was on him in two steps, gravity knife pressed to the old man’s flabby neck.

“Wake up.”

Stang peeked his eyes open. When he saw who was standing over him they widened to almost comic levels.

“Where’s Jerome?” Tom asked.

“Two rooms over, same side.”

“What kind of weapons are in this house?”

“He has a gun.”

“How many?”

“Just one.”

Tom took the knife and held it front of Stang’s face, near his right eye. Fear made the Senator’s thin lips tremble.

“How many?”

“A lot. A shotgun, an M-16, some bladed weapons.” Stang’s voice was soft, defeated. He was a far cry from the confident, cocky man who’d threatened their lives only a few days ago.

“Anyone else in the house?”

Stang looked away, saying nothing. Tom lowered the knife to the old man’s waist.

“I’d be happy to reopen these stitches for you.”

His frail body shook. “My son is here. Room across the hall.”

Tom motioned for Joan to come over.

“This is the guy who sent Vlad after you. Keep an eye on him.”

Joan twirled a baton and swung at the old man’s head, stopping the club an inch before his eyes. Stang yelped, and she gave him a light tap on the nose.

“He won’t give me any trouble.”

Tom corralled Bert and Roy into the hall. “Bert, that’s Mr.

Speaker’s room. If he comes out, give him the Gentle Ben treatment.”

Bert nodded and crouched before the door like a defensive tackle.

The bear spray was clutched in both hands, pointing forward.

“Jerome is heavily armed,” Tom whispered to Roy. “Shotgun and an M-16.”

They sidled up to his door, silent. No sound was coming from inside. Tom gripped the knob and counted quietly. On three he yanked the door open and Roy went in low and to the right. Tom flanked him, covering the left. The room was a moderate size. Tom scanned it quickly—desk, dresser, open closet, bed...

Empty. On the nightstand, next to a lamp, was a baby monitor.

“Enough talking.”

Joan’s voice came through the speaker. That meant the transmitter was in Stang’s room, and Jerome had heard everything. He might already be on the phone with police. Tom hurried to the nightstand, reaching for the receiver.

The bullet hit him in the lower back, the force of the shot knocking him forward. The pain was instant and terrible, like being whacked with a ten pound pick-ax.

Tom fell to the floor face first. He heard the boom of the second shot, felt the impact between the shoulders. It knocked the wind out of him, and hurt so bad Tom wondered if the bullets had somehow gone through the vest. Was Jerome using something high caliber, or an armor piercing slug that could penetrate a Kevlar weave?

Tom tried to roll over, to fire back, but his body wasn’t responding correctly. The best he could manage was turning on his side. He saw Jerome, crouching under the desk. The pistol was aiming away from Tom, towards Roy.

But Roy was faster. Tom watched as the probes hit Jerome in the neck and chest, a tiny arc of blue electricity causing his upper body to snap backwards like a jack-knife. The desk toppled over and the gun went flying. Jerome began to jerk and twitch. Then he doubled over into a fetal position, his whole body shuddering as the taser sent pulse after pulse into him.

Roy set down the gun and hurried to Tom.

“Am I bleeding?”

His partner’s fingers probed the vest.

“No. Vest stopped them both.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

There was a scream, from the hallway. Roy yanked Tom to his feet and they hurried out of the room. Phil Jr., in pajamas, was rolling around on the floor, clawing at his eyes.

“It hurts! It hurts!”

Bert was standing over him. He looked at Tom and shrugged. “I only gave him a little squirt.”

Tom took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He hurt, even worse than his ribs did after Attila had kicked him. The people who sold bullet proof vests hadn’t bothered to mention this little fact. There might have been less pain if the bullets had gone all the way through.

Tom unclipped a roll of duct tape from his belt and walked over to Phil. He placed a knee on the small of his back and applied pressure.

“I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars to wash off my face!”

Tom pried Phil’s hands away from his eyes and taped the wrists together behind his back.

“Please wipe it off! Sweet mother of mercy!”

“Mr. Speaker, if you keep screaming, I’m going to let him spray you again.”