Try Try Again (6 page)

Charley turned left in front of the Morton Building at a
dead run. He dodged in one direction and then another, right, left, right…or
was it left, right, left? Where was that car? Right, then left, then right. OK?

With relief, five minutes later he turned a corner and knew
he was on the right block. He started to pull the clicker-key out of his
pocket. Between him and the corner were three cars – and two cops. They were
both on their radios, bodies tensing. Looked like they were just getting the
word, were sure to have Charley’s description. Shit! They could look his way
any second.

Quickly, Charley changed course, continued up the street he
should have turned left from. He made a right, and then a left. Behind him,
sirens wailed their song of fear. Where the hell was he? Maybe he should slow
down now, not to look suspicious. But other people were beginning to run too, probably
having heard there was a gunman on the loose.

He continued on up the block. He’d go left and left and
left, get to the car the long way around. But shit, in all that time, he’d be
spotted for sure. If only he could put on a jacket or a hat or something, that
would help. But there wasn’t a clothing store or anything like it nearby. Well,
there was nothing to do but run.

But left at the next block led to a dead end. And then left
at the block after that led to a U that put him back where he came from. He was
getting really desperate now. Sweat poured into his eyes faster than he could mop
it away.

George arrived at the getaway car block. Charley wasn’t
there. He waited a minute. Waited another minute. Had Charley been picked up? Or
had he just kept on going when he discovered the car key didn’t work?

Well hell, he said to himself, I’m being pretty obvious just
standing around. If Charley’s not here by now then he’s not going to be here,
or he’s been here and left. He’s hiding someplace, or running. Or maybe
arrested. That last thought sent a shiver down George’s neck. Whatever, I won’t
find him now. And he’s going to call that damn Harrisburg number, the number he
never expected Charley to live long enough to call. Shit!

Charley must have been confused, got lost. If George were
Charley, what would he do? God only knows what Charley would do. Wander around
hoping for a magic wand or something. Well, screw it. He’d just have to hope for
the best. George walked back to his own car.

One block from where George was standing at that time, Charley
knew he needed to make a decision: he was lost, could maybe find his way to the
getaway car block again, but that would take time. And he might not find the
right block. Then he’d be lost even more. And those cops could still be there.
He’d never make it to the getaway car.

OK, what to do? There was no place to hide here; he didn’t
know the town, didn’t know anyone here, didn’t know which way he was headed.
But he still had the gun. Better ditch it, pretend he was just out for a walk.
A walk to where? No, he needed a car, so he’d keep the gun for now. North on
Main Street, left to Harrisburg. George had said that. OK. Find a car. Hijack
it.

Natalie Jameson was getting into her Chevy Nova. She had
bought it new in 1988 and kept it running faithfully with the help of the nice
man at the repair shop, who she was sure had been overcharging her, but what
could she do?

Just then she saw a man running toward her; middle-aged,
looked really panicked. Did that have something to do with all those sirens she
was hearing? Maybe he was being chased by a wicked gang of terrorists and she
was his only hope of surviving, and turning them in to the FBI where both he
and she would get medals, and get to kiss the President. Well, she would like
to do that anyway, he was such a nice-looking young man. Looked something like
her late husband William. Only better looking than William; and probably
cleaner, too.

She turned toward the middle-aged man just as he pushed her
to the pavement, tore the car keys from her hand and got into her car, ground
the gears and lurched forward in her beautiful loving car (that she had so
patiently cared for!) and drove off. Natalie lay in the street, wondering if
she’d broken anything, crying for her lost love.

Now she’d have to buy another car, but where could she find
another Chevy Nova nowadays? She’d just have to buy something else, she sighed,
maybe one of those Hummers her annoying car dealer neighbor had been trying to
get her to buy. Oh, well, William had left her more money than she could ever
use up, so maybe that’s what she’d do. A Hummer was a nice car, she was sure;
but nothing like her Chevy Nova.

But right now, she had to “call the heat,” remembering
several webV shows. She’d never figured out how to use a smartphone, but her ancient
clamshell worked fine. Two minutes later, Natalie Jameson’s plate numbers had been
BOLOed to all points within a hundred miles.

George walked back to his car and drove out of town, back to
the motel. He wiped all the surfaces clean that could hold a fingerprint, just
in case. Then he got on the Interstate and headed back toward D.C., George was
depressed and annoyed. How had that God-damned Charley missed a kill shot from
so close?

After wasting a few minutes turning corners at random,
Charley found himself on a wide street and drove in a direction the sign said
was north. Once out of town, he picked a small side road near a creek with no
houses in sight, pulled off, and tossed his gun into a swampy thicket that
looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Just after he threw it, it occurred to him he should have
taken the clip out and hide it where no one would find it. That way, the difference
in the number of shots would never be noticed, if anyone could figure out how
many shots there really had been, and George would be safe – his daughter
Darlene would be safe.

Annoyed at himself, he waded into the swamp, conscious at
every moment a car could come by, a passerby gets suspicious, what the hell you
are doing there, police informed… After a few minutes he found the gun, pulled
it out of the water, extracted the clip which he put in his pocket, and threw
the gun back.

Now what? The Nova must be very hot by now. He looked
around. He could make off through the swampy area, hide in some bushes
downstream, but then what? Hitchhike? But too many people had seen what he
looked like, and he still didn’t have a change of clothes.

He had to have another car, or maybe a change of license
plates; plates would be easier. He had to risk driving farther, find a place
with cars where he could snatch a plate. Not a house – the owner might be home.
He drove in no particular direction, making turns at random. A mall might be OK
– far out in the lot where the mall workers parked and wouldn’t be back to
their cars until evening – he hoped.

How to find a mall? Did Grantwood County even have malls? He
drove on, more jittery every mile.

But there – was that a cemetery? A big area with lots of
trees, these places usually had a few cars parked and the people off finding a
stone. Yes. If he were observed he’d just find a stone and kneel down and pray
for the late person’s soul. OK, that wasn’t a great plan, but it was better
than any other idea he had at the moment.

He pulled into the cemetery, drove to a lonely spot by a
grove of trees, fished in his pocket for a penny, his “Lincoln screwdriver” as
he called it. Wouldn’t work on everything, but might work on something. He
strolled through the cemetery looking very sad and disturbed, which he actually
was.

Finally spotting a car with no people in sight, a Honda, he
approached it, but just then he saw a couple coming his way, and hid behind a
tree. They were arguing and not looking around, and didn’t spot him.

“I need you to stop talking like that,” the woman was
saying. “Don't talk like that. Not here. Not in the middle of ...”

“Of what?” said the man, in a challenging voice.

“Show some respect.”

“You really are afraid of this place.”

“God, you never stop.”

“Let's just get through this. Just get it over with.”

Charley was afraid the Honda was theirs, and they’d drive
away before he could swipe their plates; but they walked on and over a rise.

He finally managed to get the front plate off, losing most
of a fingernail and some skin in the process. He didn’t want to risk being
there any longer to swipe the rear plate too. He’d just put the stolen front
plate on the rear of his own car. That should be OK unless he hit a traffic
stop.

Charley got away from the cemetery without being discovered
or questioned, his new rear plate in place – a little shakily – in his old car
new car. Harrisburg, that’s where he needed to be, he remembered. People there
will hide him. Who? Didn’t matter. Maybe he could do favors for them, like hold
up another 7-11, a bank? He shivered. He remembered that time he’d chickened
out on a bank job and the others had been caught. Would they have not been
caught if he’d been along to help? Never. No way. The job was a bad idea, bad
planning. Never could have worked. Wrong time of the week for lots of cash to
be on hand, anyway. Charley breathed a little easier. There was a trace of a
smile. Sure had been smart to back out of that job, he concluded. Wisdom of the
fucking ages.

Just when he saw a sign for the Harrisburg exit in the
distance, he spotted a construction site. Slowly and carefully, he parked and
walked over to it. No one was around. He found a deep gouge in the ground, tossed
the gun clip into it, and kicked dirt over it. And more dirt, and more dirt.
Satisfied, he went back to his car, pulled out, turned left.

He was now some twenty miles north of Grantwood, and headed
west toward Harrisburg. That’s what the road signs said, anyway. Better find a
gas station and call that number now, he thought. George should have bought him
a burn phone. Too late now.

He saw the trooper cars too late to do anything but pull
over and try to run for it. He didn’t get far when he heard a shot and felt a
sharp pain in his left leg.

In the world at large, only Sebastian George was worried,
not relieved, the news reported the next day that Charley had been caught. He’d
expected to shoot Charley himself, had missed. And then, he hadn’t provided the
promised getaway car, then he hoped for a shootout with police, and Charley
wouldn’t survive. Charley had tried to run, had to give him that; but a 9mm-wound
to his leg had ended that. And there he was, on the webV, hobbling along, a
look of pain and desperation on his face, being escorted to the Grantwood City-County
lockup.

Soon enough, George knew, Charley would be grilled, because
authorities always looked for conspiracy motives, hoped for them, relished
them. George hoped Charley’s concern for his daughter would keep him from
implicating George.

Well, suppose Charley did tell them about George, his friend
and betrayer? Dukes knew ‘Art Albright’ by sight, but didn’t know anything else
about ‘Art’, and nothing at all about a ‘George’.  ‘Art’ looked enough
different from George, owing to the hairpiece, some reported-description confusion
could be counted on.

Charley didn’t know Sebastian George’s ‘real’ name, George
thought, and George would be damn sure never to show his face in the Stirrup
Bar and Grill again, ever, or anywhere near it. He might even move out of D.C.
Not too far, though, because his profession drew him there frequently. Front
Royal, perhaps; or some other quiet place in the mountains.

He hadn’t told Haskin the name of the assassin he hired, but
by now she would have figured out Charley was George’s man. Perhaps she
wouldn’t do anything – she should figure Charley had never heard the name
‘Sybille Haskin’, or wouldn’t be able to identify George. Perhaps.

Upon further review, George felt somewhat relieved. He could
have Charley killed in jail, or later in the state prison; but for now, at
least, it didn’t seem necessary. If it became necessary, he would arrange it.

George waited three days, then drove to Grantwood and
retrieved his rifle. Even if it couldn’t be traced to him by serial number or
fingerprints, it would show Charley had not acted alone – and would raise
questions about who the party of the second part was, and that might lead a few
people to wonder about a possible connection to Thomas Conning, mightn’t it?
And then Sybille Haskin would show her wrath to George, as toweringly furious
as the Old Testament word implied. And might do something she wouldn’t regret
for a minute.

He disassembled the rifle and tossed the pieces into the
deep parts of several different lakes and rivers.

A few hours earlier in Washington that day, Thomas Conning had
just left a closed ‘Administration Briefing to the Armed Services Committee’s Subcommittee
on Readiness and Management Support’. He had learned a few things that might be
of interest to ConDyne.

Just then, his Chief of Staff ran up to him, looking
stricken.

“Senator! It’s Barnes!”

What the hell…

“He’s been shot! He’s dead!”

Conning’s head began to whirl. He felt faint. All his plans:
the speech-making, the debates, the advertising blitz, those last-minute,
crucial endorsements – wouldn’t be needed, wouldn’t happen. His future for the
next month had been planned down to the minute; suddenly that future had
disappeared, leaving him nothing at all to do, nothing to say, no one to speak
with or to. He felt like one of those cartoon characters who walked off a cliff
onto thin air, and only fell when they looked down. He put out a hand toward
the nearest wall, and his aide steadied him until he could reach it.

And suddenly the awful thought came to him,
Sybille Haskin
must have had Barnes killed
. She must have arranged it. Of course she
wanted Conning to be re-elected, but – who would believe that a defense
contractor would have someone murdered? Well, maybe a few killings in some third-world
shithole, but not in America!

But no. It must have been a nut, or a terrorist. ConDyne
would never have authorized this killing, no matter how advantageous; even a
strong rumor of their involvement would ruin that corporation. They’d never
recover. Right? Right. So why was he still thinking of Haskin?

But who else…? Conning hadn’t ordered that ‘hit’. He hadn’t
even hinted – had he? And she, she hadn’t said anything that would lead him to
think
– tell me I’m dreaming
. She did it. She did it so he’d be elected.
He suddenly came to the awful realization that one way or another, he, Senator
Thomas Conning, had killed Ezra Barnes. From its initial look of shock, Conning’s
face clenched into pure agony. He wavered and slumped to the floor.

A news crew had been filming in the Capitol that day, and
caught Conning’s reaction. Even years later, no one who saw the video, would
believe Conning had anything to do with Barnes’ murder. No one had ever seen a
politician so stricken by a rival politician’s death.

Two Capitol policemen helped Conning regain his feet. They
led him back to his office, through a gantlet of shouting reporters, and closed
the door in their faces. Conning said nothing, just sat down. Don’t do anything
right now. Don’t say anything. Wait. He couldn’t trust his tongue right now. An
admin said “Sir, your wife’s on the line,” and all Conning could mutter was,
“OK – tell Marie I’m OK.”

Within minutes the Capitol complex had been locked down and
every building and room searched. Conning was the only one, for several hours,
who didn’t seem frightened. Some thought he was still in shock over Barnes’
death, but he wasn’t – at least, he didn’t think he was. It was Haskin, yes, he
was sure now. His own personal protection service. The evil service. She
wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Well, fuck. He’d have to call her in and
speak with her. Why? She’d just deny everything. Or tell him it was too late.
Tell him he was in it, knowing or not, up to his balls and eyeballs.

Suppose he gave her name to the Capitol Police and asked
them to check her out? But Haskin was clever; it was unlikely she could be tied
to the crime, or even located. But she could give
The Post
copies of all
those classified documents he’d given her – very bad. Very bad thing to happen.
Awful. And Marie – ! She’d be destroyed by it, shunned, and he’d be sent to
prison – or worse.

Conning took a deep breath, and waited. After three hours
the lockdown was lifted and he went home. He walked inside and kissed his wife
and tumbled into bed fully clothed, falling asleep.

The arrest of Charley Dukes went out over the wire within
five minutes
. Suspected Slayer Apprehended
was, as they say, ‘breaking’
news, although what was broken was not stated. The manhunt was cancelled,
public safety people disappointed someone else had caught him, their chance at
glory, gone. Think of something else to bore the grandkids with.

J.T. Jackson, a local Grantwood webV news reporter, someday
hoping to become a ‘News Personality’, paid particular attention to the events.
My town, my chance
, she thought
, like in that old Kirk Douglas movie.
Say goodbye to Grantwood; Hollywood, or at least New York, look out!

She read several wire service reports over the local Grantwood
cable news channel, and that was that. But JTJ (as she called herself) was
determined to ride this murder to fame.

But now, she concentrated on what the press was saying about
the murder. Because Barnes was investigating what he thought might be corruption
(selling votes), some in the press were seriously concerned that his death
might have been politically motivated. However, no one suspected Conning of
complicity in a conspiracy, just as Barnes hadn’t made that connection either.

Much of Washington whispered that Barnes had been checking
up on Conning, JTJ learned, but Conning had proved ‘clean,” no vote selling or
procurement-bending. Another reporter, noting Conning’s prominence on a key
Defense-related committee, thought to wonder if he’d been selling confidential
procurement information. But a check of large and small defense contractors
could find no evidence that any information of this kind had ever been leaked
or exploited.

As soon as Charley was brought into the main Grantwood
County police station he confessed again, as he had earlier confessed to the
police when his stolen car was intercepted. He just said “I killed the
politician,” just like that, calm as could be. Police Chief Scott Gardner,
looking forward to a long and difficult questioning, was disappointed. This was
too easy; one reporter interview and it would all be over. The sergeant, the
lieutenant, and the captain shared the same thoughts with him.

The Chief was in a different position from the others
however, as he had witnessed the crime, and had been wounded in a futile
attempt to protect the Congressman. He’d become an instant local hero. Too bad
it was his gun hand had been shot, he’d of for sure wasted that nut; that was
the townspeople’s view also, and their diction. Not wishing to engage in
hypotheticals, the media were leaving the possibility of the Chief’s saving the
Congressman’s life as somewhere between ‘maybe’ and ‘are you putting me on?’

It occurred to the Chief that Charley didn’t have a lawyer
when he’d confessed – had he been read his rights? A call to the highway patrol
confirmed he’d confessed, right on the spot and without any prompting, hands
where they could see them, fingers locked together behind his head. And then he
was read his rights, and told he’d have to confess all over again, which he
did. The Chief was relieved to hear this.

In the next few days, Charley was questioned by City,
County, and State authorities, as well as the FBI and the Congressional
Security Service. He repeatedly insisted he’d acted alone, but wouldn’t say
why. He said yes, he’d killed Barnes. And again, when asked by
this
other official and
that
other official, he also said yes.

He was asked why he had a key-clicker in his pocket, when it
wasn’t even for the car he’d hijacked. That caught Charley by surprise – he’d
forgotten all about that clicker. Shit! He should have just tossed in into that
swamp along with the gun.

He refused to explain the car key. The police checked it out
with the auto maker, got the VIN, checked the VIN against stolen cars, and then
all registered cars. Nothing.

Now, faking a manufacturer’s car key was a lot more
complicated than duplicating the grooves and the electronic signal that opened
the doors. Yes, copies could be made that would start the car, but they would
obviously be copies, because who needs a logo with a couple of red pushbuttons
just to lift a car?

Grantwood car-key research was assigned to the ever lower
ranks of police, until there was no one to delegate to. The key ended up in a
cardboard box in police department storage. Some years later, a Police cleanup
crew, noting the age marked on the item’s container, threw it out.

Unwilling to publicize something they couldn’t explain, the
police didn’t mention the key to the press. Only Charley and George, after a
while, remembered there had been a getaway car, even if hypothetical, and a
key.

The clicker, in fact, fit an old heap that had been junked several
years before. As often happened in the junk trade, the VIN hadn’t been reported
back to the state DMV. So the police didn’t cite what they didn’t know in the
copy of the indictment that was passed along to Charley’s lawyer. If they had included
it in that report, Charley would have lost faith in George months before he
finally did in a moment of blazing recognition that, in time, would determine
the fate of Sebastian George, and Sybille Haskin, and ex-Senator and then-newly-elected
President of the United States, Thomas James Conning.

Charley Dukes was not believed when he told authorities he’d
just shot the Congressman for no reason. By this time, he’d been identified as
a small-time D.C. holdup man, with no possible motive for anything other than
money.

He was asked about the gun. “Where’s the gun? C’mon, Charley,
we’re just tryin’ to help ya’ out here. Tell is what ya’ did with the gun and
maybe we’ll cut ya’ a break.”

Charley thought he was lucky to be able, for once, to tell
the truth. “I tossed it,” he said, “out of town. I don’t know where I was – just
driving around looking for another car to steal.”

Then, “Why did you do it?” they asked again, “Why did you
kill Congressman Barnes.” Once, Charley had the gumption to say; he’d
confessed, he’d be tried and convicted, so just be satisfied with that, will ya,
huh, y’assholes? That answer aroused some degree of police ire, and within a
few minutes, Charley was sorry he’d said it.

After several days, being kept up all night, for several
nights by several sweaty detectives, Charley felt his resolve beginning to
crack.

He remembered a cover story George had given him, to use in
case he was caught. It was weak, as even Charley could appreciate; but he had
nothing else to say and was getting tired of the near-round-the-clock
questioning.

“It was a drug deal.” he said. “Barnes wouldn’t pay up. The
gang made me kill him.”

“What kind of drugs.”

“Y’know. Coke. Uppers. Stuff like that.”

“And when did this drug deal happen? When did you provide the
Congressman with these drugs?”

Charley hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Ah - July,” he said. “Fourth of July. Big party he wanted
to get high for.”

“Was this in D.C., or here in Pennsylvania, or somewhere
else?”

They’re trying to trap me, Charley thought. If I say “D.C.,”
they’ll say he was in Pennsylvania at the time. And if I say “Pennsylvania,”
they’ll say he was in D.C. Or they’ll ask me where in Pennsylvania. Or where in
D.C. They’ll want all kinds of detail and just confuse me. “I want a lawyer,”
he said. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated.