While Galileo Preys (26 page)

“Hey!” called the gorilla. “Is your name Tom Piper?”

Tom stopped, pivoted.

“Yes…”

The gorilla pointed at the earpiece. “The governor’s been looking for you.”

And so, before long, Tom was back in the study. Bob Kellerman was there. So was his communications director Kathryn Hightower. She looked as if she’d lived a year in the past two hours. Bob, though, remained in high spirits.

“I wanted to thank you, Special Agent Piper, for coming here tonight. And I wanted to apologize for the misconduct of some of my staff. And I wanted to tell you, here and now, that I will offer any support I can to help you find the man who is killing these innocent men and women. I hope what I said out there in that speech encourages him to stop. I bet all my political capital on the line for you just now.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Tom coughed into his fist. “Well, sir, about that…”

Bob suddenly let out a bellowing laugh.

Tom was confused.

Then he wasn’t.

“You heard we caught him.”

“About two minutes ago. It’s all over the wires.” Bob smirked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve just been on a high for the past half hour. I’ve wanted to give
that speech my entire adult life, Tom. May I call you Tom?”

Bob offered him a gold-rimmed cigar. At first Tom shook his head, but the look of undistilled charisma in the governor’s eyes—how could anyone say no to that? Cult of personality indeed. Kathryn excused herself to take a call, and the men sat back and enjoyed some world-class smokes.

“I can’t fire Paul,” said Bob. “He deserves it, but after the announcement I just made, any shift in my campaign staff would be seen as a sign of weakness and vulnerability. Now if you boys want to go after him with obstruction charges, I won’t stand in your way. But I wanted to let you know where I stood. Integrity is important to me, Tom.”

“Me, too, sir.”

Bob exhaled gray. “What are you doing tomorrow, Tom?”

“Well…”

“Paul told you about my plan to overhaul the intelligence community. With the FBI and the CIA and the NSA and what have you, every agency tripping over the other for jurisdiction, it’s alphabet soup in Washington and I want to get rid of the redundancy. How would you like to spend the morning with me and convince me otherwise? I have a scheduled stop on my way to New York City. Very low-key. I promise to keep an open mind. What do you say?”

What else was there to say? Tom said yes.

T
he campaign’s scheduled stop on the way to New York City was at a two-story hunting shop called Nassau Firearms, located several miles outside Port Washington. The store was owned and operated by one Will Clay, age sixty-two. Will Clay wasn’t a major contributor. He wasn’t even a registered Democrat. Ostensibly the purpose of the visit was to demonstrate the governor’s connection with all Americans, regardless of who they were, but the truth was…

“I just love guns,” he said to Tom and they ascended the stairs to the shop’s second floor. It was on the second floor of Nassau Firearms that Will Clay kept his renowned firing range, which was said to be the largest indoor range on Long Island. This was the shop’s main attraction, and the real reason why Kellerman had insisted on stopping here on the way to New York City.

A padded door met them at the top of the stairs. Tom used the key the governor had rented to open it, and they trotted into the massive soundproofed room.
Targets—which varied in portrait from deer and elk and buffalo to a wide selection of featureless human shapes—could be flown back as far as 100 yards. Bob had rented them a pair of classic Smith & Wessons and each carried his steel-engraved weapon by its barrel.

As they set up at their stations and donned their protective goggles and plastic earmuffs, Bob elaborated.

“I was raised on guns. In the wintertime, we would drive up to Canada and hunt white-tailed deer. It’s a magnificent animal. We shared a cabin with our cousins, who lived over in Windsor. They had a daughter about my age. Her name was Margaret. That’s where I learned the essentials of healthy competition. Which is the topic of our discussion today, isn’t it, Tom—the unhealthy, downright juvenile competition that exists between our country’s intelligence communities.”

Bob loaded his pistol. He would have preferred to have a rifle, like a Browning A-Bolt, but shoulder-arms were strictly forbidden at indoor shooting ranges.
C’est la guerre.

“Like you said,” replied Tom, loading his own pistol, “some competition is healthy. It inspires you to reach higher.”

“It also inspires you to cripple the other guy.”

They attached their deer targets to mechanical clips and with the slap of a button sent them back fifty yards. The back wall of the range, although solid cinder block, was mottled with erosion, reflecting years and years of missed shots.

Tom didn’t intend to miss. He also didn’t intend to
win his debate with Governor Kellerman. In truth, he agreed—for the most part—with the governor’s diagnosis. The intelligence community
was
a sprawling bureaucratic mess. There were simply too many cooks in the kitchen.

After last night’s invitation from the governor, Tom had wandered the party in search of Esme and Rafe, but they were nowhere to be found. He did finally find a landline, though, and secure a taxi to drop him off at his hotel.

It was around then that authorities had found the abandoned van, well past the Missouri-Kansas border. The FBI on scene contacted AD Trumbull, who immediately put a clamp on the operation. As far as the media knew, Henry Booth had been delivered to Leavenworth as scheduled.

AD Trumbull then put in a call to Tom’s cell to relay the news about his team and about Galileo’s disappearance, but the call went straight to voice mail. He tried several more times throughout the evening, but never reached him. Couldn’t reach him. Broken cell phones didn’t ring.

Tom woke up, showered, watched with amusement as a pop psychologist offered her insights on the nation’s newest captured serial killer to the reporters of Fox News, and then at 9:00 a.m. he headed downstairs to meet the governor’s entourage of stretched Lincolns for the trip to Nassau Firearms.

All in all, his life had taken a turn for the strange. He made a mental note to get his cell phone replaced as soon as they reached NYC, at the scheduled time of
1:00 p.m. He also needed to replace his dear motorcycle, but that would have to wait until he returned to the D.C. metro area. First, he had some alone time with the governor from Ohio…

Who turned out to be an excellent shot. Different areas on the targets were brocaded into circles, displaying scores for accuracy. When Bob tapped his retrieval button and his mock-deer flew back to greet him, five of his six shots had landed in the highest circle, and the sixth missed the bull’s-eye by less than an inch, giving him a point total of a whopping ninety-one out of a hundred points.

Tom managed a sixty-three. He could almost hear his marksmanship instructor now, cackling off-color epithets in his honor.

“Tell you what,” said Bob, with a wink. “First person to reach 500 gets to be president of the United States.”

Down below, on the first floor, lurked Bob’s contingent of security personnel. Additionally, Kathryn Hightower and Paul Ridgely had stuck around, as per the governor’s request, rather than join the rest of the staff in New York.

He had matters to discuss with both.

Governor Kellerman had arrived at the store around 10:00 a.m. There he was greeted by Bill Clay; all sixteen of Bill Clay’s relatives who lived in the area; every regular customer (who was still alive) who shopped at Bill Clay’s store; and several locals who had never set foot in any gun shop, much less the giant one in their township, but were there to meet the famous
man. Bill Clay minded these folk the least. They were the ones most likely to buy something useless and expensive, just to show off to Bob Kellerman. By 11:00 a.m., though, Bob had ascended the steps with that FBI agent, and the crowd had mostly dispersed, save for his sixty-nine-year-old wife, who was in the back totaling receipts. At the request of the governor’s five bodyguards, Nassau Firearms was now officially closed. That was fine with Bill Clay. They had done a month’s worth of sales in an hour.

Kathryn and Paul stood in the corner, near the orange vests.

“You would have done the same thing,” he muttered to her.

They had been having the same conversation now for an hour.

“Withheld vital information? No, Paul, I wouldn’t.”

The bodyguards were stationed at various points through the floor. One actually remained outside, by the entrance. This was an ex-marine named Lisa Penny. The two chauffeurs had tried flirting with her, but she’d deflected their advances with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a shake of the head. It was her responsibility to mind the door. She was the governor’s first line of defense, and she took her job very seriously. So when an orange Chevy pickup dusted into the parking lot and a light-haired man in sunglasses ambled out, Lisa stood at the ready.

“Hey, there,” he said. He spoke with a bit of a country drawl. His black T-shirt was untucked from his jeans. “I’m here to buy some ammo.” He angled his
head toward the two stretch Lincolns. “Is there a movie star or something in town?”

“I’m afraid the store is closed until 1:00 p.m.” Lisa tried to catch his gaze, but he kept looking around at everything in sight but her. “If you would like, I’ve been given a list of similar stores in the area that may be able to help you out.”

“Closed until one? Lady, this is America. You can’t just pick and choose when you sell just because some big shot’s needing an adjustment on his .30-.06. Next you’ll be telling me which drinking fountain to use.”

That last sentence he punctuated with a finger in her face.

“Sir, if you’ll please—”

“No, I won’t please.” He punctuated again. “I know my rights.” And again. “I came here to buy my ammunition and God damn it, I’m going to buy my ammunition.” And again.

She stared down at his index finger. It would be so easy to break it in three places. She could say he tripped and fell. There were no witnesses. The chauffeurs had wandered down the road for some fried lunch.

But then another car pulled up, this time a white sedan, and her window of opportunity had passed. Out of the sedan emerged another man, in a polo shirt and khakis.

“Hope you’re not wanting to buy anything here, fella,” declared the finger-fiend.

The man in the khakis approached. He looked exhausted, but friendly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the store is closed,” Lisa said.

But he just continued on smiling.

For their fourth targets, Bob and Tom switched to the human shapes. The bull’s-eyes here were, obviously, the foreheads and the upper left quadrant of the chest. They pounded their buttons and watched their paper men fly a hundred yards away.

In score, Bob was ahead 292-201.

“Did you always want to be president?” Tom asked casually. He was really warming up to the guy. Getting creamed at target practice had that kind of effect.

“I always wanted to be a fireman,” replied Bob, loading his rifle.

“You are a fireman, aren’t you?”

“I was a volunteer fireman for twelve years, but once I got elected governor, it was decided to be in the ‘best interest of the state of Ohio’ that I ‘discontinue all risky activities.’ There was even a motion on the floor of the state legislature, if you can believe it.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Firefighting?” Bob took a long pause, then answered, “Every day, Tom.”

They fired off their rounds at the paper men, which fluttered harmlessly with each bullet strike. Tom could see through his slightly foggy goggles that he’d done much better shooting at a human shape than he had with the deer. His score looked to be a respectable eighty-eight. Conversely, Bob only scored a seventy-five, and had aimed solely for his target’s heart, not once trying for the head. There was meaning to be found in this, but Tom let it slide.

“How about you, Tom? Does a lawman like yourself have any regrets?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

They unclipped their bullet-ridden paper targets and replaced them with a pair of unwounded twins.

“You going to tell me what they are?” prodded Bob.

Tom flashed him a mischievous grin. “Nope.”

“Okay.” The fresh targets made their hundred-yard journey. “But just for that, this round, I’m so going to kick your ass.”

They raised their Smith & Wessons with near synchronicity and began shooting.

“Truth be told, I don’t really care about guns. I just came by to meet Governor Kellerman.” The sun was in his eyes, and his squinting bunched up his cheeks, making his sanguine grin even broader. “I read he was going to be here on his campaign Web site. Guess I got here too late, huh?”

Lisa smiled back at the tired man in the khakis. “I’m sorry.”

“Story of my life,” he replied.

They were about the same height, two attractive, athletic folk sharing a moment in the middle of April.

He turned to go, but then stopped. “Say, listen, can presidential candidates accept cash donations? It would really mean a lot if I knew I helped contribute, you know? I’m not a wealthy man, but I believe in a good cause when I see one. You don’t have to tell him who I am. It’s even better if you don’t. Just make sure he knows there’s one American out there who thinks he’s doing a good job.”

“A good job?” The man from the orange Chevy rolled his eyes. “He’s closing off a legitimate place of business in our allegedly ‘free country’ just so he can get his elitist jollies.”

“It’s for security purposes, sir,” answered Lisa curtly. “Perhaps you should leave. I hear the local authorities take trespassing charges very seriously.”

The tired man in the khakis ignored their bickering, reached into his pocket, and took out his plump calfskin wallet, which was old and bent out of shape.

“How much do you think I should give?” he asked. “What’s the right amount? A hundred dollars?”

He slipped a well-seasoned hundred-dollar bill out of his creaky wallet—and it fell almost immediately out of his hands to the grassy earth by Lisa’s feet.

“Nice coordination, buddy,” quipped the asshole behind him.

Lisa knelt down to pick up the hundred-dollar bill for him, and the man in the khakis brought his wallet down on top of her scalp with the full force of his weight. The wallet was thick and bent out of shape because it was stuffed with coins, and when it struck her scalp some of the coins spilled out and to the ground. Her blood soon joined them.

Still crouched, she gazed up at him, confused, even a little sad, and he brought the wallet down again against her face. It took two more blows before she was unconscious, and three more blows before he’d cracked her skull.

Then Galileo glanced over at the other guy, the guy in the hat, the guy who’d given Lisa such a hard time.

Finishing him off was a lot easier.

Galileo wasn’t especially fond of such guerilla tactics. They were messy, and bordered on barbaric, but he naturally hadn’t been allowed to bring a gun on the plane, so this method had to suffice for now. Also, this way created little noise, and didn’t alert the guards inside the store, not just yet. He also wasn’t concerned about the Lincolns’ chauffeurs because they had gone down the road to get a bite to eat. In fact, he had waited for them to walk off before he’d parked his rental.

He removed Lisa Penny’s sidearm from her shoulder holster. It was a Heckler & Koch USP. This was a good weapon, well-balanced, large trigger, rubber grip, short recoil. He would have preferred to have his M107 instead, but he would have preferred a lot of things to be different.

In no time at all, he had the two bodies in the trunk of his car. Their eyes stared up at him, but not accusingly. In fact, there was no emotion in them at all. These were pieces of meat.

He tugged on Lisa Penny’s white earpiece and followed its cord to its power pack, tucked in a back pocket, and then followed a second cord to the small communication mic attached to her left wrist. With the apparatus in hand, Galileo slid the receiver into his own ear and listened for a few minutes, hoping the guards had left the frequency open and were idly chatting. From this he would have been able to estimate how many guards there were—but all he heard was silence.

No matter. He’d get them talking. He activated the
mic and rubbed it against his pant leg. The swishing sound echoed through his earpiece, magnified, almost resembling the crash of an ocean wave, and then came a voice: