Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (28 page)

He was two car lengths into the lot. He dropped the transmission into drive and poured on the gas, the rear tires making a little screeching sound as they fought for purchase on the sandy asphalt. He was coming right at me. I shot him in the face.

I jumped to my left, out of the way of the car, which bounced over the curb stop at the front of the parking place and slammed into a car parked facing it. I hit the pavement on my shoulder and rolled, absorbing the sharp sting of small rocks spraying onto my exposed skin. I’d have a sore shoulder and some road burn, but I was alive.

I got up, and cautiously approached LaPlante’s car, now smashed grille first into my neighbor’s Lexus. A Longboat police cruiser was coming into the lot at high speed. I dropped the gun and raised my hands. The young cop, Steve Carey, came on the run, his service pistol pointed at me. When he was close enough to recognize me, he holstered his weapon. He was the same officer who’d been first on the scene when my Explorer was bombed.

“Jeez, Matt. What happened? They try to take out your new car?”

“Not exactly. How’d you get here?”

“I stopped a speeder at the corner, and just as I was getting out of my car, I heard gunshots. What happened?”

I gave him a truncated version of the events. “The guy in the car was the one who blew up my Explorer.”

We went around to the back of the car where the body of the gunman lay. I’d seen a lot of death in my time, but I’d never before seen a head squashed like a ripe melon. Blood and gray matter stained the asphalt, and the man’s face was unrecognizable.

There’d been no movement from the Mercedes. Carey and I went to the driver’s side and opened the door. The front airbag had deployed and
was holding LaPlante in place against the backrest of the driver’s seat. There was a hole drilled neatly into his forehead, and he was as dead as roadkill.

“Good shooting, Matt,” said the young officer. “Who was he?”

“His name was Richard LaPlante.”

“The society guy?” Incredulity had slipped into the cop’s voice.

“Yep.”

“I’ll be damned.”

Carey walked over to his cruiser and came back with a camera. “Chief’s on his way, Matt. Said for you to stay here.” He took a number of flash shots, and then went back to his car.

Two other cruisers came into the parking lot followed by the fire department’s ambulance. Carey went over to talk to the paramedics, and they left. The uniformed officers took up station around the area and one began to roll out crime-scene tape. A man in civilian clothes came over to us. The chief.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re getting to be a big hit with your neighbors.”

I looked toward the building. The rail along the walkway was lined with my friends, most in bathrobes. One of them called out, “What happened, Matt?”

“Nothing much. Guy tried to kill me.”

“Well at least he didn’t blow up your car.” He turned and went back inside.

The chief looked at me. “The officer told me you shot Dick LaPlante.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I told him about my meeting with the elder LaPlante and that he’d given me some papers that had a bearing on Wyatt’s death. I didn’t go into any detail about the MAD documents, but said that Dick LaPlante was involved. He’d come for the papers along with his gunman and they were probably going to kill me.

“We’ll need detailed statements. You know the drill.”

“Yeah. Do we have to do this now?”

“Afraid so.”

“You got a tape recorder?”

“In the car.”

“Why don’t you come on up, and I’ll put on some coffee and we can talk.”

I spent the next several hours giving a statement and watching the crime-scene technicians go over the parking lot. The bodies were loaded into a coroner’s van and taken to the Manatee County morgue. A wrecker hauled off the damaged cars. By the time the sun came up, there was no evidence of a gunfight.

The chief left for home at sunrise. I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. I knew that without the pill I’d dream dreams of dread, of bodies of bad men and good, and of soldiers I’d known who were no more. Those specters would gnaw at the edge of my sleeping brain, asking why I lived and they died. And I didn’t know the answer.

I slept late the next day and rolled out of bed shortly after noon. I was rested, thanks to the pill, but still shaken by the events of the night before. It had been a close thing, and I hadn’t been at all sure I was going to come out of it alive. But everything clicked. Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good.

I made some coffee, ate a bowl of oatmeal, got the paper from the front door, and nestled into an easy chair on my sunporch. November had slipped away without my noticing. The paper told me that today was the first of December. A heavy snowstorm had blanketed the Midwest, and the northeast was awaiting its turn. Fires were burning in Southern California, stoked by the Santa Ana winds sweeping out of the high desert and down the mountain valleys. A suicide bomber had blown himself up in the middle of a Tel Aviv restaurant, killing forty. A Miami mother was carjacked after finishing her Christmas shopping at an upscale mall in Aventura. Her body was found hours later on the side of a road leading to the Everglades. A Saudi Arabian diplomat had been killed in a car crash in suburban Washington, and his embassy spokesman said that he left a wife and three children in Jiddah.

Longboat Key is separated from the mainland, and we islanders like to think we’re somehow safer for it. The past few weeks had put the lie to that conceit. We were a part of the world at large, with all its foibles, disasters, and heartaches. We knew that a couple of bridges couldn’t isolate us. Yet, we were shocked when that rough world intruded into our island serenity.

My neighbors would not like the violence that had been visited upon them. First, the bomb that took out my car, and now an attempt on my life
and two dead bodies in the parking lot. Rita Thompson would surely think the destruction of her Lexus was at least as bad as the bodies.

I called Logan to tell him about the night’s events. He was upset that he’d been sound asleep during all the activity. Mr. Dewar’s elixir had put him to sleep and left him with a hangover, but he was used to that, he said.

I called Jock in Houston and told him about LaPlante and the gunman.

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No. Logan and I can handle things on this end.”

“I’m glad you’ve got Logan,” he said. “It’d be tough without him. He tends to liven up the island.”

“What are you going to do about McKinley?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired of killing people.”

“You haven’t killed anybody who didn’t deserve it. Lighten up on yourself.”

“I can’t let McKinley go. Besides, if LaPlante talked to him before he came here, McKinley knows I’ve got the MAD documents. He’ll come for me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’d better come out to Houston for a few days.”

“Let me think on it, Jock. The only way I’m ever going to be safe is to get rid of McKinley. If I give the documents to the press, he won’t have any reason to go after me. Maybe that’s the solution.”

“Don’t do anything yet. Can you give me a day to figure something out?”

“Like what?”

“Like, for instance, your car bomber.”

“What about him?”

“The AP ran a story this morning about the Saudi diplomat dying in a car wreck.”

“Yeah. I saw it in the paper.”

“That was your bomber.”

“What?”

“Our buddy Tariq identified him from photographs. My agency confirmed that the diplomat was the bomber and then took him out.”

“Not a car accident?”

“Not really.”

“Are you suggesting that your guys take out McKinley?”

“They wouldn’t touch an American citizen, much less a U.S. senator. But, I know some guys who might. With the proper documentation.”

I stayed in the rest of the day dozing on the sofa. Logan called to say he was watching re-runs of Cops on his big-screen TV, and would be there all day if I needed anything. I ordered pizza to-go from Ciao’s restaurant, and drove the mile down the island to pick it up. I went to bed early.

The next morning, just as the sun was peeking over the mainland, burnishing the bay with bright colors, Jock called. “A guy’s coming to see you today. He’ll say that Fran Masse sent him. Give him the original MAD documents, but keep a copy. He won’t give you his name, and you don’t have to engage him in a conversation. He’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

I fixed breakfast, had my coffee, read the newspaper, and took a shower. I retrieved the documents from my safe, and drove to the UPS store at the Centre Shops to make copies. I only had to drive a mile, but I was getting a little paranoid. I looked carefully at everybody I met in the parking lots, and stayed aware of the cars around me on the short drive. I had my .38 in my pants pocket.

I returned to my condo and settled in to wait for Jock’s man. I hadn’t talked to Jessica since my return from Europe, so I called her at the embassy. I was put right through.

“Matt, how’re you doing?”

“Fine. It’s in the low seventies and the sun is shining.”

“Crap. It’s cold and drizzly in Paris.”

“Why don’t you come to Florida for a few days?”

“I’d like that, but I’m getting a lot of flak at work. One of my buddies says there’s some kind of pressure coming down on me from Washington.”

“What kind of pressure?”

“Nitpicking. I don’t know how better to describe it. A friend of mine at the State Department in Washington called to say they were getting pressure to fire me. Nobody seems to know just where the pressure is coming from, but it’s high up.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” I had an idea where the pressure was coming from, but I didn’t want to discuss it over an open line to Europe.

“Oh well, I’ll survive. I think. If not, I can always teach.”

We chatted for a while, and I hung up when I heard a knock. I went to the front door. “Who is it?”

“Fran Masse sent me.”

I opened the door to see a slight man dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He had blond hair that fell over the tops of his ears, blue eyes. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, the kind that tint automatically when the sun hits them. They lightened visibly as he stood at the door. He extended his hand. We shook, and I invited him in. I offered coffee.

“No thanks. I’ve got to run. I’m told you have some documents for me.”

He had a slight accent that I couldn’t place. Middle European maybe, but he’d been in America for a long time. I handed him the manila envelope containing the original MAD documents. He thanked me and left.

I called Jock in Houston. “Your man just picked up the documents.”

“Okay. Stay loose, but stay on your toes. I think you’re all right for now, but we can’t be too sure.”

“What’s up?”

“Can’t tell you yet, podner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The days unfolded slowly, one morphing into the next. I moved about the island armed, following no set pattern, but not skulking either. I was constantly aware of my surroundings, always on guard, eyeing strangers with suspicion. It wasn’t a pleasant way to live, but it gave me confidence that I’d at least keep on breathing.

Jock had called me on Friday, the day after the man picked up the documents, and told me that something was in the works. Senator George McKinley had been contacted directly and told that he could have the original MAD documents for a price, but that if Matt Royal was harmed in any manner, his secrets would be revealed to the press. There were ongoing negotiations concerning the price to be exacted for the papers and the manner of transfer.

“Jock,” I’d said, “that’ll cover my butt, but McKinley will be safe and maybe president.”

“Hang tough, Matt,” he said cryptically. “The situation is fluid.” Whatever that meant.

On Tuesday morning, pictures of Senator George McKinley and a piece on his death dominated the front page of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune:

TERRORISTS KILL MCKINLEY

Senator George McKinley, widely considered the front-runner for his party’s nomination for president, was killed last night in a bomb blast at his Rock Creek mansion in Washington, D.C. Details were sketchy at press time, but a Washington police spokesman confirmed that the senator is dead. A shadowy
group that calls itself Allah’s Revenge has claimed credit for the bombing, saying that McKinley epitomized all that is wrong with American society. In a written statement e-mailed to news outlets, the group said, “Allah has struck down another infidel, one whose outrageous appetite for extravagance robs the world of needed resources.”

Senator McKinley’s father was murdered a week ago in his mansion outside Boston. That crime remains unsolved, and police admit that they have run out of leads.

The article went on to recount George McKinley’s rise to political prominence and discussed his family’s great wealth. The reporter postulated that the deaths of the senator and his father were connected, but wondered why Allah’s Revenge hadn’t taken credit for William McKinley’s death as well. Quotes from national leaders regretted the senator’s death and vowed that the perpetrators of such a heinous crime would be brought to justice.

I could put my pistol away. There was a fitting irony that the terrorists, funded by money stolen from Jews headed for extermination, killed the son of the man who was responsible for their good fortune. If the elder McKinley hadn’t gotten de Fresne out of Europe and recruited Allawi’s father to be their banker, there would have been no money for the younger Allawi to lavish on his pet terrorists.

Wyatt could rest easy now.

I probably wouldn’t.

The Christmas season lightens the heart and brings a sense of fellowship that permeates the small world that most of us inhabit. In Southwest Florida, the season is rife with contradictions: Crosby’s “White Christmas” coming from the outdoor speakers while dining al fresco in seventy-five degree weather, posters of a jolly Santa climbing down a chimney in a land where there are few fireplaces, waitresses in shorts and tee shirts wearing reindeer antlers.