Bodily Harm: A Novel

MONTGOMERY MALL

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

Albert Payne exited the Express Dry Cleaners with a finger full of hangers, the clothes dangling over his shoulder, the plastic wrap rustling in the breeze. His hand shook as he set a tall cup of coffee atop a garbage bin to maneuver his glasses over his eyes. Though early in the morning, his button-down, powder blue shirt already showed rings of perspiration beneath each armpit.

Retrieving the cup, Payne sipped from the slit in the white plastic top while he waited for a silver Mercedes to back away from a parking spot. Then he stepped across the asphalt to the cars parked perpendicular to the businesses.

He thought again about the argument earlier that morning. His wife was fed up with what she called his “moodiness and surly attitude.” She said he was short-tempered with the kids and went off to “la-la land” even when he was home and if he didn’t snap out of it she wanted him to move out. Most nights he’d fallen asleep in the leather recliner in the family room, watching television, mentally exhausted from another day wondering if, and when the man from China would return. He usually awoke in his chair and spent the evenings listening to the sounds inside the house and the voices in his head, some urging him to go to the police or perhaps to Larry Triplett, or maybe even Maggie Powers. Hell, they were directors of a government agency, they had to have connections that could help him, didn’t they?

But those thoughts did not persist, pushed aside by his vivid recollection of the man’s cool detachment as the back of the Chinese woman’s head exploded and the spray of blood splattered Payne across the face and arms. The man had made it clear he would think nothing of killing Payne’s wife and children in similar fashion and leave enough evidence to link Payne to their murders as well as the murder of the Chinese prostitute. The police would assume Payne had gone off his rocker, gone absolutely crazy, and there would certainly be enough witnesses to confirm his recent erratic behavior to make that scenario plausible.

The only thing that got him out the door in the morning was the hope that it would all be over soon. He would provide Powers with a favorable report on the Chinese manufacturing facilities and profess no knowledge of any dangers from new technology. Powers would testify similarly before Congress, Joe Wallace’s bill calling for more stringent safeguards on products and more funding to the agency would be defeated, and Payne could get on with his life and get back to his family.

Anne LeRoy would not have that opportunity.

He squeezed between two parked cars but came to a sudden stop when a man walking in the opposite direction blocked his path. A hanger slid from his grasp to the ground, his wife’s tan vest. He would have also spilled his coffee but for the white plastic lid.

“I’m sorry.” Payne crouched to retrieve the hanger.

“Let me help.” The man bent to help pick up the dry cleaning.

Payne raised his eyes. “Thank you, but I think I can . . .”

Behind him Payne heard a car stop, though he did not take his eyes off the barrel of the gun, only partially concealed by the man’s leather jacket.

“You are going to stand and get into the backseat of the car behind you. You’re not going to yell, or say a word. Do you understand?”

Payne nodded.

“Good. Now, slowly.”

When Payne did as instructed the man slid into the backseat beside him and pulled the door shut as the driver exited the parking lot.

SLOANE CONSIDERED ALBERT Payne in the rearview mirror. Two mornings after Anne LeRoy’s death, Sloane and Jenkins had tracked Payne from his home in Bethesda to the strip mall. They had dismissed the thought of walking into his office to talk to the man, uncertain whether Payne had pulled the plug on LeRoy’s investigation as part of a scheme to conceal the information. If so, Payne could alert others involved that Jenkins and Sloane were in Washington, D.C., and asking questions. They decided to surprise Payne instead, but where? Not at his home; Payne had a wife and children. They also couldn’t very well do it at his place of business, where Payne would have the comfort of dozens of coworkers, not to mention security guards and video surveillance cameras. That meant following Payne until the right opportunity presented itself. The opportunity had come that morning, when Payne stopped at the strip mall to pick up the dry cleaning. Sloane and Jenkins had discussed the need to avoid a confrontation in a public place, but Payne had been surprisingly compliant. He had slid quietly into the back of the car, where he now sat looking like a man resigned to his fate and not interested in trying to fight or even negotiate.

As Sloane drove, Payne spoke barely above a whisper. “Do you work for him?”

Sloane and Jenkins made eye contact in the mirror. Albert Payne was not calm. He was paralyzed by fear.

“Relax, Mr. Payne,” Sloane said. “We’re not going to hurt you; we might even be able to help you.”

Despite the reassuring words, Payne continued to bite at his lower lip, and his eyes remained unfocused, a vacuous gaze.

Sloane pulled off the road into the gravel parking lot of a nearby sports complex with multiple soccer and baseball fields. At the back of the lot he parked near two baseball fields built side by side. Jenkins motioned for Payne to exit the back door. Payne left the dry cleaning on the seat but still held the cup of coffee. They climbed a row of metal bleachers and sat, a breeze blowing the tall, thin trees planted alongside the third base line. The baseball field was empty.

“What is this about?” Payne asked.

“Anne LeRoy,” Sloane said.

The lenses of Payne’s glasses were flecked with dry skin. He looked to have a rash all about his neck and face, which still had remnants of a white cream recently applied. “You know Anne?”

“No. But she called me,” Sloane said. “She said she had done an investigation on magnets in toys. She said you pulled the plug on her investigation. I need to know why.”

“Who are you?” Payne asked.

“I’m an attorney.”

“An attorney?” Payne exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I don’t understand.”

Sloane handed Payne a copy of the article in the Washington Post.

“I have a case against Kendall Toys. I represent two families with children who died ingesting magnets that came from one of their toys. Kendall is about to bring that toy to market for the Christmas holiday, and all indications are that it will fly off shelves and into the homes of millions of children.”

Payne read several paragraphs before putting the article down on the bench and staring out at the empty ball field. Another breeze silently rustled the branches of the trees.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Sloane knew fear was the cause of Payne’s reticence, but he also did not have the time or inclination to play games. LeRoy’s death meant Stenopolis was close. “Yes, you do, Mr. Payne. Anne LeRoy told me all about it.”

He shook his head. “She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, still staring straight ahead.

“Why not?”

Payne just shook his head.

“Anne LeRoy is dead.” Payne turned and looked at Sloane. “I found her electrocuted in her bathtub.”

Payne dropped his head and began to retch, gagging at first before bending over and throwing up between the bleachers the coffee and whatever else he had eaten for breakfast. When he had finished he used a brown paper napkin with the same logo as on the coffee cup to wipe his mouth. Perspiration had beaded on his forehead.

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?” Sloane asked.

“Who?”

“Dark-haired man. Ponytail, maybe six foot two, well built.”

Payne nodded.

“So have I.”

Payne’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand. What would he want with you?”

“The designer of the toy had given me a file warning about the dangers of the magnets, not unlike the report Anne LeRoy gave you.”

“I can’t,” Payne said, his voice a whisper, “I have a wife and kids.”

“I had a wife too,” Sloane said. “Anthony Stenopolis killed her because she saw his face.”

Payne paled a ghostly white.

“So I know you’re scared, but if you think this is just going to go away, you’re wrong. It’s not going to end, whatever he might have told you. Once you do whatever it is he’s forcing you to do, he’ll come for you, just like he came for me and for Anne LeRoy.”

Payne shook his head. “How could he have known? I didn’t tell anyone. I tried to protect her. I tried to get her to drop it, but she . . .” He choked back tears.

“It has to be someone who knew about that report.”

“How did she get in touch with you?”

“She saw the article and called my office. She was going to give me a copy of the report.”

“I told her not to,” Payne whispered. “I tried to . . . Oh God.” He began to retch again. When he had finished, Sloane continued his questions.

“Explain it to me. Tell me why you shut down her investigation.”

“He told me to,” Payne said. “He knew about it . . . somehow. Anne didn’t take it well. She had worked very hard on the investigation and was upset. She said she would take it to the media and . . . I yelled at her. I told her that I would take legal action; I was trying to protect her. I was concerned . . .” Again Payne’s voice drifted.

“I need to know how you first came in contact with Stenopolis. I need to know all of the ways that he could have learned of Anne’s investigation.”

A young boy and his father walked onto the outfield grass carrying baseball mitts and began to play catch, the sound of the ball smacking the leather gloves as Albert Payne explained his ill-fated trip to China to inspect manufacturing plants being used by American companies, including the plant with which Kendall Toys had contracted. He told Sloane that Larry Triplett, one of the agency directors, had been insistent that Payne be included on the trip, that Triplett was incensed at how the former administration had gutted the PSA in its quest to deregulate the toy industry. He said Triplett was working with Senator Joe Wallace, from Indiana, who was sponsoring a bill that would provide the agency with more power and more money, and Wallace had called for a congressional hearing into the recent spate of toy recalls with the hope that the inquiry would cause enough consumer outrage to put political pressure on the members of the House and Senate to pass the bill.

“Maggie Powers was supposed to go on the trip as well, but she canceled because her son was getting engaged. She also was eager to have me go.”

“What happened over there?” Sloane asked.

“The factories were as I suspected. The manufacturers had worked hard to clean them up, but it was clear they were not following the regulations we try to impose on American companies. The workers were overworked and underpaid, and most of the products did not meet the quality control standards we seek to impose. In China if the regulation is voluntary, they ignore it. Following the inspections the government officials and owners insisted I attend a reception.” Payne blew out a breath. “After one of the receptions I woke up in the morning with what I thought was a horrible hangover. He was there.”

“Stenopolis?”

“I don’t know his name. There was an Asian woman asleep in bed beside me. I had no idea how I got there or who she was. I thought he was going to blackmail me, maybe try to bribe me but . . .”

Payne broke down, sobbing, his body shaking. He began to wipe at his face and chest, as if he had suddenly been sprayed. Sloane looked to Jenkins who wrote on a notebook and showed him the page. PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Sloane could only guess at what horror was coming next.

Payne closed his eyes, grimacing, choking back tears as he said the words. “He shot her in the head. There was blood . . .”

Sloane put a hand on the man’s back, giving him time to regain his composure. Payne blew his nose into the napkin, took several deep breaths, and looked out at the ball field. “He said that if I didn’t do what he wanted he would make sure the Chinese had all the evidence they needed to convict me. Then he would kill my family.”

“What exactly did he tell you to do besides drop the investigation into magnets?”

Payne’s eyebrows inched together, surprised by the question. “He didn’t tell me to drop the investigation.”

“But you told Anne LeRoy . . .”

“I told Anne to drop it because I was trying to protect her. But he didn’t want the investigation dropped. He wanted the report changed. He wanted me to ensure that the report concluded there was no reasonable likelihood of any danger and that the Chinese manufacturers met U.S. regulations.”

“And the acting director would give that report at the congressional hearing,” Sloane said.

“Yes. Maggie Powers.”

“And you can’t think of who else knew about Anne’s investigation besides you?”

Payne shook his head, but then he stopped. His eyes widened.

product safety agency bethesda, maryland

THREE SOFT KNOCKS, but the door did not push open.

“Come in,” Payne said.

Peggy Seeley inched her head into his office like a kid sent to the principal’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Come on in and shut the door.”

Seeley hesitated before doing as instructed. She sat in one of two chairs across from Payne’s desk and folded her hands in her lap, kneading her fingers and squinting, as if looking into a glare. Payne thought that she resembled a mouse.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Peggy.”

Seeley lowered her gaze. “I suspected it was only a matter of time with the budget problems.”

Payne raised a hand. “No, it’s not that. It’s not your job. I’m afraid it’s worse than that.”

Seeley slumped in her seat, her shoulders narrow, and her chest nearly concave. The squint became more pronounced.

“It’s about Anne LeRoy.”

“Is it the file? I told her to give the file back, like you asked. She said she was going to do it. I’m sure it just slipped her mind. She’s been interviewing, and well, that hasn’t been going too well—”

“Anne’s dead, Peggy.”

Seeley stared at him. “What?”

“There was some kind of accident in her home.”

Seeley covered her mouth with the fingers of both hands, her eyes wide behind her glasses.

“The police found her in the bathtub. It appears that she dropped the hair dryer. She was electrocuted.”

“Oh my God,” Seeley said, openly weeping. “Oh my God.”

He placed a box of tissue on the edge of the desk and she grabbed a handful.

“I’m very sorry. I know the two of you were good friends.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just a few days ago. The police just called to advise me.”

“The police?” Seeley stopped blotting the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why did the police call you?”

“I’m not certain. They said that with an unattended death they have to follow through . . .”

“On what?”

“I don’t know. They’re reasonably certain it was an accident.”

“Reasonably certain?”

“That’s what they said.”

Seeley sat back, hands in her lap, no doubt contemplating Payne’s bizarre behavior during the past weeks, his insistence that LeRoy return the file, and now the police were asking him questions.

“I know that the two of you were close; I didn’t want you to read about it in the paper or be shocked when the police called you.”

“Me? Why would the police call me?”

“I’m sure it’s just routine. They wanted the names of Anne’s family and friends. Had you seen her recently?”

“Just the other . . .” Seeley caught herself. “No. Not recently.”

“So you didn’t note any bizarre behavior?”

“Bizarre behavior?”

“Anne didn’t say she was alarmed by . . . anything?”

Seeley shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“She didn’t discuss anything about her report with you?”

Seeley shook her head, more emphatic. “No. I don’t know anything about it. Just that you didn’t have the funding. I mean . . . she told me that, but nothing specific. No.”

Payne nodded. “Well, I know this must come as a horrible shock. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and try to relax. I’ll be letting everyone here know when I learn the details about the service.”

Seeley nodded and stood from her chair, making her way to the door, this time without hesitation.

“Oh, and Peggy.” Seeley turned. “You don’t happen to know if Anne still had a copy of her report, do you?”

Seeley shook her head, pulled open the door, and walked out, closing it behind her.

Payne waited a beat, then took out his cell phone and punched the numbers as he walked to the plate glass windows that overlooked the front entrance to the building and the employee parking lot. “She’s on her way down now,” he said. Within minutes Seeley burst out the front door in a fast walk, nearly jogging. “That’s her,” Payne said. “Light blue sweater.”

DAVID SLOANE SAT in the passenger seat, speaking into his cell phone. “I see her.”

Seeley fumbled in her purse, first for her keys, then for her cell phone. She dropped her purse in the process, nearly stumbled over it, and retrieved it before climbing into a green Subaru Outback. She had the phone pressed to her ear as she maneuvered from the parking space, the car coming to a jarring stop just inches before hitting the car parked in the space kitty-corner to it. She pulled forward, nearly clipping the bumper of another car, and sped from the parking lot.

Jenkins and Sloane followed her at a safe distance, hopeful that Payne had scared Seeley sufficiently that she would seek help, or at least let whoever she was working with know what had happened to Anne LeRoy. According to Payne, Seeley had every reason to be afraid of him. He had been acting bizarre ever since his return from China, prone to emotional bursts and obsessive about getting LeRoy to return the copy of the report she had downloaded. He said that making Seeley believe that the police were asking him questions, and therefore that he was a suspect, would not be difficult and should be sufficient to put her over the edge. Sloane hoped he was right.

Seeley drove northwest on River Road past homes and shopping malls, Sloane charting her on a map and trying to decipher where she might be going. He figured she might head home, but if so, it would not be for a while. The homes in this area were large and spread out. It was unlikely Seeley owned one on a government salary. She turned west on Falls Road, and the landscape did not change much: large homes and lots of lush acreage. In between the groves of trees Sloane saw swimming pools and private tennis courts.

“Any idea yet where she’s going?” Jenkins asked just as Seeley came to a T in the road and turned right. Jenkins slowed.

“Why? You think she’s worried someone’s following her?” He repositioned the map in his lap and traced his finger along MacArthur Boulevard.

“Doesn’t give any indication,” Jenkins said, turning right and following.

The scenery became more rural, trees on both sides of the two-lane road. Sloane could no longer see any houses between the foliage. “The road ends,” he said. “She’s going to Great Falls Park.”

“How far?”

“Maybe a mile.”

“Any turnoffs between here and there?”

“Not that appear on the map. You can slow down.”

Jenkins checked his rearview mirror. With no one behind him, he slowed considerably. In the distance they watched Seeley turn right.

“That’s the park,” Sloane said. “She’s meeting someone.”

Before the roundabout to the entrance to the park Jenkins stopped. “Get out. Take your cell phone with you.”

Sloane exited the car wearing sunglasses and slipped on a Washington, D.C., tourist’s ball cap. He walked the road to a paved footpath as Jenkins turned right and followed Seeley’s car into a parking lot. A moment later his cell phone rang. He pressed his earpiece to answer.

“She’s getting out of the car. Headed in your direction.”

Sloane continued down the path to a visitor’s center and plucked an information pamphlet from a plastic container near a window. He positioned himself near the Potomac River, which ran parallel to the footpath. It still being tourist season, Sloane stepped closer to a group, hoping to blend in. People milled about the grounds and stood on a footbridge overlooking the blue-green tinted water. It was warm out. Most wore shorts and tank tops and carried cameras.

After several minutes he spotted Seeley walking down the path toward him and held up his cell phone, as if to take a picture of the water. “I got her,” he said.

Seeley walked briskly past the visitor’s center and continued down the footpath. Still considering his pamphlet, which included the trails along the Potomac, Sloane followed at a safe distance and watched Seeley use a footbridge to cross over the river to a path on the other side, continuing south. The rush of the water became more pronounced as it funneled over a series of steep jagged rocks and through a narrowing gorge. Tourists passed Sloane on the path, walking in the opposite direction.

“You there?” Jenkins asked.

“I’m here,” Sloane said, talking over the rush of the water. “She’s still walking.”

“I think we have a winner,” Jenkins said. “Silver Mercedes with government-issued plates just pulled into the parking lot. Driver looks to be talking on a cell phone.”

Sloane looked up as Seeley stopped and reached into her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and pressed it to her ear.

“She’s getting a call,” he confirmed.

Jenkins described the person getting out of the car as Sloane watched Seeley turn right at a fork in the path. When he reached the fork he saw that the path led to a second footbridge overlooking a spot where the water cascaded over a short falls. Sloane went straight, then left the road for a less worn, unpaved footpath through the trees that emerged downriver and provided a view of the footbridge on which Seeley stood waiting.

Ten minutes later Seeley’s contact arrived. They stood on the bridge talking as Sloane pretended to take photographs of the falls with his cell phone. They spoke for less than fifteen minutes. Seeley’s contact left first, leaving her alone on the bridge. Sloane followed the trail back to the walking path and hurried over to the fork in the road, turning toward the bridge where Seeley remained standing, looking out over the brown water and falls.

Sloane removed his sunglasses and his hat as he approached. “Peggy Seeley?”

Seeley’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes registered fear. For a moment Sloane worried that she might scream.

“I’m David Sloane,” he said, offering her his business card. “I’m the attorney in the article you gave to Anne LeRoy.” Seeley’s facial expression softened from concern to confusion. “Anne called me. We were supposed to meet the other night. I know what happened.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sloane said.

Seeley’s eyes narrowed.

“Things are not what they appear to be, Peggy, but you need to trust that what I’m about to tell you is the truth, because your life is now in danger.”

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

ALBERT PAYNE KEPT one eye on the road while trying to read the directions he had downloaded from the Internet. Large oaks lined the streets, but the sidewalks and gutters were pristine; not a single leaf dared to have fallen. A lifelong resident of Bethesda, Payne knew that John Roll McLean, the former owner and publisher of the Washington Post, had built a railway to link the outlying areas to Washington, D.C., and named one of those train depots after himself. McLean probably never imagined the impressive roll call of residents who would someday live in the multi-million-dollar homes built on wooded lots with manicured lawns and gardens. Just eleven miles from Washington, D.C., McLean’s residents included diplomats, members of Congress, and high-ranking government officials, as well as executives of the three Fortune 500 companies that maintained corporate headquarters nearby.

Payne slowed, confirmed the address, and turned just past a six-foot brick post adorned with an ornate light fixture. The driveway inclined and veered to the left, the lawn outlined by subtle Japanese garden lamps, and proceeded past the front entrance to a three-story, Colonial-style brick home with three white dormer windows protruding from the roof and leaded-glass windows. He parked in an area to the side of the home and took a moment to compose himself before stepping from the car. At the front door he pushed the illuminated doorbell and didn’t wait long before a teenage boy in a T-shirt and baggy shorts answered.

“Hi. Is your—”

“Albert?”

Joe Wallace approached from down a hall, eyebrows knitted together. The boy stepped to the side and disappeared. Dressed in an Indiana basketball T-shirt and sweatpants, Wallace looked as if he was about to leave for a workout.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” Payne said.

“You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Wallace stepped aside and welcomed Payne into a marbled entry with an ornate crystal chandelier. Payne smelled chocolate—as when his daughter baked double fudge brownies—and heard the chatter of a baseball game from a television in another room.

Wallace led Payne to a room just to the right of the front door adorned in white—white carpeting, two white sofas and a matching chair, white drapes. The only color in the room was a black baby grand piano near the bay window and a vase of flowers atop it. Wallace started to sit.

“Is there someplace more private?” Payne asked.

Wallace’s brow furrowed, but he asked no questions, leading Payne through two sliding wooden doors to a library with a desk and built-in bookshelves. Wallace slid the doors closed behind them and offered Payne one of two high-back leather chairs opposite the desk. He sat in the adjacent chair and pulled the chain on a lamp between them, the bulb’s wattage muted by a leather shade.

“You look terrible,” Wallace said. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Anne LeRoy is dead.”

“Who? Albert, calm down and start over.”

“She worked in my office. She was preparing a report on the use of powerful magnets in consumer goods, children’s toys, and their potential danger. She’s dead. Someone killed her.”

Wallace frowned and looked at Payne as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Slow down, Albert, I’m not following you. Are you talking about the report you recently gave me for the hearing? I just read it.”

“The report I gave you is not her report.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I changed it.”

Wallace leaned forward into the light. “What?”

Payne opened his briefcase and handed Wallace a multiple-page document. “This is Anne’s actual report.”

Wallace took it and sat back, flipping through the pages. After several minutes his fingers stopped, and he sat staring at the books on the shelves, lips pressed tight.

“I’m sorry,” Payne said.

“Why would you do this? Why would you give me a bogus report?”

“The report on the factories in China complying with U.S. regulations is also false.”

For a moment Wallace did not speak. He stood and paced the Oriental throw rug. “Why would you do this?”

“I had to.”

“Had to?” Wallace stopped and faced him. “Why would you have to do this?”

For the next several minutes Payne explained what had happened in China and about the man and his demands. “And now Anne LeRoy is dead. He electrocuted her in her bathtub.”

“That sounds like an accident.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s a lawyer pursuing this named David Sloane. He’s filed a lawsuit in Seattle against Kendall Toys for the deaths of two children who swallowed magnets from a Kendall toy. The Post ran an article and Anne saw it and called him. He was supposed to meet with her, but this man beat him to her.”

“How would this man know about her report?”

“Someone had to tell him about it.”

“Who? Who else knew about the report?”

“Anne had a friend at the agency, Peggy Seeley. She knew about it, but it can’t be her. It has to be someone with power, someone who could also be sure I was included on that trip to China.”

“Triplett wanted you to go,” Wallace said. “He was insistent.”

“So did Maggie Powers. It has to be one of them. They must have promised Seeley something, a promotion to keep them apprised of what my department was doing.”

Wallace took a deep breath. “So you don’t know who this man is working for?”

“Not for certain, no, but if I had to guess, I’d guess Maggie Powers.”

“Why her and not Triplett?”

Payne handed Wallace a copy of the Washington Post article on Sloane. As Wallace read, Payne continued. “Maggie Powers worked for the Toy Manufacturer’s Association, and Kendall is in financial trouble. They need this new toy to hit big to stay afloat. A report like Anne’s would kill the project. Under the circumstances we would have to initiate an enforcement action and delay production. And if the attorney is right, the toy won’t pass an inspection. It’s a danger to kids.”

“What do you mean ‘if the attorney is right’?”

“I spoke to this guy, Sloane.”

“On the phone?”

“No. He’s here in Washington.”

“Why is he here?”

“I told you. Anne called him. He was supposed to meet with her.”

“Did she give him a copy of the report?”

“No. She was dead by the time he got there, but they spoke on the phone about it. Apparently Anne told him I’d pulled the plug on her investigation, and he wanted to know why. He said that a boy in each of the families in that article died when the plastic on two Kendall toys cracked and the magnets fell out. They swallowed them, and the magnets attracted one another through the intestines, creating a hole that allowed bacteria into the body cavity and organs.”

Wallace stared through the thin curtain covering the leaded-glass window, seemingly deep in thought.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“I couldn’t. The man said he’d kill my family. I didn’t know where to go, who to talk to.”

Wallace paced, rubbing his forehead. “We’ll have to bring in the Department of Justice and the FBI.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I don’t know for certain, but under the circumstances anyone would have done what you did.” Wallace paced again. “Since we can’t be certain it’s Powers and not Triplett, don’t tell anyone else until we know who’s behind this.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“In the morning we’ll go to the Justice Department together. Where are you staying?”

“At home. Why?”

“Do you think it’s safe?”

“This man doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know that I know anything about Anne. He said as long as I do what he told me to do, nothing would happen.” Payne thought for a moment. “My wife has been upset with me. I haven’t been myself since this began. I can suggest she take the kids to her mother’s.”

“That would probably be a good idea.” Wallace exhaled. “All right. Go home and try to relax. I’ll call you in the morning and arrange a meeting with the Justice Department in my office. I’ll keep this as quiet as I can, Albert. For now, don’t do anything with the actual reports; if Powers is involved, we’ll let her hang herself at the hearing.”

AMERICAN INN

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

CHARLES JENKINS PACED the carpet, cell phone pressed to his ear. The cabinet doors of the entertainment console hung open, the television on, though he had muted the sound. Alex had called as he watched the local news for any further stories about Anne LeRoy’s death or gunmen at the Georgetown apartment complex. He was worried the lobby had a camera, though he had not recalled seeing one.

“How’s David?” Alex asked.

Jenkins heard the water in the shower through the thin motel walls. The furnishings were equally cheap: a small desk to the right of the television, a cushioned chair and lamp in the corner near the curtained window, two queen-size beds separated by a dresser.

“I’m worried about him.” Jenkins pulled back both the heavy blue curtain and the thinner drape to look out the window into the parking lot. “He’s detached, somber, like the first time I met him on that bluff in West Virginia. He’s lost again, I’m afraid.”

“You think he could be suicidal?”

“I think he could be, but at the moment he’s focused on something he needs to do. We’ll need to keep a closer eye on him after this is over.” One way or another, Jenkins thought, but he did not say it. “You’re safe?”

“We’re fine. It’s you I’m worried about,” Alex replied. Jenkins heard his son mewl through the speaker.

“How is he?”

“He misses his daddy,” she said. “So do I.”

“Tell him Daddy will be home soon.” He heard the shower turn off.

“Be careful. I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.” He disconnected and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing the mute button and listening to the newscast. After several more minutes the bathroom door opened.

“You feel better?” Jenkins asked.

He wore a pullover polo shirt and blue jeans. His feet were bare. “Yes, thank you,” Albert Payne said.

ALBERT PAYNE’S HOME

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

SLOANE DROVE ALBERT Payne’s four-wheel drive up the inclined driveway and pressed the button for the automatic garage door on the box clipped to the visor next to a picture of Payne’s wife and two children. He slowed his approach as the paneled door rolled up. Ordinarily the door would have triggered an inside light, but Payne had disabled it earlier when he convinced his wife to take the children to his mother’s.

Sloane turned off the headlights and pulled forward until a green tennis ball hanging from a string touched the windshield. He pressed the button again and waited for the door to roll closed before getting out of the car.

Jenkins had not agreed with Sloane’s plan. In fact, he had been dead set against it, but they both knew that Stenopolis would need to get to Payne quickly, before the morning. Payne could not be the bait, and Jenkins was out of the question because of his size. Sloane told Jenkins he was not looking to die, not with Stenopolis at large and unfinished business with Malcolm Fitzgerald and Kendall Toys. Jenkins had relented and taken a hotel room within minutes of Payne’s home. While Jenkins wanted to be physically closer to the property, they agreed that it was another risk if Stenopolis were watching. At the moment, they held the element of surprise. Stenopolis would be expecting to find an unprepared, out-of-shape, frightened bureaucrat. What he would encounter was one alert, armed, and determined marine.

Sloane stepped from the garage to a covered causeway leading to the house. A light in the center illuminated the path, but they had decided not to disable it, concerned it would be too conspicuous. Sloane wore a button-down shirt and brown slacks he had purchased in a mall to match those Albert Payne had worn earlier that evening as well as Payne’s olive green London Fog jacket, padded with newspaper for additional girth, and a pair of glasses without lenses. They picked up a beard at a theater costume shop and applied it with rubber glue that was making Sloane’s skin itch. Jenkins had trimmed the beard and added gray. Sloane turned his head as he walked beneath the light, as if considering the keys in his hand.

He slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door into the kitchen. Inside, he closed it before flipping the wall switch just to the right, exactly where Payne had diagrammed it. He removed the Sig Sauer 9 mm from beneath the jacket, walked from the kitchen into the family room, and flipped another wall switch, which caused the blades of a combination ceiling fan and light to spin overhead. Brown leather furniture arranged in an L pattern faced a flat-screen television positioned in the center of an entertainment console with books and framed family photographs. A green potted plant dominated a corner of the room.

Going over the layout of the house with Payne, Sloane and Jenkins decided the family room was the best place for Sloane to wait, providing him a clear view of the entry from the kitchen, as well as the open archway that led to the front hall. It also gave him two avenues of escape, if that became necessary.

A family portrait of Payne with his wife and two children hung over the mantel. Payne looked different, and not just because he had more hair and no beard, making his face appear thinner. The most striking difference was the expression on Payne’s face.

He was smiling.

“Just one big happy family,” the voice said.

AMERICAN INN

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

JENKINS POINTED THE remote at the television, about to change the channel when his cell phone rang, the number indicating David Sloane.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything is fine. I presume this is Charles Jenkins?”

The adrenaline rush brought Jenkins to his feet.

“Cat’s got your tongue? I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Jenkins.”

Jenkins felt numb.

“Let me explain how this is going to work. First, you will bring Albert Payne to me. Why? Because I have never left an assignment unfinished, and I have no intention of beginning now. If you fail, I will kill Mr. Sloane—”

“I want to talk to David.”

“Do not interrupt me again, Mr. Jenkins. It’s rude.” Stenopolis paused. “If you fail, I will kill Mr. Sloane, and we both know that I will eventually find and kill Mr. Payne, anyway.”

“I want to talk to David,” Jenkins repeated. “How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”

“A fair request.”

There was a pause. Jenkins heard a voice, though it did not sound like Sloane. It sounded tired and slurred. “Don’t come. Don’t give him the satis—”

Jenkins heard a thump followed by a groan.

“David!”

The voice remained calm. “You don’t have much time, Mr. Jenkins. I know you’re in a nearby motel and I timed the distance. I’m not a patient man. Any delay and I’ll assume you have breached our understanding and I will kill your friend and disappear. Time is running out.”

ALBERT PAYNE’S HOUSE

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

FIVE MINUTES EARLIER

THE ROOM WAS a blur of black-and-white flashes. As his vision cleared, Sloane was looking up at the blades of an overhead fan. His head snapped forward, further startling his senses. He tried to move but found his arms bound behind him, the pressure around his wrists making his fingers cold and numb. He felt the same pressure around his ankles, though he could not see them either. His legs had been pulled behind him, bound to the back legs of a sturdy chair. The right half of his face tingled numb; his right eye was swollen shut. Searching the room through his one eye, he saw orange and yellow flames wick and dance in the fireplace and flicker shadows across the furniture and the portrait of Albert Payne and his family. Stenopolis sat, legs crossed, elbows propped on the arms of the leather chair, hands forming a pyramid just beneath his chin.

“We meet again, Mr. Sloane. I’ve never had the pleasure of saying that to one of my targets. You are resilient.” Stenopolis uncrossed his legs, smiling. “I must admit I made a mistake not killing you when I had the chance. I normally don’t make mistakes.”

The Sig Sauer lay on the glass, circular coffee table between them, taunting him.

“You made another big mistake.” His tongue felt too big in his mouth. He tasted blood.

“And what is that?”

“You killed my wife.”

Stenopolis unclasped his hands and calmly pulled the poker from the fireplace. Wisps of smoke spiraled toward the overhead light fixture, dissipating before reaching the rotating blades. Sloane felt the heat of the fire on his bare arms and smelled freshly cut pine. The sap from the wood crackled and popped.

“You should be grateful,” Stenopolis said.

“Yeah? How’s that?” Sloane felt the anger welling inside of him. The wrist and ankle restraints tightened.

“Because she did not suffer.” Stenopolis shoved the tip of the poker back into the glowing orange embers and rotated it. “Your wife’s death was quick and painless. We should all be so lucky. I find it fascinating that so many people fear death, when death is not what should be feared. Death is the end. It brings peace and comfort. I’ve read many books on the subject.”

“And here I was betting you couldn’t read, Anthony.”

Stenopolis ignored the use of his name. “It is what happens before death that people should fear. You’ve heard the saying ‘a fate worse than death’?” Without taking his eyes from Sloane, Stenopolis reached behind him and gripped the handle of the poker, turning it. A glowing orange ember tumbled onto the brick hearth. “Imagine having your tongue cut out while you are still alive, or your eyes burned from their sockets, being forced to live in total darkness. Imagine living with no thumbs. Have you never considered such things?”

Sloane didn’t respond.

“I have.”

“That’s because you’re a sociopath, Anthony. Do you know the meaning of the term ‘sociopath’?”

Stenopolis burst from the chair, his face just inches from Sloane’s. He smiled. “A person who engages in antisocial behavior, I believe. Though I do think the term is overused.” He stepped back, waving his hands in the air. “Everyone is ‘crazy’ now. Everyone who does something out of the ordinary is a ‘sociopath.’ It really detracts from those who are truly crazy, don’t you think?”

“Not you.”

Stenopolis did not respond.

“Why kill her?” Sloane asked. “She couldn’t have stopped you.”

Stenopolis stepped closer to the fireplace, one arm leaning on the mantel, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his body, seemingly impervious to the heat. “You’re feeling guilt.” He turned and looked at Sloane. “You tested my acumen. Now I will test yours. Do you know the meaning of the word machismo?”

Sloane did not answer.

“No? It means an exaggerated awareness of one’s masculinity. Tell me, do you feel guilty because your wife is dead, or because, as a man, you could not protect her?”

Sloane had been but a boy when his mother was killed, and rationally he knew there was nothing he could have done to save her. But he could not use that rationalization to shake the guilt that his first instinct had been to dive behind his desk, even if it had been to get his gun. He had been over that moment a thousand times, wondering what would have happened if he had rushed Stenopolis immediately, and he knew it would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, however long that may be.

“Allow me to alleviate your guilt. I killed her because she was there.” Stenopolis shrugged. “Once she came down those steps, I had very little choice in the matter. It really wasn’t personal, Mr. Sloane.”

“Maybe not for you.”

“We’re not that different, you and I. People come to you with a problem and you solve it for them for a price. I provide the same type of service. I just employ a different means to the end.”

“You kill innocent men and women.”

“Do I? I kill blackmailers, thieves, adulterers, pedophiles, and corrupt government officials. I kill people who refuse to live by the rules of society that govern all of us.”

“My wife was not one of those. Nor am I.”

“You meddled where you shouldn’t have.”

“You’re just trying to justify your actions.”

Stenopolis advanced, his face again inches from Sloane’s. “You’re wrong. I told you, I need no justification. Unlike you, I feel no guilt.”

WHAT JENKINS NEEDED was time, and he was anything but certain he would get it. Once he delivered Albert Payne it was highly probable Stenopolis would shoot Jenkins and eliminate him as a threat. Jenkins would do the same. But not bringing Payne was also not an option. Jenkins would be playing Russian roulette with Sloane’s life, and, as Stenopolis had made abundantly clear, he would kill Sloane and hunt Payne down eventually. The only thing Jenkins possessed that Stenopolis might find of value was the name of the man who Stenopolis would believe had given him up, the secretary of labor, Ed Hotchkin. A guy like Stenopolis didn’t stay in business long if his clients talked; his business was dependent upon fear and intimidation that fostered a code of silence.

Jenkins entered the house through the back door off the kitchen, Albert Payne behind him. Payne started for the family room, but Jenkins grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, stepping in front. Payne had been acting odd since Jenkins told him their plan had gone awry, as if he had known from the start that it was his fate to die and he was resigned to the outcome.

Sloane sat slumped in a chair. At the sound of Jenkins’s entering the room, Sloane raised his head.

“Oh my God.”

Sloane peered out of one eye, the other swollen shut. Blood, nearly black in the muted light, streaked his face, flowing from a cut along his forehead over his right eye. The right side of his mouth was equally swollen, and his hands and ankles were bound behind him. An empty chair had been placed beside him, and on it a thin rope.

Stenopolis entered from the opposite side of the room, gun directed at Jenkins. “Alive, just as I promised,” he said. “You made good time, Mr. Jenkins. Please remove your coat and drop it on the floor.”

Jenkins slipped the long black coat from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

“Step forward.”

Jenkins did.

“Don’t stand in the doorway, Albert. Come in. A man’s home is his castle.”

Payne remained off to the side.

“Turn around, Mr. Jenkins.”

Jenkins complied.

Jenkins heard Stenopolis approach from behind and thought again of trying to disarm him, but that thought passed when the hard steel pressed against the back of his skull. Stenopolis ran his hands over Jenkins’s body, searching for weapons.

“Turn around.”

Again Jenkins complied.

“Excuse my manners,” Stenopolis said, gesturing to the empty chair beside Sloane. “Please, take a seat.”

Jenkins sat. “If you think I’m going to tell you which one of your clients gave you up, Anthony, forget it,” he said purposefully.

“Actually, Mr. Jenkins, I had no such interest, but I appreciate the information. You, perhaps, should be wondering who gave you up. Your friend Mr. Wade was equally recalcitrant.”

Jenkins’s jaw clenched at the sound of Curley Wade’s name, but he tried to display no emotion. He had been right that Stenopolis had once had CIA connections and apparently still did.

“He told me to kill him because he would never break. A mistake, I’m afraid. He broke. I killed him. What he failed to comprehend is that a man who enjoys his work can keep at a task for a very long time, and I very much enjoy my work, as you are about to find out.”

Jenkins gripped the chair arms. “We all have to die sometime, Anthony.”

“How perceptive.”

Stenopolis kept a safe distance. “You will do the honors, Albert.” He pointed to the strand of cord. “The lengths of rope are sufficient to go around the arms and legs of the chair six times if you maintain proper tightness. I would suggest you do.”

Payne did not move.

Stenopolis shot at the floor, just missing Jenkins’s shoe. “Do not test my patience again, Albert.”

“Just do what he says,” Jenkins said.

Payne stepped forward and took the rope, kneeling and binding one of Jenkins’s arms.

“I’m disappointed in you, Albert. I gave you specific instructions and you breached those instructions.”

“He didn’t breach them,” Jenkins said. “I told you. We already knew all about you. One of your clients gave you up.”

Payne tied the second of Jenkins’s wrists.

“I doubt that very much, Mr. Jenkins, but we’ll determine that soon enough. I’ll reward your silence by allowing you to watch Mr. Sloane and Mr. Jenkins die, Albert. I believe you will find it fascinating.”

Payne finished tying Jenkins’s ankles and stepped back. Stenopolis checked the wrist restraints. Satisfied, he removed the poker from the fireplace. The end glowed orange. He approached Jenkins with the tip extended. “Now, Mr. Jenkins, the first piece of business, since you brought it up. Who told you how to contact me?”

Jenkins laughed. “Go to hell, Anthony.”

Stenopolis shook his head. “Mr. Wade made the same suggestion. But as you can see, I’m still here.”

He moved the tip of the poker toward Jenkins’s left eye.

The front doorbell rang.

No one moved.

It rang again, a repeated chime of bells followed by a loud male voice. “Al? Hey Al? You home?”

Stenopolis turned to Payne.

“It’s my neighbor,” Payne said.

The bell rang again. “Al?”

“Do not say a word,” Stenopolis said.

“He has a key,” Payne said.

Stenopolis’s nostrils flared. He shoved the tip of the poker back into the flames, grabbed Payne by the back of his shirt, and shoved him out of the room. “Get rid of him or I will kill him too.” He turned to Jenkins and Sloane. “If either of you make a sound I will shoot them both.”

The front door was already opening, the neighbor struggling to pull the key from the lock. He startled when he looked up and saw Payne. “Al? Hell, you scared me. Didn’t you hear me yelling out there? Why are you standing in the dark?”

“I’m sorry. I was upstairs.”

“No worries. I figured you were home; I saw your car drive up and the lights go on. Mary and the kids at soccer?”

Stenopolis stepped into the entry.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

“Albert’s my cousin,” Stenopolis said.

The neighbor extended a hand. “Cousin? Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” Stenopolis said.

The neighbor addressed Payne. “Well, then. I won’t keep you. I was just hoping I could borrow your ride mower. I wanted to catch you tonight in case you left early for work in the morning.”

“Sure,” Payne said.

“The wife’s been after me for about a week to cut the lawn. You know how that is. I won’t enjoy a minute until it’s done.” He turned to Stenopolis. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Lucky you. Al here knows what I’m talking about though, don’t you Al? The wife keeps me busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest.”

“Let me get you the key,” Payne said.

The neighbor waved him off. “Don’t trouble yourself. I know where it is: top drawer in the kitchen. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute; sorry to have interrupted.” He spoke to Stenopolis. “Nice to have met you.”

Stenopolis nodded. He and Payne followed the neighbor into the kitchen, where he rummaged through a drawer beneath the tiled counter. “Did you move it?” he shouted over his shoulder. “Ah nope, here it is.”

In one quick motion, the neighbor spun. Just as quickly, Payne dropped to the ground.

Stenopolis made a play for his gun but never got his hand behind his back.

Detective Tom Molia had the barrel of his gun aimed directly between Stenopolis’s eyes. “Go ahead. I can pick a flea off the ass of a white-tailed deer, shithead. So give me a reason.”

Stenopolis raised both hands.

“With your left hand I want you to very slowly reach behind your back, pull that gun from your pants, and let me hear it hit the floor.”

The gun hit the tiled floor with a thud and clatter.

“Now, take three giant steps back,” Molia said.

Stenopolis did.

Molia maintained ten feet between himself and Stenopolis. “Mr. Payne, pick that up and bring it to me.”

Payne approached cautiously, retrieved the gun, and brought it to Molia.

Stenopolis grinned. “Clever. Can I assume you are not the neighbor?”

Molia spoke to Payne but kept his eyes and the gun trained on Stenopolis. “Where’s David and Goliath?”

Payne pointed to the family room. “He has them tied up.”

“Take a knife and cut them free.”

Payne stepped to a drawer and pulled out a serrated knife.

“You’re well trained,” Stenopolis said. “I’m presuming you are an officer of the law, and perhaps a thespian; that was quite the performance.”

“Wait until you see me play the part of a pissed-off detective. I’m good at that. Put your hands on top of your head and interlock your fingers.”

Stenopolis continued to do as Molia asked.

“Now let’s you and me walk into that room.”

Jenkins stood rubbing his wrist as Payne cut the twine binding Sloane’s ankles.

“Jesus,” Molia said, seeing Sloane’s face. “You all right?”

Sloane retrieved Stenopolis’s gun from Molia, turned, and pointed it in the man’s face.

“David,” Molia said.

Stenopolis smiled. “Do you have it in you, Mr. Sloane? I told you we aren’t that different.”

“I want to know who you’re working for.”

Stenopolis shook his head, amused. “Let me tell you how this will work, Mr. Sloane. I will tell you nothing, no matter how much you torture me. This officer will then ‘take me in’ in the parlance of law enforcement, where I’ll be allowed to make one phone call. When I do, within the hour two gentlemen will come to the police station and advise the good officer that they are taking jurisdiction of the suspect out of national security concerns. After several more phone calls and much hand-wringing and profanity by others, I will walk out of jail a free man and disappear, seemingly never to be seen or heard from again.”

Sloane turned to Jenkins, disbelieving.

Jenkins nodded. “Someone tipped him that Curley Wade had pulled his file. It had to be someone at the Agency.”

Payne stepped forward, shell-shocked. “Is that true? He’s going to get away with this?”

“He’s just trying to antagonize us,” Jenkins said. “He’s not going to get away with anything.”

“You know that’s not true,” Stenopolis said. “Your friend Mr. Wade told you that we were all once kindred spirits, the three of us. I had my reasons for disappearing, Mr. Jenkins. What were yours?”

“Shut up,” Sloane said.

“It’s not going to be over, is it?” Payne asked.

“To the contrary, Albert, we’re just getting started.”

“Shut up,” Sloane said, rage building.

“Oh my God,” Payne said, stepping away. “It’s not going to end.”

“I did warn you, Albert.”

“Shut up!” Sloane smashed the gun across Stenopolis’s face, the blow knocking him to the floor. He lifted himself to an elbow and flicked his tongue at the stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Molia stepped forward, but Jenkins gripped his arm and held him back.

“Who are you working for?” Sloane asked.

“Trade secret, Mr. Sloane, I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.”

Sloane kicked Stenopolis in the face, knocking him onto his back. He grabbed the poker handle, pulled the tip from the fire, and pressed a foot across Stenopolis’s neck. Standing over him, he lowered the smoldering tip to within an inch of his face.

Stenopolis grunted at him. “The problem you have, Mr. Sloane, is that while most people fear death, I don’t.”

“Who said anything about death, Anthony? Like you said, we’re just getting started. We’re going to find out about that fate worse than death. Now, who hired you?”

“David!” Molia again started forward, but Jenkins kept him back.

Stenopolis spit blood through a grin. His voice choked. “You can’t do it. You don’t have it in you.”

“Wrong.” Sloane stared down at the man who had stood over Tina and watched her suffocate on her own blood. “That changed the moment you killed my wife.” He pressed the tip of the poker against Stenopolis’s cheek, flesh burning. Stenopolis grimaced, growling between clenched teeth, but he did not yell.

“David?” Molia said, more forceful.

“The next time I aim two inches higher,” Sloane said. “You don’t answer, and I take out an eye. Who are you working for?”

Stenopolis smiled, but for the first time it was tentative and unsure.

Sloane inched the poker closer to his eye.

“David!” Molia yelled.

Stenopolis’s eyes widened then instinctively closed. Adrenaline pulsed through Sloane’s body, causing the poker tip to shake. He screamed and pushed it down, diverting it, the fibers of the carpet melting and emitting a strong chemical odor. He took his foot from Stenopolis’s throat and stepped back, throwing the poker across the room, his body continuing to shake with rage.

Stenopolis rolled onto his stomach, choking and wheezing. Molia freed himself of Jenkins’s grasp and stepped forward, handcuffs out. He knelt and grabbed one of Stenopolis’s wrists, yanking it behind his back and snapping the cuff. As he did, Stenopolis’s right hand reached behind and gripped the detective’s wrist. Stenopolis then spun onto his back. Hips arched, knees bent, his body uncoiled like a spring, he landed on his feet, bending Molia’s arm behind his back while his free hand grabbed the butt of the detective’s gun.

“No!” Jenkins yelled.

Sloane turned at the sound of Jenkins’s voice. Too late. Stenopolis had taken aim and the retort echoed as the dark blur crossed Sloane’s peripheral vision.

Before Sloane could refocus he heard another shot and watched as Stenopolis spun, letting go of the detective. Three more shots exploded in succession, a string of firecrackers. The bullets drove Stenopolis backward, his body impacting violently against the brick fireplace. Legs quivering, he remained upright, gun at his side, then slumped to the hearth.

Albert Payne advanced, hand outstretched, gun extended.

Stenopolis put a hand to his chest and held it up, staring at the crimson red staining his fingertips, as if not comprehending the sight of his own blood. He looked up at Albert Payne with an expression that was part bemusement, part disbelief. His jaw opened, as if he were about to speak.

Apparently not interested, Payne fired again. Stenopolis’s head snapped back. Then his body listed to the side.

Tom Molia approached slowly. Payne’s arm lowered, as if too fatigued to hold it outstretched any longer. The gun slid from his palm to his fingertips where it lingered a moment before falling to the rug. When Molia touched his shoulder Payne did not react, continuing to stare down at Stenopolis’s lifeless body.

“Charlie!” Sloane yelled.

His friend lay on the floor, a hand pressed against his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers.

Sloane crouched over him, shouting over his shoulder. “Call an ambulance! Oh shit, I’m sorry, Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t.” Jenkins grimaced, his voice angry. “Do not blame yourself for this. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Just hang on. We’re going to get you help.”

“Pure dumb luck.”

“What?”

“That’s all it is. What happens just happens,” he said, though in this case Sloane knew that wasn’t the case. Jenkins had deliberately taken the bullet for him. “You’re not responsible for this any more than you were responsible for what happened to Tina. Do you understand?”

Jenkins grimaced again and shut his eyes.

“Charlie?”

His breathing labored.

Sloane grabbed Jenkins’s hand. “Come on, stay with me, Charlie.”

holy cross hospital bethesda, maryland

DESPITE HIS PROTESTATIONS, the paramedics would not allow Sloane to ride in the back of the ambulance. He followed in a police car, refusing medical attention for his own injuries, unwilling to let Jenkins out of his sight.

Tom Molia remained at the house with Albert Payne to answer the questions of the Bethesda police officers who had arrived with the ambulance.

When the paramedics pulled the stretcher from the back of the ambulance and wheeled Jenkins through the emergency room doors he lay unconscious, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. Sloane followed as far as the doors leading to an operating room before a nurse and two security guards convinced him to step back and allow the doctors to do their job.

The nurse led Sloane back down the hall to a bed in the emergency room, where he sat while she cleaned his wounds. A doctor put four stitches in the cut above Sloane’s eye and three more inside his upper lip. He told Sloane that his right eye was too swollen to examine, and therefore he could not yet be certain whether the injury would cause any permanent impairment to Sloane’s vision. When the doctor had finished his examination, the nurse led Sloane to a waiting area where he sat until he decided he could not wait any longer before calling Alex.

Though upset, she took the news stoically and did not panic. She made Sloane promise to call the second he heard anything further. Hanging up, Sloane sat feeling more alone than he ever had.

An hour passed before he heard the sound of dress shoes slapping the hospital linoleum. Tom Molia turned a corner and entered the waiting room. “Have you heard anything?”

Sloane shook his head. “He’s in surgery.”

Molia sat beside him and exhaled a long breath.

“How’s Payne?” Sloane asked.

Molia frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s going to take awhile. He’s pretty shook up, though I think maybe he’s seeing some light at the end of what has been a very dark tunnel.” He turned his head, looked at Sloane. “He said to say thank you.”

“For what?”

Molia shrugged.

Sloane leaned his head back against the wall. “Maybe Stenopolis was right; maybe we do all have it in us.”

“I don’t know about that, but he was right about one thing: higher authorities came to take possession of his body. I called both the Department of Justice and the FBI.”

For a moment neither spoke, then Molia said, “I keep thinking of that Springsteen song. You know, the one about the dog being beat too much and spending its life covering up? Then there are others that just get tired of getting beat and one day just bite back. I think Payne just snapped when he heard Stenopolis say he was going to walk away, that it might never be over, that he might spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and worrying about his wife and kids. He just wanted it to end.”

“Where’d he get the gun?”

“Jenkins. He knew Stenopolis would search him for a weapon when he got to the house, but he was hoping he wouldn’t consider Payne a threat.”

“What about the media?” Sloane asked.

“Given his skill and the extent to which Stenopolis went to remain anonymous, nobody will be releasing his name anytime soon. The Department of Justice and the FBI are on board, though they have a lot of questions for you.”

Sloane figured as much, and had hoped that the relationships he had established with attorneys at the Justice Department, as well as with agents at the FBI during the Beverly Ford matter, would give him credibility with both agencies.

“You know,” Molia said, “J. Rayburn Franklin isn’t going to be real happy with me. He’ll want to know what the hell I was doing so far out of my jurisdiction.”

Sloane couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Molia running circles around his bespectacled, hyperactive boss. “I thought you said he was retiring?”

“He was, until the stock market crashed and he lost most of his retirement. Just my luck.” They sat quietly for a while. Then Molia said, “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and presume to tell you that I have the slightest clue what you’re going through. I couldn’t imagine losing my Maggie, but I also know that if something were to happen to her because I was out there doing my job, God forbid, she wouldn’t want me to blame myself for what happened. I know that she loves me too much to think of me being in so much pain. I’m sure your wife would feel the same.”

“The hardest part,” Sloane said, “was I couldn’t save her.”

“No one could have, David.”

“I should have rushed him. I should have gone for his gun.”

“Maybe. But you didn’t. And you’ll never know what would have happened if you had. Hell, I never should have let him get my gun.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault, that’s my point. We can speculate till the cows come home, but we’ll never really know. What I do know is I didn’t make a mistake. I did it by the book. I did my job the way I was trained, but something bad still happened because the guy was intent on something bad happening. You understand what I’m saying?”

Jenkins had told Sloane much the same thing. He put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, physically and emotionally drained.

Molia stood. “Why don’t I get us some coffee?”

“Tom.” Molia stopped, turned. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life.”

“Maybe next time you visit you can just stop by and have dinner like a normal person.”

Sloane smiled.

“Do you like pot roast? Maggie makes a mean pot roast.”

“I remember,” Sloane said.

“Mr. Sloane?” The doctor from the operating room stood in the doorway.