Heat (29 page)

T
he door slammed behind Jesse, and he turned to see Pat Casey standing behind him. He noted that both Casey and Coldwater's pistols were equipped with silencers. When the time came they wouldn't have to worry about noise.

“You are a very great disappointment to me, Jesse,” Coldwater said sadly.

“Jack Gene,” Casey said, “why don't you just off him and get it over with?” He walked carefully around Jesse and stood in front of him as Coldwater came from behind the desk.

“He can't do that just yet, Pat,” Jesse said. “He doesn't know what I've done with his banking documents; yours, too.”

Casey turned to Coldwater. “What is he talking about?”

“Let me explain, Pat,” Jesse said. “When I opened Jack Gene's safe and took the money, I took all the banking documents, too. They included the numbers to all the secret accounts, Jack Gene's, Kurt's and yours. You understand, don't you, Pat, that anybody with the account numbers has access to the accounts?”

Casey looked alarmed. “Jack Gene—”

“Shut up, Pat,” Coldwater said. “Now Jesse, I'm prepared to do a deal; you give me the documents and you can keep the cash from the safe. That's enough for a fresh start somewhere, isn't it?”

Jesse managed a smile. “Not as fresh a start as with the sixty or seventy million in all those banks,” he said. “What's the matter, Jack Gene, didn't you memorize the account numbers?” He turned to Casey. “You didn't think you would live to spend all that money, did you, Pat? Jack Gene had your account numbers, after all. He had Kurt's, too. He never planned on letting you keep it.”

Casey stopped looking at Jesse and turned to Coldwater. “Listen to me, Jack Gene—”

Coldwater looked annoyed; he turned slightly and shot Casey once, in the forehead. Casey spun around and fell across a stack of suitcases, and his pistol landed at Jesse's feet. Jesse started to reach down for it, but Coldwater was too quick.

“No,” Coldwater said, training his gun on Jesse. “You couldn't pick it up fast enough, believe me. Now think about it, Jesse, and you'll do the right thing.”

“You mean, just hand over the documents and go on my merry way with your million and a half in cash?” Jesse reckoned his flight was boarding now. Time was short. “Could I trust you to do that, Jack Gene?”

“All I want is the documents, Jesse.”

“Sure, Jack Gene. After I've just watched you execute your oldest and dearest friend? Why would you want to be so nice to me?” He had to get closer to Coldwater, or get Coldwater closer to him. He watched Coldwater thumb back the hammer on the pistol. “That's unnecessary, Jack Gene; that model is double action, after all.”

“Jesse, you're wasting our time; we both have planes to catch.”

“Come on, Jack Gene; there's a nationwide APB
out for you already; you wouldn't even get through airport security.”

“Nobody's looking for my Comanche,” Coldwater said, “and I've got the range for Mexico.”

He was right, Jesse thought. In any case, Coldwater had more time to waste than he did. “Well, I guess you're in something of a quandary, Jack Gene. If you shoot me, you'll never get the documents and the money. You'll be right back where you started, twenty years ago. On the other hand, if you put down the gun, then that would make me feel that we could trust each other. I mean, the million and a half is already in a bank abroad; you couldn't take it away from me.”

Coldwater gazed at him. “You have a point, Jesse.” He kicked Casey's pistol away, then tossed his own onto the desk behind him. “All right, where are the documents?”

“At this moment,” Jesse said, “they're in the hands of a task force in the Justice Department, the same people that took your town last night.” Jesse shifted his weight slightly and turned a shoulder toward Coldwater. “So, you see, you've never going to get your hands on a single dollar of that money. You're going to be a fugitive for the rest of your life, however short a time that may be.”

Coldwater looked stunned and that quickly changed to anger. “You idiot,” he said. “Do you think I need a weapon to kill you?”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “You do.”

Coldwater's fingers darted toward Jesse's eyes, but Jesse was ready. He caught the thrust on his left forearm, and, as hard as he could, he rammed his fist into Coldwater's throat. Coldwater grabbed at his neck with both hands, staggering backward toward the desk. Jesse kicked with his left foot and swept the bigger man's legs from under him.

Coldwater lay gasping for air, his eyes wide. Jesse
moved gingerly around him, pushed the desk out of the way and retrieved Casey's pistol.

“You have a minute or so before you lose consciousness,” Jesse said to Coldwater. “And a little while after that before you expire. I learned about that from somebody in prison who tried to do it to me.”

Coldwater's hands slipped away from his throat, but he continued to stare at Jesse.

“Of course, that kind of death would point to a third party,” he said, “and I don't want anybody looking for me.” He brought the pistol up. “This is for Jenny,” he said, then fired a single shot into Coldwater's throat.

Jesse quickly removed the two men's wallets, then rearranged the bodies, wiped his fingerprints from the pistol and placed it in Coldwater's hand. A murder-suicide was the best he could manage on short notice. When everything looked right, he cracked the door to the office and looked around. He found a “do-not-disturb” sign hanging on the inside doorknob, transferred it to the outside and closed the door behind him.

 

He found Jenny where he had left her, and a voice was announcing final boarding for their flight. “Sorry to be so long,” he said, picking up the briefcase. “Let's get aboard.” He walked them toward the boarding gate, then, as they passed the ticket agent, he tugged at Jenny's elbow. “You take your seats; I'll be right with you.”

“Jesse—” she said, alarmed.

“I'll be there in two minutes, I promise.”

Reluctantly, she herded the girls down the gangway.

Jesse stepped a few paces aside and took the portable phone from his pocket. He dialed the number of the Justice Department in Washington. When the operator answered he said, “This is Dan Barker; patch me through to Kip Fuller, with the task force in Idaho.”

There was a short delay, then a ringing.

“This is Fuller,” he said. “This better be important.”

“You busy, Kip?” he asked.

“Jesse! Where the hell are you?”

“I'm gone, Kip; I just wanted to say goodbye and to do you a favor or two.”

“A favor? What are you talking about?”

“First of all, I've sent you a little package, care of Nashua, in College Park. I think you'll enjoy the contents.”

“What is it?”

“Don't be impatient, Kip. Let me speak to Barker.”

There was some mumbling, then Dan Barker came on the line. “Jesse?”

“Listen carefully, Dan. I can still blow you out of the water by releasing everything to the papers. I might even be able to get the investigation into my partner's death reopened. Do you understand me?” This was a bluff.

There was silence for a moment, then Barker folded. “Yes, I understand you.”

“Good. Unless I read in the
New York Times
within ninety days that you've resigned from the Justice Department, I'll release everything. I have only to make a phone call. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Barker said.

“Good; you have ninety days to think about it. Now put Kip back on the line.”

“I'm here, Jesse,” Kip said. “What was that all about?”

“Barker is considering early retirement.”

“Listen, we found Ruger's body, along with Charley Bottoms. What happened?”

“The recorder is in the package; it will explain everything.”

“What about Coldwater and Casey? Where are they?”

“Don't worry, they'll turn up. But believe me, they're not going to be a problem.”

“Jesse, I can get you the pardon now; no problem.”

“You hang on to it for me, Kip, in case I ever need it.”

“If that's what you want.”

“Tell Barker I'll be watching the papers, and take care of yourself.”

Jesse broke the connection. He wiped the phone clean of fingerprints and dropped it in a trash receptacle, along with Coldwater and Casey's wallets, then he boarded the airplane.

A
KAROA
, S
OUTH
I
SLAND
, N
EW
Z
EALAND
, F
OUR
M
ONTHS
L
ATER

J
esse stopped into the village post office for his mail. Along with the usual utility bills and advertising circulars there was a letter from the home secretary's office in Wellington.

“Morning, Mr. Warren,” the postmistress said. “Lovely day.”

“Getting a bit chilly, though,” he replied.

“Winter's coming.”

Winter came in June in this country. “Suppose you're right.”

“Think you'll like us as well in winter?”

“Seems an awfully nice place. I thought I'd look at some property.” The postmistress was the local real estate broker, too.

“Glad to show you some; there's a very pretty place down on the point; bit pricey, though.”

“I've got to run up to Christchurch today. Maybe we could look at it tomorrow.”

“Glad to show it to you.”

Jesse stepped out onto the porch of the post office. Behind him he heard the postmistress speak to another customer.

“That's Mr. Warren,” she said. “American writer; pretty well known in the states, I hear. Been here for a couple of months, now; looks like he might stay.”

Jesse opened the letter from the home secretary and read it. He, his wife, and his two daughters had been granted permanent residence status in New Zealand. Jesse smiled, put the letter into his pocket, got into the car and headed for Christchurch. It was his habit to drive up there once a week.

 

In the public library at Christchurch he read through the most recent copies of the
New York Times
. They were always at least a month old. On the national news page he found what he was looking for:

NEW APPOINTMENT AT JUSTICE

The piece went on to recount Kip's background in law enforcement and his leading of the raid. Then,
further down the page, Jesse saw something he had not expected.

DEATH AT ATLANTA PRISON

Jesse closed the newspaper and returned it to the stacks. Well, he thought, it was almost as good as a presidential pardon.

He got into his car and drove back toward Akaroa. If he hurried, he would be in time for lunch.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, October 31, 1993

I am grateful to my editor, HarperCollins Vice President and Associate Publisher Gladys Justin Carr, and to her staff for their hard work in the editing and preparation of this book; to all the other people at HarperCollins who have worked for the book's success; to my agent, Morton Janklow, his principle associate, Anne Sibbald, and their colleagues at Janklow & Nesbit, who have been so important to my career; and to my wife, Chris, for her help, understanding, and love.