Matt Royal Mystery - 03 - Blood Island (32 page)

"Make some calls. Get me some information."

"I'll try." He turned to leave.

"FBI man," I said, the edge to my voice bringing him up short. "Do
it. We're about out of time."

At three thirty, Galls called. "We got the bastard," he said, without preamble.

"The bomber? Where?"

"The little shit was sleeping in his aunt's guest room over on Thompson Street. The suicide vest was under the bed."

"Have you questioned him yet?"

"Oh, yeah. He was planning to do the Lord's work. The kid's a real
believer."

"What was his target?"

"A Baptist church near downtown. It's our biggest. Would've gotten
a lot of press around the world."

"And killed a lot of people."

"Yeah."

"Have you talked to jock Algren?" I asked.

"Just hung up. He's on a government jet en route to Orlando. What's
going on up there?"

I told him what we'd learned. "I'm wondering if we can narrow down
the targets here. The bombers in both Atlanta and Key West were after big
Baptist churches near downtown. That could limit our scope if we focus
on the two or three Baptist churches in the Orlando downtown area."

"And it could be dangerous, Matt. The Atlanta and Key West targets
could be just coincidental."

"You're right, and I don't like coincidences. I'll let you know what
happens."

"I hope I don't see it on the news."

"Me either," I said, and closed my phone.

At four o'clock, Jock walked into the room. He looked tired, his face drawn
and haggard, his clothes rumpled.

"Hey, podner," he said, "how're we doing?"

"Waiting," I said.

Logan was reared back in his chair, feet on the conference table. "You
look whipped, Jock," he said.

"Yeah. Where's the coffee?"

I pointed to the large thermos sitting on the sideboard. "It's probably mostly mud by now"

"If it's got caffeine, I can use it."

The FBI agent came in. I introduced him to jock. "Mr. Algren is the
overall commander of this effort," I said. "He's the one I report to."

The agent took stock ofJock. "What agency are you with?"

"That's not important," Jock said. "But I talk directly to the
president."

"I guess that's important," the agent said. "Maybe you can get the
Marshals Service off its duff. They won't give me anything on the Witness
Security Program. I've alerted my supervisor and he's working up the
chain of command to see if our director can talk to the Marshals director."

Jock gave the agent that cold stare that I knew had intimidated
stronger men than the FBI man. "You called your fucking supervisor?" he
said, his voice rising. "Why didn't you go straight to the top?"

The agent wilted a little. "We have to follow protocol on these
things," he said. "We do have a chain of command, you know."

Jock exploded, the hours of frustration bursting out of him like a
Roman candle. "You bureaucratic pissant," he said, his voice low. "Don't
you realize that people are about to die?"

"Protocol is important, Mr. Algren," the agent said.

"Fuck protocol," Jock said. His voice was low and strident. "And
fuck your chain of command."

Jock pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit one button. In a
moment he said, "Mr. President, this is jock Algren." Silence. "Not yet,
sir, but we're making progress." Silence. "Yes, sir. I need you to call die
director of the U.S. Marshals Service and have him get somebody to talk to me about die Witness Security Program." Silence. "As soon as possible,
sir. I need names, addresses, and a lot of information on some of the
protected witnesses." Silence. "Thank you, sir. I'll keep you posted."

Jock closed his phone and turned to the agent, who looked as if lie
wanted to cower in the corner of the small room. "That's done. Now get
the hell out of my sight."

The agent turned for the door. "Wait," I said. "Did you find out anything from the folks in Troy?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "The high school principal is retired, but it was a
small school, and lie remembers most of the kids. He never heard of a
student named Simmermon, but he does remember Edinfield. Says he was
a troubled boy, and thinks he ended up in a mental institution."

"What about records?"

"There is no record of a student named Simmermon."

"Thank you, Agent. I appreciate your help," I said.

"Agent,"Jock said. "I apologize for my behavior. Chalk it up to a lack
of sleep."

"Apology accepted, sir," the agent said as he left the room.

"Shit," said Jock. "The guy was just doing his job."

I told Jock about the connection I saw to the churches in Atlanta and
Key West. "I wonder if we ought to concentrate our assets on similar
churches in Orlando."

"If we do that, and the bomber takes out an unprotected church,
we're going to look like the world's biggest idiots. Plus, I'd have to live
with the slaughter of a lot of innocent people because I got stupid."

"You're probably right. At least we can put a little protection around
all the churches. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Jock was pacing now, his face a mask of pain. "We're going to lose
them, podner. I'm about to get a lot of good people killed."

"Calm down, buddy. We're making progress."

"Yeah," said Jock, "but is it enough?"

It was four thirty when Debbie called. "Matt," she said, "I couldn't sleep.
I went into the newspaper archives for northern Alabama, and came up
with something that I thought you might be interested in."

"Shoot."

"A couple of years ago, when Simmermon was really getting his revivals into the big time, he got into a pissing match with a Methodist minister in Birmingham."

"What about?"

"Mostly theological issues. The minister didn't think Simmermon
was staying true to the Bible. Said he was preaching hate wrapped up in
Christian principles. The preacher took the position that Christian principles are about forgiveness, and Simmermon said that they were about
exclusiveness. In other words, if you want to go to heaven, you need to
listen to Simmermon."

"How does that fit into the problems we're facing?"

"Well, you haven't exactly told me what problems you are facing. I
know you're in Orlando, and you're there because of Simmermon."

"Sorry, babe. That's all I can tell you."

"Well, anyway, the connection I see is that the minister from Birmingham is now the pastor of the Lakeside Methodist Church in downtown
Orlando."

"Uh-oh. What's the minister's name?"

"Carlton Tarlington."

"I'll be damned. Thanks Deb. Get some sleep."

"Yeah, right." She hung up.

I turned to Jock and Logan. "Jock," I said, "when you had Simmermon drugged up, could he have been saying `Tarlington' instead of
`Arlington'?"

"Maybe. Why?"

I relayed Deb's findings.

"That could be it. Do you know the church?"

"Yeah. It's a big one. The sanctuary probably seats a thousand
people."

"That's got to be his target," said Logan. "Can't we warn Tarlington
and get his people out of harm's way?"

Jock shook his head. "We can't take that chance. The bomber would
just hit another target. We've got to take him out."

Jock's phone rang, and he stepped outside to take it. When he came
back, he was smiling. "That was the director of the Witness Security Program. He was at home and plugged into his agency computers. Amazing
what wonders a little juice will work in bureaucracies."

"What did he find out?" I asked.

"Not enough. He's going to dig a little deeper and call me back. But,
Edinfield and Thomas were in the program. So was Clyde Varn. They set
Edinfield up with a new name, Robert William Simmermon, and tried to
manufacture a past for him. It was pretty good, and would have been
enough if Debbie hadn't gotten curious."

"What about Varn and Thomas?" Logan asked.

"Varn was sent to Topeka and became Jake Yardley. About a year ago,
he disappeared. The Marshals say it isn't that unusual. The witnesses get
bored or miss their old life and just leave the program. The government
doesn't spend a lot of manpower looking for them."

"That's about when he showed up in Bradenton," I said. "Is there
any evidence that he knew Edinfield in the program?"

"Some. While Edinfield was in Key West he was working for some
pretty bad folks. He was crazy, but he somehow got tied in with the same
drug-running group that Varn was associated with. Edinfield worked on
some fishing boats, and apparently he was bringing drugs into Key West.

"The Marshals think he might have met Varn there. Varn was muscle for the drug importers that Edinfield worked for. When the whole thing fell apart, Varn and Thomas testified, but Edinfield was too crazy to be a
witness. They put him in the program anyway, and manufactured the Simmermon persona. The three of them spent some time together in a safe
house the marshals maintain in Miami."

"That's probably the connection," I said.

Jock nodded his head. "Probably. The Marshals didn't expect their
man to find the Lord and become an evangelist. There wasn't anything
they could do about it though. He dropped out of the program and
became a little bit famous."

"What about Fats?" I asked.

"He was the accountant for the drug mob. He went into the program
too, but the director is going to have to get back to me on him. There was
some sort of computer glitch. They're working on it."

My phone rang.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Matt." It was Jeff Timmons.

"No problem, Jeff. I wasn't asleep."

"There's no other way to say this," he said. "Laura wanted me to tell
you how much she appreciated your finding Peggy. She said to tell you
she loved you. She died about ten minutes ago."

I was expecting it. When I heard Jeff's voice on the phone, I knew it
had happened. But nothing really prepares you for the death of a loved
one. Tears welled in my eyes. I choked down a sob. "Shit, Jeff," I said. "I'm
so sorry."

"I'm sorry too, Matt. She loved both of us, you know. I always knew
that, and I've always been okay with it. You gave me back my daughter.
Peggy was with Laura at the end. I'll never be able to thank you enough for
that. Please stay in touch." He hung up.

I put the phone in my pocket. Tears were running down my cheeks.
I knew it, and didn't care. The radioman was out of the room, so it was just
my two best friends and me. They'd understand.

"Laura's dead," I said, and walked out of the room.

I left the building and stood on the front steps. The city lights partially
obscured the night sky, but I could see stars shining through the glare.
Maybe Laura was one of them.

An elevated highway, Interstate 4, ran in front of the police headquarters. Traffic was light, a few late-night revelers headed home. I heard
a dog bark nearby, a lonely sound in the wee hours. Soon, another dog
took up the conversation. In the far distance, I could hear a siren, its faint
wail gently caressing my ears.