Rising Phoenix (8 page)

Manion pulled his knees up against his chest and cradled them in his bony arms.

“What do you want, man?”

“Just a little information. Should be right up your alley.”

Manion remained silent. He looked like he needed a fix.

“We’re getting a little operation together and I need your expertise in chemistry.” Manion perked up a bit at the word “chemistry.”

“The Company’s getting fed up with all this narcotics money that’s running around. It’s keeping some governments afloat that we’d prefer to see sink. You understand what I mean?”

Manion was looking desperately around the room as Hobart spoke. He seemed to not be paying attention.

“We need to cut off their money—so we’re going to poison the U.S. narcotics supply.”

Manion’s hands popped open and his feet fell to the carpet with a thud. “You’re crazy!” His eyes continued to dart around the room. Hobart wasn’t sure if he was looking for somewhere to run or for CIA agents hiding behind the furniture.

“I have my orders. Well make it worth your while. Ten thousand dollars and a lifetime supply of top-quality
heroin. Poison-free, of course.” He punctuated his words by pulling a wad of bills from the bag at his feet and slapping them down on the sofa next to him.

“No way, man. There’s no way you can make me help you. I got rights.” The last part sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Of course you do,” Hobart said soothingly. “This is a great deal, though, if you think about it. We’re going to do this with your help or not. So why not make it easy on yourself?”

“No fucking way, man!” The spit that sprayed from his mouth mingled with the dust in the air.

Hobart looked down at his feet, where a can of lighter fluid sat. His old informant didn’t seem like the barbecuing type. No doubt the stuff was used to manufacture some kind of high.

He reached down and picked up the greasy can, studying it. Manion was hugging his knees again, rocking back and forth, mumbling as though in prayer.

“You know, Peter, I was watching an interesting show on PBS last night. It was on those monks in Vietnam who set themselves on fire to protest the war. Remember them? I saw one of ’em do it when I was over there. Nasty.” He turned the can and began reading the back. “They said that burning is the most excruciating way to die. They also said that a person’s sense of smell is the last thing to go. Do you believe that?”

Manion shook his head miserably, sweat dripping down his forehead. Hobart was starting to enjoy himself.

“Awful smell, burning flesh—must be even worse when it’s your own.” Hobart picked up a steak knife from a half-empty plate on the floor and put it to Manion’s
throat. With the other hand he squirted the lighter fluid on his head. Manion buried his face in his knees, protecting his eyes. The knife pressed to his neck kept him from rising.

“Last chance,” Hobart advised, tossing the nearly empty can behind him and pulling a lighter out of his pocket. Manion’s face came out from behind his knees at the familiar sound of the sparking lighter. He looked like he was about to scream, and Hobart pushed harder with the knife, diminishing the cry into a pathetic whimper. He held the lighter a safe distance from Manion, whose eyes were locked on the quivering flame.

Hobart fully intended to kill him if he didn’t agree. He’d be forced to pick a less dramatic method though. A screaming ball of flame running around the house was bound to attract attention.

Manion closed his eyes and began sobbing quietly.

Hobart was getting impatient. “C’mon, Petey, what’s it going to be?”

J
ohn Hobart set the cruise control at sixty-six and leaned his seat back into a more comfortable position. It was a beautiful night. Cool, but not cold, and crystal clear. The new Jeep rode as smoothly as a Rolls-Royce down the empty highway, allowing him to gaze through the glass sunroof at the stars. He occasionally glanced back at the road to confirm that he wasn’t straying over any important lines.

He’d left Peter Manion’s house just before seven o’clock, maneuvering through the thickening city traffic and onto the highway out of Baltimore. City had turned to suburbs, and finally the suburbs had given way to the grassy hills of rural Maryland. The radio was beginning to fade, erupting in loud static every few minutes. He fed a classical CD into the dash.

It was almost another hour before he saw his exit rushing to meet him. He tapped out the complex rhythm of the last concerto on the CD as he swung his car off the highway. It wasn’t an exit ramp in the true
sense of the word, more of an ill-kept asphalt road breaking off from the main thoroughfare. The night closed in on the car as he sped away from the interstate. The faded gray asphalt climbed a steep grade into the darkness.

Eventually the road turned to gravel and then to dirt. He switched on the four-wheel drive and struggled through deep ruts, slowing to under ten miles per hour. The road narrowed to the point that tree branches swished against both sides of the car. The air, moistened by the dense trees, had turned into a swirling fog. Hobart leaned closer to the windshield, resting his chin on the steering wheel.

Finally the headlights illuminated a small break in the trees to the right. He turned carefully into it, hearing the bottom of the Jeep scrape as he maneuvered down a steep incline. When he leveled out, a small cedar cabin nestled in the trees became visible about twenty yards away. He cut the engine and coasted to a quiet stop next to its large redwood deck.

His breath came out like steam, illuminated by the light still on in the interior of the car. His boots made a satisfying crunching sound as he walked around to the back of the car and pulled a large black suitcase out of the cargo space.

The cracked and faded exterior of the cabin, illuminated briefly by the Jeep’s headlights, didn’t fit with the interior. While the furniture had a hand-me-down look common to weekend retreats, the cabin was immaculately maintained inside. Floors were swept and oiled, and the kitchen was well stocked. Flashlight in hand, Hobart weaved his way through the dark living
room and lit a propane lamp on the wall. The flame came to life, bathing the inside of the cabin in a soft blue-white glow.

After unpacking his suitcase in one of the cabin’s two bedrooms, he went back out to the car and pulled a large cooler out of the back. It was full of perishables that couldn’t be kept at the cabin during his long absences. He switched on the refrigerator and loaded in the food, keeping a cold beer on the counter for himself. He started a fire in the wood stove and settled onto the sofa. The sound of the wind blowing through the tall pines that surrounded the cabin lulled him to sleep.

Hobart jerked as the hot grease spattered on his arm. He quickly threw a lid on the pan, hiding the cooking bacon within. Last night’s fog was only a memory, and the sun was beginning to filter through the skylights high above him. In the light, the house took on a colder feel. The cabin had the same unlived-in look as his home in Baltimore. The motion in the kitchen and the smell of bacon and eggs seemed out of place in the sterile atmosphere.

He was halfway through eating his breakfast when he heard the unmistakable sound of tires rolling down the steep hill to the cabin. He looked at his watch as he pushed the chair back and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Fifteen minutes early.

Hobart waved as he walked out the front door and onto the deck. Robert Swenson returned his greeting by sticking an arm out of the window of his beat-up
Cadillac. Pulling to a stop next to the Jeep, he jumped out and slammed the door behind him.

“What the hell’s going on, John? A week ago the Reverend comes into my office and tells me he fired you. You don’t return any of my calls, then I get that cloak and dagger message from you on my voice mail.”

Hobart ignored his question. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here did you?”

“Hell, no, your message was pretty clear on that subject. So what’s going on?”

“Come on in,” Hobart said, turning and starting back into the house. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Once inside, Hobart repositioned himself in front of his breakfast and started in on it again. “Can I get you something?” he asked, watching Swenson drag a chair in from the living room.

“Nah, I grabbed an Egg McMuffin on the way. So what happened?”

“Nothing all that interesting, Bob. Just got sick of that prima donna, you know? We had it out and he fired me.”

Swenson shook his head knowingly.

Hobart had first met Robert Swenson in Vietnam when their Special Forces units had been temporarily combined. After the war was over, their lives had continued on similar paths. Hobart had joined the DEA, and Swenson, the L.A. Police Department’s narcotics division. Later, when Hobart had taken the security chief post at the church, he’d brought his old friend in as his right-hand man.

“Shit, John, he’ll probably change his mind next week.”

“Not that big an issue, really. There’s some stuff I’ve been wanting to do and this’ll give me a chance to do it.”

Swenson snatched an untouched piece of bacon from Hobart’s plate. “What do you have going? Starting a private contracting business?”

“In a way. Actually, I asked you to come here ’cause I want you to come and work for me. I think I’ve got something for you that you’ll find more fulfilling than chasing Simon Blake around.”

Swenson looked interested, as Hobart knew he would be.

Swenson had been married for almost six years when his wife had been killed in a car accident. They seemed to have had a perfect marriage—she was one of the few women able to adjust to the life of a cop’s wife. Between that and Swenson’s rare talent for separating his personal life from the job, it looked like a relationship that was going to last. Hobart couldn’t remember exactly when she had died, but it was sometime in the mid-eighties—maybe ’84.

As he recalled the story, it had been a clear night in Chicago and Helen had been returning from a college where she was taking classes. The stretch of road where she died was perfectly straight. Inexplicably, a car coming in the other direction ran off the road, through a grass median, and head-on into her Volkswagen Rabbit. The other driver survived, protected by his one-ton pickup. Helen had been decapitated. Later it was discovered that the driver had been hopped up on some drug or another.

“So?” Swenson prompted.

Hobart had spent most of the drive to the cabin trying to figure out a way to hedge on his offer to Swenson. Not to give too much away. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything practical. There seemed to be no alternative to jumping in with both feet.

“I intend to stop the illegal narcotics trade in the U.S.”

Swenson laughed and gnawed on the piece of bacon. “Don’t tell me the DEA’s taking you back.”

“I’m serious, Bob. America’s being torn apart by drugs—you ought to know that better than anyone. I’ve decided to put a stop to it.”

“Never knew you were such a patriot, John.”

“I think of it more as an interesting challenge.” He wasn’t joking, and from Swenson’s expression, it looked like that was beginning to sink in.

“Hey, I’m with you in theory, John, but let’s face it, the war on drugs is a joke. You and I devoted some of the best years of our lives to chasing our tails.”

Hobart put his fork down and took a deep breath. “That’s true, we did. But now I think I’ve found a way to make up for that lost time.”

“Planning on running for President? I don’t see you as the baby-kissing type.”

“I’m going to poison the drug supply.”

Swenson dropped what was left of the strip of bacon onto the table and stood. He walked back into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Hobart went back to his breakfast.

“You’re serious,” Swenson said from the kitchen. It was a statement and not a question. He came back around and took his seat, sipping at the steaming mug.
A deep crease appeared in his forehead as he mulled over what he’d just heard.

“Why not? I assume you agree that it would take care of the problem.”

Swenson nodded. “Yeah. It’d work. Given the right scale.”

Hobart had expected a more enthusiastic response than the blank stare he was getting. Had it not been for Swenson’s wife being killed by a narcotics user and his subsequent bitterness, Hobart wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to recruit him for this operation. If Helen were still alive, Swenson undoubtedly would have marched into the nearest FBI office and turned him in. She wasn’t alive though, she was lying in a coffin in two pieces somewhere in Chicago. And that made all the difference.

Hobart reached discreetly under the table and closed his hand around a hard piece of wood. That morning he had sawed off a baseball bat to a two-foot length and taped it under the table. Robert Swenson was the closest thing to a friend that he had, but his friend either had to get on board or disappear.

It wouldn’t be difficult. He would put Swenson’s body back into the Cadillac and run it off the edge of one of the winding mountain roads that crisscrossed the area. It was risky, but the local cops weren’t rocket scientists. And it was less of a hazard than having someone not involved in the operation running around knowing who was behind it.

Swenson was silent for almost five minutes and Hobart’s hand began to sweat, making the handle of the bat damp and slippery.

“I’m in,” he said finally. Hobart’s hand loosened on the handle.

“But we’re gonna have to put together a decent amount of money to get something like this off the ground.”

Hobart’s hand dropped completely from the handle at the word “we.” He wiped his wet palm on his slacks. “Already taken care of.”

“Blake’s in on it, then?”

“No.” Hobart’s tone and expression made it clear that Blake’s name should never be mentioned again. Swenson took the hint and changed the subject.

“How many people do you figure we need?”

“About eight more. I’ve already scheduled meetings with them here. The first one arrives at three.”

“People you’ve known for a long time?”