Split Second (21 page)

K
ING AWOKE FROM
a dead sleep as the hand went over his mouth. He saw the gun first and the face second.

Michelle put a finger to her lips and whispered in his ear. “I heard some noises. I think someone’s in the house.”

King pulled on his clothes and pointed out the door with a questioning look.

“I think at the rear of the house, lower level. Any idea who it could be?”

“Yeah, maybe somebody’s bringing me another dead body.”

“Anything of value in the house?”

He started to shake his head and then stopped. “Shit. The gun from Loretta’s backyard. It’s in my lockbox in the study.”

“You really think…?”

“Yeah, I really do.” He picked up the phone to call the police but put it back down.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “It’s dead?”

“Where’s your cell phone?”

She shook her head. “I think I left it in my truck.”

They slipped down the stairs listening for any more sounds that might pinpoint where the intruder was. It was dark and quiet. The person could have been anywhere, watching, waiting to pounce.

King looked at Michelle and whispered, “Nervous?”

“It
is
a little creepy. What do
you
do when it gets dicey?”

“Go get a bigger gun than the other guy has.”

The
bang
came from the direction of the staircase leading to the lower level.

Michelle looked at him. “Okay, I say no confrontation. We don’t know how many or how well armed.”

“Agreed. But we have to get the gun. You have your car keys?”

She held them up. “Way ahead of you.”

“I’ll drive. We’ll call the cops once we’re out of here.”

With her covering him, King slipped into his study, got the lockbox and made sure the gun was inside. They went quietly out the front door.

They climbed into the Land Cruiser’s front seat, and King put the key in the ignition.

The blow struck him from behind, and he fell against the horn, which started blaring.

“Sea—” yelled Michelle, but her voice was cut off, along with most of her wind, when the leathery garrote went around her neck and ripped into her skin.

She desperately tried to dig her fingers under the leather, but it had already sunk in too deeply. Very quickly her lungs were bursting, her eyes bulging in their sockets; her brain felt like it was on fire. From the corner of her eye she saw King slumped against the steering wheel, the blood running down his neck. Then she felt the rope twist and tighten and a hand reached over the front seat and grabbed the rusty gun. The rear truck door opened and then closed, and footsteps moved away, leaving her to die.

The garrote kept tightening, and Michelle put her feet up against the dashboard to try and arch her body, to get some leverage and separation from the person who was doing his best to kill her. She dropped back down, her breath nearly gone. The sound of the horn was exploding in her ears; the sight of the unconscious and bloodied King only added to her hopelessness. She arched again and slammed her head into the face of the person strangling her. She heard him cry out, and the rope loosened, but only a bit. Next she reached back, trying to seize hair to pull, skin to tear or eyeballs to gouge. She was finally able to grip her attacker’s hair and pulled as hard as she could, but the
pressure on her throat kept up. She scratched and clawed at the face, and then her head was ripped back, almost pulling her over the seat. She thought her spine had cracked, and Michelle went limp and slid forward.

She could feel the breath of the person who was killing her, exerting every ounce of strength to finish her off. Tears of desperation and agony slid down her face.

The breath was right in her ear. “Just die,” he hissed. “Just die!”

His mocking tone suddenly revitalized her. With her last bit of energy Michelle’s fingers closed around her gun. She pointed it backward, against the seat, her index finger finding the slender bit of metal. She barely had any strength left, and yet she found the small reserve of will she needed to do it. She just prayed her aim was true. She wouldn’t get a second chance.

The gun fired, and the bullet ripped through the seat. She heard the impact with flesh and next the grunt, and the garrote immediately loosened and then fell away. Free, Michelle sucked in huge amounts of air. Dizzy and sick to her stomach, she pushed open the truck door and fell out onto the ground.

She heard the rear door open. The man climbed out, holding his bloodied side. She raised her gun, but he kicked the door fully open and it slammed into her, knocking her down. Beyond furious now, Michelle bounced back up and aimed her pistol even as he turned and ran.

However, before she could fire, she dropped to her knees and was violently sick to her stomach. When she looked up, her vision was so blurred, her head pounding so hard, that there seemed to be three men running away. She fired six shots; all were placed in a tight bunch at what she thought was the real flesh and blood of the man who had done his best to murder her.

All six missed by a wide margin. She’d picked the wrong image to shoot.

The footsteps hurried away, and a short time later a car started up and raced off, spewing gravel and dirt.

With a final gasp Michelle dropped to the ground.

T
HE BLARING TRUCK
horn finally attracted the attention of a passing deputy who discovered the unconscious King and Michelle. They were taken to UVA Hospital in Charlottesville. King recovered first. His head wound was bloody, but his skull proved hard enough and he’d suffered no serious damage. Michelle’s recovery would take a little longer, and she was sedated while her injuries were worked on. When she woke, King was sitting next to her, his head bandaged.

“God, you look awful,” she said in a weak voice.

“That’s all I get after sitting in this damn chair for hours waiting for the princess to awaken? ‘God, you look awful’?”

“I’m sorry. It’s really wonderful to see your face. I wasn’t sure you were alive.”

He studied the marks on her swollen neck. “Whoever it was did a number on you. Did you see anybody?”

“No. It was a man, that’s all.” She added, “I shot him.”

“You did what?”

“Shot him, through the seat.”

“Where’d you hit him?”

“In the side, I think.”

“The police are waiting to take a statement. I’ve already given them mine. The FBI and Deputy Marshal Parks are here too. I filled them in on finding the gun and my theory about Loretta blackmailing someone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell them much.”

“There must have been at least two of them: one to flush us
out of the house and the other waiting in your truck. They were counting that I’d grab the gun. Saved them from looking for it. Someone must have been tailing us when we were at Loretta’s house. They could have seen us discover the gun, and decided to get it back.”

“There were three of them, then, because there were two in the car.” She paused and then said, “They got the gun, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Stupid when you think about it. We should have taken it right to the FBI, but we didn’t and that’s that.” He sighed and put a hand on her shoulder. “That was a close one, Michelle, way too close.”

“I fought as hard as I could.”

“I know you did. You’re the only reason I’m alive. I owe you.”

Before Michelle could answer, the door opened and a young man came in. “Agent Maxwell?” He held out credentials that identified him as Secret Service. “As soon as you’re discharged from the hospital, and have talked to the police, you’re to accompany me back to Washington.”

“Why?” asked King.

The man ignored him. “The doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t think luck had much to do with it,” King pointed out.

“Why am I going back to Washington?” Michelle asked.

“As of right now, you’re being reassigned to a desk at the Washington field office.”

“Walter Bishop’s handiwork,” said King.

“I really can’t say.”

“I know. That’s why
I
said it.”

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to go.” The man nodded curtly at King and left.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” said King.

She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. “Hey, I’ll be back. I’m not going to let you have a good time all by yourself.”

“Just rest for now, okay?”

She nodded. “Sean?” He looked at her. “About last night, the
swim and everything. It was fun. I think we both needed that. Maybe we can do it again someday.”

“Hell yes, I loved dumping your butt in the water.”

King was walking down the hallway after leaving Michelle when a woman stepped in front of him. Joan looked both anxious and upset. “I just heard. You’re okay?” She looked at his bandaged head.

“I’m fine.”

“Agent Maxwell?”

“Fine too. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, Joan!”

“Okay, okay, calm down.” She motioned to some chairs in an empty room off the main corridor. They sat, and Joan looked at him, a serious expression on her face.

“I heard you discovered a gun at that woman’s home.”

“How the hell did you find that out? I just told the cops.”

“I’m in the private sector, but I didn’t turn in my investigative skills when I left the Service. Is it true?”

He hesitated. “Yeah, I found a gun.”

“And where do you think it came from?”

“I have my theories. But I’m not in a sharing mood.”

“Well, let me jump right in with one of mine. This woman was a maid at the Fairmount Hotel, she had a gun hidden in her garden and she meets a violent death with money stuffed in her mouth. She was blackmailing the person who was the owner of that gun. And that person may have been involved in Ritter’s assassination.”

He stared at the woman in amazement. “Who the hell are your sources?”

“Sorry, I’ve used up my sharing spirit too. So you get the gun, lose the gun, and you’re almost killed in the process.”

“Michelle actually got it a lot worse than I did. They just knocked me out. Apparently they did their best to kill her.”

She looked at him strangely when he said that. “Do you think
this has anything to do with Bruno’s disappearance?” she asked abruptly.

He looked surprised. “How could it? Just because Ritter and Bruno were both presidential candidates? That’s quite a stretch.”

“Maybe so. But things that look complex tend to have very simple cores.”

“Thanks for the detective lesson. I’ll sure remember that one.”

“Maybe you need some basic lessons. You’re the one running around with the woman who let Bruno be kidnapped.”

“She didn’t let Bruno be kidnapped any more than I let Clyde Ritter get shot.”

“The fact is, I’m investigating Bruno’s disappearance, and at this juncture I can’t assume anyone is above suspicion, including your lady friend Michelle.”

“Great, and she’s not my ‘lady friend.’ ”

“Okay, what exactly is she?”

“I’m just following up some stuff, and she’s helping me.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad you’ve teamed up with someone, since it appears you’ve blown me off completely. Is Maxwell also offering a million-dollar payday if you crack the case, or just a kick-ass adventure between the sheets?”

He eyed her closely. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Maybe I am, Sean. But regardless, I think I at least deserve an answer to my offer.”

King glanced in the direction of Michelle’s room but turned back when Joan put a hand on his arm.

“I need to get going on this. And you never know, we might just find out the
real
truth about Clyde Ritter.”

He stared defiantly at her. “Yeah, we just might,” he shot back.

“So you’re in? I need to know. Right now.”

After a moment he nodded. “I’m in.”

T
HEY FLEW VIA PRIVATE PLANE
to Dayton, Ohio, and then drove to a state mental facility that was about thirty minutes north. Joan had called ahead and gotten the necessary approvals to visit Sidney Morse.

“It wasn’t as difficult as I would have thought,” she told King on the drive there. “Although when I told the woman whom I wanted to see, she laughed. Said we could come if we wanted, but it wouldn’t do us much good.”

“How long has Morse been there?” King asked.

“About a year or so. He was committed by his family. Or rather his brother, Peter Morse. I guess that’s all the family he had left.”

“I thought Peter Morse was in trouble with the police. And wasn’t he a druggie?”

“ ‘
Was
’ being the operative word. He never went to prison, probably due to his brother’s influence. He apparently cleaned up his act and when his older brother went nuts, put him in the state mental hospital.”

“Why in Ohio?”

“It seems that prior to being committed, Sidney was living with his brother here. I guess he was so far gone he couldn’t live by himself.”

King shook his head. “Talk about your reversal of fortune. In less than ten years the guy goes from king of the hill to permanent residence in a nuthouse.”

A little while later King and Joan were sitting in a small room at the bleak institution. The sounds of wails and cries and sobbing filtered down the hallways. People whose minds had long since left them were hunched over in wheelchairs in the corridors. In a recreation room off the main reception area a small group of patients watched a show on TV. Nurses, doctors and attendants slowly moved up and down the halls in their scrubs, their energy seemingly sapped by the depressing surroundings.

King and Joan both stood as the man was wheeled into the room by one of the attendants. The young man nodded to them. “Okay, here’s Sid.”

The young man knelt down in front of Morse and patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, Sid, these people want to talk to you, okay, you hear me? It’s cool, just talk.” The attendant grinned when he said this.

He stood and Joan said, “Um, is there anything we should know, anything to avoid?”

The man smiled, showing a row of crooked teeth. “Not with Sid. It really doesn’t matter.”

King hadn’t been able to take his gaze off the wreck of a man who eight years ago had nearly pulled off one of the most impressive feats in American politics. Morse had lost some weight but was still chubby. His hair had been shaved off, although he had a short beard shot with gray. King had remembered his eyes being laser sharp, missing nothing. Now those eyes were clearly lifeless. It
was
Sidney Morse, but just barely, only the shell really.

He said, “So what’s the diagnosis?”

“That he ain’t never leaving here, that’s what,” said the attendant, who introduced himself as Carl. “His mind’s totally gone. Cracked out and ain’t coming back. Look, I’ll be down the hall. You can just come get me when you’re done.” Carl walked off.

Joan glanced at King. “I can’t believe it’s him,” she said. “I know his rep and career took a big hit after Ritter was killed, but you’d think it wouldn’t come to
this
.”

“Maybe it happened in stages. And I guess a lot can happen in eight years. I mean look at me. He was shattered after the Ritter debacle. Nobody wanted him. He grew depressed. And maybe his younger brother introduced a very vulnerable Sidney to some heavy drugs while they were living together. I recall during the campaign that Sidney said his brother’s drug habit had gotten him into a lot of trouble. He said his brother was pretty creative in coming up with ways to get the cash to support his habit. Quite the con man.”

King knelt in front of Morse. “Sidney, Sidney, do you remember me? I’m Sean King. Agent Sean King,” he added.

There was no reaction. A bit of spittle oozed out of the man’s mouth and clung to his lip. King glanced at Joan. “His father was a well-known lawyer,” he said, “and his mother was some kind of heiress. I wonder where all that money went?”

“Maybe it’s used to support him here.”

“No, this is a state institution. It’s not some fancy private place.”

“Well, maybe his brother has control of it. I guess they each inherited and now he has both shares. And who cares about the Morse brothers? I’m here to find John Bruno.”

King turned to look back at Morse. The man hadn’t moved. “God, look at those knife marks on his face.”

“Self-mutilation. Sometimes that goes with being unbalanced.”

King rose, shaking his head.

“Hey, have you played the game with him?” said a high-pitched voice.

They both turned and looked at the short, skinny man standing behind them holding a ragged stuffed rabbit. His features were so tiny he looked like a leprechaun. He wore a ratty bathrobe and apparently little else. Joan averted her gaze.

“The game,” said the man, who looked at them with a childlike expression. “Have you played it yet?”

“What, with him?” asked King, pointing to Morse.

“I’m Buddy,” said the man, “and this is Buddy too,” he said, holding up the ragged rabbit.

“Nice to meet you, Buddy,” said King. He looked at the rabbit. “And you too, Buddy. So you know Sid?”

Buddy nodded vigorously. “Play the game.”

“The game, right, why don’t you show me? Can you do that?”

Again Buddy nodded his head, and smiled. He ran to the corner of the room where there was a box of stuff. He pulled out a tennis ball and came back to them.

He stood in front of Morse and held up the ball. “Okay, I’m pitching the…”

Buddy’s focus seemed to wander, and he just stood there holding the ball and his rabbit with his mouth wide open and his eyes expressionless.

King prompted, “The ball. You’re pitching the
ball,
Buddy.”

Buddy came back to life. “Okay, I’m pitching the ball.” He made a great show of a major league windup that exposed far more of his anatomy than either King or Joan cared to see. As he let the ball go, however, it was in a slow, underhand style.

It was heading right for Morse’s head. A second before it hit him, Morse’s right hand shot up and caught the ball. Then the hand dropped, the ball still clenched there. Buddy hopped ’round and then took a bow. “The game,” he said.

He went over to Morse and tried to get the ball back, but Morse’s fingers remained clenched around it. Buddy turned to them with a pathetic expression. “He never gives it back. He’s mean! Mean, mean, mean!”

Carl popped his head in. “Everything cool? Oh, hey, Buddy.”

“He won’t give the ball back,” Buddy cried out.

“No problem. Calm down.” Carl strode over, took the ball out of Morse’s hand and gave it back to Buddy. Buddy turned to King and held out the ball. “Your turn!”

King looked at Carl, who smiled and said, “It’s okay. It’s just a reflex action. Docs here have a long name for it, but that’s the only thing Sid does. The others get a big kick out of it.”

King shrugged and gently tossed the ball to Morse, who caught it again.

“So, does anyone ever visit Sid?” Joan asked Carl.

“Brother used to when he first got here, but he ain’t been around for a long time now. I guess Sid was some big deal years ago ’cause we had some reporters come by when he was admitted. But that didn’t last long after they saw what shape he was in. Now nobody comes. He just sits in that chair.”

“And catches the ball,” added Joan.

“Right.”

As they were leaving, Buddy came racing up after Joan and King. He had the tennis ball in his hand. “You can have this if you want to. I have lots of others.”

King took the ball. “Thanks, Buddy.”

Buddy held up his rabbit. “Thank Buddy too.”

“Thanks, Buddy.”

He looked at Joan and held up the rabbit even higher. “Kiss Buddy?”

King nudged Joan with his elbow. “Go ahead, he’s cute.”

“What, I don’t even get dinner first?”

Joan pecked the rabbit on the cheek. Then she said, “So are you good friends with Sidney? I mean Sid.”

Buddy nodded so hard his chin hit his chest.

“His room’s right next to mine. Wanna see?”

King looked at Joan. “We’re here.”

“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she replied with a shrug.

Buddy took Joan’s hand and led them down a hallway. King and Joan weren’t sure they were supposed to be in this area without an attendant, but no one stopped them.

Buddy halted in front of one room and slapped the door. “This is my room! Wanna see? It’s cool.”

“Sure,” said Joan. “Maybe you have some more Buddys in there.”

Buddy opened the door and then immediately closed it. “I don’t like people looking at my stuff,” he said, staring at them anxiously.

King let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Okay, Buddy, your house, your rules.”

“Is this Sid’s room?” Joan was pointing to the door to the left of Buddy’s.

“Nope, this one.” Buddy opened the door to the right.

“Is this okay, Buddy?” asked King. “Can we go in?”

“Is this okay, Buddy? Can we go in?” Buddy repeated, looking at the two with a big smile.

Joan was scanning the hallway and saw no one watching. “I think it’s okay, Buddy. Why don’t you keep watch outside?” She slipped inside, and King followed and closed the door. A suddenly panicked-looking Buddy stood by the door.

Inside they looked around the Spartan quarters. “Sidney Morse’s fall was long and complete,” commented Joan.

“They often are,” King said distractedly as he examined the place. The smell of urine was very strong in here. King wondered how often the sheets were changed. There was a small table in the corner. On it were several photographs, all without frames. King picked them up. “I guess no sharp objects in the room like glass and metal.”

“Morse doesn’t look capable of suicide, or anything else for that matter.”

“You never know, he could swallow that tennis ball and choke to death.” King examined the pictures. There was one of two young men in their teens. One held a baseball bat. He said, “The Morse brothers. They look to be around high school age.” He held up another photo. “And I guess these are their parents.”

Joan joined him and looked at the photos. “Their mother was pretty homely.”

“Homely but rich. That makes a big difference to a lot of people.”

“The dad was very handsome.”

“As I said, the prominent lawyer.”

Joan took the photo and held it up. “Both boys took after their father. Sidney was chunky even back then but nice-looking. Peter was good-looking too… nice build, with the same eyes as his brother.” She studied the confident way he held the baseball bat. “He was probably a jock in high school who hit his peak at
eighteen and went rapidly downhill from there. Drugs and bad news.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“How old would Peter be now?”

“A little younger than Sidney, so early fifties maybe.”

She gazed at Peter’s face. “Sort of a Ted Bundy type. Good looking and charming, and he’ll slit your throat the minute you let your guard down.”

“Reminds me of some women I’ve known.”

There was a small box in the corner. King went over and sifted through the contents. They included a number of old, yellowed newspaper clippings. Most chronicled Sidney Morse’s career.

Joan was peering over his shoulder. “Nice of his brother to bring this scrapbook of sorts along. Even if Sidney can’t read it.” King didn’t answer. He kept going through the pages.

King held up one very curled newspaper article. “This talks about Morse’s early career staging plays. I remember him telling me about it. He really put together these elaborate productions. I don’t think any of them made any money, though.”

“Not that he probably cared. The son of a rich mom can afford to dally like that.”

“Well, he gave it up at some point and started to really work for a living. Although you could say he ran Ritter’s campaign like a stage production.”

“Anything else before we officially rule Sidney Morse a complete and total dead end?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t we look under the bed?” asked King.

Joan eyed him disdainfully. “That’s a boy job.”

King sighed and cautiously peered under the bed. He rose quickly.

“Well?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know. Let’s get out of here.”

As they left the room, Buddy was right there waiting.

“Thanks for your help, Buddy,” Joan said. “You’ve been a real peach.”

He looked at Joan excitedly. “Kiss Buddy?”

“I already did, Buddy,” she reminded him politely.

Buddy suddenly looked ready to cry. “No,
this
Buddy.” He pointed to himself.

Joan’s mouth dropped, and she glanced at King, obviously looking for help.

“Sorry, that’s a girl job,” he said, grinning.

Joan gazed at the pitiful Buddy, swore under her breath and then suddenly grabbed him and planted a big one right on the little man’s lips.

She turned, wiped her face and muttered to King, “The things I do for a million bucks.” Then she stalked out.

“Bye, Buddy,” said King, and he left.

A very happy Buddy waved frantically and said, “Bye, Buddy.”