Split Second (38 page)

Y
OU’VE CHANGED A LOT
,
Sidney,
” said King. “Lost weight. I hardly recognized you. You look good, though. Your brother hasn’t aged nearly as well.”

Sidney Morse, Clyde Ritter’s brilliant campaign manager who was supposed to be sitting in a mental hospital in Ohio, looked at King with an amused expression. He also held a pistol that was pointed at King’s chest. Dressed in an expensive suit, his face clean-shaven, graying hair thin but nicely styled, Morse was a slender, distinguished-looking man.

“I’m impressed. What led you to think someone other than the unfortunate Mr. Scott was behind this?”

“That note you left on my bathroom door. A real Secret Service agent would never have used the phrase ‘pushing a post’; he would’ve just written ‘pushing.’ And Bob Scott was ex-military and always used the twenty-four-hour clock. He wouldn’t have used ‘
A.M.
’ And then I started thinking, why Bowlington? Why the Fairmount Hotel in the first place? Because it was thirty minutes from Arnold Ramsey, that’s why. As campaign manager you could have easily arranged that.”

“But so could several others, including Doug Denby and Ritter himself. And to the world I’m a zombie in Ohio.”

“Not to a Secret Service agent. I admit, it took me some time but I finally got it.” He nodded at the gun Sidney held. “You’re left-handed, I finally remembered that. Munching your candy bars. We in the Service tend to focus on the small details. And yet the ‘zombie’ in Ohio catches tennis balls in his right hand.
And in a photo at the hospital Peter Morse was holding a baseball bat in his right hand, so I had confirmation of that.”

“My dear brother. He was never good for much.”

“Well, he was an integral part of your plan,” King said in a prompting manner.

Morse smiled. “I see you haven’t the brains to really figure all this out, that you just want me to lay it out for you. All right, I really don’t see you testifying about it later. I got the sanitized guns Arnold and I had at the Fairmount from my criminally inclined brother.”

“And you hid your gun in the supply closet after Ritter was killed.”

“And that maid person saw me and spent the next seven years blackmailing me, only stopping when she believed I’d been committed. Your friend Maxwell unwittingly revealed the blackmailer’s identity to me. And I paid her back. With interest.”

“Just like you did Mildred Martin.”

“She couldn’t follow directions. I don’t tolerate stupid people.”

“I guess that included your brother.”

“It was probably a mistake to involve him, but he was family, after all, and quite willing to help. However, as time went by and my poor brother continued to abuse drugs, I was afraid he’d talk. I also had all the family money, and there was always the possibility of blackmail. The best place to keep one’s ‘problems’ is in plain sight, so I kept him around, supported him. When the time came, I switched identities with him and had him committed.”

“But why switch identities at all?”

“It ensured that the world thought I was somewhere else while I put this little plan together. Otherwise, people might start nosing around.” Morse stretched his arms out. “Think about it. Several of the players in the Ritter imbroglio brought together on an elaborate set like this? People inevitably would start thinking about me. Being institutionalized was better than
even being dead. People can fake their deaths. I was confident no one would be able to find out I had committed Peter rather than the other way around.” Morse smiled. “And why do it if you’re not going to do it with panache?”

King shook his head. He figured he’d buy as much time as possible by keeping Morse talking. The man obviously wanted to brag about his grand plan, and King could use the extra time to work out a strategy. “I would have done it differently. Commit him, then kill him. That way, you’re assured people think you’re dead.”

“But killing him could lead to an autopsy, and that might show he wasn’t me if they got old medical and dental records to compare against. If he dies naturally, all is fine. Besides, we looked enough alike, and the other little touches I devised were enough to fool anyone. My genius is in the details. For example, this room is soundproofed. Why bother in a deserted hotel? Because you just never know about sound: it carries in strange, unpredictable ways, and I really can’t have any interruptions. It would ruin the whole performance, and I’ve never disappointed an audience yet. I also like to bring things off with a certain flair. Like the note you mentioned. I could have just slipped it in your mailbox. But a body hanging on the door, it’s classic. And blowing up your house. It’s just the way I do things.”

“But why involve Bob Scott? Like you said, no one would suspect you.”

“Think, Agent King, think. Every drama needs a villain. Besides, Agent Scott never accorded me the respect I deserved when I was with Ritter. He lived to regret that.”

“Okay, so you fried your brother’s brain, mutilated his face to further disguise his identity, fattened him up while you slimmed down, moved to Ohio, where no one would know either of you, and established the identity switch. That’s quite a production. Just like the Ritter campaign.”

“Clyde Ritter was simply a means to an end.”

“Right. This had nothing to do with Clyde Ritter and
everything to do with Arnold Ramsey. He had something you wanted. You wanted it so badly you led him to his death so you could take it.”

“I did him a favor. I knew Arnold hated Ritter. His academic career had peaked long ago. He was at rock bottom and ripe for the offer I made him. I let him relive his past glory as a radical protester. I let him go down in history as the assassin of an immoral, disgusting man, a martyr for the ages. What could be better?”

“You walking off with the real prize. The prize you tried to get thirty years ago when you set up Ramsey for killing a national guardsman. But that attempt failed and so did the Ritter plan. Even though Arnold was gone, you still weren’t going to win.”

Morse looked amused. “Go on, you’re doing very well. What didn’t I win?”

“The woman you loved, Regina Ramsey, the actress with a huge future. I’m betting she starred in some of your productions way back when. And it wasn’t just business. You loved her. Only she loved Arnold Ramsey.”

“Ironically I introduced them to each other. I’d met Arnold when I was doing a play having to do with the civil rights protests and needed some research. I never imagined two people so totally opposite… Well, he didn’t deserve her, of course. Regina and I
were
a team, a truly great one with the whole world waiting. We were poised to hit the big time. The dominating presence she had onstage, she would have been a Broadway star, one of the greatest.”

“And made you a star too.”

“Every great impresario needs a muse. And don’t be fooled, I brought out the best in her. We would have been unstoppable. Instead, my artistic power disappeared when she married him. So my career was destroyed even as Arnold wasted her life in his pathetic little academic world at a third-rate college.”

“Well, that was your doing. You ruined
his
career.”

“You’ve asked a lot of questions, let me ask one. What really turned your attention to me?”

“Something I heard pointed me in your direction. So I started digging into your family. I found out your father was the attorney who got Ramsey off the murder charge in D.C. I guess your plan was to make Ramsey appear guilty so Regina would stop loving him, then you’d swoop in as the white knight, save Arnold and take Regina as your prize. That’s right out of a movie script.”

Morse pursed his lips. “Only the script didn’t work.”

“Right, but then you waited until another opportunity came along.”

Morse nodded and smiled. “I’m a very patient man. When Ritter announced his candidacy, I knew that opportunity had come.”

“Why not just kill your romantic rival?”

“What’s the fun in that? Where’s the drama? I told you it’s just not how I do things. And besides, if I’d simply done that, she would have loved him all the more. Yes, I had to kill Arnold Ramsey, but I didn’t want her to mourn for him. I wanted her to loathe him. Then we could be a team again. Of course, Regina was older then, but the talent she had—that never goes away. We could still make the magic happen again. I just knew it.”

“And so the Ritter assassination was your next major production.”

“It was actually very easy to convince Arnold to do it. Regina and he had finally separated, but I knew she still loved him. Now was the time to show him as an unhinged killer, not the noble, brilliant activist she’d married. I secretly met with Arnold numerous times. I’d helped support them through the lean times. He saw me as a friend. I reminded him of his younger days looking to change the world. I challenged him to be a hero again. And then when I told him I was willing to join him, that Regina would be so proud, I knew I had him. And the plan worked beautifully.”

“Except that the grieving widow rejected you once more. And this time it was far more devastating, because the reason was she didn’t love you.”

“That actually wasn’t the whole story, which is why we’re here today.”

King looked at him quizzically. “And then later she committed suicide. Or did she?”

“She was getting remarried. To a man remarkably similar to Arnold Ramsey.”

“Thornton Jorst.”

“She must have had a defective gene for such people. I began to see that my ‘star’ wasn’t so perfect. But after all these years if I couldn’t have her, no one else could either.”

“So you killed her too.”

“Let’s put it this way: I let her join her miserable husband.”

“And now we come to Bruno.”

“You see, Agent King, every great play has at least three acts. The first was the national guardsman, the middle act was Ritter.”

“And all this is the closing curtain. Bruno and me. But why? Regina is dead. What do you gain by doing all this now?”

“Agent King, you lack the vision to see what I’ve created here.”

“Sorry, Sid, I’m more of a down-to-earth guy. And I’m not in the Secret Service anymore, so you can just drop the ‘agent.’ ”

“No, today you’re a Secret Service agent,” Morse said firmly.

“Right. And you’re a psychopath. And when this is over, I’ll make sure you’re reunited with your brother. You can throw the tennis ball to him.”

Sidney Morse pointed his gun at King’s head. “Let me tell you exactly what you’re going to do. When the clock reaches 10:30
A.M.
, you will take up your position behind the rope. All the rest is taken care of. You have a very important role in this play. I’m certain you know what it is. I wish you luck in carrying it out. Bad luck, of course.”

“So will this be an exact replay of 1996?”

“Well, not exactly. I don’t want it to be boring for you.”

“Hey, maybe I’ll have some surprises of my own.”

Morse chuckled. “You’re not in my league, Agent King. Now
remember, this isn’t a dress rehearsal. It’s the real thing, so hit your marks. And just so you know, this play will have only a one-night run.”

Morse disappeared into the shadows, and King sucked in a long breath. Morse was every bit as intimidating and masterful as before. King’s nerves were close to running away from him. It was him against who knew how many. He had one gun, and he didn’t for a second believe his ammo was anything other than blanks. He eyed the clock. Ten minutes until it started. He looked at his own watch. It read almost 12:30. He didn’t know whether that was
A.M.
or
P.M.
Morse, of course, could have set his clock for any time he wanted.

He looked around, trying to find something, anything, that might help him survive. All he saw was a replay of a horrific event that he’d never wanted to think about, much less relive.

And then it struck him: who was going to play the role of Arnold Ramsey? The answer came to him in a flash. Like father, like daughter! That son of a bitch. He really was going to do it again.

Michelle flitted along the trees, keeping a close eye out for anyone near the hotel. As she did so, she saw Jefferson Parks climb into a truck, its wheels kicking up dirt as he raced off. Okay, one less opponent to worry about, she thought. Satisfied it was safe to try it, she bent low and crab-walked to the fence. She was about to start climbing but then drew back. The low hum had puzzled her, and then she saw the wire running to the fence. She stepped back, picked up a stick and tossed it against the chain link. It hit and was immediately fried. Great, the fence was electrified. She couldn’t use the gap in the fence because she’d told Parks about it, and they might be watching for her there, not convinced of her death by drowning. And the gap was so small she couldn’t have avoided touching the fence anyway.

She moved back into the woods and thought through the dilemma. Finally she remembered what she’d seen on her first visit here and realized it might be her only way in. She ran to
the back of the building where the slope of the land running up to the fence formed a perfect launch site of sorts. She’d been a champion long and high jumper in high school, but that had been a while ago. She measured off the distances, did a few practice jogs, eyed the height of the fence in relation to where she’d be jumping from. She removed her low-heeled shoes, tossed them over the fence, took up her starting position, said a silent prayer, drew in a long breath and took off at a dead run. She counted off her steps, just as she’d been coached. She came within a few seconds of aborting the whole thing as the electrified fence drew closer and closer. If she failed here, the defeat would not consist merely of a few tears at being beaten in a track meet. This one was for keeps.

She lifted off, her legs, arms and back working in unison, her muscle memory returning just in time as she twisted her body, arched her back and cleared the top of the fence by six inches. There was no soft foam to break her fall, and she slowly rose, aching all over, and put her shoes back on. Threading her way to the building, she found another broken window and slipped inside.