The Sixth Man (2 page)

The van drove off with the body of the pure E-Five whose brain simply wasn’t good enough anymore.

T
HE SMALL JET BUMPED
down hard on the runway in Portland, Maine. It rose up in the air and banged down again harder. Even the pilot was probably wondering if he could keep the twenty-five-ton jet on the tarmac. Because he was trying to beat a storm in, the young aviator had made his approach at a steeper trajectory and a faster speed than the airline’s manual recommended. The wind shear culled off the leading edge of the cold front had caused the jet’s wings to pendulum back and forth. The copilot had warned the passengers that the landing would be bumpy and a bit more than uncomfortable.

He’d been right.

The rear carriage wheels caught and held the second time around, and the lead aircraft-grade rubber bit down a few moments later. The rapid and steep flight path in had caused more than a few of the four dozen passengers on the single-aisle jet to white-knuckle their armrests, mouth a few prayers, and even reach for the barf bags in the seatbacks. When the wheel brakes and reverse thrusters engaged and the aircraft slowed perceptibly, most of the riders exhaled in relief.

One man, however, merely woke when the plane transitioned off the runway and onto the taxiway to the small terminal. The tall, dark-haired woman sitting next to him idly stared out the window, completely unfazed by the turbulent approach and bouncy touchdown.

After they’d arrived at the gate and the pilot shut down the twin GE turbofans, Sean King and Michelle Maxwell rose and grabbed their bags from the overhead. As they threaded out through the
narrow aisle along with the other deplaning passengers, a queasy-looking woman behind them said, “Boy, that sure was a rough landing.”

Sean looked at her, yawned, and massaged his neck. “Was it?”

The woman looked surprised and eyed Michelle. “Is he kidding?”

She said, “When you’ve ridden on jump seats in the belly of a C-17 at low altitudes in the middle of a thunderstorm and doing thousand-foot vertical drops every ten seconds with four max-armored vehicles chained next to you and wondering if one was going to break loose and crash through the side of the fuselage and carry you with it, this landing was pretty uneventful.”

“Why in the world did you do that?” said the wide-eyed woman.

“I ask myself that every day,” replied Sean sardonically.

He and Michelle both had their clothes, toiletries, and other essentials in their carry-on bags. But they had to stop by baggage claim to pick up an eighteen-inch-long, hard-sided, locked case. It belonged to Michelle. She picked up the case and slid it into her carry-on.

Sean gave her an amused expression. “You’re the queen of the smallest checked bag of all time.”

“Until they let responsible people on planes with loaded guns, it’ll have to do the trick. Get the rental. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You licensed to carry that up here?”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

He blanched. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Maine has an open carry law. So long as it’s visible I can carry it without a permit.”

“But you’re putting it in a holster. That’s concealed. In fact, it’s concealed right now.”

She flipped open her wallet and showed him a card. “Which is why I have a valid nonresident’s concealed weapon’s permit for the great state of Maine.”

“How’d you score that? We only found out about this case a few days ago. You couldn’t have gotten a permit that fast. I checked into it. It’s a mountain of paperwork and a sixty-day response period.”

“My dad is good friends with the governor. I made a call to him. He made a call to the governor.”

“Nice.”

She went to the ladies’ room, entered a stall, opened the locked case, and quickly loaded her pistol. She holstered her weapon and walked to the covered parking garage adjacent to the terminal where the rental car companies were clustered. There she found Sean filling out the paperwork for the wheels they needed for the next phase of their trip. Michelle showed her operator’s license as well, since she would be doing most of the driving. It wasn’t that Sean minded driving, but Michelle was too much of a control freak to let him.

“Coffee,” she said. “There’s a place back in the terminal.”

“You had that giant cup you brought on the flight.”

“That was a while ago. And where we’re going is a long drive from here. I need the caffeine pop.”

“I slept. I can drive.”

She snagged the keys from his hand. “Don’t think so.”

“Hey, I drove the Beast, okay?” he said, referring to the presidential limo.

She eyed the rental car tag. “Then the Ford Hybrid you reserved will be no challenge. It’ll probably take me a day just to get it up to sixty. I’ll spare you the pain and humiliation.”

She got an extra-large black coffee. Sean bought a donut with sprinkles and sat in the passenger seat eating it. He dusted off his hands and moved the seat back as far as possible in the compact car, and still his six-foot-two-inch frame was bent uncomfortably. He finally ended up putting his feet on the dash.

Noting this, Michelle said, “Air bag pops out of there, it’ll smash your feet right through the glass and amputate them when they hit the metal roof.”

He glanced at her, a frown eclipsing his normally calm features. “Then don’t do anything to make it pop.”

“I can’t control other drivers.”

“Well, you insisted on being the wheelman—excuse me, wheelperson. So do the best you can to keep me safe and comfortable.”

“All right, master,” she snapped.

After a mile of silence Michelle said, “We sound like an old married couple.”

He looked at her again. “We’re not old and we’re not married. Unless you really slipped something by me.”

She hesitated and then just said it: “But we have slept together.”

Sean started to reply but then seemed to think better of it. What came out instead seemed to be a grunt.

“It changes things,” she said.

“Why does it change things?”

“It’s not just business anymore. It’s personal. The line has been crossed.”

He sat up straight, removing his feet from the perilous reach of the air bag. “And now you regret that? You made the first move, if I recall. You got naked on me.”

“I didn’t say that I regretted anything, because I don’t.”

“Neither do I. It happened because we obviously both wanted it to happen.”

“Okay. So where does that leave us?”

He sat back against his seat and stared out the window. “I’m not sure.”

“Great, just what I wanted to hear.”

He looked across at her, noted the tense line of muscle and bone around her jaw.

“Just because I’m unsure of where to go with all this, doesn’t lessen or trivialize what happened between us. It’s complicated.”

“Right, complicated. That’s always the case. For the
guy
.”

“Okay, if it’s so simple for the ladies, tell me what you think we should do.”

When she didn’t answer he said, “Should we run off and find a preacher and make it official?”

She shot him a glance and the front end of the Ford swerved slightly. “Are you serious? Is that what you want?”

“I’m just throwing out ideas. Since you don’t seem to have any.”

“Do you want to get married?”

“Do you?”

“That would really change things.”

“Uh, yeah, it would.”

“Maybe we should take it slow.”

“Maybe we should.”

She tapped the steering wheel. “Sorry for jumping on you about this.”

“Forget it. And we just got Gabriel squared away with a great family. That was a big change, too. Slow is good right now. We go too fast, maybe we make a big mistake.”

Gabriel was an eleven-year-old boy from Alabama that Sean and Michelle had taken temporary custody of after his mother was killed. He was currently living with a family whose dad was an FBI agent they knew. The couple was in the process of formally adopting Gabriel.

“Okay,” she replied.

“And now we have a job to do. Let’s focus on that.”

“So that’s your priority list? Business trumps personal?”

“Not necessarily. But like you said, it’s a long drive. And I want to think about why we’re heading to the only federal maximum security institution for the criminally insane in the country, to meet with a guy whose life is definitely on the line.”

“We’re going because you and his lawyer go way back.”

“That part I get. Did you read up on Edgar Roy?”

Michelle nodded. “Government employee that lived alone in rural Virginia. His life was pretty average until the police discovered the remains of six people buried in his barn. Then his life became anything but average. The evidence to me seems overwhelming.”

Sean nodded. “Roy was found in his barn, shovel in hand, dirt on his pants, with the remains of six bodies buried in a hole he was apparently putting the finishing touches to.”

“A little tough to dance around that in court,” said Michelle.

“Too bad Roy’s not a politician.”

“Why?”

Sean smiled. “If he were a politician he could spin that story to say he was actually digging them out of the hole in order to save them but was too late; they were already dead. And now he’s being persecuted for being a Good Samaritan.”

“So he was arrested but failed a competency hearing. He was sent to Cutter’s Rock.” She paused. “But why Maine? Virginia didn’t have the facilities for him?”

“It was a federal case for some reason. That got the FBI involved. When the competency remand comes it’s wherever the Feds decide to send you. Some Fed max prison facilities have psych wards, but it was decided that Roy needed something more than that. St. Elizabeth’s in D.C. was moved to make way for a new Homeland Security HQ, and its new location was not deemed secure enough. So Cutter’s Rock was the only game in town.”

“Why the weird name?”

“It’s rocky, and a cutter is a type of ship. Maine is a seafaring state, after all.”

“I forgot you were a nautical guy.” She turned on the radio and the heater, and shivered. “God, it’s cold for not being winter yet,” she said grumpily.

“This is Maine. It can be cold any time of the year. Check the latitude.”

“The things one learns in enclosed spaces over long periods of time.”

“Now we
do
sound like an old married couple.” He turned his vent on full blast, zipped up his windbreaker, and closed his eyes.

W
ITH
M
ICHELLE’S FOOT
typically heavy on the gas the Ford raced along Interstate 95, past the towns of Yarmouth and Brunswick and on toward the state capital in Augusta. Once past Augusta, with the next big town coming up being Bangor, Michelle began eyeing the surroundings. There were dense evergreen trees on either side of the highway. A full moon gave the forests a silvery veneer that made Michelle think of wax paper over salad greens. They passed a warning sign for moose crossing the highway.

“Moose?” she said, glancing at Sean.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Maine’s state animal. You don’t want to hit one. They weigh more than this Ford. And they have nasty tempers. Kill you in a heartbeat.”

“How do you know? Have you ever encountered one?”

“No, but I’m a big fan of Animal Planet.”

They drove on for another hour. Michelle continually scanned the area, left to right and back the other way, like human radar. It was a habit so drilled into her that even after being out of the Secret Service all this time she couldn’t shake it. But as a private investigator maybe she didn’t want to shake it. Observations made you forewarned. And being forewarned was never a bad thing, particularly if someone was trying to kill you, which people often seemed to want to do to her and Sean.

“There’s something wrong here,” she said.

Sean opened his eyes. “Like what?” he asked, doing his own quick scan.

“We’re on Interstate 95. Runs from Florida to Maine. Long stretch of asphalt. Big travel route. Pipeline of East Coast vacationers.”

“Right, so?”