Bill Burton rejoined Collin in a few seconds. He could not even look at his partner. Two trained and dedicated Secret Service agents, killers of young women and old men.
On the drive back, Burton sank back in his seat. It was finally over. Three people dead, counting Christine Sullivan. And why not count her? That’s what had started this whole nightmare.
Burton looked down at his hand, still barely able to comprehend that it had just curled around the grip of a gun, forced a trigger back and ended a man’s life. With his other hand Burton had taken the cassette recorder and the tape. They were in his pocket headed for the incinerator.
When he had checked the telephone tap and listened to Sullivan’s phone conversation with Seth Frank, Burton had no idea what the old man was getting at with Christine Sullivan’s “illness.” But when he reported the information to the President, Richmond had looked out the window for some minutes, a shade paler than he had been when Burton had entered the room. Then he had phoned the White House Media Department. A few minutes later they had both listened to the tape from the first press conference on the Middleton Courthouse steps. To the President commiserating with his old friend, about the whimsical nature of life; how Christine Sullivan would still be alive if she hadn’t taken ill. Having forgotten that Christine Sullivan had told him that on the day of her death. A fact that could be proven. A fact that could possibly topple all of them.
Burton had slumped back in his chair, stared at his boss, who silently looked at the tape as if he were trying to erase its words with his thoughts. Burton shook his head incredulously. Caught up in his own mushy rhetoric, just like a politician.
“What do we do now, Chief? Make a run for it on Air Force One?” Burton was only half-joking as he studied the carpet. He was too numb to even think anymore.
He looked up to find the President’s eyes full upon him. “Walter Sullivan is the only living person, other than ourselves, who knows the significance of this information.”
Burton rose from his chair and returned the stare. “My job doesn’t include popping people just because you tell me to.”
The President would not take his eyes from Burton’s face. “Walter Sullivan is now a direct threat to us. He is also fucking with us and I don’t like people fucking with me. Do you?”
“He’s got a damned good reason to, don’t you think?”
Richmond picked up a pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. “If Sullivan talks we lose everything. Everything.” The President snapped his fingers. “Gone. Just like that. And I will do everything possible to avoid it happening.”
Burton dropped into his chair, his belly suddenly on fire. “How do you know he hasn’t already?”
“Because I know Walter,” the President said simply. “He’ll do it in his own way. And it will be spectacular. But deliberate. He is not a man who rushes into anything. But when he does act, the results will be swift and crushing.”
“Great.” Burton put his head in his hands, his mind whirling faster than he thought possible. Years of training had instilled in him an almost innate ability to process information instantly, think on his feet, act a fraction of a second before anyone else could. Now his brain was a muddle, like day-old coffee, thick and soupy; nothing was clear. He looked up.
“But killing the guy?”
“I can guarantee you that Walter Sullivan is right this minute plotting how best to destroy us. That type of action does not invoke sympathy from me.”
The President leaned back in his chair. “Plainly and simply this man has decided to fight us. And one has to live with the consequences of one’s decisions. Walter Sullivan knows that better than anyone alive.” The President’s eyes again lasered in on Burton’s. “The question is, are we prepared to fight back?”
Collin and Burton had spent the last three days following Walter Sullivan. When the car had dropped him off in the middle of nowhere, Burton both couldn’t believe his luck and experienced deep sadness for his target, now, truly, a sitting duck.
Husband and wife wiped out. As the car sped back to the Capital City, Burton unconsciously rubbed at his hand, trying to whittle away the filth he felt in every crevice. What turned his skin cold was the realization that he could never wipe away the feelings he was having, the reality of what he had done. The rock-bottom emotional barometer would be with him every minute of every day of the rest of his days. He had traded his life for another. Again. His backbone, for so long a steel beam, had wilted to pitiful rubber. Life had given him the supreme challenge and he had failed.
He dug his fingers into the armrest and stared out the window into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-four
The apparent suicide of Walter Sullivan rocked not only the financial community. The funeral was attended by the high and mighty from all over the world. In an appropriately solemn and lavish ceremony at Washington’s St. Matthew’s Cathedral, the man was eulogized by a half-dozen dignitaries. The most famous had gone on for a full twenty minutes about the great human being Walter Sullivan had been, and also about the great stress he had been under and how those under such strain sometimes do things they would otherwise never contemplate. When Alan Richmond had finished speaking, there was not a dry cheek in the place, and the tears that dampened his own face were seemingly genuine. He had always been impressed with his superb oratorical skills.
The long funeral procession streamed out, and, over three and one half hours later, ended at the tiny house where Walter Sullivan had begun, and ended, his life. As the limos scrambled for space on the narrow, snow-covered road, Walter Sullivan was carried down and interred next to his parents, on the little knoll where the view down the valley was by far the richest part of the place.
As the dirt covered the coffin, and the friends of Walter Sullivan made their way back to the realm of the living, Seth Frank studied every face. He watched as the President made his way back to his limo. Bill Burton saw him, registered surprise for an instant, and then nodded. Frank nodded back.
When all the mourners had gone, Frank turned his attention to the little house. The yellow police lines were still around the perimeter and two uniformed officers stood guard.
Frank walked over, flashed his badge and entered.
It seemed the height of irony that one of the wealthiest men in the world had chosen a place like this to die. Walter Sullivan had been a walking poster child for Horatio Alger tales. Frank admired a man who had risen in the world on his own merit, sheer guts and determination. Who wouldn’t?
He looked again at the chair where the body had been found, the gun beside it. The weapon had been pressed against Sullivan’s left temple. The stellate wound, large and ragged, had preceded the massive bursting fracture that had ended the man’s life. The gun had fallen on the left side of the floor. The presence of the contact wound and powder burns on the deceased’s palm had prompted the locals to file the case away as a suicide, the facts of which were simple and straightforward. A grieving Walter Sullivan had exacted revenge on his wife’s killer and then taken his own life. His associates had confirmed that Sullivan had been out of touch for days, unusual for him. He rarely came to this retreat and whenever he did, someone knew his whereabouts. The newspaper found beside the body had proclaimed the death of his wife’s suspected murderer. All the signs pointed to a man who had intended on ending his life.
What bothered Frank was one small fact that he had purposefully not shared with anyone. He had met Walter Sullivan the day he had come to the morgue. During that meeting, Sullivan had signed off on several forms related to the autopsy and an inventory of his wife’s few possessions.