Stuart Woods
Shoot Him If He Runs
Book 14 in the Stone Barrington series
This book is for Barbara Ellen.
Goin’ to Black Mountain
Take my razor and my gun;
Gonna cut him if he stands still
Shoot him if he runs.
“ Black Mountain Blues,” by J. C. Johnson
1
Elaine’s, late.
Stone Barrington blew into Elaine’s, later than usual. Dino Bacchetti, his former NYPD partner, sat having dinner.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dino asked.
“ Spokane, Washington,” Stone replied. “I told you, remember?”
“I don’t remember anything anymore,” Dino said. “That’s Genevieve’s job, now.” Genevieve James was his new girlfriend, his first regular since his divorce. “What were you doing in Spokane?”
“I’m having the engine ripped off my airplane and replaced with a turbine-that’s a jet engine, turning a propeller.”
A waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before him, and he sipped it gratefully.
“But why are you late? Dinner was two hours ago.”
“Because my flight was late.”
“You don’t take the airlines; you have an airplane.”
“Dino, having sex again is addling your brain. I left the airplane in Spokane; the work takes three months. It’s a big job.”
“Right.”
Stone put several letters on the table and began opening them.
“You getting your mail here now?”
“No, I stopped to drop off my bag, and I just grabbed the mail on the way out the door.”
Elaine came over, allowed him to kiss her and sat down. “You getting your mail here? We charge extra for that.”
Stone put down the mail. “No, I brought it with me. Any charge for opening it here?”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” she replied. “People will think you’re living in my back room.”
“You don’t have a back room.”
“That won’t stop them from thinking it.”
“Your logic is unassailable,” Stone said, shoving the mail aside and sipping his drink.
A waiter appeared with a menu.
“Green bean salad, hold the peppers, spaghetti carbonara, half a bottle of the Chianti Classico,” Stone said.
“You look hungry,” Elaine said. “You’re late, too; where you been?”
“ Spokane, Washington; Dino will explain it to you.”
“He’s turning his airplane into a jet,” Dino said.
“Sort of,” Stone replied. “A jet with a propeller. It’s called a turboprop.”
“Why are you doing this to your airplane?”
“Faster, quieter, more reliable, climbs faster.”
“Oh.”
Elaine had never evinced the slightest interest in his airplane, Stone remembered. He waited for the next, inevitable question.
“Only one engine?” Elaine asked.
“One’s all you need.”
“What if it stops?”
“Extremely unlikely, but I’d find a place to land it.”
Elaine nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Where is Genevieve?” Stone asked Dino.
“Late shift; she’ll show soon. She might bring Eliza.”
“Good idea.” Eliza Larkin was an ER doctor Stone had been seeing occasionally since he had been run down by a car and she had treated him.
The two women, on cue, breezed into the place, exchanged kisses with everybody and sat down.
“Bring ’em a menu,” Elaine said to a waiter.
“No, thanks, I had dinner in the cafeteria earlier,” Eliza said.
“Me too,” Genevieve said.
Elaine looked at them incredulously. “You ate food from a hospital cafeteria instead of here?”
“I would have fainted if I hadn’t,” Eliza said. “Maybe I’ll have dessert.”
“Dessert is good,” Elaine said, pointing at a tray of samples and motioning for a waiter to bring it over.
“Cheesecake,” Eliza said.
“Make it two,” Genevieve echoed.
The two women excused themselves and went to the ladies’ room.
Stone turned his attention to the mail again, and a large white envelope caught his attention. He turned it over to read the return address. The White House, Washington, D.C., it read.
Stone opened the envelope.
“You look funny,” Dino said.
“I’ve been invited to dinner at the White House,” Stone said, gulping. “Holly Barker and me.”
“On the same invitation?” Elaine asked, taking it from him.
“Why you and Holly?” Dino asked.
“Yeah, Eliza is gonna want to know the answer to that question, too,” Elaine said.
Stone took the invitation and stuffed it into his pocket. “Let’s not discuss it with her,” he said, “especially since I don’t know the answer to that question.”
His cellphone vibrated on his belt, and he flipped it open. “Hello?”
“It’s Holly.” Holly Barker was his friend and sometime lover, a retired army officer and chief of police in a Florida town, now doing something or other for the CIA.
“Speak of the devil.”
“How was Spokane?”
“Fine. How did you know I was in Spokane?”
“I have a computer program that tracks the flight of any airplane. You went yesterday; I figured you came back today. You’re doing the engine conversion?”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I know lots of stuff. You got the invitation?”
“Just now.”
“You getting your mail at Elaine’s these days?”
“I picked it up on the way here.”
“I have further instructions for you about the dinner.”
“Okay.”
“It’s going to take five days, maybe a week of your time.”
“Huh?”
“Listen to me carefully, and don’t argue. Dinner, you will have noticed, is tomorrow night; it’s black tie.”
“I got that from the invitation.”
“Pack a bag with warm-weather clothing and bring your passport.”
“Holly…”
“Shut up. I told you not to ask questions.”
“I’ll have to see what’s on my calendar for the next week.”
“Nothing; I checked with Joan this afternoon.”
Joan Robertson was his secretary. “A conspiracy,” he said.
“You don’t know the half of it, kiddo,” she replied, then hung up.
“What?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know what,” Stone replied. “Weird, is what.”
2
The following day, Stone, as per directions included with his White House invitation, took the Acela to Washington and a cab to the Willard, the restored grande dame hotel of the mid-nineteenth century. He was led by a bellman to an elegant suite and was a little surprised to find the luggage and clothes of a woman there. He tipped the bellman, then explored.
The clothes in the closet were few, but from fashionable designers, and slinky. He reflected that Holly was tall, but not particularly slender, and a little on the butch side, with short, light brown hair. She was certainly very attractive, but these clothes could not be hers. He called the front desk to inquire as to whether he was in the right suite and was assured that he was. He looked at his watch: four hours until he was to present himself at the White House.
He phoned the concierge and arranged for a massage, and while he waited for the masseuse to appear, he sent his dinner jacket and other clothes out to be pressed.
After an hour and a half of prodding and pummeling, he soaked in a hot tub and took a nap. He was in front of the hotel at the appointed time and was met by a black Lincoln and a driver, who knew the way to the White House.
The mansion and its grounds looked very beautiful with the moonlight on its six-inch blanket of new snow. At the gate he identified himself with his invitation and his passport and was driven to a portico, lit by a huge, hanging lamp, with Marine guards on either side of the door. Inside, he was greeted by name (they must have a photograph, he thought), his coat was taken, and he was asked to follow an usher. They walked down a portrait-hung hallway, took a couple of turns and stopped before a pair of double doors. The usher rapped lightly, and the door was opened by a man in a tuxedo. “Mr. Barrington,” the usher said, and stepped back to allow Stone to enter.