Pilcher didn’t wait around. He jogged over to the first body, which was being guarded by a uniformed cop, waiting for detectives or M.E. people to arrive. Pilcher flashed his badge again and took a look. The guy looked military. Maybe it was just the haircut, short on the sides, the old whitewalls. And not familiar.
“Any ID?”
“Waiting for the detectives. I’m not touching the body.”
Pilcher frowned, glanced tiredly at his borrowed watch, then hurried over to the other body, lying near the woods. The female cop guarding this body placed her hand on her weapon as he approached. He slowed down, keeping his badge up.
He took one look at the body. “Shit,” he said.
“Do you recognize him, sir? He looks familiar to me.”
“He should. Shit.”
Pilcher flipped out his cell phone and punched in Spigotta’s direct number. On one ring Spigotta snarled, “What is it now?”
“It’s Aaron. This accident site? There’re two dead bodies in the area. One’s unknown. The other’s Dalton.”
There was silence on the line, then, “Fucking dead, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Well kick the motherfucking corpse for me, Aaron. Who killed him? I’ll pin a medal on his goddamned chest.”
“I don’t know. We’ve got two burning SUVs and, uh… a downed Coast Guard helicopter. It looks like the one that was shuttling Stillwater around.”
“Survivors?”
“I don’t know.” He looked over at the crumpled and blackened helicopter. A firetruck was pouring foam on the wreckage. “I don’t think so, though.”
There was uncharacteristic silence on the line. Finally Spigotta said, “Is there anything you can do there, Aaron?”
Pilcher hesitated. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted anything to do with the interrogation of Irina Khournikova. “I need to spend a little more time here.”
“Fine. But get back here ASAP.”
“Sure.”
Pilcher nodded, took a moment to absorb the scene. As he did, somebody shouted, “I found someone!”
He spun on his heels toward the voice. A number of EMTs and firemen rushed toward the edge of the woods. He sprinted after them. Heat radiated off the burning helicopter, like standing at the gates of hell. He elbowed his way through the crowd to find two EMTs kneeling next to the crumpled figure of a woman in a Coast Guard flight suit.
“She’s alive,” one of them said. “Leg might be broken, shoulder… ribs… but she’s breathing.”
The crowd stepped back as someone brought in a stretcher. The EMTs deftly eased her onto the stretcher and attached a bag of saline. When the needle went in her arm she opened her eyes. The EMTs placed an oxygen bottle over her mouth, but she said something.
“What did she say?” Pilcher shouted, barely heard over the sound of the trucks and the crowd and the fires. “What did she say?”
“Who’re you?”
“FBI. This has to do with the attack at the White House. What did she say?” He pushed his way to the side of the gurney and looked at the woman. The scorched name tag on her flight suit said C. Black. He said, “What did you say?”
She looked confused, blinked, closed her eyes. Then: “Crew?”
Pilcher said, “How many were in your crew?”
“Two,” she said, barely audible.
Pilcher looked up at one of the firemen who shook his head, gesturing toward the helicopter. “Was there anyone else?” Pilcher asked.
“We’ve really got to get her to a hospital,” the EMT said.
“Was there anyone else?” Pilcher asked.
Cynthia Black opened her eyes for a moment, said, “Stillwater…”
“Derek Stillwater?”
“They… they caught him.” Then she was silent. The EMTs rushed her out of the crowd toward a waiting ambulance.
They caught him, he thought. They?
He looked around the parking lot. At the two trucks that looked like they’d been hit by rockets. At the two dead men, including Sam Dalton. At the crashed helicopter with its two dead crewmen and the pilot who had miraculously survived the crash and resulting explosion.
They caught him, he thought.
Deep in thought, he walked slowly away from the flaming chopper toward his car. He stood at his car for a minute, looking around, wondering who they were. Wondering who had killed Sam Dalton. He shook himself, thinking it through. Thinking about his gut reaction to Derek Stillwater.
He climbed in his car and followed the ambulance to Walter Reed. He wanted to be there when — and if — the pilot of the Coast Guard helicopter woke up.
43
Derek staggered down the two metal steps of the medical trailer after Richard Coffee, sinking to his knees on the hard pavement. Coffee turned to look at him, a speculative look on his face. “Bad day, huh?”
Derek struggled to his feet. “You might say that.”
“Sorry,” Coffee said. “I never thought you’d be the one coming after me. Dalton told me it would be a possibility, but he’d try to keep you off it.”
Derek stood and tried to catch his breath. The world was gray around the edges and he felt weak. His stomach roiled and churned, his wounds ached and his head pounded. “You thought you could trust Dalton?” he panted. “You’re dumber than I thought you were.”
Coffee’s backhand to Derek’s face lifted him off his feet and slammed him to the pavement. Derek looked up again into the black maw of Coffee’s handgun. “I have very little reason to keep you alive, Derek. Don’t give me more reasons to kill you now.”
Derek held his hands out to his side. Blood trickled down his chin. He waited.
Coffee put his gun away and held out a hand. Derek stared at the extended hand for a moment, then took it and let Coffee assist him to his feet. Coffee patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry about that. Been under a lot of stress. Had to give a death order for my wife, you know.” The way he said it was jovial. “Hey, that reminds me,” he said. “Whatever happened to that woman you were dating, that doctor. What was here name? Simona, right? Whatever happened to her?”
Coffee led him toward the double-wide trailer with the complicated ventilation system. Derek was pretty sure he knew what was there and was pretty sure he didn’t want to go in. And equally sure that he didn’t have much choice in the matter.
“I married her,” he said. “Then we got divorced.”
“Didn’t have to have her killed though, huh?”
Derek couldn’t read Coffee’s expression. Bi-polar didn’t quite cover the mood swings. Bi-polar with delusions of grandeur and psychotic breaks might start to describe Richard Coffee.
“No,” Derek said. “I didn’t. And neither did you. You could have trusted her to keep her mouth shut if she was so loyal to you.”
“Did you tell the truth, Derek? Did Ling get to you?”
Derek didn’t reply. Because in truth, he had not told the truth. Would he have if Ling had a few more hours or another day or two? You bet.
“Dalton. Irina. I’m not sure it’s safe being on your team, Richard.”
“Sacrifices sometimes have to be made. Nadia would understand.”
“Who’s Nadia?”
Surprise and confusion mixed with a considering expression flashed across Coffee’s face. “Her real name is Nadia,” he finally said. “Nadia Kosov.”
“Then who is Irina Khournikova?”
“The real Irina Khournikova?”
Derek nodded.