It seemed that Willard Fremont, like Gollum, wearying at last of humankind, had retreated to a former Christian-Bible-school-turned-survivalist-camp and organized it into a no-go zone for all manner of living things.
Fremont had instituted a liberal policy of equal-opportunity sudden death, firing with intent on anything that flew, stumbled, crawled, or loped across a four-hundred-yard-wide circle of chemical deforestation and razor wire that ran right around his post-and-beam cabin tucked high up on a cliff face, complete with its own spring and a hydroelectric generator. None of which would have provoked any particular comment in this demented belfry of northern Idaho if one of those unfortunate skinless bipeds who happened to stumble into Willard Fremont’s personal free-fire zone had not been an agent of the United States Postal Service trying to deliver a registered letter from Internal Revenue.
For his troubles he got himself duly fired upon — neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers, et cetera, et cetera, but a couple of 30–30 rounds zipping by their earlobes will surely slow them down a tad. The postie hit the dirt face-first and belly-crawled the quarter mile back to his truck. Where, in a high-pitched shriek, he radioed out for the cavalry.
After that, as these things do, one thing led to another: bullhorns, Black Hawk choppers, the media frenzy pouring kerosene on Willard Fremont’s burning resentments. The final federal ultimatum truncated by a burst of buckshot that took out the windshield of an FBI Hummer, the FBI’s prompt reply, consisting mainly of tear gas and stun grenades, the collateral damage, including three dead dogs, a raccoon with an intermittent nosebleed, and any number of deafened bald eagles. In due course Willard Fremont was dragged from his smoldering lair, howling imprecations, wild-eyed, shirtless, all of which was very satisfying to the news crews, who filed their video by Wi-Fi and then broke for drinks at the Muzzleloader Lounge in nearby Sandpoint.
Once safely ensconced in the Hayden Lake Federal Holding Center — a squat limestone fortress surrounded by twenty-foot-tall steel fencing that was now filling up the forward windshield of Dalton’s tan Crown Victoria — Willard Fremont had, like the turtle, found his voice at last, and was telling every turnkey and yard bull stupid enough to adjust his gun belt anywhere near Fremont’s cage that he knew where every damn official secret since the Taft administration was buried and he by Thundering Jesus was going to lead the international media right straight to the Elephant’s Graveyard of the Black Arts if somebody didn’t call Langley and tell whoever answered that Willard Buckhorn Fremont was calling for Jack Stallworth.
The Crown Vic rolled to a stop in front of the steel gates. No word of tearful parting from his chauffeur; as a matter of fact the old marshal hadn’t uttered a single phoneme — other than the ones required to burp up gas — during the entire trip.
The gates rolled back, the Crown Victoria rumbled into the compound, and the driver showed the uniformed guard his ID, then jerked his nicotine-stained thumb backward in Dalton’s direction.
“This here’s the spook from D.C.” was all he said.
The guard, wearing those eternal bug-eye glasses that make them all look like steroidal locusts, grunted a reply and said not very much at all to Dalton. Nor did he find anything further to add as he led him through the sliding bulletproof glass and down an echoing confusion of cement-block walls painted in the official federal hues of Baby Shit Yellow and Cancerous Kidney Green, the two of them arriving finally outside a steel door painted forest green, where the guard ported his bull-pup Heckler and stuck a miniature walkie-talkie deep into his own ear: “Sector niner one zero. We’re here.”
“Roger that, niner one zero” came the munchkin-voiced response, and the steel door went up with a joyless noise, revealing a set of lime-green bars opening onto a steel-walled room — windowless — a stainless-steel table, two sheet-metal chairs on either side of the table, and the person of one Willard Fremont, clad in bright-pink paper overalls and wearing what looked like lime-green shower flip-flops.
Willard’s head was down, his balding crown reflecting the light from a single overhead bulb in a wire guard, and he appeared to be reading a book from which the spine had been ripped.
“How long you want?”
“Give me an hour.”
The guard closed the steel door behind Dalton and stalked away up the long dark hall. Willard never looked up from his book as Dalton came across the floor.
“Reading,” he said. “Screw off.”
Dalton tried to pull the chair out from the table, realized it was bolted down, and sat down opposite Fremont, folding his arms across his chest.
“You wanted a spook. Here I am. What are you reading?”
Fremont grunted an obscenity, then, leaning back in his chair, he shot the book sharply across the table at Dalton, who fielded it on the edge and lifted it up.
“Heart of Darkness? You’re reading Conrad?”
No reply from Fremont, who was pretending an interest in the overhead bulb. Dalton saw the way his throat was working and realized the man was making a supreme effort not to lose control.
“Why Conrad?”
Fremont lowered his head and stared directly at Dalton, who was surprised to see a glimmer of intelligence in the man’s expression.
“There’s always something interesting in Conrad, asshole.”
Then an invisible cloak came down and there was nothing but dumb insubordination, thick-witted bovine stupidity. “Who the hell’re you, anyway?”
“My name is Micah Dalton. I’m with Stallworth’s outfit.”
“Jack’s still on the loose, is he? Took you a while.”
“We cut cards. It was you or gum surgery. I lost.”
“What’d you draw?”
“Ten of spades. We understand you have something to say.”
“Not to you. To Jack personally. Or I get me an agent.”
“An agent?”
“Yeah. Doing a deal, gotta have an agent. Those New York publishers will skin you with a butter knife and then rape your cat.”
“I’d pay to see that. What’re you gonna call it?”
“Call what?”
“The book? Got a title?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s about the CIA, is it?”
“Yep. All about it. A real ex-po-zay.”
Dalton shrugged, put the book down onto the table, pulled out a pack of Marlboros, drew one out, and offered the package to Fremont.
“Can’t smoke here,” he said, eyeing the pack with naked desire.
“You tried to skull-fuck a postie with a 30–30 Winchester,” said Dalton, “so I don’t think health issues are too high on your list. And the bulls around here can kiss my papal ring.”
He lit up, and Fremont watched him inhale with an avid expression. The smoke rose up and curled around the light.
Dalton said nothing, but for a time he left the pack on the table. “I’ve read your file,” he said, into the silence.
A flash of anger, immediately concealed. “Have you,” said Fremont. “I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I was riveted. You were a good field man. Now you’re here. For reasons that elude me. You can’t really want to go to Pelican Bay?”
Fremont’s eyes flickered around the room, came back to Dalton. “No. Actually, I always wanted to sing in a choir.”
A “choir boy” was Agency slang for a disgraced agent who submits willingly to a debriefing session at Camp Peary.