Keeping low, Zeke jogged toward the rear of the building. The trellis was too risky; there’d be cops coming up that elevator to the roof restaurant, looking for him. As he reached the rear parapet, he heard a commotion from the direction of the restaurant. Quickly, he slung the carrying strap of the briefcase over his shoulder, swung a leg over the parapet, grabbed the drainpipe with both hands, and, clamping the instep of each foot to the pipe, slid rapidly down the side of the building, four stories to the ground.
He ran to the window that let light into the garage, which was hinged at the top. He swung it open and looked inside. Nobody in sight. He wriggled through the window, dropped to the garage floor, and ran to his car, slinging the briefcase into the trunk. He got the Lexus started, then drove slowly out of the garage. The attendant was out of his cubicle, standing in the street, looking toward the Plaza. The sound of sirens came from that direction. The man didn’t even see Zeke turn right toward the cathedral, then right again. Consulting a map, he came to Alameda, then turned onto Old Santa Fe Trail. As he did so, a police car passed him, going in the opposite direction toward the Plaza and the hotel, its lights flashing, its siren wailing.
Zeke drove slowly west, leaving the downtown area. He passed apartment complexes and a golf course, then began following signs to the interstate. Another two minutes and he’d be out of town.
He’d been stupid. He should have noticed that, with the sun setting, his scope would reflect. And he hadn’t known the Secret Service was on the job. That was going to make his work more difficult.
But, he thought, not impossible. He drove down the interstate to Albuquerque and took I-40 west, toward Los Angeles.
34
Ed Rawls was released from solitary confinement one week to the minute from the day he had been put in. For seven days he had not shaved, bathed, slept in a bed, or eaten anything but unsalted dried beans and stale bread. He stank; his scalp itched uncontrollably, as did his armpits and his crotch; judging by the looseness of his trousers, he estimated he had lost ten pounds. He was incensed.
He was allowed to shower, shave, change clothes, and eat, then he was taken to the captain of the guard.
“Morning, Rawls,” the captain said.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“You enjoy your little vacation?”
“No, sir, I did not. Perhaps you can tell me why I received such treatment.”
“You angered a powerful man,” the captain said. “I don’t know exactly how, but the letter you read must have explained it.”
“It was something about Jonah and the whale,” Rawls said, looking baffled. “It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense to me.”
“Come on, Rawls; he isn’t the kind of man to act unless he knew what he was doing.”
“Who are we talking about, Captain?” Rawls asked.
“You know as well as I do.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I can only think that this fellow has gotten me mixed up with somebody else. Have I ever given you or anybody else in this pen the slightest trouble?”
“No, you haven’t, and you’re not going to start now.”
“I have no intention of making waves, Captain, but neither do I want to be punished for something I haven’t done. Can you tell me what it was I was supposed to have done?”
“You didn’t do it to me, Rawls, so I don’t know.”
“Come on, Captain, who is this whale guy?”
“That’ll be all, Rawls; keep your nose clean, and you won’t have to go back in there.”
Dismissed, Rawls left the captain’s office and was returned by a guard to his job at the library.
A coworker named Ames saw him coming. “Hey, Ed, where you been? Rumor is you did some time in the hole.”
“The rumor is right,” Rawls said, “but did it say anything about why?”
“Pissed somebody off, I guess,” Ames said. “By the way, my parole came through.”
“Good for you, Charlie; when do you get out?”
“Tomorrow morning, thank Christ.”
Rawls beckoned Ames behind a bookcase. “Charlie, what are you going to do when you get out?”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Ames said. “My daughter says I can come live with her, until I find a job.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-five.”
Rawls nodded. “Where does your daughter live?”
“Chattanooga, Tennessee.”
“You got any friends anywhere else in the country?”
I been writing to a guy I went to college with; he lives in New York.”
“Charlie, you want to make some easy money on the outside?”
“How would I do that, Ed? I don’t want to bust my parole.”
“You know what a third-party mail drop is, Ames?”
“Nope.”
“That’s when somebody mails something to you, and you forward it to somebody else. The person who mails it is the first party, you’re the second party, and the guy you mail it to is the third party.”
“You want me to mail you stuff, Ed?”
“No, Charlie, just the reverse. I’ve got some money on the outside; I’ll make it worth your while.” Rawls was fully prepared to go back into solitary, but he didn’t think he’d have to.
A week later, Freddie Wallace let himself into his hideaway office, picked up a couple of pieces of mail from the floor, and answered the phone. “Yes?”
“You know who this is?” Hogan Parks said.
“I believe I do,” Wallace replied. “You have my thanks for restraining yourself on that other matter.”
“Always glad to be of help,” Parks said. “Funny thing is, something nearly as juicy arrived on my desk this morning.”
“And what’s that, my friend?”
“Seems a prominent member of the United States Senate was once a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan.”
Wallace kept control of himself. “Is that a fact?” he managed to say.
Apparently so,” Parks replied. “Somebody sent me a copy of a list of members of a South Carolina chapter, and his name is right there. Looks authentic, and a letter accompanying it says that the FBI can confirm it, because they had an undercover agent in the same group.”
“Well, I’d be mighty careful about spreading that kind of dirt,” Freddie said, forcing himself to sound confident.
“I thought I’d ask you right out if you can confirm this report,” Parks said.
“Well, now,” Freddie breathed into the phone, “seems like we’ve got something of a standoff here. Because if you print that, then a paper or two might learn about a certain journalist who got himself arrested for propositioning a vice cop in a Georgetown gay bar a few years back.”
“I guess we have got a standoff,” Parks admitted. “But what makes you think I’m the only one who’s received this report? What if it went to a wire service or, worse, a tabloid?”
Right now, I’m dealing with you, and not anybody else,” Freddie said.
“Okay, I’m quiet; if you read about it in the papers, it didn’t come from me. Will you accept my word on that?”
“Of course I would, my friend,” Freddie said. “I’ve never had any reason to doubt your word.”
“Somebody’s out to get you, pal,” Parks said, then hung up.
Freddie hung up, too, and he was sweating. Then he looked at the mail in his lap. There was a plain brown envelope addressed simply to the room he sat in. He ripped it open.
Dear Freddie,
I thought you’d like to know in advance that a copy of the enclosed Klan membership roll has gone to three political columnists. I’m going to let you guess who they are. Suffice it to say they all have a national readership.