Chapter 1 EIGHT YEARS LATER The motorcade streamed into the tree-shaded parking lot,where it disgorged numerous people who looked hot, tiredand genuinely unhappy. The miniature army marched toward theugly white brick building. The structure had been many things inits time and currently housed a decrepit funeral home that wasthriving solely because there was no other such facility withinthirty miles and the dead, of course, had to go somewhere. Appropriatelysomber gentlemen in black suits stood next to hearses ofthe same color. A few bereaved trickled out the door, sobbing quietlyinto handkerchiefs. An old man in a tattered suit that was toolarge for him and wearing a battered, oily Stetson sat on a benchoutside the front entrance, whittling. It was just that sort of a place,rural to the hilt, stock car racing and bluegrass ballads forever. The old fellow looked up curiously as the procession passed bywith a tall, distinguished-looking man ceremoniously in the middle.The elderly gent just shook his head and grinned at this spectacle,showing the few tobacco-stained teeth he had left. Then hetook a nip of refreshment from a flask pulled from his pocket andreturned to his artful wood carving.
The woman, in her early thirties and dressed in a black pantsuit,was in step behind the tall man. In the past her heavy pistol in thebelt holster had scraped uncomfortably against her side, causing ascab. As a solution she'd sewn an extra layer of cloth into her blousesat that spot and learned to live with any lingering irritation. She'doverheard some of her men joke that all female agents should weardouble shoulder holsters because it gave them a buxom look withoutexpensive breast enhancement. Yes, testosterone was alive andwell in her world. Secret Service agent Michelle Maxwell was on the extreme fasttrack. She was not yet at the White House detail, guarding the presidentof the United States, but she was close. Barely nine years inthe Service, and she was already a protection detail leader. Mostagents spent a decade in the field doing investigative work beforeeven graduating to protection detail as shift agents, yet MichelleMaxwell was used to getting to places before other folks. This was her big preview before almost certain reassignment tothe White House, and she was worried. This was an unscheduledstop, and that meant no advance team and limited backup. Yet becauseit was a last-minute change in plan, the plus side was no onecould know they were going to be there. They reached the entrance, and Michelle put a firm hand on thetall man's arm and told him to wait while they scoped things out.The place was quiet, smelled of death and despair in quiet pocketsof misery centered on coffins in each of the viewing rooms. Sheposted agents at various key points along the man's path: "givingfeet" as it was called in Service parlance. Properly done, the simpleact of having a professional with a gun and communication capabilitystanding in a doorway could work wonders. She spoke into her walkie-talkie, and the tall man, John Bruno,was brought in. She led him down the hallway as gazes from theviewing rooms wandered to them. A politician and his entourage onthe campaign trail were like a herd of elephants: they could travelnowhere lightly. They stomped the earth until it hurt with theweight of the guards, chiefs of staff, spokespersons, speechwriters,publicity folks, gofers and others. It was a spectacle that if it didn'tmake you laugh would at least cause you considerable worry aboutthe future of the country. John Bruno was running for the office of president of the UnitedStates, and he had absolutely no chance of winning. Looking faryounger than his fifty-six years, he was an independent candidatewho'd used the support of a small but strident percentage of theelectorate fed up with just about everything mainstream to qualifyfor each state's national ballot. Thus, he'd been given Secret Serviceprotection, though not at the staffing level of a bona fide contender.It was Michelle Maxwell's job to keep him alive until the election.She was counting the days. Bruno was a former iron-balls prosecutor, and he'd made a greatnumber of enemies, only some of whom were currently behind bars.His political planks were fairly simple. He'd tell you he wanted governmentoff the backs of the people and free enterprise to rule. As forthe poor and weak, those not up to the task of unfettered competition,well, in all other species the weak died and the strong prevailed,and why should it be any different for us? Largely because of that position, the man had no chance of winning. Although America lovedits tough guys, they weren't ready to vote for leaders who exhibitedno compassion for the downtrodden and miserable, for on any givenday they might constitute a majority. The trouble started when Bruno entered the room trailed by hischief of staff, two aides, Michelle and three of her men. The widowsitting in front of her husband's coffin looked up sharply. Michellecouldn't see her expression through the veil the woman was wearingbut assumed her look was one of surprise at seeing this herd ofinterlopers invading hallowed ground. The old woman got up andretreated to a corner, visibly shaking. The candidate whirled on Michelle. "He was a dear friend ofmine," Bruno snapped, "and I am not going to parade in with anarmy. Get out," he added tersely. "I'll stay," she fired back. "Just me."He shook his head. They'd had many such standoffs. He knewthat his candidacy was a hopeless long shot, and that just made himtry even harder. The pace had been brutal, the protection logisticsa nightmare. "No, this is private!" he growled. Bruno looked over at the quiveringwoman in the corner. "My God, you're scaring her to death.This is repugnant." Michelle went back one more time to the well. He refused yetagain, leading them all out of the room, berating them as he did.What the hell could happen to him in a funeral home? Was theeighty-year-old widow going to jump him? Was the dead man goingto come back to life? Michelle sensed that her protectee wasreally upset because she was costing him valuable campaign time.Yet it wasn't her idea to come here. However, Bruno was in nomood to hear that. No chance to win, and the man acted like he was king of the hill.Of course, on election day the voters, including Michelle, would kickhis butt right out the door. As a compromise Michelle asked for two minutes to sweep theroom. This was granted, and her men moved quickly to do so whileshe silently fumed, telling herself that she had to save her ammo forthe really important battles. Her men came out 120 seconds later and reported everythingokay. Only one door in and out. No windows. Old lady and deadguy the only occupants. It was cool. Not perfect, but okay. Michellenodded at her candidate. Bruno could have his private face time,and then they could get out of here. Inside the viewing room, Bruno closed the door behind him andwalked over to the open coffin. There was another coffin against thefar wall; it was also open, but empty. The deceased's coffin was restingon a raised platform with a white skirting that was surroundedwaist-high with an assortment of beautiful flowers. Bruno paid hisrespects to the body lying there, murmuring, "So long, Bill," as heturned to the widow, who'd returned to her chair. He knelt in frontof her, gently held one of her hands. "I'm so sorry, Mildred, so very sorry. He was a good man."The bereaved looked up at him from behind the veil, smiled andthen looked down again. Bruno's expression changed and helooked around, though the only other occupant of the room was inno condition to eavesdrop. "Now, you mentioned something elseyou wanted to talk about. In private." "Yes," the widow said in a very low voice."I'm afraid I don't have much time, Mildred. What is it?"In answer she placed a hand on his cheek, and then her fingerstouched his neck. Bruno grimaced as he felt the sharp prick againsthis skin, and then he slipped to the floor unconscious. |
