The Ascendant Page 23

  Sandy shook his head. “I don’t think so, Jonah. It seems to me that Lincoln Berwick is trying to whip everyone up into a frenzy, just for votes. And it seems to be working. Yes, we’ve had some terrible massacres in this country, but the vast majority of those were committed by home-grown Americans, not terrorists. Usually they’re just garden-variety nutcases who never should have gotten their hands on guns in the first place.”

  “Yeah, but they did.”

  Sandy finished his coffee, then picked up his briefcase. “I have to get going, too. My classes are done for the day, so time for me to run some errands. All I’ll say, Jonah, is this—if Senator Berwick were that concerned about the safety of the American people, he’d be proposing changes to the gun laws. But he’s not. He’d rather just scare people into voting for him, and terrorism is his flavor of the day. He’s shrewd, as are his campaign folks.”

  Janice stood. “You’re right, Dr. Beech. There doesn’t seem to be any consistency. Do you think he’ll be the next president?”

  Sandy shrugged. “Don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. See you at next week’s class, kids. Gotta run.”

  He started for the door, but then felt a gentle tug on his jacket. Turning, he saw Janice scurrying to keep up with him.

  “Could I get a lift from you, Doctor? I’m done for the day, too, and I only live a couple of blocks from here. Would that be okay?”

  “Well, sure. Follow me.”

  They headed out to the parking lot together—Sandy’s car was not far from the main campus entrance. He held the door open for her and she hopped in.

  As he steered out of the lot, he turned to her and said, “Point the way, Janice.”

  “Just straight ahead, first left, then first right. Halfway down the street on the right.”

  They drove in silence for a minute, then Janice crossed her legs and leaned towards him. “You really should go into politics, Doctor. We need smart people like you. That Berwick guy is really scary.”

  Sandy laughed. “I’m flattered, Janice. But, politics is not for me. Thanks for saying so, though.”

  He made the last turn and pulled up to the curb halfway down the street.

  “Thanks so much, Doctor.” She unsnapped her seatbelt and leaned in closer. “Do you mind if I give you a hug?”

  He didn’t have a chance to answer. Her arms wrapped around his neck, while at the same time caressing his lips with hers. He didn’t know how long the kiss lasted, but it was long enough for both of their tongues to get acquainted. And it was long enough for Sandy to experience the tug and pull of wanting it to continue, but commanding himself to end it.

  The command won out. He cradled her cheeks in his hands and pushed her face back.

  “No, Janice.”

  “It’s okay, Dr. Beech. I’m an adult. I won’t tell anyone. Come up to my apartment with me.”

  He shook his head and continued to cradle her face. “You’re a lovely girl, but I’m old enough to be your father. And I’m one of your professors. It’s not right.”

  Janice flashed him a half smile, half smirk. “You really are one of the good guys, aren’t you?”

  Sandy grimaced. “No, not really. But, considering who I’m saying no to, I sure must be one of the stupid guys.”

  Janice cocked her head and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she opened the door and got out of the car. Leaning in through the window, she said, “I’m sorry if I was forward. I just wanted you. If you ever change your mind…”

  Then she was gone. Sandy watched as she walked up the path to her townhouse, and he caught himself undressing her in his mind.

  33

  It was Friday afternoon and wonderful weather for a drive to the lake. Not just any lake, though. Sandy was driving to Lake Webster, one of central Massachusetts’ more popular recreation spots and only about an hour’s drive from Boston.

  When he’d met with Vito Romano a few days ago, they’d mapped it all out. Vito gave him exact directions to Christopher Clark’s cottage, which was on an isolated stretch of shoreline on the west side of the lake. Good that it was isolated. Gunshots wouldn’t be heard.

  But to be on the safe side, Vito had given Sandy a silencer to go along with the Beretta “throwaway” pistol.

  Sandy patted the insides of his jacket—silencer on one side, Beretta on the other. He’d already practiced screwing the silencer onto the threaded barrel, which served to actually double the size of the pistol.

  Deputy Mayor Clark didn’t have any family, so no one would miss him. Well, they might miss him at City Hall, but that would probably be the extent of his mourners. The selfish little man had kept all of his bribery money to himself, spoiling himself with a monster house, three cars, and a cottage on the lake. Not to mention, of course, the secret Bermuda bank account. But not so secret that Vito wasn’t able to track it down.

  Sandy couldn’t really enjoy the drive, thinking instead of what lay ahead on his latest covert adventure. So far, those gambits hadn’t worked out too well for him.

  But he was on a mission, and he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Today would be a crucial cog in his wheel of justice and revenge. It might just work.

  Arriving at the lake, he drove along the county road to the west side. Saw the sign for Meadow Lane, which led down to Clark’s lakefront cottage. He drove part of the way down the lane, then turned off along a dirt path and parked the car in a dense thicket of trees. He jumped out, locked up, and began the mile-long hike to the lake.

  Meadow Lane was a well-kept road, really just a long driveway because there was only one cottage at the end. An easy hike.

  He could smell and feel the lake before he saw it. That fresh scent that bodies of water always betrayed their presence with, along with a progressively stronger breeze the closer he got.

  Then he saw it.

  A large A-frame cottage, nothing fancy. But it was right on the lake which meant it would sell for big bucks.

  Sandy walked along the decking to the front porch, which partially hung over the water. A splendid sight: water glistening in the afternoon sun, shoreline on the other side of the lake heavily forested with fir trees. It wasn’t even officially spring yet, but there was no snow on the ground any longer. If you were good at pretending, it looked like a typical summer day in Massachusetts.

  He pulled a tool out of his pocket and picked the cheap lock. The door creaked as he pushed it open. He closed it behind him and gazed around. It was an open concept cottage—one large bedroom in the loft above, and two other bedrooms opening off the large living room. On one side of the wall was a desk, and beside the desk was a heavy steel safe sitting on the hardwood floor.

  Sandy walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a can of beer. He then walked over to the side of the cottage that looked out over the back driveway. Collapsed into the supple leather of an inviting recliner, stretched his feet out, and calmly sipped his beer.

  Stared out the window and glanced at his watch.

  If Christopher Clark was true to his apparent schedule that Vito had informed him of, he’d be here in less than a couple of hours for his leisurely weekend at the lake.

  *****

  Sandy had dozed off into a light sleep, but awoke to the sound of a car engine. He rolled off the recliner and dropped to his knees on the floor. Peeked up just high enough to get a view of the driveway.

  A black Ford Explorer pulled up behind the cottage. This wasn’t Clark’s car—Vito had told him that Clark drove Cadillacs. The driver hopped out at the same time as one of the back doors opened. A large man exited, then reached back in and dragged out a reluctant passenger by the collar. He pushed him forward towards the house and the two men followed close behind.

  The reluctant passenger, hunched over and stumbling nervously along the path, was Deputy Mayor Christopher Clark
. The two men following him were dressed in suits, and strode along with the self-assured swaggers of dudes with plenty of notches in their belts.

  Sandy dashed across the room to the spot he’d already picked out for himself. A large louvered closet that looked out over the entire expanse of the living area.

  He stepped inside and shut the doors.

  Next, he pulled the Beretta out of one pocket and the silencer out of the other. Screwed it onto the barrel, flipped off the safety, and held the gun down at his side.

  Then he peered through the slats of the closet and waited.

  The sound of a key in the lock; then the turning of the door handle.

  The door burst open and Clark was shoved roughly into the cottage, followed by the two suits.

  Clark stumbled and fell to the floor. One of the men chuckled. “You are a clumsy little fool, aren’t you?”

  The other suit shut the door behind him. “Okay, we haven’t got all day. You gave us some stuff from your house, but it wasn’t enough. You have another laptop, because there wasn’t much on the tablet at your house. Where is it? It’s either here or at your office, but I doubt very much you’d keep a hard drive at your office with what we’re looking for on it.”

  Sandy could see that spittle was coming out of the corners of Clark’s mouth.

  “It’s…in…the safe.”

  “Open it. Now.”

  Clark crawled over to the safe, spun the dial, and pulled open the heavy door. He reached in, and pulled out a laptop. He started to close the safe door, but was stopped by one of the men yelling out, “Don’t shut that! Pull everything out of there!”

  Clark did as he was told, and piled documents and cash onto the floor next to the laptop.

  Suddenly the ring of a cell phone. One of the suits reached into his pocket and clicked on.

  “Yes, Ms. Whitfield. We’re here now. We got some things from his house, and now we’re at his cottage. There’s a laptop here, which may have what you need, plus some money and stuff. What? Okay, I’ll ask him.”

  The suit put the phone against his chest and directed his attention to Clark, who was still sitting on the floor. “I have Meagan Whitfield on the phone, you know, the one who’s been paying you a fortune? She wants to know the password for the laptop.”

  Clark wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his drooling mouth. “It’s ‘Quincy.’”

  “Well, isn’t that appropriate.”

  He talked into the phone. “He says it’s Quincy, ma’am.”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah, real creative, huh?”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll ask him that, too.”

  He put the phone against his chest again. “Mr. Clark, she wants to know the password and PIN number for your numbered Bermuda account—you know, that account that Ms. Whitfield and Mr. Stone have been depositing money in for you.”

  Clark stammered, “Why…does…she want that?”

  He raised the phone back to his ear again. “He’s resisting on that, ma’am.”

  He sighed. “Oh, okay, we won’t bother then.”

  Clark yelled out from the floor. “Let me talk to Meagan! I don’t know what’s going on here! I’ve done everything asked of me!”

  The suit shoved the phone back into his pocket. “She’s already hung up. Doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll give her the bank account info!”

  “Doesn’t matter anymore. She’ll find out another way.”

  He nodded to his partner. They each pulled pistols out of their waistbands, and promptly pointed them at Clark’s head.

  “We’re sorry, Mr. Clark. Nothing personal. You’re just a loose end.”

  Clark screamed “No!” Lowered his head and wrapped his arms around it in a last pathetic defense.

  Sandy kicked open the closet doors, raised his Beretta, and fired two precise shots. Both men collapsed to the floor. Sandy rushed over and aimed two more shots at the chest areas of each man.

  Clark was expecting by now to feel the force of bullets slamming into his head, but instead all he heard was the soft spitting sound of Sandy’s silenced Beretta.

  He slowly raised his head and stared up in astonishment at Sandy.

  “You!”

  Sandy unscrewed the silencer and stuffed it and the pistol back inside his jacket pockets.

  “Yes, me. I came here to talk to you. I didn’t expect you to have company. Right now, you’re still in deep trouble. I despise you, but I don’t want you dead. They did, apparently under the orders of some rich friends of yours. I know who they are, and I know all about your connections to them.”

  Clark struggled to get his chubby body back on its feet again.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Dr. Beech.”

  Sandy pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a speed dial number. “I don’t want your thanks. But right now we have to get you to a safe place fast.”

  Someone picked up at the other end. Sandy asked, “Is that address still available for me to use? Okay, great. Be there soon. Same combo? Good.”

  Sandy clicked off and directed his attention back to Clark, who was staring at the still figures lying on the floor.

  “Christopher, pick up all that stuff on the floor, as well as the laptop, throw it all in some kind of bag and let’s get going. My car’s parked about a mile up in the forest. On the way out, we’ll get that stuff those men took from your house. It’s in their Explorer, right?”

  Clark nodded and dashed into the kitchen. Pulled a couple of cloth shopping bags out of a drawer and collected all of the things off the floor.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Sandy opened the door. “Let’s go.”

  Clark pointed. “What about those guys?”

  “Least of your worries.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “A safe house in Boston, owned by our mutual Cosa Nostra friends. You’ll be safe there until you figure a way out of this shit you’re in.”

  *****

  They waited ten minutes, laying as still as could be. Just in case Beech and Clark came back for some reason. Then the two “dead” men got to their feet, brushed themselves off, and headed out the door. One of the men took a tool out of his pocket and carefully locked the door behind them. No point in leaving this nice cottage unprotected while the owner was away for an indefinite period. It would be waiting for him, safe and sound, when he finally returned one day.

  The suits hopped into the front seats of the black Explorer, and the driver pulled out his cell phone again.

  “Hi Vito. All is well.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, it was a beautiful con. We all played our roles perfectly, Oscar performances all around.”

  The suit turned on the ignition while he continued to chat with his boss. “Yeah, I think we’re in good shape for the next stage.”

  He shifted into gear and backed up the Explorer. “Well, they left about fifteen minutes ago, so they should arrive at the safe house in about an hour.”

  The man laughed again. “Yeah, we’ll make sure to steer clear of them. Can’t run the risk of ruining good theater.”

  34

  It was a gorgeous day in South Carolina. Just perfect for being out on the golf course. Even more perfect because Linc was leading his two partners by five strokes. And they were only on the tenth hole.

  Of course, he’d done some creative cheating here and there. Shot five, carded a four. Didn’t count his whiffs. No penalty stroke for landing in the water. Kicked his ball out of the rough a couple of times when no one was looking. Shifted his ball to a better lie in the sand trap.

  All little things, but they added up. Linc enjoyed golf, but he thought some of the rules were just darn silly. And when rules in life were silly, Linc just ignored them. He also hated to lose—at anything,
even golf.

  He didn’t think his two partners noticed the corners he was cutting, but his security guy did. All he did each time was give him the thumbs-up. The guy clearly knew who was buttering his bread.

  Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone were his golfing buddies today—one of the few times the three of them were actually doing something social. But, Linc knew it wouldn’t be all fun—they had told him before the match that they wanted to talk to him sometime during the game. Sounded serious, but, with those two, it was always serious.

  They had three golf carts. Each of them in a cart with a security officer. While they didn’t anticipate any incidents, you couldn’t be too careful any longer. Linc had just won two primaries, and he had two more coming up this week. Liberal protests followed him everywhere and even some conservative rabble-rousers as well. It seemed as if his Democratic and Republican detractors finally had something in common—they hated him with a passion.

  Senator Lincoln Berwick was an equal opportunity asshole, and, right now, the most divisive politician in the country. That was by design, of course, and as far as his campaign organizers were concerned, his ticket to the White House.

  His base consisted primarily of people who loved guns; were against immigration unless the arrivals were mostly white Anglo-Saxon; and believed every Muslim was out to kill every American.

  Linc chuckled every time he thought of how gullible and easily led people could be. But he didn’t care. As long as they voted for him, that was all that mattered. Linc held tight to his old touchstone: “First, get elected.” He fervently believed in that maxim, and he knew that once he had the keys to the Oval Office he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

  So, when out in public, Linc always had security details with him. Meagan and Bob normally didn’t have to worry about that, because they were mostly behind the scenes. But when they were out in public with him, Bob always arranged for the campaign to provide extra security. Just in case.

  Today, they were golfing at the private Spring Valley Country Club, just outside South Carolina’s capital city, Columbia. Columbia was also the largest city in the state, with 135,000 people, only slightly larger than the better-known city of Charleston.