Michael Gruber - Valley of Bones

Paz pulled the tape off Packer’s mouth. “Christ, what a mess! Are you okay?”

“What the fuck does it look like? Untie me! I’m going to put that fucking redneck maniac in jail for the rest of his life.”

“Oh, you don’t want to talk like that, Dave. You don’t want Cletis in the same jail as you. No way.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Murder, Dave,” said Paz, strolling around behind the other man and into the bedroom. A little searching found an attache case, locked. He brought it back into the salon and set it on the table next to Barlow’s blade.

“You had a Sudanese named al-Muwalid killed by a man named Dodo Cortez, supervised by your pal Jack Wilson, and then you had Wilson killed too, to clear the decks. You’re a thorough fellow, Dave. You couldn’t have guessed that I had a way into Ignacio Hoffmann, but I did, and he was very forthcoming, for a gangster. He said that a Floyd Mitchell had visited him along with poor old Jack. Ignacio told me how and why Dodo killed the Sudanese and described you pretty well. Floyd Mitchell is you, Dave.”

“You can’t prove any of that.”

“You’re right, I can’t. But, you know, I don’t think I’m going to have to, because you’re going to tell me the whole story, all about SRPU and the Sudan and Emmylou Dideroff and oil, every fucking detail. Or…”

“Or what?” said Packer. “You realize I’m going to have your badge for this?”

“That’s good, that’s a good movie line. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to dig my badge out of the toilet. I’m now violating a direct written order from my superior officer, Major Oliphant, to lay off this case and specifically to stay away from you. My plan is to pursue a career in food services.”

Silence, except for the thump and muttering above.

“Yeah, you’re heavily protected, Dave, in high places. Unfortunately, right now, I’m your only low-place protection. From that.”

Paz raised his eyes to the overhead.

“…the righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance; he shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.”

“He means it too. He’s a fundamentalist. He willliterally wash his feet in your blood. So start talking. I’m tired, I’ve been driving all day and I want a drink and bed.”

Packer said nothing.

“Okay, your choice. You know, you messed with the wrong guy there. He was kicked off the force for trying to murder the chief of police. He’s a religious maniac and you’re the devil. In fact, after he finishes with you, he’ll probably just toss a match into that gas puddle and walk away clean.” Paz picked up Barlow’s knife and worked it under the hasps of the attache case locks. The lid popped up, revealing that the case was full of wrapped hundreds. He whistled. “Well we don’t wantthis to get burned up, do we? What else have we got?” Paz riffled through the file folders in the portfolio built into the case’s lid.

“Passports? Here’s our old pal Floyd Mitchell, and gosh he does look just like you! Amazing. And here’s a much-used one for Wayne Semple. A traveling man is Wayne. Spent a lot of time in the Middle East, Sudan too. And here’s an ID card from the Strategic Resources Protection Unit, also in the name of Wayne Semple. I guess that’s your real name, although I think I’ll keep calling you Dave. You seem like a Dave to me. But it’s a good thing I’ve got these, because I doubt they’d be able to identify the corpse after the fire.”

“You can have the money,” said Packer. “Just call…just call a number.”

“This is incredible. You still don’t get it. Dave, Ihave the money and you’re all tied up with about twenty minutes to live after I walk out of here with it. I’ll mail the passports back to SRPU. We don’t want your family to suffer.”

Paz picked up the case and walked toward the door. He was just stepping through when Packer shouted for him to stop. Paz walked back. He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer, opened it, and took a long drink. He saw Packer watch him and lick his lips. “You must be pretty dry, Dave. Fear’ll do that. Want one?”

A pause. Then Packer nodded. Paz got another, cracked the cap and held it up to Packer’s mouth. Paz sat down on a chair with his face about a yard from Packer’s.

“So. Wayne Semple is your real name, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re an employee of the federal government? In this SRPU outfit?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you do there?”

“I’m a contract manager.”

Paz laughed heartily. “In a manner of speaking. What do you do officially?”

“I told you. I’m a GS-13 contract manager. I’m not some kind of criminal mastermind. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I just wanted some information, I wanted to know how much al-Muwalid knew. I didn’t know those morons would throw him out the window.”

“Uh-uh, Dave. Weneed a criminal mastermind here, and remember I got the whole story of how the murder went down from Ignacio. Someone traced Emmylou Dideroff to Miami. Someone got that little houseboat all available to rent to a poor lady on the run and someone got you this one where you could keep an eye on her. You got her the job with Wilson, we know that, and we know that Wilson set up the original murder and the frame and the attempted theft of Emmylou’s confessions. Someone found Emmylou at the Barlows and kidnapped her. If that wasn’t you, who was it?”

“The contractor. He arranged everything. I’m just managing the contract, paying out money, keeping records….”

“What contractor?”

“GSE, it’s called. Global Supply Enterprises. The local honcho is named John Hardy. He’s the one who set it all up.”

“What’s his real name?”

“That’s the only one I know. Why would he use a fake name?”

Paz stared at the man. He really didn’t know. “John Hardy was the name of a famous outlaw. A desperate little man. So you didn’t check this guy out in any way?”

“Check him out? You mean with the Better Business Bureau? Don’t be stupid! The guy showed up in Khartoum and he could do the job. We hired him.”

“How much of my hard-earned tax dollars did you give him?”

“About a million two so far. A lot of it was pass-through to the Sudanese.”

“To a guy with a phony name? A million two?”

“That’s chump change. God, you have no idea how much money is washing around in this antiterrorism business. I have a thirty-two-million-dollar budget I have to spend all by myself, me, a GS fucking 13. That’s what they do when they don’t know what to do, they throw money around. And you have to spend it before the end of the fiscal year or you get dinged.”

“That’s bad, getting dinged,” said Paz. “And where’s Mr. Hardy now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh. Well, so long, Dave.” Paz rose from his chair and picked up the case.

“I don’t!”Packer cried. “Please, the whole point of using GSE is that it’s all deniable. We pay in cash. I don’twant to know what they do. Hardy handles everything. For Christ’s sake, man, look at me? You think I’m a killer? I peed my pants when that gun went off. I’m a fucking bureaucrat. I live in Rockville and carpool to work….”

“But you went to see Hoffmann.”

“Hardy didn’t want to go. He said Hoffmann knew him from another deal. He said Hoffmann wouldn’t play if he knew he was involved.”

“Okay, Dave. Let’s start from the beginning. When was the first time you heard of Emmylou Dideroff.”

“In the Sudan, but we didn’t know that was her name. It’s complicated…you don’t know the background.”

“You’ll explain it, then. We have all night.”

Packer asked for another drink of beer, and then, after a deep breath, began.