T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Crawford glanced at Burke and spoke to him for the first time. “Stand well back, now. We don’t want them hippy-dippies seeing anybody but the missy here.”

He then gripped the corner of the tape sealing her mouth. Burke heard the ripping sound, watched as Lisa Wrede winced but said nothing, as if she had already left such mundane things as momentary pain far behind.

Crawford cut her hands loose, then took a firm grip on her arms. He tensed so that his every muscle clenched tight, right up to the cords around the edge of his jaw.

Lisa Wrede continued to stare up at the sky, as though fascinated with the clouds.

The man moved in close enough to fill her vision with a pockmarked leer. “Be a good girl, now. Give us your very best scream.”

She blinked once, and returned her gaze to the sky. In a small voice, she spoke then. Saying only, “Oh God, you are my God.”

The words seemed to convulse Crawford, so that he recoiled from her rather than flinging her forward. Lisa Wrede flew out and over the lip.

Burke was himself drawn forward. He had a single momentary glimpse of the truly enormous crowd below. Then gentle fingers of air and wind turned Lisa Wrede about, so that she could glimpse the sky once more. Her clothes opened up around her, like shadows of unseen wings.

Burke watched Crawford load two five-gallon plastic containers of gasoline into the trunk. The security chief then drove in a seemingly aimless pattern before halting a second time at another busy service station. When Crawford returned with two more filled canisters, Burke got out of the car. Crawford lifted them into the trunk and said merely, “Lot of old houses around Winter Park. Nothing burns fast as cured cypress.”

Burke said nothing, his gaze held by what else the trunk contained. A thin leather satchel revealed a precision rifle with a long-distance scope, and a blanket was wrapped around three ax handles. Crawford gave him another of those tightly knowing smiles and said merely, “Can’t hurt to be ready for whatever comes.”

They parked down the street from Jackie Havilland’s residence. The rain had stopped momentarily. All the world smelled of cool wet earth. Crawford led them unerringly around the main house and along the gravel drive. Silently Crawford directed Burke to walk on the grassy verge to mask their footfalls.

Burke stood alongside the lanky man and stared up at the garage apartment. Lights blazed from every window. He could distinctly hear two voices, one male, one female. A young man shouted the single word, “Amazing!” It was enough to identify him as Colin Ready. Burke started for the stairs.

Crawford stopped Burke with an iron grip. He walked over, pressed cautiously on the bottom step, then pulled back as soon as the old wood creaked. Crawford raised a warning finger at Burke before vanishing into the night.

Soon enough he was back with two canisters gripped in each hand. He refused to let Burke take one. Crawford sloshed gasoline all over the stairs, then reached as high as he could and set an open canister down upon the step. When the stair creaked faintly, the two men stared up at the backlit screen door, but saw nothing save the yellowed ceiling. The voices continued to chatter away inside.

Swiftly Crawford poured a trail of gasoline around the base of the walls. He pitched the liquid up and over the two shed doors, then moved around the corner and emptied the final unopened canister directly beneath the narrow balcony. Burke nodded understanding. The man had directed the second flash point below the only other avenue of escape.

Crawford pulled Burke back to the steps, reached into his pocket and handed over a book of matches. The man reeked of gas. Burke would have to light the fire.

Burke’s heart hammered as hard as it ever did on the trading room floor. Another high discovered. He flicked a match and sent it flashing onto the stairs.

The flames started with a quiet little whoosh, a tiny puff Burke felt as much as heard. No heat, just a soft light that danced about the shed, moving so easily it was hard to realize just how fast the flames were spreading.

Crawford punched his shoulder, jabbing a finger at the night and the street. Burke shook his head and turned back to watch the flames.

Crawford gripped his arm and tugged. Burke ripped his arm free and kept his eyes on the fire.

Crawford hissed once, then turned and ran.

An instant later, Burke heard a car motor start and tires squeal. But he did not turn away. Already the flames were growing so hot he had to back off, drawing into the shadows now cast by the surrounding trees. Then the fuel canister at the back of the house caught with an enormous whoosh . Flames shot up higher than the roof. From inside, voices rose in alarm. Burke moved farther into the grove. He heard a siren in the background, then another. He continued moving away, but not too fast. He stumbled over a root and almost went down. Still he kept his gaze upon the apartment. Waiting for the screams.

Tuesday

The day was so busy Wynn could not keep up, not even with himself. Radio, television, newspapers, magazines-he refused no one. The unaccustomed nature of the task left him shattered, even when he was merely adding his own punch to lines from the files. Carter’s features became folded in upon themselves with worry, and the other staffers eyed his appearances with genuine anxiety. He took it as a compliment and soldiered on.

Several times during the day, the question was raised, had he broken the law? Wynn brushed it aside, insisting they remain focused on the Hutchings Amendment. To his surprise, they did not insist, leaving him with the impression that they were chasing nothing more than unsubstantiated rumor. So far. He spent the afternoon waiting for the incoming stealth missile, the one that could not be deflected.

But when Kay called at half-past six, it had not yet arrived. “You’ve decided it’s a good day to die, is that it?”

“Just doing my job.”

“Your job,” she replied, “does not include digging your own grave with reporters for pallbearers.”

“I heard the party chairman this morning, same as you.”

“So?”

“There’s so much heat riding on this thing now, somebody is going to take a fall. I’m setting myself on the pedestal, giving everybody an easy target.”

Kay said, “For once in my life, I am truly at a loss for words.”

Wynn managed a smile. “I never knew painting myself into a bull’s eye could be so tiring.”

“Look, why don’t you join us over at Graham and Esther’s tonight, give me another chance to find the right words and thank you.”

He was still smiling when Carter opened the door and asked, “Are you in for a call from the fibbies?”

“This one and nothing more. I need a half hour to camp out on the sofa.” He reached for the phone. “This is Wynn Bryant.”

“Agent Welker here, Congressman. We’ve been following up on bringing your sister home. It looks like they’ll release her remains sometime next week. Our people in Cairo insist it’s not possible to be any more precise than that.”

Wynn rubbed his face. Remains . “Thank you.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just wanted you to know we haven’t dropped the ball.”

“I understand.”

“Do you mind if I hit you with something else?”

“Everybody else has taken a swing today. You might as well go ahead.”

“I’ve heard from our friend at the Fed. Hayek’s group has placed themselves in an incredible position, buying dollars. We’re talking mountains of greenbacks.”

“You can’t arrest them?”

“It’s not illegal to own dollars, last time I checked. We were just wondering if your insert had anything for us.”