David Wiltse - Into The Fire

As he got closer he could see that it really was a hill and it looked as dry as he could ever hope for. Cooper drove himself even faster until each breath rasped and tore at his lungs. Just at the base of the hill he tripped, his feet unaccustomed to solid ground. Instinctively he threw his arms put to stop his fall and the impact on his bad hand was so painful he could not keep from screaming. He felt bone grate against bone in his knuckle and heard it, too.

It was the sound of it that made him pass out.

When he came to, he heard voices closing in on him, then heard one of them, a woman's voice, calling to the others. Her voice was very close, so close he could reach out and touch her. Cooper kept his eyes squeezed shut, thinking maybe he wouldn't be seen if he just lay where he was.

"Don't move, you sack of shit," the woman's voice said. She sounded really pissed off and scared, too. "I'll blow you fucking away if you move, Cooper."

He was so surprised to hear his name that he opened his eyes. A young woman with funny red hair was standing over him, pointing a gun at him with both hands. She wore a jacket that said FBI in big letters. A radio on her belt crackled and an anxious voice said, "Just hold him there, Haddad. Don't try anything else, just keep him in place."

"I want Swann," Cooper said. He started to shift his weight so he could sit up and he realized that the woman had put handcuffs around his ankles.

The woman kicked his bad hand with her toe and he screamed again and slumped backwards.

"Don't fuck with me," said Pegeen. "Where's the girl?"

Cooper didn't know what she meant so he said nothing.

She nudged his hand again and he yelped like a dog.

"I asked you where's the girl. Unless you want me to do a dance on that paw of yours, tell me where she is."

She didn't look mean, Cooper thought. She looked like she was trying to pretend she was bigger than she was, but sure acted mean.

"I'm going to count to five," Pegeen said, "then I'm going to stand on your hand. You understand me, Cooper?":'Yes," said Cooper.

'Where's the girl?"

"What girl?"

" Sybil Benish. The kid you took into the swamp with you, asshole."

"She left me," Cooper said.

"What did you do to her? Did you hurt her?… Answer me! Did you hurt her?"

Cooper stared at Pegeen, uncomprehending. Had he hurt the girl? He didn't think so; he didn't remember hurting her. He was the one who was hurt.

"One." 'If I tell you, can I live with Swann?"

"Two."

She lifted one foot and held it over his bad hand. Cooper tried to move it away, but it was like a deadweight at the end of his limb and the entire arm seemed to have stopped working. He put his good hand in the air over the injured one to shield it.

"Where is she?"

"She fell off, I left her back there where I was," Cooper said.

"Three," she said.

I told you," Cooper pleaded, but she stamped her'foot onto his hand anyway.

When Cooper came to again there was a swarm of men in FBI jackets running over the hill towards him. The girl still hovered over him, looking enraged and ready to hurt him some more.

As the men converged around him, Cooper was crying, "Get her away from me," and trying to climb up the slope on his ass.

Hatcher met Quincy Beggs at the Congressman's home, where the politician was hosting an informal dinner — for twelve would-be campaign contributors. Ten florid-faced men and two highly lacquered women greeted Hatcher courteously, all professing delight at meeting such a highly placed FBI agent, and with few exceptions feigning an interest they did not have. Hatcher's arrival was unannounced-indeed his invitation to such an event would have been inappropriate both socially and ethically-and after the social amenities had been observed, Beggs wasted no time in escorting Hatcher to his study.

"I would have waited until business hours," Hatcher said, "but I felt you would appreciate hearing right away."

He could in fact have simply told Beggs his news on the telephone, but Hatcher knew the importance of the personal appearance at the right time. Good news delivered over the telephone seems to come from out of the blue. Good news delivered in person comes from the messenger.

Hatcher would be there to share in the triumph, Hatcher would be there to modestly deny the credit, Hatcher would be recognized as the source of the blessing, not the telephone, not the impersonal machinery of the Bureau.

"I'm sure you did the right thing," said Beggs. "Just a few of my constituents. Do them good to see that I actually work for a living."

Beggs laughed. Hatcher managed a limp smile.

Beggs stuck a cigar the length of a pencil into his mouth and waggled it back and forth with his tongue. He no longer smoked them, but still used them as theatrical props. The Congressman felt they gave him a manly appearance.

"So? What's up?"

Hatcher gestured to a chair. "May I?"

"Good heavens, 'course, man, sit, sit. Don't know where I put my manners."

Hatcher carefully sat and arranged one leg over the other, tending to the crease in his trousers. There was an art to delivering good news, and it took a bit of time and preparation. Just as one did not do it over the telephone, so one did not blurt it out and have done with it, If one was seated, one became a part of the event. The auditors could not dismiss a seated man with a quick handshake and a pat on the back the way they might get rid of a standing courier before rushing off to celebrate with those they cared about. Courtesy demanded that someone seated be treated with deliberation and attention. A standing man was a messenger. A seated man was an equal.

Beggs rolled the cigar impatiently. He didn't like Hatcher, he didn't know anyone who did, but this was Washington and personal tastes were always subordinate to other considerations. The quid pro quo was observed, no matter how little personal regard was involved in the transaction, compromise being the currency without which the political process would be bankrupt. No matter how clumsy a performer Hatcher might be, nor how transparent his motives, it had to be granted that he handled the proper steps, honored the rituals, played the game according to the universally recognized rules. Advancement was a matter of accruing favors owed and then cashing them in, and grace and subtlety were ultimately nothing more than frills. What mattered was whether or not you could deliver the goods, and an outright enemy with his arms full of gifts was more welcome than an empty-handed friend. Not that Hatcher was Beggs' enemy, of course.

Beggs didn't care that much about him.

"You will recall that we had a conversation some while ago concerning a possible lead in a. case that touched you personally?" Hatcher began.

"I do indeed."

"And I undertook to make that investigation a matter for my personal-ah-consideration."

"Which I did appreciate, let me tell you."

"Only too happy to help where I can," said Hatcher.

What a phoady, thought Beggs. Obsequious and smug at the same time.

He'll go far.

Hatcher continued. "Naturally I couldn't neglect my other duties, but whenever possible I made the case my own. I flew to Nashville to personally debrief the agents, for instance."

"Certainly appreciate your efforts," said Beggs.

"One likes to think one played a part, but of course all credit goes to the Bureau itself. Many dedicated men and women, each doing their bit."

You made your point-I owe you! Beggs wanted to thunder. Get the hell on with it. Instead, he removed the cigar from his mouth and studied the end of it as if it were actually lighted.

"Fantastic organization," said Beggs.

"Those of us who are entrusted with the responsibility strive very hard to keep it that way," said Hatcher. He, too, studied Beggs' cigar as if to discern the mystery of the nonexistent ash.