David Wiltse - Into The Fire

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"Don't you have him in custody now?"

"Actually, he has been released from prison."

"What asshole did that?"

"It was considered the best way to assure his cooperation."

"What stupid son of a bitch gave the order to release Swann?"

"There's really no point in fixing blame in such cases, John. An error seems to have been made; we need to correct it."

"Sure, but what kind of a head-up-his-ass dufuss would let that little shit go in the first place?"

Hatcher adjusted the crease in the other pant leg. The others in the room watched, transfixed, to see if he would avoid the knife poised to take its pound of flesh.

"Decisions of this kind are complicated, but ultimately I must take responsibility for all the actions of my people.

It would be cowardly to do otherwise."

Becker was not yet satisfied.

"You're the asshole, then?"

Hatcher lifted his head and forced a smile as wintry as a February night.

"Yes, John, if you want to think of it that way. I am the asshole."

Hatcher looked at no one but Becker and his voice had the regulated tone of a metronome.

"I suspected you were," Becker said. He heard Karen's angry exhalation of breath. "But it's nice to hear you confirm it.

He smiled broadly. Withers thought it was the first genuine expression of any kind that he had seen since his arrival. Becker looked, briefly, like a happy man.

"I'm glad you are pleased," said Hatcher. "Now, John, the Bureau needs you to do something. Swann has disappeared completely. We have been unable to get any trace at all on his movements since he left prison.

Inasmuch as you have had a rather lengthy interview with the man, and given your great expertise in these matters, and since although you failed to detect the nature of his deception during that interview you did most likely gain some insight into his character, the Bureau hopes-most ardently hopes-that you will assist us in finding him."

Becker had known it was coming from the moment that he heard that Swann had escaped. There seemed no way to avoid the final confrontation that Swann had provoked in the first place by sending his letters to Becker.

Having fooled Becker during the interview had only pushed the ultimate outcome to the point of inevitability.

"I will need a few things," Becker said.

Hatcher was surprised at the ease of victory. He had expected much more resistance.

"Of course we will give you whatever you need."

"I want this to be the end of it," Becker said. "I never want to work for you again. I don't want you to forward mail to me, I don't want you to call me, or speak of me, or think of me. I want to be taken off indefinite medical extension and dropped from the Bureau roster as if I were dead. This is the end of it-forever."

Hatcher did not hesitate. He knew he could always renege later. Becker was far too valuable an asset to relinquish forever. Hatcher had built his career in part on Becker's triumphs and had no intention of stopping now, although another triumph in the Beggs case might well put him beyond the need of Becker's heroics. In any event, it was a contingency to deal with in the future. For now, the only thing that mattered was Becker's cooperation.

"As you say, John. It will be as you say."

"You mustn't think I trust you," Becker said.

Hatcher raised his eyebrows and tried to look as if his feelings were hurt. The form had to be observed in these matters.

"I want the tape you made of my interview with Swann," Becker continued.

Hatcher raised a finger towards Withers, who made a note.

"When I narrow him to an area, I want to be able to pick and choose from the local agents myself."

Hatcher nodded, again motioning with a finger towards Withers.

"And full cooperation from the national information net, of course."

"Certainly."

"And if I smell you anywhere near me, if I so much as sense your interference, no, hell, even so much as your observation of the case, I'll quit."

Hatcher sat stock-still.

"I have my responsibilities, John."

"My conditions, yes or no. You've fucked up every operation of mine you've ever gotten close to… Yes or no?"

Hatcher waited as long as dignity required before finally lifting his finger a fraction. Withers began to write.

Aural spent the night as if in her coffin. He had put her in the leather golf sack for warmth and zipped it up so that only her face was uncovered. She was still shackled hands to ankles, and he had taken the additional precaution of securing the sack with the length of rope, tying the other end around his leg so that if she moved too far in the night, he would know it. Later, when she was weaker, he could relax his vigilance, but he knew that she still had some resistance left.

Eventually she would welcome the end as much as he did, but he wanted to postpone that time as long as possible. When they gave up and lost the will to remain, they slipped away from him much too quickly. Life was a curious thing, Swann thought, capable of withstanding injuries and insults of the worst sort as long as the fiber of the will was intact to hold it together. But if the heat of despair got too high, the will would melt irreversibly, like gelatin oozing between his fingers. He tried to make his girls last longer; he urged them to withstand him and to hold on; but when they decided to go, he could not restrain them.

Sometimes they went so quickly that he almost missed the passing, which would have been a terrible waste. He wanted to celebrate the moment, to exult in it, to sanctify it with his great joy and release. It would be an awful thing for them to have suffered so much and then to have slipped away unnoticed, uncelebrated. If he knew that their time had come, he would try to speed them along by intensifying his pleasure, because it was important that he should send them, that he should be the cause. He would work on them all night, if necessary, never leaving their side when the time had come, ignoring his own need for sleep or food, denying himself comfort for the greater cause. He thought of it as a sacrifice he made for his girls, just as they had made their own for him. It was the least he could do for them; he owed them that much when they had given so much to him.

When their time came he forgave them their spitefulness, he overlooked the horror of their appearance, their mutilated, untouchable bodies, the tears and mucus and excrement with which they soiled themselves. At the end they were all his angels and he in turn was the ministering angel for them, the last sight they saw on this earth, the last human touch they would ever feel. They took him with them into Jesus' embrace and Swann knew that Jesus thanked him for sending them to him. And they thanked him too, or they surely would once they reached the other side.

He could detect the light of love in their fading eyes as they eased away. At the end, they understood, he was certain of that. They knew that no hospital emergency team could have tried harder to prolong their life, and that no minister in the world could have given them a more joyful, jubilant valedictory when the inevitable arrived at last.

When he grew weary, when he could take no more pleasure for that day, he had trussed up Aural in her sack and then crept into his sleeping bag with the contentment that came from exhaustion. He turned off the lantern and the insistent hiss died with the light, leaving them in silence except for the sounds of the girl. She moaned when she moved, but he knew that after a few days that would stop. Something happened to them after a few days, and they slept peacefully at night. They still screamed for him when he made them, but they stopped moaning. And this one wasn't a crier, he was glad of that. Sometimes they cried all night long and destroyed his rest, which only made him angry. He regretted that because this was not a business to be done in anger. It had to be done carefully, slowly, with love. If he was angry, he went too fast and hurt them for the wrong reasons. He hadn't gone to all this trouble and taken such risks just to hurt them to punish them. He was ashamed of himself when he allowed his anger to get the better of him and always regretted it later. This girl was not going to anger him, however. She was going to fight him, she was going to hang on as long as she possibly could-and she was not going to cry. She was wonderful and Swann drifted into sleep thinking that he truly loved her already.

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