April Smith - Judas Horse

Even more compelling: Toby Himes, the recipient of a Purple Heart, served in Vietnam in the same unit as Peter Abbott. Himes’s specialty was ordnance. Like Stone, he was trained to blow things up. A trap placed on Toby’s phone shows calls made to Peter Abbott’s private number.

Three names on the table and they all connect: Dick Stone, domestic terrorist, former FBI; Toby Himes, former military with training in explosives; Peter Abbott, deputy director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on the fast track to a political career.

The Abbott link is way too hot for an SAC in a field office to handle alone. But Galloway knows if he is going to follow this trail, it will have to be solo. And extremely treacherous. His equanimity in that meeting is a façade.

“What about our request for the hit on Herbert Laumann?” “Not a word.”

“We knew it would take weeks,” Angelo grumbles. “Some low guy at headquarters has to write a document and get it to the attorney general, then back to the director, and back on down. What’s your problem, Mike?” Donnato: “At this point, we have to ask: Do you trust the chain of command? Why does Toby Himes, a known associate of terrorists, have the private number of the number-two man in the FBI?” Galloway tries again.

“Let’s stay on track. One scenario is for Ana to hang in there until Stone shows his cards — who he’s working for, and to what end. Until he slips up.” Donnato: “Stone ain’t gonna slip.”

“Operations are fluid,” Angelo argues reasonably. “We started out looking for one thing; now we’ve got two focuses: Stone and FAN.” Donnato: “They’re the same.”

With the good side of his face, Angelo agrees. “Stone is running a cell of FAN. We have an operative in deep cover; this thing is going where we want it to go. At this point, it’s real simple: Watch the boat.” “While we’re watching, he buries Ana Grey up to the neck like that kid.” “What does Ana want?” Galloway asks.

“She wants to stay in,” Donnato replies. “She wants to be a hero.” Galloway considers his cigar.

“Does she know what it means to be a hero? A hero is a picture in somebody’s office.” There is a prolonged silence.

Finally, it’s Galloway, his voice reluctant and low, who says it: “Do we have a problem in-house?” From the look on the faces of his two trusted agents, veterans whose combined service records add up to almost forty years, Galloway can no longer ignore the elephant in the room.

“Approach Peter Abbott like you would any other bad guy. This stays with us. For her own security, keep Ana out of the loop.” They nod.

Around a conference table in Los Angeles, in complete secrecy and at great personal risk, three men who put loyalty above all else agree to launch a clandestine investigation to determine whether the deputy director of the FBI is aiding and abetting a group of domestic terrorists.

“Get out of my way.”

Stone rummages through the kitchen drawers and then moves to the front closet as Megan follows him from room to room.

“Julius — what are you doing?”

“You should know.”

“I have no idea!”

From the safety of the landing on the staircase, beneath the eye of the pinhole camera inside the German clock, the black-and-white kitten cries, one paw curled. Sitting there and stroking him, I try to fathom Dick Stone’s state of mind. He seems possessed, as if powerful aromas are assaulting him from every side. As he pushes Megan aside, his body seems to be aflame with irritation.

“The whole superstructure of this country is collapsing,” he says, charging upstairs. “There’s downward pressure on everything.” “Including me,” she replies, exasperated, as they pass.

I take the kitten in my lap and watch from a child’s point of view as the arguing parents thunder by. Stone’s boots raise dust on the runner tacked along the treads — which I remember checking out, piece by piece, for false compartments beneath the stair. That was before the discovery of the arms cache — before I knew that Daddy stole the bunnies that were rescued from starvation at the dump, in order to feed the rattlesnakes that were guarding Daddy’s guns.

“It’s everywhere,” Stone is lecturing. “Even for people who are medium well-off. Nobody can make it anymore.” “Could the apocalypse wait until Saturday? I’ll drive you wherever you want to go after the market.” “You?” He laughs as they disappear inside the bedroom.

“Oh, stop being silly,” clucks Megan, but a few minutes later she is heading back downstairs with a purpose.

I find her in the dining room, digging through the sideboard until she has what she is looking for — two bankbooks I have already examined. Neither shows a balance of more than fifteen hundred dollars.

“Phew!” She uses them to fan herself dramatically. “Last time he was in a mood like this, he took out three hundred dollars with no memory of what happened to it.” “He doesn’t remember? Really?”

She slips the bankbooks in her pocket.

“We have ‘happy Julius days,’ ‘depressed Julius days,’ and ‘just plain crazy.’” “How can you stand it? I thought when you left for Lillian’s funeral, you might not come back.” “We fight, but that’s the way it is. We’ve been together a long time, Darcy.” “That’s what women say whose husbands beat them up.” Mistake!

Megan’s eyes narrow, defending her man.

“Julius has never laid a hand on me. Or any woman.” Stuttering, I say, “I didn’t mean to say Allfather was like that.” “It has gotten worse.” She considers me with an insinuating stare. “Actually, a lot worse since you arrived.” Sticking an agent under his nose, as we might have learned from the Steve Crawford tragedy, only succeeds in aggravating the paranoia of a person like Dick Stone. His behavior has become irrational, and Megan is close to stating the truth: Once again, the FBI is responsible for letting the genie out of the bottle.

“I used to be able to talk him down. But what he did to Slammer…” Her voice breaks. “He was gone. He couldn’t hear me. I couldn’t physically stop him.” We hear Stone stomping around upstairs.

“Where is he going?”

“To see his friend Toby,” she replies fretfully. “All of a sudden he’s got to see Toby, the most important thing in the world. The single day I have to go to Portland, and it’s a long drive in the opposite direction.” “Why don’t I go along and keep an eye on him, Megan?” Her eyes rise to the old beamed ceiling and her lips pinch.

“I wish I could get him to stay on his meds, but he refuses. Stubborn man.” She looks at her watch.

“What time do you have to be in Portland?” I ask helpfully.

Megan hesitates. It is clear she’ll never make it to the market to sell her hazelnut brittle unless somebody volunteers to babysit Stone.

“Go with him,” she says, “but if he’s still like this, promise me you will not let him drive.”

Clouds of fog lie in the valleys, and the hills are saturated black. It stays that way, everlasting twilight. Nothing moves beside the houses and fences that blur the edge of our vision except the suddenly peaceful bandit, who seems to be flying past at eighty miles an hour, as if without benefit of a vehicle, like one of those maharishis known to levitate cross-legged over the mountains of India.

No way was he going to let me drive. He is the center. He is on the flight deck. He checks the green dials pulsing at the changes in the atmosphere — changes I imagine that he needs to know. Green dial faces are loyal. Amber ones are false. The amber ones do not worry him because he knows the truck is secure. As we crossed the misty yard, he called to me to make sure the engine hoses were clamped tight and there were no explosives hidden under the seat.