Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

“What’s the Yab Yum?”

“You will not be disappointed, my friend.”

A picture was developing in Walter’s mind. After Leonard’s family died, his ties to everyone in Atlanta began slipping. When he discovered what really happened-when he received Dr. Roy’s CD-he cut the remaining shreds. Sources in the financial world had already provided Walter with Leonard Martin’s history. He knew Leonard had gone to cash and the money trail led straight to the Caymans. “We all keep our money there, don’t we?” he thought, and wondered if they shared the same bank. If so, Leonard’s account dwarfed his own. The move to Jamaica had been a hoax; a cheap one at that. There was a deed with Leonard’s name on it, but the property had been bought for only a few thousand dollars. It made no difference. Leonard was probably never there. But he was somewhere, for two years. Wherever that was, he had managed to stockpile weapons, some quite exotic and expensive, and found a way to use them proficiently, expertly. “Practice, practice,” thought Walter. Like a golf pro hitting hundreds of balls every day, rain or shine, he envisioned Leonard Martin firing round after round, day after day, week after week, month after month. As Walter put the puzzle together, he guessed there had been no way Leonard could have used a commercial shooting range. He would have been like a pool hall junkie, hanging around for hours on end, day after day after day. That would have attracted too much attention. There was no way that happened. Isobel had told him about Leonard’s use of a small trampoline, one he used to stand on to learn how to shoot accurately even while unstable. So where then did Leonard Martin stay? Where did he shoot? Something didn’t fit. Perhaps the answers would come from Aat van de Steen. Wherever the guns went, Leonard was there. Walter would wait until the Dutchman called.

New York

Maloney was worried. The stories in the New York Times -Christ! Every day they print something else with his name in it. Photographers, TV trucks, reporters of all sorts hounded them everywhere. The publicity was making it impossible for him and the others to conduct the normal business of the firm. Day after day the public relations machine so much a part of the Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills operation labored to deny, deny, deny. Nathan wanted Louise to direct this effort, but he was dissuaded when she looked at him in disbelief, the left side of her mouth noticeably twitching, and said, “That’s madness, Nathan. None of us-and I mean none of us-can be seen touching this. It will explode in our faces. Get someone else. You’ve got resources.”

Wesley Pitts said, “It’s already blown up in our face, Louise.”

“No it hasn’t!” she shouted. “It’s just a fucking newspaper article, some talking heads on the cable. Shit, nobody watches those goddamn cable networks anyway. It can’t hurt us. It will go away!”

“I think Louise is right,” Tom Maloney interjected, seeing the need, as always, to get things under control. He tried not to show how desperate he was to get them all calmed down before it was too late. He knew Louise Hollingsworth didn’t believe a word she’d said. He could see fear in her eyes. Her reaction was visceral. She felt she was doomed. They were all doomed. Her emotions erupted into an open sore. Maloney did not share those feelings. No matter what the New York Times wrote, the killings had stopped. Leonard Martin had stopped killing people. Tom had earlier confided as much to Nathan, and Nathan, he thought, had bought in. Or so it seemed.

“We’ll get someone to handle this,” Tom said. “The real problem is that we can’t operate effectively with any sense of routine. We can’t talk to clients because all they’re thinking about is what they saw on TV or read in the paper. No matter how many times the firm denies any involvement, it’s still out of the question to call someone-anyone-and say ‘Hey, let’s have lunch.’ Who wants to be near us? After all, who among us is willing to walk in the street like a normal person?”

It was a question not requiring an answer. Nevertheless, Pitts said, “Not me.”

“It’s not ‘out of the question,’” Nathan said, “it’s fucking impossible! The way they treat us you’d think we were priests, goddamnit! As of right now,” he said, rising from his big chair, looking as tall as he ever had, “we’re all on leave. Go home, or wherever you want to go, and don’t come back until this is over. We’ll stay in touch with cell phones.”

The room was deathly quiet. The light behind Nathan’s desk was such that none of the other three could actually see his face. Were his eyes darting from side to side? Was his nose twitching? They had no idea. Despite the brief outburst, his voice was calm and smooth, his demeanor subdued, not agitated. Louise and Wes took the moment as a sign of Nathan’s leadership. Had they thought it through they would have seen the folly in such judgment, but they badly needed reassurance, and how they got it was of no importance. Maloney stayed seated and Stein stood, towering above him as Tom Cruise might be made to appear tall when shot from the proper angle. “He might be a wee little man,” thought Tom, “but his name’s on the door.” Wesley Pitts and Louise Hollingsworth left.

“Let them go hide,” Nathan said. “This is real horseshit, Tom. You know that. What the fuck is going on with Sherman? He knows his guy is Leonard Martin-the whole fucking world knows it. Results!”

“I haven’t heard from him, but that means he’s working, Nathan. That’s what it means. The time will come when Walter Sherman calls, and Leonard Martin will be right there.”

“You still think we’re safe?”

“No, not safe, not the way you mean it. People we know are already dead, for Christ’s sake! We’re in the crosshairs alright, but Leonard Martin has something up his sleeve.”

“Great. When do we find out?”

“If Sherman doesn’t find him first, and soon, we’ll find out when he wants us to. In the meantime there’s nothing we can do, Nathan. Nothing.”

Louise and Wesley went home, kept their blinds closed, and stayed away from the windows. She drank and he paced, talking to himself, cursing. They didn’t hurt for any creature comforts. The very rich can have anything delivered. They were used to having things brought to them. Each passed off the new, higher cost of such luxury to market conditions. Their stocks were tumbling, and in the end they knew the servants would just as soon pick their bones as wish them good morning. For both of them, bitterness and anger grew in direct proportion to personal jeopardy. After a couple of days of this, Tom called to say Nathan wanted them to “take off,” to go somewhere they won’t be found and try to relax.

Under different conditions Wesley Pitts might have flown off to Cabo San Lucas or Palm Springs. Not now. Instead, he bought a first-class ticket with a private cabin on the Amtrak train that ran from Washington, D.C. to New Orleans. Lawrence made the long drive from Manhattan to Union Station in the nation’s capitol. From there, Wes was on his own. Although his ticket was to the end of the line, he got off the train when it stopped for a few minutes in Meridian, Mississippi. From there he rented a car and drove the hundred miles or so to the tiny town of Hintonville. His grandmother welcomed him with open arms and a warm smile.

“Are you hungry, honeychild?” she said. “Oh, Wesley, I’m so happy to see you.” She squeezed her grandson, although she barely came up to the middle of his chest. “I love you so, boy.” She was not surprised to see him. Even in the backwaters of the Deep South people read the newspaper, even the New York Times.

Like Wes, Louise would have preferred La Costa or Vail. Unlike him, she had no grandmother who would take her in, no family who had been proud of her since childhood, eager to protect their loved one. There were many men she slept with, but none of them were of any use to her now. What she did have was an enormous amount of money. She called a real estate agent she found on the Internet in Brattleboro, Vermont. The same day she bought a house nearby, just north of the Massachusetts state line. She was adamant. She wanted privacy, off the beaten path, no neighbors. The agent suggested three properties. Louise chose the second one, a six-year-old cabin with all the amenities, three bedrooms and three and a half baths on two and three-quarters acres at the foot of what passed for a small mountain. The agent offered to fax Louise pictures of the property and directed her to a website where she could take a 360-degree virtual tour of the house. “Not necessary,” Louise said. She wired power of attorney and approved a wire transfer from her bank to the realtor’s escrow account in Vermont. “Close on it immediately,” she instructed the agent. “Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.” She packed and began driving. She thought of Nathan’s house in Wevertown and prayed the one she just bought would be as nice. It had to be, she figured. She paid almost six hundred thousand dollars for it.