Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

When he was finished interviewing the last Secret Service agent Evans checked his cell phone for messages. There was one from Sparks asking him to call her.

“Hey, Maggie, what’s up?” Evans asked when Sparks picked up.

“Did you put out an APB on a Harley?”

“Yeah.”

“A cop just called in from Webster’s Corner, West Virginia. The bike’s been spotted at the Traveler’s Rest Motel.”

When Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks followed the Webster’s Corner cop around the side of the Traveler’s Rest, Dana Cutler was sitting at a picnic table finishing off her evening meal. Until then, Dana had been at peace. The sun was just starting to set, and a gentle breeze was rustling the surface of the river that ran behind the motel. There was birdsong in the air and a quarter mile to the east, a speedboat was stirring up the blue-green water.

Dana cursed herself for not sensing that something was wrong earlier in the day when she saw the same cop stop at the motel office after cruising by twice. The Harley was parked a twenty-five-yard dash away, and the money belt with the cash Gorman had paid her was cinched around her waist. Dana stood so she could make a break for it if they gave her a chance.

“Miss Cutler?” Evans asked pleasantly.

“Who wants to know?” Dana asked. Her instincts told her to go for her gun but the cop’s hand was hovering over his sidearm and she figured the odds were against her. She might have tried to shoot her way out anyway, but Evans and Sparks didn’t scare her the way she’d been scared by the men in her apartment and the men in the alley behind The 911. Dana decided that the two suits weren’t going to kill her with the cop as a witness.

“I’m Keith Evans. I’m with the FBI.” Evans handed Cutler his card. “This is Margaret Sparks, my partner. We’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Evans smiled. “Conking a Secret Service agent on the skull, for starters.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay. We aren’t here to arrest you. No one has filed a complaint. I’ve been assigned to assist the independent counsel in his investigation of the president’s possible involvement in the murder of Charlotte Walsh. We’re here to offer our protection. From what I hear, there have been two attempts on your life already. You’ve been lucky so far, but the men who’ve tried to kill you will find you if we did.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re interrupting my dinner.”

“Watch your lip,” the cop said. “That bike you’re riding isn’t registered to a woman. If I get the word, you’ll be in the lockup until we find out if you’re riding a stolen vehicle.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Officer Boudreaux,” Evans said, “but there’s no need to play hardball with Miss Cutler. We just want to talk to her. In fact, we’ll take it from here.”

“I just don’t like her attitude, is all,” the policeman insisted sullenly.

While Evans was talking to the officer, Dana’s eyes were drawn to the two men in the speedboat. There was something familiar about them. One man was steering the boat and the other man was scanning the shoreline with binoculars. The binoculars turned toward her and fixed in that position for a moment. Then the man spoke into some object that could have been a cell phone or a walkie-talkie.

The boat drew close enough for Dana to hear the hum of its motor at the same time the rumble of other engines pulled her attention toward the highway. The policeman was walking back the way he’d come when two motorcycles tore around the corner. Dana drew three conclusions simultaneously: the man in the speedboat with the binoculars looked very much like the blond, long-haired man who’d threatened her in her apartment; the man steering the boat looked like the man she’d shot in her apartment; and the men on the bikes were armed.

“Get down,” Dana screamed just as the gunman on the lead bike shot the policeman through the eye.

Evans and Sparks were slow to react because their backs were to the bikes but Dana dropped to the ground, drew her gun from its place at the small of her back, and drilled the second gunman just as he was drawing a bead on Evans. His bike flipped in the air, wheels spinning, then skidded on its side across the grass. Dana aimed at the other rider. The bike roared by. Dana’s shot went wide. She started to roll onto her stomach to take a second shot when a corner of the table exploded. A splinter from the table stabbed Sparks in the cheek and she fell to the ground.

“The boat!” Evans screamed as he dragged Sparks behind the table. Dana glanced toward the river and saw the blond take aim with a high-powered rifle. Evans squatted, grabbed the edge of the table, and heaved it over so that the top was shielding them. A second bullet tore through the wood just missing him but Dana paid no attention because the gunman on the motorcycle was making another pass. He was hunched over his handlebars to present as small a target as possible as he aimed his weapon. Dana fired until her gun was empty. One of the shots hit the motorcycle’s rear wheel and the bike pitched forward, sending the shooter into space. He crashed to the ground and tried to sit up. Dana grabbed her ankle gun and ran at him, firing nonstop. Two rounds caught the killer in the face. He collapsed onto his back just as a round from the rifle whizzed by Dana’s ear. She hit the ground and rolled back to the table next to Evans. Sparks writhed on the ground beside them, gritted her teeth, and pressed her hand to the right side of her face, which was covered with blood. The boat was close now. Evans took careful aim and shot at the man at the wheel. The shot missed but it shattered the windshield. The driver ducked and the boat swung back and forth. The blond lost his balance and tilted sideways, almost dropping the rifle. The driver wrenched the boat around and headed upriver. Evans collapsed on his backside and sucked air.

“Call for backup and an ambulance for your partner,” Dana ordered as she ran to the policeman.

“The cop is dead,” she shouted at Evans, who was speaking into his cell phone.

“So are the shooters,” Dana said after checking the two riders. “How’s your partner?”

“I’m okay,” Sparks said between clenched teeth. “This just hurts like hell.”

“The ambulance is on its way,” Evans said.

“Good. I’m out of here,” Dana said.

“Wait,” Evans said as he aimed his gun at Dana.

“You’re going to have to shoot me because I’m not waiting for more of Farrington’s killers to take me out.”

Evans lowered his gun. “We’ll put you in the witness protection program.”

“Which is run by the Justice Department, which is part of the executive branch whose boss is Christopher Farrington? No thanks.”

Dana turned and ran to her Harley. She wheeled it toward the front of her room so she could grab her gear.

“Are you letting her go?” Sparks asked.

“The alternative was shooting her, and she did save our lives.”

“You saved mine,” Sparks said.

Evans blushed. “Nah, I was trying to use you as a human shield but I couldn’t boost you up in time.”

Sparks tried to smile but a spasm of pain made her grit her teeth. Keith heard sirens in the distance.

“Here comes the cavalry,” he said.

In junior high school, Brad had erased a file with a term paper on it. After that, he’d been a fanatic about backing up important files and taking the disc wherever he went in case a fire, theft, tsunami, earthquake, or other disaster deprived him of his hard drive. Susan Tuchman had ordered Brad to turn over the Little file along with the file on his computer that contained his notes, but Tuchman had never asked Brad if he had a backup disc. Brad was certain the disc contained a recent address for Marsha Erickson, Laurie’s mother, he had found in the trial lawyer’s file. He was right but there was no phone number. When he tried to get a number from directory assistance he was told that it was unlisted. That was why he was using precious time on a Sunday driving down a narrow dirt road located halfway between Portland and the coast instead of working or, better yet, watching the Yankees play Boston.