David Baldacci - Split Second

He knew Todd Williams, the police chief, since Sean was one of Todd's volunteer deputies. Todd looked distraught as one of two FBI agents stepped forward and flashed his credentials like he was brandishing a switchblade.

"Sean King? We understand that you have a pistol registered to you."

King nodded. "I'm a volunteer deputy. The public likes to see us armed in case we have to shoot any bad guys. So?"

"So we'd like to see it. In fact, we'd like to take it."

King glanced sharply at Williams, who looked at him and shrugged and then took a huge, symbolic step backward.

"You have a warrant?" King asked.

"You're a former federal agent. We hoped you'd cooperate."

"I'm also a lawyer, and we're not a real cooperative breed."

"It's up to you. I've got the paper right here."

King had pulled that same trick before as a fed. His "search warrant" was often a photocopy of a New York Times crossword puzzle neatly folded. "Show it to me," he demanded.

The warrant was produced and it was for real. They wanted his service revolver.

"Can I ask why?"

"You can ask," said the agent.

Now the deputy U.S. marshal stepped forward. He was about fifty, stood about six-five and was built like a professional boxer, with broad shoulders, long arms and huge hands.

"Let's just cut the cute shit, okay?" he said to the agent before looking at King. "They want to match it against the slug taken out of Jennings. I'm assuming you don't have a problem with that."

"You think I shot Howard Jennings in my office and used my own service revolver to do it? What, as a matter of convenience, or because I'm too cheap to spring for another gun?"

"Just eliminating possibilities," said the man pleasantly. "You know the drill. Being a Secret Service agent and all."

"Was. Was a Secret Service agent." He turned. "I'll get the gun."

The big man put a hand on King's shoulder. "No. Just show them where it is."

"So let them in my house and they can go merrily along picking up evidence to build a case against me?"

"An innocent man has nothing to hide," the deputy marshal shot back. "Besides, they won't peek, Scout's honor."

An FBI agent followed King inside. As they walked down the hall, the agent looked in surprise at the mess in the kitchen.

"My dog is kind of wild," explained King.

The man nodded. "I got a black Lab named Trigger. What's yours?"

"Pit bull bitch named Joan."

They went to his den, where King opened the lockbox and then motioned the agent to inspect the contents. The man bagged the pistol, handed him a receipt for the weapon and followed King back outside.

"Sorry about this, Sean," said Todd. "I know it's all a crock." The good police chief didn't sound like he meant it, King noted.

As the men pulled off in their vehicles, Joan came down the stairs, fully dressed.

"What did they want?"

"Collecting for the policemen's ball."

"Uh-huh. Are you a suspect or what?"

"They took my gun."

"You have an alibi, right?"

"I was on patrol. I saw nobody and nobody saw me."

"Too bad I wasn't here earlier. I could have given you a hell of an alibi if you had just played your cards right." She raised her right hand and placed her other on an imaginary Bible. "Your Honor, Mr. King is innocent because at the time of said murder, yours truly was getting seriously banged on the kitchen table by the said Mr. King."

"Maybe in your dreams."

"It has been in my dreams. But now I think I'm too late."

"Joan, do me a great favor: get out of my house."

She stepped back, her eyes searching his. "You're not honestly worried about it, are you? The ballistics won't match and that'll be it."

"You think so?"

"I'm assuming you had your gun with you while you were on patrol."

"Of course, I did. My slingshot's broken."

"Jokes. You always made stupid jokes when you were the most nervous."

"A guy is dead, Joan, in my office, dead. None of this is really funny."

"Unless you murdered the man, I don't see how your gun could have done it." He didn't answer and she said, "Is there something you haven't told the police?"

"I didn't kill Jennings, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking it. I know you too well."

"Well, people change, they really do."

She picked up her bag. "Would it be all right if I came to visit you again?" She added quickly, "If I swear not to do that." She glanced over at the trashed kitchen table.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Eight years ago I lost something important to me. This morning I tried to get it all back, using a method that turned out to be embarrassingly stupid."

"What's the point of our seeing each other again?"

"I actually have something I want to ask you."

"So ask."

"Not now. Another time. I'll be in touch."

After she left, he started to pick up the kitchen. In a few minutes everything was clean and back in order. If only he could do the same thing to his life. However, he had a feeling that a lot more things were going to be broken before this was over.

Michelle took a short puddle-jumper flight to North Carolina. Because she didn't have her credentials and badge anymore but did have her weapon's permit, she had had to check her gun and a small knife she always carried into the cargo hold, retrieving them only after the plane landed. The blanket policy of confiscating all weapons that had been enacted after 9/11 had been relaxed somewhat, although without her badge it was not that easy. Michelle rented a car and drove about an hour to the small town of Bowlington, fifty miles east of the Tennessee border and in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. However, there wasn't much of a town left anymore, she soon discovered. Textile manufacturing had driven the area in its heyday, she was told by an old-timer at the gas station where she stopped.

"They make all that stuff in China or Taiwan for peanuts now, not the good old U.S. of A.," lamented the man. "What we got left here, not much." He punctuated the comment by spitting some tobacco chew into a mason jar, rang up her soda and handed back her change. He asked her what she'd come here for, but she was noncommittal. "Just passing through."

"Well, ma'am, just so you know, there ain't much to pass through to."

She got in her car and drove through the mostly deserted and impoverished town. She saw lots of old people either sitting on theirsagging front porches or creeping across their small, ragged yards. As she pulled up to the place, Michelle wondered why eight years ago Clyde Ritter had seen fit to stop here on his campaign trail. He probably could have scrounged up more votes in a cemetery.

Situated a few miles outside of the town proper, the Fairmount Hotel had not only seen better days, it seemed about one wavering support beam from tumbling down. The structure was eight stories high and encircled by a six-foot-high chain-link fence. The architecture of the place was a very mixed bag. The building was over a hundred years old and seemed to be Gothic in some parts with fake turrets and balustrades and towers, and Mediterranean in other respects with stucco walls and a red tile roof. Its ugliness could not be overexaggerated, Michelle decided. Even the term "white elephant" hardly seemed to do it justice.

There were No Trespassing signs on the fence, but she didn't see any security guard hut or any security guard making rounds. Off to the side of the hotel she found a gap in the fence. However, before slipping through here, she decided to reconnoiter the area, her Secret Service training kicking in.

The land was fairly flat all around except near the rear of the building where it sloped down to the fence. Michelle eyeballed the angle of the slope to the fence and smiled. She had won state championships in the high and long jumps two years in a row. With a little juice in her veins and a decent tailwind and using that slope, she might be able to jump the damn fence. Ten years ago she probably would have tried, just for fun. She continued her walk and then decided to move a little ways into the woods. When she heard rushing water, she moved farther into the dense trees.