David Baldacci - Split Second

"I heard you discovered a gun at that woman's home."

"How the hell did you find that out? I just told the cops."

"I'm in the private sector, but I didn't turn in my investigative skills when I left the Service. Is it true?"

He hesitated. "Yeah, I found a gun."

"And where do you think it came from?"

"I have my theories. But I'm not in a sharing mood."

"Well, let me jump right in with one of mine. This woman was a maid at the Fairmount Hotel, she had a gun hidden in her garden and she meets a violent death with money stuffed in her mouth. She was blackmailing the person who was the owner of that gun. And that person may have been involved in Ritter's assassination."

He stared at the woman in amazement. "Who the hell are your sources?"

"Sorry, I've used up my sharing spirit too. So you get the gun, lose the gun, and you're almost killed in the process."

"Michelle actually got it a lot worse than I did. They just knocked me out. Apparently they did their best to kill her."

She looked at him strangely when he said that. "Do you think this has anything to do with Bruno's disappearance?" she asked abruptly.

He looked surprised. "How could it? Just because Ritter and Bruno were both presidential candidates? That's quite a stretch."

"Maybe so. But things that look complex tend to have very simple cores."

"Thanks for the detective lesson. I'll sure remember that one."

"Maybe you need some basic lessons. You're the one running around with the woman who let Bruno be kidnapped."

"She didn't let Bruno be kidnapped any more than I let Clyde Ritter get shot."

"The fact is, I'm investigating Bruno's disappearance, and at this juncture I can't assume anyone is above suspicion, including your lady friend Michelle."

"Great, and she's not my ‘lady friend.' "

"Okay, what exactly is she?"

"I'm just following up some stuff, and she's helping me."

"Wonderful. I'm glad you've teamed up with someone, since it appears you've blown me off completely. Is Maxwell also offering a million-dollar payday if you crack the case, or just a kick-ass adventure between the sheets?"

He eyed her closely. "Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Maybe I am, Sean. But regardless, I think I at least deserve an answer to my offer."

King glanced in the direction of Michelle's room but turned back when Joan put a hand on his arm.

"I need to get going on this. And you never know, we might just find out the real truth about Clyde Ritter."

He stared defiantly at her. "Yeah, we just might," he shot back.

"So you're in? I need to know. Right now."

After a moment he nodded. "I'm in."

They flew via private plane to Dayton, Ohio, and then drove to a state mental facility that was about thirty minutes north. Joan had called ahead and gotten the necessary approvals to visit Sidney Morse.

"It wasn't as difficult as I would have thought," she told King on the drive there. "Although when I told the woman whom I wanted to see, she laughed. Said we could come if we wanted, but it wouldn't do us much good."

"How long has Morse been there?" King asked.

"About a year or so. He was committed by his family. Or rather his brother, Peter Morse. I guess that's all the family he had left."

"I thought Peter Morse was in trouble with the police. And wasn't he a druggie?"

" ‘ Was ' being the operative word. He never went to prison, probably due to his brother's influence. He apparently cleaned up his act and when his older brother went nuts, put him in the state mental hospital."

"Why in Ohio?"

"It seems that prior to being committed, Sidney was living with his brother here. I guess he was so far gone he couldn't live by himself."

King shook his head. "Talk about your reversal of fortune. In less than ten years the guy goes from king of the hill to permanent residence in a nuthouse."

Alittle while later King and Joan were sitting in a small room at the bleak institution. The sounds of wails and cries and sobbing filtered down the hallways. People whose minds had long since left them were hunched over in wheelchairs in the corridors. In a recreation room off the main reception area a small group of patients watched a show on TV. Nurses, doctors and attendants slowly moved up and down the halls in their scrubs, their energy seemingly sapped by the depressing surroundings.

King and Joan both stood as the man was wheeled into the room by one of the attendants. The young man nodded to them. "Okay, here's Sid."

The young man knelt down in front of Morse and patted him on the shoulder. "Okay, Sid, these people want to talk to you, okay, you hear me? It's cool, just talk." The attendant grinned when he said this.

He stood and Joan said, "Um, is there anything we should know, anything to avoid?"

The man smiled, showing a row of crooked teeth. "Not with Sid. It really doesn't matter."

King hadn't been able to take his gaze off the wreck of a man who eight years ago had nearly pulled off one of the most impressive feats in American politics. Morse had lost some weight but was still chubby. His hair had been shaved off, although he had a short beard shot with gray. King had remembered his eyes being laser sharp, missing nothing. Now those eyes were clearly lifeless. It was Sidney Morse, but just barely, only the shell really.

He said, "So what's the diagnosis?"

"That he ain't never leaving here, that's what," said the attendant, who introduced himself as Carl. "His mind's totally gone. Cracked out and ain't coming back. Look, I'll be down the hall. You can just come get me when you're done." Carl walked off.

Joan glanced at King. "I can't believe it's him," she said. "I know his rep and career took a big hit after Ritter was killed, but you'd think it wouldn't come to this ."

"Maybe it happened in stages. And I guess a lot can happen in eight years. I mean look at me. He was shattered after the Ritter debacle. Nobody wanted him. He grew depressed. And maybe his younger brother introduced a very vulnerable Sidney to some heavy drugs while they were living together. I recall during the campaign that Sidney said his brother's drug habit had gotten him into a lot of trouble. He said his brother was pretty creative in coming up with ways to get the cash to support his habit. Quite the con man."

King knelt in front of Morse. "Sidney, Sidney, do you remember me? I'm Sean King. Agent Sean King," he added.

There was no reaction. A bit of spittle oozed out of the man's mouth and clung to his lip. King glanced at Joan. "His father was a well-known lawyer," he said, "and his mother was some kind of heiress. I wonder where all that money went?"

"Maybe it's used to support him here."

"No, this is a state institution. It's not some fancy private place."

"Well, maybe his brother has control of it. I guess they each inherited and now he has both shares. And who cares about the Morse brothers? I'm here to find John Bruno."

King turned to look back at Morse. The man hadn't moved. "God, look at those knife marks on his face."

"Self-mutilation. Sometimes that goes with being unbalanced."

King rose, shaking his head.

"Hey, have you played the game with him?" said a high-pitched voice.

They both turned and looked at the short, skinny man standing behind them holding a ragged stuffed rabbit. His features were so tiny he looked like a leprechaun. He wore a ratty bathrobe and apparently little else. Joan averted her gaze.

"The game," said the man, who looked at them with a childlike expression. "Have you played it yet?"

"What, with him?" asked King, pointing to Morse.

"I'm Buddy," said the man, "and this is Buddy too," he said, holding up the ragged rabbit.