David Baldacci: Split Second

Parks jammed fresh shells in, cursing the whole time. But by the time he took aim she was too far away for his buckshot to do any damage, and accelerating fast. He yelled into his walkie-talkie.

Michelle saw him coming. She cut to the left, hurdled a log and went flat to the ground just before the slug slammed into the bark.

The man she thought was a police sniper up the tree was now also gunning for her. She placed several shots in his direction and then slithered on her belly for about ten yards before leaping to her feet.

How could she have been so damn blind? Another shot slammed into a tree near her head, and she hit the ground again. As she sucked in air, she assessed her abysmal options. There really weren't any thatdidn't involve her violent death. They could track her grid by grid, and there wasn't much she could do about it. Wait, her phone! She grabbed for it only to find it had fallen off her belt clip. Now she was cut off from all help and had at least two killers stalking her in dark woods in the middle of nowhere. Okay, this beat the hell out of the worst nightmares she'd ever had as a child.

She sprayed a few more shots in the direction she thought they were coming from, then leaped up and sprinted hard. The full moon was both a blessing and a curse. It enabled her to see where she was going, but it also allowed her pursuers to spot her as well.

She broke free from the woods, then pulled up just barely in time.

She was right at the edge of the embankment of the river she'd observed on her first visit here. A long drop awaited her if she took another step. The problem was that Parks and his partner were right behind her. She checked her mag: there were five rounds left, and she had one spare mag on her. Okay, in another few seconds they'd break free of the trees and have an unobstructed shot at her unless she could find somewhere to hide and nail them first. Still, even if she got one of the shooters, that would reveal her position, and the other shooter would probably bring her down. She looked around, seeking a solution with higher odds of survival. Then she checked out once more the long drop and the fast-moving river. Her plan came together in seconds. While some might call it foolish, most would term it suicidal. But what the hell, she'd always loved the extremes in life. She holstered her weapon, took a deep breath and waited.

As soon as she heard them make the clearing, she screamed and jumped. She had picked her spot carefully. About twenty feet down, there was a small rock ledge. She hit it and splayed out, grabbing for anything she could. Still, she almost slipped off and came within two frantically curled fingers of plunging into the river.

She glanced up and saw Parks and the other man peer down, looking for her. Because of where she'd landed, a chunk of jutting rock tothe left of her blocked their view of her location. And the moon was behind them, silhouetting both men beautifully. She could have picked them both off with no problem, and was really tempted to do so. But she was thinking big picture here, and she had another plan. She put her shoe against the small tree trunk that had caught on the ledge she was on. That and its natural cover was why she'd picked this landing place. She pushed against the tree trunk until it was right at the edge of the precipice. She looked up at Parks. They were shining lights around, looking for her and pointing. As soon as they were both looking the other way, she gave the trunk one huge push, and it plunged downward. At the same time, she let out the loudest scream she could manage.

She watched as the trunk hit the river's surface, then glanced up at the men as they shone their lights at that spot. Michelle held her breath, praying they'd believe that she'd plunged to her death in the river. As seconds went by and they didn't leave, Michelle began to think that she'd indeed have to attempt to shoot them both. Moments later, though, they apparently made up their minds she was dead, turned and went back into the woods.

Michelle waited for about ten minutes, to make sure they were really gone. And then she grasped a rock jutting out of the side of the embankment and began to climb up. If Parks and the other man could have seen the expression on the woman's face as she pulled herself from oblivion, they would have been, despite their weapons and superior number, in very real fear for their lives.

You've changed a lot, Sidney, " said King. "Lost weight. I hardly recognized you. You look good, though. Your brother hasn't aged nearly as well."

Sidney Morse, Clyde Ritter's brilliant campaign manager who was supposed to be sitting in a mental hospital in Ohio, looked at King with an amused expression. He also held a pistol that was pointed at King's chest. Dressed in an expensive suit, his face clean-shaven, graying hair thin but nicely styled, Morse was a slender, distinguished-looking man.

"I'm impressed. What led you to think someone other than the unfortunate Mr. Scott was behind this?"

"That note you left on my bathroom door. A real Secret Service agent would never have used the phrase ‘pushing a post'; he would've just written ‘pushing.' And Bob Scott was ex-military and always used the twenty-four-hour clock. He wouldn't have used ‘A.M.' And then I started thinking, why Bowlington? Why the Fairmount Hotel in the first place? Because it was thirty minutes from Arnold Ramsey, that's why. As campaign manager you could have easily arranged that."

"But so could several others, including Doug Denby and Ritter himself. And to the world I'm a zombie in Ohio."

"Not to a Secret Service agent. I admit, it took me some time but I finally got it." He nodded at the gun Sidney held. "You'releft-handed, I finally remembered that. Munching your candy bars. We in the Service tend to focus on the small details. And yet the ‘zombie' in Ohio catches tennis balls in his right hand. And in a photo at the hospital Peter Morse was holding a baseball bat in his right hand, so I had confirmation of that."

"My dear brother. He was never good for much."

"Well, he was an integral part of your plan," King said in a prompting manner.

Morse smiled. "I see you haven't the brains to really figure all this out, that you just want me to lay it out for you. All right, I really don't see you testifying about it later. I got the sanitized guns Arnold and I had at the Fairmount from my criminally inclined brother."

"And you hid your gun in the supply closet after Ritter was killed."

"And that maid person saw me and spent the next seven years blackmailing me, only stopping when she believed I'd been committed. Your friend Maxwell unwittingly revealed the blackmailer's identity to me. And I paid her back. With interest."

"Just like you did Mildred Martin."

"She couldn't follow directions. I don't tolerate stupid people."

"I guess that included your brother."

"It was probably a mistake to involve him, but he was family, after all, and quite willing to help. However, as time went by and my poor brother continued to abuse drugs, I was afraid he'd talk. I also had all the family money, and there was always the possibility of blackmail. The best place to keep one's ‘problems' is in plain sight, so I kept him around, supported him. When the time came, I switched identities with him and had him committed."

"But why switch identities at all?"

"It ensured that the world thought I was somewhere else while I put this little plan together. Otherwise, people might start nosing around." Morse stretched his arms out. "Think about it. Several of the players in the Ritter imbroglio brought together on an elaborateset like this? People inevitably would start thinking about me. Being institutionalized was better than even being dead. People can fake their deaths. I was confident no one would be able to find out I had committed Peter rather than the other way around." Morse smiled. "And why do it if you're not going to do it with panache?"