Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

I’m sorry. I love you. I wish I could be there. I’m sorry for all I’ve done. Please forgive your dad. Before he could lose his nerve he pushed the .357 as far down his throat as he could. It was cold and heavy. One of his gums started to bleed from a nick.

Bill Burton had done everything he could to ensure that no one would ever know the truth. He had committed crimes; he had killed an innocent person and had been involved in five other homicides. And now, seemingly in the clear, the horror behind him, after months of mounting disgust with what he had become, and after a sleepless night next to a woman he had loved with all his heart for over two decades, Bill Burton had realized that he could not accept what he had done, nor could he live with that knowledge.

The fact was that without self-respect, without his pride, his life was not worth living. And the unfailing love of his family did not help matters, it only made them worse. Because the object of that love, of that respect, knew that he deserved none of it.

He looked over at the stack of cassette tapes. His insurance policy. Now they would constitute his legacy, his own bizarre epitaph. And some good would come out of it. Thank God for that.

His lips curled into a barely perceptible smile. The Secret Service. Well, the secrets were going to fly now. He briefly thought of Alan Richmond and his eyes glistened. Here’s hoping for life without parole and you live to be a hundred, asshole.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Another snowball hit the window. Their voices drifted up to him. The tears started again as he thought of what he was leaving behind. “Goddammit.” The word floated from his mouth, carrying with it more guilt, more anguish than he could ever hope to bear.

I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Please God don’t hate me.

At the sound of the explosion, the playing stopped as three pairs of eyes turned as one toward the house. In another minute they were inside. It only took one more minute for the screams to be heard. The quiet neighborhood was no more.

The knock on the door was unexpected. President Alan Richmond was in a tense conference with his Cabinet. The press had lately been lambasting the administration’s domestic policies and he wanted to know why. Not that the actual policies themselves were of much interest to him. He was more concerned about the perception they conveyed. In the grand scheme of things perceptions were all that mattered. That was Politics 101.

“Who the hell are they?” The President looked angrily at the secretary. “Whoever they are, they’re not on the list for today.” He looked around the table. Hell, his Chief of Staff had not even bothered to show up for work today. Maybe she had done the smart thing and taken a bottle of pills. That would hurt him short-term, but he would work out an impressive spin on her suicide. Besides she had been right about one thing: he was so far ahead in the polls who cared?

The secretary timidly crept into the room. Her growing astonishment was evident. “It’s a large group of men, Mr. President. Mr. Bayliss from the FBI, several policemen, and a gentleman from Virginia, he wouldn’t give his name.”

“The police? Tell them to leave and submit a request to see me. And tell Bayliss to call me tonight. He’d be cooling his heels in some Bureau outpost in the middle of nowhere if I hadn’t pushed through his nomination as Director. I will not tolerate this disrespect.”

“They’re most insistent, sir.”

The President flushed red and stood up. “Tell them to get the hell out. I’m busy, you idiot.”

The woman quickly retreated. Before she could reach the door, however, it had opened. Four Secret Service agents entered, Johnson and Varney among them, followed by a contingent of D.C. police, including Police Chief Nathan Brimmer, and FBI Director Donald Bayliss, a short, thickly built man in a double-breasted suit with a face whiter than the building he was now in.

Bringing up the rear, Seth Frank quietly closed the door. In his other hand he carried a plain brown briefcase. Richmond stared at each of them, his eyes finally coming to rest on the homicide detective.

“Detective... Frank, right? In case you weren’t aware you are interrupting a confidential Cabinet meeting. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He looked across at the four agents, raised his eyebrows and cocked his head toward the door. The men stared back; they didn’t budge.

Frank stepped forward. He quietly slipped a paper out of his coat, unfolded it and handed it to the President. Richmond looked down at it while his Cabinet watched in utter bewilderment. Richmond finally looked back at the detective.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“That is a copy of an arrest warrant naming you on capital murder charges for crimes committed in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Chief Brimmer here has a similar arrest warrant for murder one accessory charges that will be brought against you in the District. That is, after the commonwealth finishes with you.”

The President looked over at Brimmer, who met his gaze and sternly nodded. There was a cold look in the lawman’s eyes that told exactly how he felt about the Chief Executive.

“I’m the President of the United States. You can’t serve me with anything unless it’s coffee. Now get out.” The President turned to go back to his chair.

“Technically that may be true. However, I don’t really care. Once the impeachment process is complete you won’t be President Alan Richmond, you’ll just be Alan Richmond. And when that happens I’ll be back. Count on it.”

The President turned back around, his face bloodless. “Impeachment?”

Frank moved forward until he was eye-to-eye with the man. On any other occasion this would have triggered prompt action on the part of the Secret Service. Now, they simply stood motionless. It was impossible to tell that each one of them was inwardly reeling over the loss of a respected colleague. Johnson and Varney seethed at having been duped as to the events of that night at the Sullivan estate. And the man they blamed for it all was now crumpling in front of them.

Frank said, “Let’s cut through the bullshit. We already have Tim Collin and Gloria Russell in custody. They’ve both waived right to counsel and each has given detailed depositions regarding all of the events involving the homicides of Christine Sullivan, Luther Whitney, Walter Sullivan and the two killings at Patton, Shaw. I believe they’ve already cut deals with the prosecutors, who are really only interested in you anyway. This case is a real career-builder for a prosecutor, let me tell you.”

The President staggered back a step, then righted himself.

Frank opened the briefcase and pulled out a videotape and five audiocassette tapes. “I’m sure your counsel will be interested to see these. The video is of Agents Burton and Collin when they attempted to murder Jack Graham. The tapes are of several meetings at which you were present and at which the plannings for the various crimes took place. Over six hours of testimony, Mr. President. Copies have been delivered to the Hill, the FBI, CIA, the Post, the Attorney General, White House counsel and anybody else I could think of — and no gaps on the tapes. Also included is the tape Walter Sullivan made of your telephone conversation on the night of his murder. It doesn’t exactly coincide with the version you gave me. All compliments of Bill Burton. Said in his note he was cashing in his insurance policy.”

“And where is Burton?” The President’s voice was filled with rage.

“He was pronounced DOA at Fairfax Hospital at ten-thirty this morning. Self-inflicted gunshot wound.”