David Baldacci - The Last Mile

The three men were in their seventies now, their trio of birthdays within two weeks of one another. They had been superstars in Cain, the three best known citizens to emerge from the small town.

Eastland, the mega-capitalist.

Huey, the über-politician.

McClellan, the perennial cop.

They were the only passengers on the G5. The two pilots up front sat behind a closed door.

McClellan poured out drinks for all and the three men faced each other across the width of a polished mahogany table at thirty-seven thousand feet.

Their visages were worn. Their bodies had started to wither. They each benefited from excellent health care, so they might have ten or even twenty more years, but maybe not all good ones. They clearly understood this.

Younger women still chased after Eastland, but only because of his wealth. His third wife had cost him enough that he was reluctant to indulge again in legal matrimony. He now focused on his business, and when he needed sex, a woman was provided, paid for, and then taken away. It worked well. He had three children by three different wives, and all of them had been a disappointment. They were largely silver-spooners, because he had made his fortune early. And he had no grandchildren since it seemed his worthless kids couldn’t even manage to do that. He was wondering lately to whom he would leave his fortune.

Thurman Huey was a widower, his wife of forty-plus years having lost a long battle with breast cancer the past summer. He was currently being consoled by his four children and twelve grandchildren, and also by one eligible D.C. mover and shaker who had recently lost her husband of three decades. Yet his deceased wife could not be replaced. He felt lost without her, but he had a country’s purse strings to manage. That was growing harder and harder to do as each election cycle sent more people to Congress who were ever more determined to obstruct rather than govern. He could have left the Hill years ago and earned a fortune as a lobbyist or consultant and his only real work would be to make calls, have lunches and dinners, and let the young bucks do the heavy lifting. But he hadn’t. He expected to die at the job he currently held. He believed he was doing good work for the country. It was really the only thing he had left.

Roger McClellan was dressed in civilian clothes. He was the poorest of the lot, because being a cop in a small town never paid much. The woman he’d married over forty years ago was alive but had divorced him fifteen years back. “Irreconcilable differences” had been the term, nearly ubiquitous in all separations now. If his ex had listed years-long physical abuse on her divorce papers, it would have been more accurate. The same went for his kids. They were grown and scattered and had never come back, because why would they?

McClellan had had a temper from a very young age. Whenever they had lost a football game in high school or college — because the men had gone to Ole Miss and played ball there as well — his fellow Musketeers had had to hold him back from attacking members of the victorious team.

Huey sipped his drink. Eastland took a larger swallow.

McClellan downed his in one gulp and rose to pour himself another.

When he sat back down, Huey cleared his throat and said, “I truly believe we may have passed the worst of it. The FBI is officially off the case and back in D.C.”

Eastland nodded, but McClellan looked at his friends like they had told him the earth was flat.

“That’s bullshit, Hugh,” he said. “Hugh” was a nickname that only these two men ever used.

Eastland shook his head. “I don’t agree, Mac. They’ve gone back to D.C. with their tails tucked between their legs.”

“Don’t believe that for one minute. I sat in my office and listened to the fat guy—”

“Decker,” interjected Huey.

“—the fat guy,” continued McClellan, “go on and on about how he had us dead to rights and didn’t need a damn thing to close the cell door on us. You two didn’t hear that. But I sure as hell did. That man is coming for us. I’ve stared down many a criminal in my time. You two haven’t. I’ve seen that look before. That man is coming for us.”

“That was wishful thinking on his part,” said Huey. “I have it on good authority that the investigation is officially over.”

“Good authority!” said McClellan incredulously. “In D.C. I didn’t think there was such a thing.”

Eastland said, “I’ve had my intelligence people look into it, without telling them anything, really, of course, and they’ve come to the same conclusion.”

“Are these the same intelligence folks who thought Iraq had WMDs?” countered McClellan. “Because if so, I wouldn’t bet the farm on your damn intelligence .”

Huey bristled. “Mac, please don’t make issues where none exist. They have no proof. They have no way to get proof.”

“You’re forgetting Aaron Callahan, a.k.a. Roy Mars. He has the proof. And the asshole’s alive.”

“We were told that, but we’ve seen no definitive evidence of it,” pointed out Huey.

“Who the hell else would have gotten that colored kid out of the lockup ’cept his old man? How the hell could Callahan have married a colored? I just don’t get it. He was one of us.”

Eastland said, “He was never one of us. He was brought in, bought and paid for. He never believed in our cause. He just wanted the money.”

“He thought like we did,” persisted McClellan. “He thought like a white man should. That’s what I meant.”

“And if you hadn’t gone after him when you saw that piece on ESPN we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” barked Eastland. “Have you never heard of the phrase ‘let sleeping dogs lie’? He hadn’t given up our secrets for decades, Mac. And then you poked the hornet’s nest, and now look where we are.”

McClellan exclaimed, “I’m not living with that sword hanging over my head. You got tons of money and all the fancy lawyers that come with it. If he talked you could fight it all off. But not me. I spent my life protecting the public, Danny, while you got richer and Hugh got the big office in D.C. So excuse me for protecting my own ass.” McClellan was so enraged that for a moment it looked like he might go over the table at Eastland.

Obviously sensing this, Huey said quickly, “Okay, let’s just calm down and think this through. We can’t lose our heads. Come on, Mac. We’re not the enemy here.”

McClellan glared at Eastland for a moment longer and then settled back in his seat.

Huey said, “Let’s say he is alive, why would he come forward now? He’ll go to prison too.”

“Jesus, you guys,” exclaimed McClellan. “You two have risen so high in the world you’d think you’d have better brains. He doesn’t have to come forward. Just mail what he has to the New York Times . Or CNN. Or the Justice Department. You damn well know the stuff he has. He stole it from us. It was stupid of us creating all that crap, evidence of what we’d done.”

“He could have done that at any time in the last forty years,” pointed out Eastland patiently. “And yet he hasn’t.”

“And if we let sleeping dogs lie this time, like Danny suggested, then we survive this intact,” added Huey.

“And things just go on like they’ve been going,” added Eastland. “Don’t rock the boat.”

McClellan was shaking his head. “You boys just don’t get it. You did not see the look in Decker’s eyes. And I did some digging on him. He was one smart cop out in the Midwest. He was asked to work with a new task force the FBI formed. But forget that, I can read a man’s eyes. Just like I used to read the QB’s eyes on the field. Who had more interceptions than me in the high school conference the last three years, huh? Who? Tell me!”