David Baldacci - The Last Mile

“Nobody,” replied Eastland wearily. “Two-way Mac, O and D.”

“Exactly. And I’m telling you that this Decker dude is not going down that easily.”

“Yes, you made that point quite clearly,” said Huey.

Eastland said, “What exactly would you have us do, Mac? Just lay it out there.”

McClellan finished his drink and took a few moments to consider his response.

“In the old days the answer would have been clear enough.”

Eastland looked at Huey. Huey kept his gaze on McClellan.

“Are you suggesting that we, what, blow him up?”

Huey said, “That was fifty years ago, Mac. This is a different time. A far different place.”

McClellan slammed his fist on the table. “Our way of life was threatened back then and we took action. We didn’t let no damn sleeping dogs lie. Now we’re threatened again. And I say we have to take action. The world hasn’t changed that much. In fact, I see the pendulum swinging back to where it should be. You can see it all over the place. People want to take their country back. Politicians are saying it. Laws are being passed. Hell, Hugh, you see that from where you sit. People don’t want to take this crap anymore. And it’s about damn time. Hell, for future generations of Americans if nothing else.”

Huey looked out the jet’s window at the white clouds down below. “What we did back then was stupid. We were young and hotheaded. It was a mistake.”

“You don’t believe that,” said McClellan.

Huey looked at him. “Of course I believe it. I’m a lawyer. I’ve been a member of Congress for over three decades. I’m the chairman of arguably the most important committee on the Hill.”

“Blah-blah-blah,” said McClellan, waving his empty glass. “That means shit right now. Shit! So don’t pull that crap on me, Mr. High and Mighty.”

“I’m the CEO of a publicly traded company, Mac,” said Eastland. “This isn’t the 1960s anymore. Hugh’s right, we’re not young punks anymore with our brains in our ass.”

McClellan pointed a finger at them. “It’s attitudes like that that have led this country to the sinkhole it’s currently in. Bad things happen when good men do nothing.”

Eastland traded another glance with Huey.

Huey said, “We’ve always put things to a vote before, right?”

Eastland said, “Right.”

Huey said, “And I vote that unless the situation on the ground changes, we pull back and take no further steps.”

“I second that,” said Eastland.

McClellan glared at them for a long moment before saying, “You two have turned into a couple of real pansies.”

“We’re being practical, Mac,” said Huey. “And we’ve voted. Will you honor that vote?”

McClellan said, “I will. For now. But if the ground situation changes will you honor the fact that we will kill these sons of bitches?” When the two men said nothing, his voice rose. “Will you? Or you gonna take another vote and run away with your damn tails tucked?”

“If the ground situation changes we will act,” said Eastland, and Huey nodded.

“We will kill , you mean,” amended McClellan.

“If that’s what it takes,” said Eastland. “I’m not going to prison over this. It was too long ago, and I believe I’ve made up for it. We’ve done a lot of good in the world.”

“Amen to that,” said Huey. “A lifetime of service. It balances things. Even the things we did,” he added. “Fifty years of righteous living versus a few hotheaded acts that we regret now. I’ve helped many people over the years. My conscience is clear. God has forgiven me, I truly believe that.”

“I feel the same,” said Eastland. “I’ve given millions to charities. Tried to make the world a better place. I’ve even funded programs for black kids and Mexicans. Given them a helping hand. You know so many of their fathers are in prison. Very sad. But I’ve made peace with my past. I feel good about who I became as a person. Everyone makes mistakes when they’re young. As we did. But we’ve repaid the debt, so to speak.”

“Maybe you regret the past, I sure as hell don’t,” snapped McClellan.

“You need to stop talking like that,” said Eastland warily. “The climate has changed. You can’t be a police chief, even in Mississippi, and talk that way. You just can’t. You can think those things if you want, but for God’s sake, keep those thoughts in your head.”

“Sure, the PC police crap,” snarled McClellan. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those pricks.”

Eastland said, “I’m telling you that the world has changed. I have several generals I deal with who are black. My CFO is black. I even have a close friend who’s black.”

“And I have black committee members,” added Huey. “And representing Mississippi I sure as hell have a lot of black constituents. Not that I agree with most of what they want, which are basically government handouts. But they’re there and they’re not going anywhere.”

“Bullshit, I bet you love ’em all right,” said McClellan dismissively. “Love ’em like they were white.”

“Of course we don’t,” said Eastland. “But we still have to deal with them. That’s the point.”

“We fought the good fight way back,” said Huey. “And unfortunately, we lost. We have to deal with that. It doesn’t change what we think, but it does have to change how we act. Otherwise I lose my seat and Danny loses his company. It’s a lot harder now, Mac. You know that. We have to account for that. We really do. But I do regret the killing. There were other ways to get our points across. We didn’t have to kill, not the kids anyway. I still think about that.”

“If your old man could hear you talking,” said McClellan disgustedly. “He’d be rolling in his grave. Now there was a man who knew his beliefs. You give an inch and they take a mile. And little coloreds grow up into big coloreds. And now it’s the homos and the lesbos. And the trans-freaks. You telling me you think this looks like America? Are you?”

“If the conditions on the ground change,” said Eastland, “I promise you, we’ll take action. I have the resources. It will get done.”

“I want to be there too,” said McClellan. He glanced at Huey. “But I doubt our fearless congressman does. He’s got too much to lose to fight the good fight anymore, right, Hugh?”

McClellan poured himself another drink as Huey and Eastland sat stonily in their seats. He held up his refilled glass. “Hell, boys, let’s at least go through the motions. To the Three Fuckin’ Musketeers.”

The other two men reluctantly raised their glasses.

McClellan drank his down, dropped his empty glass on the carpet, and muttered, “And let’s just kiss the good old US of A goodbye.”

He pointed a finger at Eastland. “But when the ground conditions change, and they will, fat boy is mine. He threatened me in my own damn office. Nobody does that and gets away with it. So Decker gets done by yours truly. Understood?”

Eastland said, “Trust me, he’s all yours.”

You sure he’s not here?” asked Mars.

They were staring across at Roger McClellan’s modest home, which was set by itself on a heavily treed lot off a rural gravel road about twenty minutes outside of downtown Cain, Mississippi.

“He’s at a police chiefs’ convention in Jackson. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“How’d you score that info?”

“I do have the resources of the FBI behind me.”

“Alarm system?” asked Mars nervously.

“No. The guy’s the police chief. Who’s going to break into his house?”

“Well, apparently we are.”

“I can do it. You can stay in the car.”