George Chesbro - Two Songs This Archangel Sings

"We still prefer the lockup," I said.

"No."

"Remember what happened when you didn't listen to me before?"

"This is different. I have my orders. I told you we'll put a guard on you."

"One guard won't do. We'll need one outside our door, one on the roof, and one outside the window on the ground. Our room will have to be on the top floor. When you hear what I have to tell you-"

"Hold it right there, Frederickson," McGarvey said, putting up his hand. "You can have anything you want, including as many guards as you think you need. But I don't want to hear what you have to tell me-not now. I'm not even supposed to talk to you, beyond what I've already said, and I'm not supposed to listen to anything you have to say."

We were taken to a motel just off the Thruway, no more than a mile or two from the trooper substation. Caked with blood and mud and sprinkled liberally with powdered glass, I looked like nothing so much as a grisly variation on some Wednesday night special at the local ice cream parlor; we were taken to our suite of rooms through a back entrance so as not to shock any early guests who might be a tad taken aback by my appearance. The captain was a fast shopper, because he was back with new clothes by the time we'd pulled ourselves out of our hot tubs. He'd also brought our wallets and the rest of our personal belongings, but not our guns or backpacks. We ordered a pitcher of martinis and lunch to be brought to our suite. We ate, checked-rather blearily, to be sure-to make sure our guards were in place, then lay down to take a nap. We had barely fallen asleep when the phone rang. A driver was waiting for us downstairs.

We were taken back to the substation, ushered into McGarvey's small but nicely appointed office in an administrative wing of the substation, and left alone. Garth paced while I eased myself down into the captain's red leather swivel chair and propped my feet up on the edge of his desk.

"Well, looky here," Garth said dryly as he stopped by a window that looked out over a small auxiliary parking lot adjacent to the administrative wing.

"I'm comfortable. Describe it to me."

"One long, black limousine with smoked windows, one uniformed chauffeur, two trim, mean-looking guys with walkie-talkies."

"Sounds like Secret Service."

"Could be. The door to the limousine is open, and the help look like they're just hanging out. I wonder where our esteemed visitor is."

"Probably talking to McGarvey, finding out what we said to him and precisely what happened."

"What's our strategy with this guy, brother?" Garth asked quietly.

"A good question; I'm not sure of the answer. We're still a long way from home, and I'm pretty sure we still have miles to go before we sleep. The administration has finally gotten a whiff of what Orville Madison really smells like, but that doesn't mean we're going to be awarded any medals. On the contrary; there are going to be a lot of people rushing to cover their own asses, while at the same time they do everything in their power to protect Kevin Shannon. This guy's here to assess how much damage we could inflict if we wanted to, and to try to gauge our attitudes. I think we'll just have to wait and hear what he has to say, and play it by ear."

"Agreed."

Fifteen minutes later the female trooper opened the door and ushered in a youngish-looking man in his mid or late thirties. He was lean, with a full head of razor-cut brown hair and large brown eyes. Elegantly dressed in a three-piece black pinstripe suit, he wore highly polished Gucci shoes that matched his black leather attache case. He looked decidedly uncomfortable as the trooper closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with us.

I immediately recognized the man as Burton Andrews, a baby-faced troubleshooter whose star had rapidly risen because of his ability to bash state committees into line during the campaign and bash delegates into line during the convention. He had a reputation for single-minded loyalty to Kevin Shannon, and now carried the title of Personal Aide to the President. There was no doubt in my mind that the aide had been dispatched to a trooper substation near Albany to try to bash us into line, regardless of what we had to say, or what we might think.

Andrews kept switching his attache case from one hand to the other as he glanced back and forth between Garth and me. I suspected he was waiting for me to get up and offer him the swivel chair; he would have a very long wait. Garth had settled down into the second most comfortable chair in the office, and it was obvious that he wasn't moving either. Andrews, a man used to power and its accoutrements, as well as the deference of others, was going to have to sit in a metal folding chair, which he did after a few more moments of case and foot shuffling. He placed both feet flat on the floor, rested the attache case on his knees, and folded his hands on top of the case.

The presidential aide coughed nervously, cleared his throat. "My name is Burton Andrews. I've… uh, I've heard a great deal about the two of you."

Garth and I looked at each other, then back at Andrews. We said nothing, but Andrews must have seen something in our faces, because his own face reddened. "Forgive me, gentlemen," he continued. "I know that we have a great deal to discuss, and that you're certainly not in the mood for chitchat. It's just that it's very difficult knowing how or where to begin."

"Begin by cutting out the bullshit," Garth said in a voice that was a low rumble from his chest. "The first thing we want to know is what your boss has done about that fucking madman Orville Madison. He damn well better be locked up someplace."

Andrews' face grew even redder, and he began to fumble nervously with the handle of his attache case. "Gentlemen, obviously all of us in the adminstration are aware that we have a serious crisis on our hands. I wouldn't be here otherwise, would I?"

"Crisis?" Garth said in a voice that I knew was deceptively mild, like the eye of a hurricane."What fucking crisis? We're not talking about any crisis. Are we talking about a crisis, Mongo?"

"No, Garth, we're not talking about any crisis."

"Andrews, what have you done about Madison? That's what we're talking about. Try to pay attention."

"I don't think I care for your tone of voice, Lieutenant," Andrews said to my brother, his own tone slightly petulant.

"You're not listening, Andrews," I said, waggling my feet at the aide. Slouched in the swivel chair, I could just see over the desk into Andrews' face. I felt shielded from all the power Andrews had brought with him into the room, and I liked it that way; I made no effort to sit up straighter. "Garth's point, which I believe he has been most patient in trying to make, is that we don't care pigshit about the administration's political problems as a result of this business, which is what you mean when you talk about a crisis. A lot of innocent people are dead, and Orville Madison's men, acting under his direct orders, killed them. Since Orville Madison is the president's responsibility, we would like to know what Kevin Shannon is doing about it. In short, we would like to know where Orville Madison is at this moment."

"I'm not your enemy, Dr. Frederickson," Andrews said in the same slightly petulant tone.

"We never said you were, Andrews. But you're certainly not our friend, either. You're the president's man, and I think you'd do just about anything to protect him-which leads me to point out that you haven't answered the question. Madison's trying very hard to kill us, you know."

"This is a very complicated matter, Dr. Frederickson."

"Answer the question, or you won't get what you came here for."

"What did I come here for?"

"To find out exactly how much we know about a number of things, and what we intend to do with the information. Now, can you guarantee our safety?"