A Slow Walk to Hell (34 page)

I
had an obligation to Sam’s parents. They had a right to know whether their son had completed his final act.

Approaching the auditorium, we saw armed men in black uniforms rush up the stairs. Two carried collapsible stretchers. They moved with military precision, communicating with hand gestures. Several raced past us, heading the way we’d come. One detached and came over to inspect our flip top IDs. We noticed his uniform was completely unmarked, no insignias of any kind.

The man returned our IDs. “You’ll have to leave the building immediately.”

“I need to confirm the status of the shooter,” I said. “He’s in the projection—”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave.” His weapon inched up fractionally.

Amanda and I weren’t crazy enough to argue. We smoothly about-faced and went down the stairs to the first floor. She said, “They might not be FBI.”

I nodded.

“Delta Force?”

“They’d have some kind of insignia.” I added, “My guess is they’re a special unit of the FBI.”

We continued down a hallway toward the rear exit, encountering more black-garbed Rambo types who again checked us out. Passing through the double doors onto a stone landing, we were greeted by the sight of three military Blackhawk helicopters parked on an expanse of lawn. In the distance, large crowds watched from behind a barricade of police vehicles. The sheer number of people made you stop and look; there were thousands. Closer in, the police had set up a second perimeter around the building.

“The Virginia Tech connection,” Amanda said, surveying the scene. “Remember, when I mentioned it last night…”

“I remember.” Uniformed officers on the sidewalk below motioned to us and we started down the steps.

Amanda said, “I know it’s all a coincidence. You said General Baldwin called it fate. Whatever term you use, it’s damned convenient, the way everything worked out.”

“You going somewhere with this?”

“Take those helicopters. I don’t understand how they got here so—”

“IDs?” a cop demanded, the moment we reached the bottom of the stairs.

He and his partner scrutinized our identification. They were expecting us, since one pointed to Simon’s limo parked along the sidewalk. Enrique was leaning against the driver’s door, waving.

Walking toward him, I said to Amanda, “The helicopters?”

“How’d they get here so fast? There’s no base nearby. If they are FBI, that means they flew from Quantico. That’s at least an hour flying time, not counting alert and mobilization. Yet they showed up in what, forty-five minutes? The only way that could happen is if they were already airborne—”

“Stop,” I said.

She looked at me.

I said, “You don’t want to go there. You know you don’t.”

“Marty, someone with real clout had to be in on this thing from the beginning. Someone above Senator Hansen. It might have even been someone in the White—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

We walked without speaking for a few steps.

“You know,” she said, “the government is capable of doing something like this. You’re naive to believe they wouldn’t.”

So I was naive.

Dead man walking.

That was my conclusion when I saw Enrique. He looked completely wasted. He could barely stand upright and his eyes had more red lines than a AAA road map. Ignoring his protests, I told him to get in the back with Amanda and I would drive. It was a prudent move. Halfway through Amanda’s account of the shooting, he began nodding off. Within minutes of her description of the climax, he was asleep.

Sam’s parents lived on several acres twenty minutes southwest of Blacksburg. When I called to tell them I was coming by, Sam’s mother sounded thrilled to hear from me.

“Why, it’s been years, Marty. What’s the occasion?”

I told her the truth; I had to drop off something from Sam.

My intent was to get to their place before the press conference began, so they could read the letter before they heard the dirt about Sam. Three miles after we left the campus, that goal went out the window.

“It’s starting,” Amanda said.

Checking the rearview mirror, I saw her watching the TV. She gave me a play-by-play, saying, “Simon and Senator Hansen are coming down the steps outside Buurrus Hall. I don’t see Congressman Harris or General Murdock. Simon and Hansen are walking up to a podium. Hansen’s introducing Simon. The senator is going to read the statement.”

I heard the words faintly. “Mind turning up the volume?”

“Oh, sure.”

In a somber baritone, Senator Hansen announced the deaths of Teresa Harris, the wife of presidential hopeful Garrison Harris; Roland Slater, her husband’s campaign manager; Abigail Gillette, an aide to Mrs. Harris; and Major General Samuel Baldwin. He went on to say that Mrs. Harris and Mr. Slater were shot during a speech she was giving at Virginia Tech University, while Ms. Gillette was killed in a separate incident, the victim of a stabbing. After identifying Major General Samuel Baldwin as the shooter who subsequently committed suicide—I had my confirmation—Hansen expanded on Baldwin’s motive for the murders. Citing new evidence unearthed by Lieutenant Santos, Senator Hansen stated that Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette—and not Colonel Kelly who had been charged earlier—murdered Mrs. Harris’s nephew, Major Franklin Talbot, and four other individuals in an attempt to prevent Major Talbot from revealing an affair that Mrs. Harris and Major Talbot were having.

At this bombshell, there was a flurry of questions from reporters.

In the limo, the reaction of Amanda and me was diametrically opposite. We were silent, too disgusted to speak.

Finally, I heard her say bitterly, “They’re giving her a pass. She’s a murderer and they’re giving her a pass. I can’t believe it.”

Neither could I. Toning down Teresa Harris’s role was one thing, but
this
—I felt angry enough to tell Amanda to turn off the television.

Instead, I kept listening.

When the questions died down, Senator Hansen explained that General Baldwin’s motive for the killings was revenge. While Hansen never used the word homosexual, he might as well have. Characterizing the bond that existed between General Baldwin and Major Talbot as longstanding and extremely close, the senator concluded that a grief-stricken General Baldwin had acted to avenge the death of someone whom he cared for deeply.

“In his grief,” Hansen said, “the general wasn’t thinking clearly. While he correctly determined that Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette were responsible for Major Talbot’s death, he tragically mistook the role of Mrs. Harris. Based on Lieutenant Santos’s investigation, I can state unequivocally that neither Mrs. Harris nor her husband had any involvement in the murder of their nephew. The blame for Major Talbot’s death and the four others rests solely at the feet of Mr. Slater and Ms. Gillette. Many of you have heard of the videotape that was shown by General Baldwin prior to the shootings. There is no denying that Mrs. Harris was a flawed human being. Despite her faults, she was someone who loved this country and had dedicated herself to its service. If you must judge her, do it in totality of her life, weighing the good with the bad. I also ask you to remember Congressman Harris in your prayers. He is as much a victim as those innocents who perished. At some future date, the congressman will announce the status of his campaign. That’s all I have, ladies and gentlemen. There will be no questions—”

Amanda turned down the volume, looking more resigned than angry. In the mirror, I saw her watching me.

She said, “Simon warned us. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.”

“No…”

“And they kept the club out of it.”

I nodded.

“Guess you can’t have someone who was almost in the White House turn out to be a multiple murderer.”

“Apparently not.”

She kept looking at me. “You’re still upset.”

“Very.”

“General Baldwin?”

“Damn right. People will think he killed Teresa Harris without cause. I can’t believe Simon went along with it.”

“What choice did he have? He was ordered to go along.”

I eyed her in the mirror. “Simon had a choice. He let them use his name to justify the conclusions. He had a choice.”

She was forming a response when her phone rang. Checking the caller ID, she said, “Speak of the devil…”

Into the mouthpiece: “Hello, Simon. Yes. We saw it. Oh, yeah. He’s plenty pissed. Huh?” She squinted, listening. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”

Clicking off, she said to me, “He knows you’re angry. He says he had to endorse the statement about Mrs. Harris because it was the only way to get something General Baldwin wanted. He said there was an unforseen problem in the initial arrangements and that someday you would understand.”

I tapped the brakes. “Problem? What kind of problem?”

“That’s all he would say. Is that the Baldwin house?”

I nodded and turned into the driveway of a large ranch-style home.

It had been less than ten minutes since the press conference ended. As I walked up to the front door, I held out hope that maybe Sam’s parents hadn’t heard yet.

But when no one answered the bell, I knew they had.

I kept fingering the buzzer. Finally, an attractive, silver-haired woman opened the door. She blinked at me through misting tears, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“Marty,” Sam’s mother said. “I…we…we can’t really talk to—”

“I only came here to give you a letter from Sam.” I held it out to her.

Her face went blank, as if she was confused by what I’d said. She gazed dully at the letter. “Sam?”

I nodded.

As she reached for it, a voice called out sharply, “No, Loretta. Don’t take it.”

Mrs. Baldwin jerked her hand away, startled. Looking past her, I saw a lean, graying figure standing in the middle of a carpeted living room. Except for the hair, General Samuel Baldwin III was a dead ringer for his son.

I said, “General, it was Sam’s last wish. He wanted you to read it.”

“We’re not interested, Marty. Please take the letter and leave.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Sir, I’m only asking you to—”

“We have no son,” the general said. “Not any more. Now leave us alone. Please.”

He turned his back on me and ducked through a sliding door onto a covered porch. When he disappeared from view, I looked at Mrs. Baldwin. She was staring at the letter in my hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Marty.”

She shut the door in my face.

I tried. I’d done what I could. I should respect their wishes and leave.

But as I stepped away, I felt myself getting angry. Sam was their son and he was dead. All his life, he had done what they wanted. What the entire family wanted. He’d been a good son, the perfect Baldwin. They owed him the courtesy of reading his letter.

They didn’t have to understand what was in it.

They didn’t have to accept his explanations or his motives.

They could even toss the letter in the trash, for all I cared.

As long as they read it first.