Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion Page 43

  He stepped back. Probably thinking he had one more free shot and a better opportunity to use it was bound to present itself. He’d have been better off if he had decided he’d done all the damage he could and there would never be a better time to take everyone by surprise and run.

  All he did, though, was back off and study his outsized opponent from a distance of maybe eight feet. McGill clicked the video to normal speed. Twenty seconds later by his count — a length of time he noted — The Undertaker began to rise ever so slowly. It made McGill think of mountain building. When he was fully upright he turned his gaze on Smith. Where there had been cruel indifference in The Undertaker’s expression before there was now loathing and a measure of fear. Smith, though much smaller, had hurt him, might possibly best him if given another chance.

  Looking at the monster through the camera’s lens, it was clear to McGill the beast was never going to give Smith that chance. But being there in the flesh, adrenaline surging, maybe with sweat in his eyes, Smith hadn’t noticed that the rules had changed. Now, there were no rules.

  The Undertaker didn’t give away his hand. He stood as he originally had.

  Unmoving. Seemingly indifferent to both his own pain and to Smith.

  The smaller man really should have seen through that, McGill thought.

  Nobody, no matter how big and bad, bellowed in pain one moment and shrugged it off the next. It had to be a fakeout. The giant was making his own plans.

  Smith, laboring under a terminal misapprehension, began another inspection of The Undertaker. Adding to his miscalculation, Smith moved to the monster’s left, his visually superior side. Smith didn’t close the distance with his opponent, the mountain came to him.

  In an intuitive maneuver, the camera operator had moved in counterpoint to Smith. He caught the look of horror on Smith’s face as The Undertaker fell upon him like an avalanche. But the giant didn’t drive him to the floor, crush him, and pummel him. He twisted the smaller man around so they both faced the same direction. His massive arms crushed Smith against his chest.

  The camera operator rushed to get the two combatants’ faces in his lens. The Undertaker turned to meet him halfway. Facing the camera’s bright red light, seeing it as a sign of what awaited him in the next life, Smith furiously drummed his heels against the monster’s shins. He might as well have thrown wads of paper at the beast. The Undertaker began to squeeze and bones began to break. Visibly.

  It was Smith’s turn to scream.

  Had it been The Undertaker’s choice, he could have ended it all right there. Snapped the smaller man’s spine and been done with him. But when he calculated Smith would no longer be able to raise his arms in his own defense he relaxed his crushing embrace. But only long enough to place a gargantuan hand on either side of Smith’s head. He lifted the man off the floor and —

  McGill had seen more than enough. He clicked off the machine.

  The Undertaker had his vulnerabilities.

  But the cost of making a mistake with him was unspeakable.

  Upton Hill Regional Park, Arlington, VA

  25

  His Excellency, Bishop George O’Menehy, cleared his schedule for Margaret Sweeney and rode in the back of her Malibu. Father Francis Nguyen rode shotgun. They found an open picnic bench in a sun-dappled glade at Upton Hill Regional Park, and Sweetie bade the clerics to sit. They did, side by side, but with a good foot of space between them.

  Sweetie looked down at them. Francis Nguyen looked calm and composed, as usual. Bishop O’Menehy seemed anything but serene; he looked as though he was bracing to hear the worst news of his life. For all Sweetie knew, he was right.

  She had persuaded the bishop to accompany her and Father Nguyen by telling him, “I know how Horatio Bao is blackmailing you, Your Excellency. I know how he’s keeping you quiet about it, too.”

  The bishop had lost all color in his face when he heard that. He took his glasses off and for a moment looked as if he might pass out. Both Sweetie and Father Nguyen had to steady him. He regained enough self-possession to tell his secretary, Mrs. Novak, he would be unavailable for the rest of the day. From the look Mrs. Novak had given her, Sweetie knew she had made another enemy among the diocesan support staff.

  Sweetie had seated the clerics so they were in sunlight and she had her back to it.

  She started bluntly: “There’s a cancer eating away this diocese and his name is Horatio Bao. I know both of you gentlemen are constrained by the seal of the confessional so I don’t expect you to admit anything. All I want you to do is listen … and then tell me, yes or no, whether you’ll agree with my plan to help you.”

  Bishop O’Menehy stiffened his spine now. “Nothing you propose may contravene Church law, if you expect my help.”

  “Of course not, Your Excellency,” Sweetie said.

  “And you’ll not expect us to break Caesar’s law either?” Father Nguyen asked.

  “No. There will be some risk to the plan, however. Not a lot, if I’m right. But both of you will have to show some physical courage.”

  The two clerics looked at one another, each assessing the other man’s character.

  “I agree,” Father Nguyen said, turning back to Sweetie.

  Bishop O’Menehy said to Sweetie, “I heard your confession, but are you, in fact, Catholic?”

  “I am.”

  “And what you are about to propose, will it be of benefit to the Church?”

  “It will put an end to your being blackmailed, Your Excellency. Is that beneficial?”

  The bishop nodded. “If that’s what will happen, my personal safety is of no matter.”

  So the old guy could be brave, too. Whatever their doctrinal differences, Sweetie admired him for that.

  “Okay,” Sweetie said, “keep straight faces, gentlemen, so you don’t give anything away, and I’ll tell you what’s going on and how we’re going to fix it.”

  Callie Bao’s dance studio, Arlington, VA

  26

  “You conned me,” Callie Bao told Welborn Yates as he held her hand and waist. The two of them were moving through basic swing steps, a recorded percussion track keeping the beat. “You already know how to dance.”

  “One and two, three and four, five-six,” Welborn responded. “Small and big, small and big, rock-step.”

  He gave her his most winning smile and a shake of his head.

  “I had one lesson when I was nine years old. I told my mother if she made me try to take any more I’d run away from home. You’re just a great teacher, a great dancer.”

  She gave him a look, assaying the BS content of his words. Decided what he’d said was close enough to the truth not to matter. Maybe he was a natural, and as good looking as he was, she was not going to quibble.

  “What this reminds me of a little,” Welborn continued, “is my job.”

  “Your job?”

  “I fly fighter jets. I’ll grant you the speeds are different. But the two of us moving as one, the responsiveness, the maneuverability, it’s very similar. Maybe that’s why I’m picking it up fast.”

  Thing was, that was how he actually felt.

  His only fib was referring to flying jets in the present tense.

  “You’re military?” Callie asked.

  “Well, I certainly hope we’re the only ones who fly F-22s.”

  Callie Bao moved closer to him. The scent of her perfume intensified. Her hand was suddenly warmer in his. Another military thought occurred to him: She’d armed her weapons.

  He’d have to be very careful here.

  “You know something?” she asked, her voice more breathy than before.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll give you all the lessons you want for free, if you do one thing for me.”

  He was almost afraid to ask: “What’s that?”

  “Take me up. Take me flying in one of your fighter jets.” She was pressing against him now. “Don’t say you can’t because I’ve seen it on television, celebr
ities getting rides in fighter jets. I’ve always wanted to do that, to feel all that incredible power, to rocket straight up into the sky.”

  She put her mouth on his neck, took little nibbles.

  Damn woman had gotten him going. Reminding him of his own excitement in flying jets. Working him up pretty good on her own, too. There was only one way to preserve his virtue: Lie.

  Clearing his throat, Welborn told her. “Okay.”

  Callie pulled her head back and Welborn feared she was about to kiss him.

  Wouldn’t be able to explain that one to Kira.

  He held up an interdictory finger. “No civilians get to joyride in F-22s, but I can take you up in something that will be a real thrill. That good enough?”

  It was good enough to get him a kiss on the cheek instead of the lips.

  And an invitation of sorts.

  “Take me out for something to eat. Tell me what it will be like.”

  “I’ll pick you up for dinner at seven,” Welborn told her.

  The law offices of Horatio Bao, Arlington, VA

  27

  It was only after Ricky stepped into Bao’s office and got a dead-eyed stare that he remembered what was expected of him. Already repressing the anger of having had his car stolen out from under his nose, and the yellow-haired dog giving him the finger, he now had to choke back a further indignity. Ricky ground his teeth and bowed to his boss.

  Bowing had become a pain in the ass and a point of real controversy among the younger generation of Viet Kieu. Who the hell did these old pricks think they were? Little emperors?

  Of course, Ricky’s ambitions were such that he saw himself reaching heights even Bao could only dream of, and then every-damn-body had better bow to him.

  “Why are you here?” Bao asked. “Why did Calanthe admit you without buzzing me?”

  Ricky was supposed to keep his distance from Bao’s official place of business.

  “Your daughter is not at her desk,” Ricky said.

  Bao’s already dark mood clouded further. His daughter was as dutiful as the thug in front of him was impulsive. The lawyer had seen the hope in Ricky’s eyes that he would one day marry Calanthe as the first big step in whatever fanciful climb he imagined to be his future. Bao would sooner have his daughter marry a danh tu.

  A hulking white American.

  The lawyer made his impudent underling wait before he addressed the situation of his missing daughter. He picked up a picture postcard from his desk. It featured a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge half-shrouded in fog. It had been delivered that morning by FedEx in an overnight envelope.

  When Bao had opened the envelope, the first thing he had wondered was: Who paid for the overnight delivery of a postcard? Flipping the card over, he’d seen who had sent it and it had chilled his heart. Written in Vietnamese were the words: On my way to Hanoi. Hope you will join me. If you dare. More colloquially, if you have the balls. Musette Ky.

  The woman was telling him many things: that she was no longer within easy reach; that she was fleeing from imminent legal danger of her own; that if he chose to follow her, she would have already subverted those who had been paid to give Bao refuge. Returning to Vietnam, thumbing his nose at any American authorities who might pursue him, had always been Bao’s default retreat. Calanthe had overseen the construction of two mansions for him in his native country, one north and one south. She had spent a fortune in bribes to smooth over Bao’s past connection to the fallen government in Saigon. He had always taken comfort in having such a foolproof refuge.

  Now, the damnable Madam Ky was saying she had taken that away from him. He knew, of course, that her father had been a double-agent during the war, working for both the Americans and the Communists. What she was telling him in her card was the old man’s first loyalty had been to Hanoi. Her connections would trump his. If Bao fled to Vietnam, he would be returned to the Americans. Worse, he might be imprisoned in his homeland.

  Charges could always be manufactured.

  Not that any need be contrived. Bao’s agent, the young fool with the insolent sneer standing in front of him, had shot the Secret Service agent assigned to guard the president’s own husband. Washington would consider being given the culprits of that crime a great favor. Should Hanoi punish Bao directly, that might bring even greater appreciation.

  The Communists might make a slave laborer of Bao, have him assemble Nike shoes for the rest of his life, all the while envying the peasants next to him who earned a dollar a day.

  Ricky lost patience cooling his heels.

  “There was this guy waiting outside your daughter’s dance studio,” he told Bao.

  “What guy?” the lawyer asked.

  “Some American asshole. I wanted to know what the hell he was doing. When I went to grab him, he let himself inside Calanthe’s place. He had the keys.”

  Bao took in the implications of that, not liking any of them.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.

  Ricky’s belligerence suddenly disappeared.

  “I couldn’t,” he muttered. “My phone was in my car, and somebody stole my car.”

  “What?” Bao asked, not believing what he was hearing. “Who would do that?”

  How the fuck should I know, Ricky wanted to shout.

  All he said was, “I didn’t get a good look. But he was Asian not white.”

  “Viet?”

  “Maybe.” Thinking about it. “Probably.”

  “Look for word on the street. Someone will know.”

  “How am I supposed to get around?” Ricky asked.

  He’d already run and walked for miles. His feet were sore.

  “Buy a bicycle,” Bao said, dismissing him.

  Ricky ground his teeth even harder now, but did not forget to bow before leaving. It was only after he hit the street that he growled, “Du ma.” Fuck you.

  Buy a bicycle. To hell with that. Someone stole his car, he’d steal someone else’s. Something a lot nicer than the damn Nissan that old turd said he had to buy. Then he’d find that blonde bastard. Couldn’t be a coincidence that guy was in his face when Ricky’s ride got lifted. He’d get even with that white boy real soon.

  28

  In his office, Horatio Bao called Hanoi for the second time that day. His worries were vastly increased now. He had the feeling things were falling apart. It was the same sense of dread he’d felt when the time had come to flee Saigon. He was very careful to press every digit of the phone number correctly, make sure each was in the proper sequence. He had to talk to the government minister who would be his protection when he went home.

  When he had tried earlier the call had gone unanswered for twenty rings. Now, a voice answered, but it was recorded. The message was, “The number you’ve called has been disconnected.”

  Horatio Bao dropped the phone. It was time to run again, he knew. First, though, he’d have to get rid of Ricky. The young fool was one of only two people who could tie him to the shooting of the Secret Service agent. The other was his daughter.

  He trusted Calanthe. She was the light of his life, the image of her departed mother. He relied on her to do his banking and investing around the world. She would know where they should now seek refuge

  He called his daughter’s cell phone.

  Got her voice mail.

  Upton Hill Regional Park, Arlington, VA

  29

  Sweetie told Father Nguyen and Bishop O’Menehy, “Each of you is being held hostage by the seal of the confessional. I thought a confession had to be sincere and the penitent’s feeling of remorse had to be genuine for the seal to be valid, but I was mistaken. At least that’s what my research told me. Or do I have that wrong?”

  “You do not,” Bishop O’Menehy said. “The seal is inviolable.”

  “Do you see it the same way, Father?” Sweetie asked.

  The bishop turned to look at the priest, concern written deep in his face.

  He needn’t have worried. Father Nguyen w
as not about to rebel on that point.

  “Exactly the same way,” he said.

  The older man sighed in relief.

  “Fine,” Sweetie said. “Remember what I said about not giving anything away, gents, because I’m going to tell you what’s going on. Father, last Thanksgiving, you were having dinner with your aunt, Musette Ky, and your cousin Donald Ky. At some point in the evening, the doorbell rang and—”

  “I’m not sure I should hear this,” the bishop said.

  “My guess is you already have, Your Excellency. I saw Horatio Bao and Ricky Lanh Huu go into your confessional. I’ve heard from Special Agent Ky that Father Nguyen kicked Ricky out of his church. So, I bet, he’s heard both Bao’s and Ricky’s confessions, too. That’s the way a lawyer with a belt-and-suspenders mentality would do things. Each of you knows the bad guys’ secrets, but they’ve fixed it so neither of you can ever make that admission.”

  Despite Sweetie’s admonition to the clerics not to give anything away, they glanced at one another. Couldn’t have said more clearly she had it right.

  “Anyway, the doorbell rang at the Ky house. The hope of those outside the house was that Ms. Ky would open her own door. If that had been the case, she would have been the one who got shot, not her son. But Deke Ky took the bullet and almost died. Musette ran to her son, held him in her arms. Father Nguyen also rushed to see what help he might render. Arriving at the doorway, standing over his aunt and his cousin, he looked out and got a glimpse of the man who had shot his cousin: Ricky Lanh Huu.

  “Thing was, maybe Father Nguyen didn’t know Ricky at the time. Which would have made it harder to identify him to the police. But Ricky saw that he’d been spotted. If he’d kept his cool after shooting the wrong person, he would have taken out both you and your aunt, Father.