28

  “Bicky, get in here.”

  Carlson Bickersley, the president’s chief of staff walked into the oval office. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Holy Shit. Did you see this damned article, hell, article, it’s a fricking position paper that asshole Roy Dickerson got into the journal?”

  “Yes, sir. I read it earlier and I’ve been listening to the talking heads on TV sing its praises or trash it, depending on the agenda and biases of each network. The whole idea’s a load of crap, I mean merging states and counties. Pretty stupid stuff, eh?”

  “Yeah. Great political theater. Of course, that shit guarantees press coverage. The man must’ve gone to Trump University to study up on how to get free publicity. I’d burn a bag of puppies to get that kind of coverage.”

  “You have it, Mr. President. The bully pulpit—presidential press conferences.”

  “Sure. Sure. But I have to stay a bit above the fray. As president, I can’t go tossing around crazy ideas. That’s more the turf of challengers than incumbents. Despite being revolutionary, as much as I hate to admit it, this shit Dickerson’s spreading has merit. Big business is always capturing economic benefits by merging companies, even divisions within a company. How is all that so different than merging states or counties within a country?”

  “Well, sir. Some merit I suppose. If states merge, each dissolved state eliminates a governor, and two U.S. senators, not to mention a lot of duplication of agencies, courts, tons of boards, and on and on. It would save a lot of money.”

  “You’re damn right, Bicky. All the same services for the voters, just fewer little kingdoms for local politicians. What about this idea of merging counties? That’s got merit too. Back in colonial times, when you rode a horse all day you felt you went a long way. Far enough that you oughta be in another state or at least another county. Distance is a very different thing in the modern world, very different indeed.”

  Bickersley nodded while bringing the president a cup of coffee sweetened with two spoonsful, the way his commander-in-chief liked it. “That explains why the states in New England are, generally speaking, so much smaller than states in the west. Rhode Island, Delaware, even New Jersey could be merged into nearby states. Those are smaller than a lot of counties in the west.”

  The president scoffed and threw the newspaper on the floor. “Can you imagine the hubbub that would cause? Dropping governors, not to mention state officials, county commissioners, judges, sheriffs, I mean all those guys have their own little fiefdoms. Oh, yeah, let’s not forget our U.S. senators—if we eliminate, as he suggests, nine states, that’s nine governors and eighteen U.S. senators. Each state has two. I think I could support that. Of course, I’d want the right to pick which U.S. Senatorial sonsabitches get bagged. But, man, wow, the local political cannibals would go crazy enough to start eating their young. Then again, it would definitely cut government spending. That’d sure help budgets. And that’s why that rascal Roscoe Dickinson is touting it.”

  “Sure, the budgets would drop, sir. Of course. And God knows, state governments across this land are always struggling with budget shortfalls.”

  The president stood and strode to the window looking out toward the rose garden. “The fool suggested that South and North Carolina be merged, right along with South and North Dakota. He’s also proposing we put Virginia and West Virginia together into one state. Out west, he’d put Wyoming and Montana into one state. Hell, based on population and land mass these new combined states would still be smaller than some other states just as they are now.”

  “And, sir, he also mentioned merging New Hampshire and Vermont into Maine, supported by the same economies of scale bullshit. The guy sees America like it was General Motors or something. That kind of thinking has as much chance of getting through Congress as fish learning to fly.”

  “Come on, you’ve been in the election business long enough to know elections aren’t won based on what may or may not get through Congress. They’re won on ideas the public takes a fancy to. The one who wins is the one who best projects him or herself as the ticket for change, innovation, and, in this case, the twin political commandments of reduced spending and elimination of waste. After the election, if none of it gets done, the new president blames a do-nothing Congress for fumbling the ball.”

  “As long as the voters keep buying the bull, we’ll keep selling it.”

  The president returned to the couch, rubbing his chin as he moved. “The states out west are much bigger with some having even more people, so it’s not like it couldn’t work. All hell would have to be paid dealing with the local courts and politicians who would scream like pigs stuck in the public trough.”

  “If I may change the subject, sir, how did the First Lady take it when she found out you ordered her cat declawed?”

  “About the same way we figure the governors will react if we eliminate their states.”

  “But she’s handling it?”

  “What’s her choice? The cat’s damn feet fangs are gone. I’m glad we did it. … Now, Bicky, let’s get back to this merging idea. I want you to feel out some of our party leaders in both houses. What do they think? Could they support this? Maybe we could start with just the counties. That wouldn’t threaten any senatorial seats. No congressional seats would be lost. Those seats are based on population. This would not cause a reduction in population, just changes in which state their address is in, not really where they live, nothing like that. The justification being that it saves us and the states money. We could put their doing this as a condition to getting funds from the federal government.”

  “Yes, sir. Good idea. I did a little quick research, some of which blew my mind. Georgia has 159 counties; can you believe it? That’s 159 sets of county commissioners, courts, sheriffs, school boards, etc. Of course, the new combined agencies would need to be larger, but not double and wouldn’t need two top guys, the most expensive ones. Hell, sir, California which is what, ten times bigger and, I don’t know how many times more populated, only has 58 counties. New York only has 62, and let me throw in Arizona which has 15 counties. So, Georgia has about 25 more counties than California, New York, and Arizona combined. Then there’s Florida which only has 67. Why the hell does Georgia, which annually gets about fifteen billion dollars in federal money, need all those damn counties? With all that federal money it seems reasonable that we oughta be able to tell them to get real about unnecessary expenditures.”

  “I’m convinced, Bicky. Let’s make like Bill Clinton. He usurped a lot of Republican ideas, adopted them and made them his. Yeah, talk to leadership, see if there’s anything we might take and run with.”

  “And Georgia’s not alone on this, Mr. President. Mississippi has more counties than all those big states and it gets 43% of its general revenues from right here, out of our U.S. budget.”

  “Enough, Bicky. I need to get moving, busy morning. But don’t lose this. It sure as hell seems we have a right to get into those states budget processes given that the good old U.S.of A. is providing a huge hunk of their dough.”

  “Good thinking, sir. No harm in poking around. I mean all that doesn’t even include the simplifying regulations that would naturally follow: speed limits, insurance rules, fewer primary elections, not to mention the general election itself. All that would be easier for the voters in all those states.”

  The president swished his hand, motioning his chief of staff out.

  “And, sir, we could put some positive spin on all of it. A quick example, when states combine they could adopt the gas tax that’s the higher of the two. There’s probably a lot of that kind of thing that could be done to pop revenues while slicing up expenses. I’ll get some quiet discussion going.”

  #

  Bickersley closed the door.

  Christ almighty. Merging states. Declawing cats. None of it’ll matter a whit if I can’t shut down this story of the boss’s wife sharing her favors with Billy Knight.

  29

  At three-thirty, Ryan pulled up on the side street next to the Hobart school. From there he took a series of pictures of the houses and buildings across the street from the entrance to the school. At four-fifteen, he walked into Linda’s hotel room at the Red Lion on Jantzen Beach. By the time the door closed, she was there to greet him.

  “What happened?”

  “We’ve got surveillance on Billy Knight and on Brad, his last name is Sander. Have you heard from either Billy or Brad? Is it still the plan for you to meet Brad out back, behind this hotel at eight tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you expect he’ll take you to meet anyone else? His boss, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “I agree. So far, from what you’ve said, you’ve met with no one except him. Well, that one time in your hotel room with the lights off. But that guy hasn’t been seen since and you have no knowledge of who he is. Right?”

  Linda nodded.“That’s correct. Now what did you learn?”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, but I need to go over the next couple steps in our plan. They’ll need to meet with your approval.

  Twenty minutes later, Linda agreed and Ryan left her to dress and be ready to move when he called.

  #

  From Linda’s description of the pictures of Steffi that Brad had shown her, all the photos, from the first one that came with the flowers to the last ones she’d seen a few days ago, had been taken from the same vantage point. That opinion didn’t change after Ryan checked the ones he’d taken from near the Hobart School two hours earlier. There were only two possible positions from which all those pictures could have been taken: either the upstairs window in a two-story office building across the street and a little to the right of the school’s front door—the right side from the picture-taking position. Or from the roof of a single-story home next to that office building.

  After driving past the two side-by-side structures, he parked, put on a loose flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He walked by the buildings slowly, using a metal cane as a prop.

  The single-story house was the least likely because the pictures were taken from an elevation that would require the use of the roof of that house. A person couldn’t remain on that roof day after day taking pictures without being noticed. The second story of the office building fit nicely. He walked inside and from the building directory learned that a business that rented out individual suites to small companies and local sales reps for larger firms, took up most of the second floor. The names of some of those sub-tenants in the executive suites on the second floor were names of companies that would be recognized by most Americans. The executive suites location was center on the floor facing the Hobart School.

  From the angle of the photos, the person watching for Steffi had to be near the center of the building. The receptionist in the executive suite complex was gone. With little delay, he picked the lock on the door to the inside hallway. Some of the suites had no names on the doors. He stopped in front of one of those interior doors.

  This has to be it. The angle is right. Those pictures were taken from here.

  This was no ordinary business. It had no sign on or next to the door. And it was the only small office with lights on inside. He knocked.

  The door started to open, but hesitantly. People with reason to suspect the intentions of someone at their front door snuggle up to the inside of the door, expecting the person on the outside will talk.

  Ryan leaned the cane he had been using against the wall. He moved close and spoke just loud enough to be heard through the door. “Brad Sander sent me. He’s shutting down the mission.”

  The door opened partway, the man inside peering through the opening. His one arm was down along his side, undoubtedly holding a gun. “Who are you?”

  “We haven’t met. I work with Brad on other parts of this mission. He couldn’t come by so he sent me. . . . I don’t like talking out here in the hallway. For Christ’s sake, man, let me in.”

  After a moment, the man inside stepped back and pulled open the door. Ryan went inside, leaving the door open. “That’s the school over there?” He pointed through the window. “The one the kid goes to?”

  “You say he’s ordering we shut this down?” The man stepped around Ryan to close the door. He took his eyes off Ryan to locate the knob on the door.

  When he did, Ryan pulled his Glock and put it against the man’s back. “I’ll take your gun. Nice and easy. Raise it up over your shoulder. Finger off the trigger. Slow.” Ryan took his gun and put it in his own waistband. Ryan moved to the side. “Back up ‘til you’re against the wall.”

  A camera with a zoom lens rested on the desk. There was no phone or file cabinet. A laptop sat on the desk near a cell phone. On the screen of the laptop was the latest picture of Steffi.

  Yep. This is the place.

  “Where’s your buddy?”

  “What’re you talking about? Who the hell are you, really?”

  “Like I said, Brad sent me. Said to let you know, this operation is over. He don’t need you no more. They have Darby’s cooperation so you’re to stop watching and taking pictures of her daughter.”

  “Then why burst in here pointing that gun around, like you’re the fucking riot squad or somethin’?”

  “I like to be dramatic. Or, if you prefer, because I don’t know you. Who does Brad send by to pick up the pictures?”

  “You say you work for him so you should know.” Ryan raised his gun higher. “Okay. All right, Brad stops by every couple of days.”

  “Did he come by today?”

  “About three hours ago.”

  “When’d he say he’d be back?”

  “He didn’t. Look, you say Brad sent you. Go ask him.”

  Ryan went to him and drove the barrel of his Glock into the man’s stomach. When he doubled over, Ryan hit him near his ear with the side of the gun. “Slide down along the wall til you’re sitting on the floor. Put your back against the wall. Take your shoes off. Socks too.” After the man had done so, Ryan took two water glasses from a small table and smashed them on the floor between where the man sat and the desk. Then Ryan slid his backside onto the desk facing the guy.

  “Let’s start with your wallet—gimme.” Ryan moved his fingers back toward himself until the man took it out and threw it to him. Ryan flipped it open to his driver’s license. “Okay, Charles Darrow, here’s the deal. I know you have at least one other man who relieves you. The food over there,” Ryan gestured with his non-gun hand, “and the piss bottle on the floor in the corner says there’re two of you, pulling twelve hour shifts I’d guess.” Brad’s your boss and you don’t know jack about who sits above Brad in the command structure for this mission. I can kill you. Right now. Here. Or I can let you go if you tell me whatever you know. I’ll give you ten seconds to decide.” Ryan began counting to ten. At eight, he raised his gun hand.

  At nine, the man spoke. “This ain’t nothing to die for. Brad hired me and Ralph. We were in the army. We didn’t know Brad. He found us, somehow. He—”

  “How’d you leave the army?”

  “Discharged.”

  “Not on the best of terms I’m guessing.”

  “I took an honorable. If not, they was gonna toss me out.”

  “Same with Ralph?”

  “He got a dishonorable straight off.”

  So that’s how Brad found them.

  “I’m taking your computer.”

  “Hey, man, that’s my computer.”

  “So? I’m leaving. Count to five hundred by ones and then get out, leave and don’t come back. If you come outside early, you die outside. That agreeable?”

  “Sure man, if you leave my computer.”

  “One more thing. What time does Ralph come in to relieve you?”

  “Brad set him up to come at seven. We both do a seven to seven thing.”

  Ryan glanced at his watch. “That’s two hours from now. Does Ralph know your car?”

  “Sure. I go by and pick him up sometimes when we go drinking. Least I used to, before we got hired out on this lame gig.”

  If I kill him, I gotta move his car and wait here for Ralph.

  “Describe Ralph. Do it well. And give me his last name.”

  “Martin. Ralph Martin. As for describing him, hell, I ain’t paid all that close attention. It’s not like the dudes got tits or somethin’.”

  “Give it your best and make it good.”

  “No call for you going all pissy. He’s close to six feet. Average build. Bushy eyebrows. Brown hair. Carries a laptop case all the time. Every time I’ve seen him.”

  “Hair thinning?”

  “Heck no. He’s got a real bush, man. Wears it down just over his collar. It’s his little rebellion against Army rules. Been that way since he got booted.”

  “Glasses?”

  “Yeah. Those Clark Kent kind, like some of them fashion ladies wear nowadays.”

  “How do you get ahold of Brad?”

  “We don’t. He gets in touch with us.”

  “What happens in an emergency?”

  “I asked him that.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said, don’t have any. Just watch the kid.”

  “That’s a bit loose on his part. Obviously, Brad trusts you.”

  “Yeah. Fuck, Brad. With no big payoff now, I wouldn’t give him my sweat off my balls if he was dying of thirst in the desert.”

  Ryan grinned. “I’m keeping your wallet.”

  “Hey, man, you already took my license. What the hell’s the wallet thing? I mean, come on.”

  “You know how this works. The guy with the gun, that’s me, gets to make these decisions.”

  Charles started to get up, saw the broken glass and eased back down to the floor, his back against the wall. Ryan again opened the wallet. “Is this address on your license still good?”

  Charles nodded, and slouched back, his forearms on his knees.

  “Okay, Charlie. I’m taking your computer as well. If this address is good, I’ll return all this to you there tomorrow afternoon after I scan it to remove whatever you have in there on the little girl you guys have been surveilling.”