out, shut and locked the door to the room he was in, and pressed a small
lever on a portion of the wall. The small panel slid down silently,
revealing a very sophisticated audiocassette tape deck. Behind most of
this wall rested a cutting-edge home theater system that Christine
Sullivan had seen in a magazine one day and simply had to have, although
her tastes in video entertainment ventured from pornography to soap
opera, neither of which in any way taxed the electronic muscle of this
monolithic system.
Sullivan carefully unwrapped the audiocassette and placed it inside the
tape deck; the door automatically closed and the tape began to play.
Sullivan listened for a few moments.
When he heard the words, no emotion was revealed on his intricate
features. He had expected to hear what he had. He had outright lied to
the detective. His memory was excellent.
If only his sight were half as good. For he had indeed been a blind
idiot to this reality. The emotion that finally penetrated the
inscrutable line of his mouth and the deep gray of his introspective
eyes was anger. Anger like he had not felt in a long time. Not even at
Christy’s death. A fury that would only be relieved through action. And
Sullivan firmly believed that your first salvo should be your last
because that meant that either you got them, or they got you, and he was
not in the habit of losing.
THE FUNERAL WAS CONDUCTED IN HUMBLE SURROUNDINGS and with only three
people other than the priest in attendance. It had taken the utmost
secrecy to avoid the obvious assaults by the armies of journalists.
Luther’s casket was closed. The remains of violent trauma to the head
was not the lasting impression loved ones typically wanted to carry away
with them.
Neither the background of the deceased nor the means of his demise
mattered the slightest to the man of God, and the service was
appropriately reverent. The drive to the nearby cemetery was short as
was the procession. Jack and Kate drove over together; behind them was
Seth Frank. He had sat in the back of the church, awkward and
uncomfortable. Jack had shaken his hand; Kate had refused to acknowledge
him.
Jack leaned against his car and watched Kate as she sat in the fold-up
metal chair next to the earthen pit that had just accepted her father.
Jack looked around. This cemetery was not home to grandiose monuments of
tribute. It was rare to see a grave marker sticking up, most were the
in-the-dirt variety; a dark rectangle with its owner’s name, dates of
entry and exit from the living. A few said “in loving memory,” most
ventured no parting remarks.
Jack looked back at Kate and he saw Seth Frank start toward her, then
the detective apparently thought better of his decision and made his way
quietly over to the Lexus.
Frank took off his sunglasses. “Nice service.”
Jack shrugged. “Nothing’s really nice about getting killed.” Though
miles away from Kate’s position on the issue, he had not entirely
forgiven Frank for allowing Luther Whitney to die like that.
Frank fell silent, studied the finish on the sedan, drew out a
cigarette, then changed his mind. He stuck his hands in his pockets and
stared off.
He had attended Luther Whitney’s autopsy. The transient cavitation had
been immense. The shock waves had dissipated radially out from the
bullet track to such an extent that fully half the man’s brain had
literally disintegrated. And it was no small wonder. The slug they’d dug
out of the seat of the police van was an eye-popper. A .460 Magnum
round.
The Medical Examiner had told Frank that type of ammo was often used for
sports hunting, big game in particular.
And it was no wonder, since the round had slammed into Whitney with
stopping power equal to over eight thousand pounds of energy. it was
like someone had dropped a pla= on the poor guy. Big game hunting. Frank
shook his hear] wearily. And it had happened on his watch, right in
front o,” him in fact. He would never forget that.
Frank looked over the green expanse of the final restin@