homestead. His father had died in this very room. Somehow, that thought
was comforting to him.
He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. In the morning he would
call the police. He would tell them everything and he would give them
the tape. Then he would sit back and watch. Even if they didn’t convict
Richmond, his career was over. Which was to say the man was as good as
dead, professionally, spiritually, mentally. Who cared if his physical
carcass lingered? So much the better. Sullivan smiled. He had sworn
that he would avenge his wife’s killer. And he had.
It was the sudden sensation of his hand rising from his side that
brought his eyes open. And then his hand was being closed around a cold,
hard object. It wasn’t until the barrel touched the side of his head
that he really reacted. And by then it was too late.
AS THE PRESIDENT LOOKED AT THE PHONE RECEIVER, HE checked his watch. It
would be over right about now. Sullivan had taught him well. Too well,
as it had turned out, for the teacher. He had been almost certain
Sullivan would contact him directly prior to announcing the President’s
culpability to the world. That had made it relatively simple. Richmond
rose and headed upstairs to his private quarters. The thought of the
late Walter Sullivan had already passed from his mind. It was not
efficient or productive to linger over a vanquished foe. It only set you
back for your next challenge.
Sullivan had also taught him that.
IN THE TWILIGHT THE YOUNGER MAN STARED AT THE HOUSE.
He had heard the shot, but his eyes never stopped staring at the dim
light in the window.
Bill Burton rejoined Collin in a few seconds. He could not even look at
his partner. Two trained and- dedicated Secret Service agents, killers
of young worhen and old men.
On the drive back, Burton sank back in his seat. It was finally over.
Three people dead, counting Christine Sullivan.
And why not count her? That’s what had started this whole nightmare.
Burton looked down at his hand, still barely able to comprehend that it
had just curled around the grip of a gun, forced a trigger back and
ended a man’s life. With his other hand Burton had taken the cassette
recorder and the tape.
They were in his pocket headed for the incinerator.
When he had checked the telephone tap and listened to Sullivan’s phone
conversation with Seth Frank, Burton had no idea what the old man was
getting at with Christine Sullivan’s “illness.” But when he reported the
information to the President, Richmond had looked out the window for
some minutes, a shade paler than he had been when Burton had entered the
room. Then he had phoned the White House Media Department. A few minutes
later they had both listened to the tape from the first press conference
on the Middleton Courthouse steps. To the President commiserating with
his old friend, about the whimsical nature of life; how Christine
Sullivan would still be alive if she hadn’t taken ill. Having forgotten
that Christine Sullivan had told him that on the day of her death. A
fact that could be proven. A fact that could possibly topple all of
them.
Burton had slumped back in his chair, stared at his boss, who silently
looked at the tape as if he were trying to erase its words with his
thoughts. Burton shook his head incredulously. Caught up in his own
mushy rhetoric, just like a politician.
“What do we do now, Chief? Make a run for it on Air Force One?” Burton
was only half-joking as he studied the carpet. He was too numb to even
think anymore.
He looked up to find the President’s eyes full upon him.
“Walter Sullivan is the only living person, other than ourselves, who
knows the significance of this information.”
Burton rose from his chair and returned the stare. “My job doesn’t
include popping people just because you tell me to.”
The President would not take his eyes from Burton’s face.
“Walter Sullivan is now a direct threat to us. He is also fucking with