popped the trunk before he got out. Marshall held the lid
down low, but they still needed concealment. Then Vassell and
Coomer went inside and started to build their cast-iron alibis.
Meanwhile Marshall waits almost two hours in the trunk,
holding the lid, until it’s all quiet. Then he climbs out and he
drives off. That’s why the first night patrol remembers the car
and the second patrol doesn’t. The car was there, and then it
wasn’t. So Marshall picks Carbone up at some prearranged spot
and they drive out to the woods together. Carbone is holding
the briefcase. Marshall opens the trunk and gives Carbone an
envelope or something. Carbone turns away into the moonlight
to check it’s what he’s been promised. Even a guy as cautious
as a Delta soldier would do that. His whole career is on the line.
Behind him Marshall comes out with the crowbar and hits
him. Not just because of the briefcase. He’s going to get the
briefcase anyway. The exchange is working. And Carbone can’t
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afford to talk afterwards. Marshall hits him partly because he’s
mad at him. He’s jealous of his time with Kramer. That’s part of
why he kills him. Then he retrieves the envelope and grabs the
briefcase. Throws them both in the trunk. We know the rest.
He’s known all along what he was going to do and he’s come
equipped for the misdirection. Then he drives back to the post
buildings and ditches the crowbar on the way. He parks the car
in the original slot and gets back in the trunk. Vassell and
Coomer come out of the 0 Club and they drive away.’
‘And then what?’
‘They drive, and they drive. They’re excited and uptight. But
they know by then what their blue-eyed boy did to Mrs Kramer.
So they’re also nervous and worried. They can’t find anyplace
they can stop where they can let a man who may or may not be
bloodstained out of the trunk. First really safe place they find is
the rest area an hour north. They park far away from other cars
again and let Marshall out. Marshall hands over the briefcase.
They resume their journey. They spend sixty seconds searching
the briefcase and then they sling it out the window a mile
further on.’
Summer sat quiet. She was thinking. Her lower lids were
jacking upward a fraction at a time.
‘It’s just a theory,’ she said.
‘Can you explain what we know any other way?’
She thought about it. Then she shook her head.
‘What about Brubaker?’ she said.
A voice came out of speakers in the ceiling and told us our
flight was ready to board. We picked up our bags and shuffled
into line. It was still full dark outside. I counted the other
passengers. Hoped there would be some spare seats, so there
would be some spare breakfasts. I was very hungry. But it didn’t
look good. It was going to be a pretty full flight. I guessed LA’s
pull was pretty strong, in January, when you lived in D.C. I
guessed people didn’t need much of an excuse to schedule
meetings out there.
‘What about Brubaker?’ Summer said again.
We shuffled down the aisle and found our seats. We had a
window and a middle. The aisle was already occupied by a nun.
She was old. I hoped her hearing was shot. I didn’t want her
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eavesdropping. She moved and let us in. I made Summer sit
next to her. I sat by the window. Buckled my belt. Kept quiet
for a moment. Watched the airport scene outside. Busy guys
were doing things under floodlights. Then we pushed back
from the gate and started taxiing. There was no take-off queue.
We were in the air within two minutes.
‘I’m not sure about Brubaker,’ I said. ‘How did he get in the
picture? Did they call him or did he call them? He knew about
the agenda thirty minutes into New Year’s Day. A proactive guy
like that, maybe he tried a little pressure of his own. Or maybe
Vassell and Coomer were just assuming a worst-case scenario.
They might have figured a senior NCO like Carbone would