High Crimes

“A few of them. Had to. But I couldn’t just torture some of them and then leave them there to report human-rights violations, understand? You don’t do that. You gotta mop up your own work. I didn’t have any choice.”

She felt very cold. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugged herself. She shivered.

“Marks knew he could count on me,” Tom said again, almost conversationally. “You know, before I went to Vietnam they put me through a whole battery of tests. And... and they concluded that I was — what was the expression? — ‘morally impaired.’ Which was their way of saying I was just the kind of guy they needed. For the assassination squads, and later for Detachment 27. I could kill without feeling any guilt or remorse.”

She stared at him. The room seemed to be revolving slowly.

“The government needed people like me,” he said. “Always does. People who can do the job others won’t. Then, when they’re done with you, it’s, ‘Oh, we’re shocked, shocked at what you’ve done. Here, spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth. Here’s your thanks.’ I do what they tell me, and suddenly I’m a criminal when they don’t need me.”

Claire nodded. “I don’t get it, Tom,” she said. “The ballistics guy — there was evidence of only one shooter. All the bullets came from the same barrel.”

“All the bullets he examined. I told you those weren’t my bullets.”

She needed to make sense of this, even as her head was swimming. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugged. “I cleared the scene. I always liked to do my own mop-up. Always used my own ammo — German .308 rounds, full metal jacket, steel-cased. Easy to pick up with a magnetic wand. Unlike the standard brass shit Hernandez was using that won’t stick to a magnet. I went over the scene pretty carefully, got all the projectiles and cartridge casings. I never like to leave behind my calling card.”

Again she nodded. She swallowed hard. She got up from the table, made her way to the wall phone.

“What are you doing, Claire?” he said. He got up, came close. He smiled. “It’s over, you know. Remember? I’ve been found not guilty.”

She nodded again. “Of course,” she said blandly. She felt queasy. Her stomach boiled like a cauldron. She wanted to vomit. She picked up the receiver, punched out a seven-digit number.

“This is all between you and me, Claire,” he said. A note of harshness entered his voice. “You’re my lawyer. You’re bound by attorney-client privilege.”

She could hear ringing on the line.

“It’s over, Claire. Double jeopardy, remember? I can’t be tried again.”

Ringing. Where was Devereaux?

“Don’t do it, Claire.” He reached over and depressed the plungers on the top of the phone to break the connection.

She replaced the handset carefully. She looked around the kitchen, furnished so beautifully. So homey. How many breakfasts had they had there, she and Tom and Annie? How many times had Tom cooked dinner for his wife and stepdaughter? And all this time it had been a carefully sustained lie. How safe he had made her feel, when in fact she and her daughter had been living with a dangerous, sick man. “You need to turn yourself in, Tom,” she whispered.

“It’s not going to happen that way, Claire.”

She reached again for the phone.

He moved closer, his body between her and the phone.

“I mean it, babe. Don’t do it. Look how much we’ve gone through together. Look how much we’ve got together, you and me.”

She withdrew her hand slowly. “You’re sick, Tom,” she said, very quietly.

“We’re a family,” he said. “You and me and Annie. We’re a family.”

Claire nodded, head spinning, and once again picked up the phone.

“I mean it, Claire. Put down that phone. Think of Annie. There’s no reason to do this, Claire. We can be a family again.”

She shook her head, tears blurring her eyes, listening to the phone ring.

With a sudden motion he slammed the phone out of her hand, causing her to lose her balance, knocking her to the floor. He depressed the plunger, reached down to retrieve the handset, and replaced it in the cradle.

“I need you, Claire!” he shouted suddenly.

Sprawled on the kitchen floor, she looked up at him, saw his flushed face. She winced. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She reached over to her suit jacket, which hung on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and retrieved the cell phone. She flipped it open, pulled out the little antenna.

“Claire, babe,” he said. His eyes were sad, his face anguished. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I just need you to listen to me.”

She punched out a few numbers, then realized she hadn’t pressed the power button.

“Sweetie,” he said, and leaned over toward her. He swatted the cell phone out of her hands. It clattered against the tile floor. “Listen. We can be a family again. Put the past behind you. Put it behind you. Think of Annie.”

Weeping, unable to focus her eyes, she slunk across the kitchen floor and grabbed the cell phone; he came at her again, kicked it out of her hand.

Pain knifed up her arm. She scrambled to her feet, tried to stumble toward the door, but he blocked her way.