High Crimes

“Understand, Claire, that if you force me to, I’ll just disappear again. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. You know it.” His tone was reasonable, calm, in control. The same way he reassured her about problems around the house he’d take care of, a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing, a lamp that had burned out, a mouse in the kitchen. “I want you to think of Annie. Think of what’s best for her.”

“Let me go,” she said. “You son of a bitch.”

“I know you’ll do the right thing. I’d never, ever do anything to harm my little dolly if I didn’t absolutely have to. Never. But I want you to keep in mind that everything in the world that’s precious to you — your sister, your daughter... You can never be sure. I’ll disappear, and you might not even recognize me, and you and your sister and your daughter will never be safe.” She stared at him in horror, realizing that this was no idle threat, that he meant this. That he would indeed take from her the most precious thing in the world if he had to. Because he was incapable of feeling guilt or remorse. He could do it easily. She shivered again.

“That’s a special kind of hell, always having to worry like that,” he said. “You don’t want that. Believe me.”

The doorbell rang, two chimes that echoed like carillon bells. She squeezed past him and ran to open the door.

Behind her, she could hear the chuff of his pants as he came after her. She opened the door, only then realizing how fast her heart was beating.

The pistol looked tiny in Devereaux’s massive hand.

“Didn’t I tell you to block your caller ID?” Devereaux said. “I get a call, a hangup, and it’s your number. I hate hangups. What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine,” Tom said. “Everything’s under control.”

Devereaux looked at Claire questioningly. “What’s up, Claire?”

Claire stared at him, her eyes desperate. “Ray,” she said.

And suddenly there was a series of explosions from somewhere behind Devereaux, one-two-three-four, and the front of his white shirt was stained blood-red. Claire screamed. Tom’s body coiled, his eyes alert. Devereaux groaned, grabbed his immense gut, then toppled forward and hit the floor. A great whoosh of air escaped his lungs, like an anguished sigh.

Screaming, she threw herself to the floor next to him, cradled his head. Saw he was alive but feeble with pain. Bright-red blood seeped down the front of his shirt.

Now she saw, entering the front door, Colonel James Hernandez, holding a large pistol. Hernandez was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Hey, Ronny, buddy,” Hernandez said. “Just like old times, huh?’”

Tom’s stance relaxed. “Fuck you, old times,” he said. “What did you have to go and testify about that dog stuff for, Jimbo? And that torture shit.”

Hernandez entered the foyer. “Come on, bud,” he said. “You knew Lentini’s fake tape would get the case thrown out. You never had anything to worry about, no matter what I said. I just didn’t want them going after me. And where’s my thank-you? I just saved your life.” He held up his left palm and Tom gave him a high-five.

“Like I saved yours in Nicaragua, Jimmy,” Tom said, with a grin.

Claire looked up, watched them in disbelief.

“Jimmy, you deal with the fat fuck here. Get this mess cleaned up. Claire and I have some business to discuss. Then you better get out of here. You’ve got a lot of people looking for you.” He put an arm around Hernandez. “That stunt with the jeep out in Maryland — you almost got my wife here killed. That was stupid. I needed her.”

“That wasn’t me,” Hernandez said. “Maybe some other Special Forces guys, but not—”

A sudden movement. A glint of light off Devereaux’s gun as his hand suddenly moved and a bullet exploded in Hernandez’s head. Hernandez sagged to his feet, quite obviously dead.

Tom spun around, startled by the gunfire, and, when he saw what had happened, he lunged toward his dead comrade.

At that moment, Claire felt something cold and hard nudge her, and realized that Devereaux was pressing his pistol into her right hand.

Tom saw the gun in her hand. He shook his head in disgust. “Sorry, Claire,” he said. His voice was flat, taunting. “No one’s here to help you now.”

She hesitated, looked back at him as if through fog. Her mouth moved but she could not speak.

She raised the pistol, getting to her feet as she did so. She could barely get her fingers around the grip to reach the trigger. Using both hands to steady it, she aimed at Tom’s chest.

Suddenly Tom reached down, grabbed Hernandez’s pistol, swept it upward until it was pointing at her. He smiled sweetly. His face transformed back into that of the wonderful man she had loved. “You don’t want to hurt me,” he said.

She shuddered. Her eyes would not focus.

His smile slowly faded. He was his old self — his new self? “You don’t know how to use that thing,” he said.

“We’ll see,” she said.

He watched her intently, then pulled the trigger.

There was a click.