The First Billion

Within minutes the study became a charnel house of wild, barely disciplined activity. Books were pulled off the shelves. Pillows pulled from the sofa and gutted. The stereo yanked from its tethers. This time it was DiGenovese who got lucky. Pulling a well-thumbed copy of the Bible from the shelves, he spotted a hidden compartment in the wall. "Rosie," he called. "Get over here. Do your stuff."

Within a minute, Duffy had opened the compartment. Reaching in her hand, she came out with a cardboard carton six inches long, three inches wide and three inches high. The word "Remington" was neatly printed on each side of the box.

DiGenovese opened the carton of 9mm shells.

Half the shells were missing.

"Sonuvabitch!"

***

Howell Dodson put down the phone. He felt light-headed, bewildered, and ashamed. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Why hadn't he listened more closely to Roy DiGenovese's warnings earlier? Why, even after the murders in Delray Beach, had he been so slow to warm to Gavallan as the prime suspect?

A holster with no gun, DiGenovese had told him.

A half-empty box of bullets.

And now this.

Dodson stared at the manila envelope that had arrived a few minutes earlier stamped "Department of the Air Force: Confidential" and the sheaf of papers that comprised Captain John J. Gavallan's service record lying neatly on the desk beside it. Pushing his bifocals onto the bridge of his nose, he began to read the papers again. Once was not enough. His conscience was as obdurate as his investigative instinct and it demanded he be presented with the error of his ways a second time.

He stopped a few pages in, his index finger frozen halfway down. The entry was innocuous enough: "Summer Semester 1985 / USAF SOC /Grade: Pass." And below it, in capital letters, signifying a commendation: "HONOR GRADUATE."

Translated, the entry stated that during the summer between his junior and senior year at the Air Force Academy, Jett Gavallan had attended the Air Force equivalent of Army Ranger training- the Special Operations Air Command course- and graduated at the top of his class.

When Dodson asked DiGenovese about the Air Force commandos, his assistant whistled long and low. "They're hard-asses, sir. Mostly trained for rescue ops, but rescue ops in hot situations. Lot of gunplay, hand-to-hand combat, that kind of thing. Mean muthas, if you get my drift. Best thing I could say is I'd let them back me up any day. They're pros."

A little probing got Dodson the following: Special Operations Air Commandos were trained to scuba dive and parachute, to support themselves off the land for periods of up to three months, and to master land navigation and map reading. That wasn't all. They were also taught to be experts in small arms and had to qualify as sharpshooters with an M16.

Jett Gavallan wasn't just a pilot. He'd trained as a commando. To use sophisticated weapons. To kill with his hands.

Gavallan was their man, plain and simple.

Dodson read a little further. Even with the glasses, he had to squint to make out the letters. Though he tried to focus on the words, all he could see were bodies. Bodies pitched onto their desks. Bodies strewn across the floor. Bodies slumped in the corner. A tear slid down Dodson's cheek and fell to the paper.

Removing his bifocals, Howell Dodson rubbed at his eyes.

It was time he got a new prescription.

45

In the clearing, the pickup's engine grumbled, then died.

Grafton Byrnes lay in the corner of the shed, curled into a fetal position, his face half bathed in mud. A steady rain fell. His clothes were sopping wet, as if he had just emerged from a swimming pool. His hair was matted and dripping. The sky was darkening, choked with clouds. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was evening.

A little longer, he told himself. You're almost there.

An eerie wind whistled through the pines as rain blew through the cracks in the wall, peppering him like sand on a windy day at the beach. He was cold. He shivered in waves, violent spasms that racked his body, the tremors beginning in his lower back, then traveling up his spine with icy, muscular fingers that wrapped themselves around his ribs and squeezed mercilessly, provoking terrible, wrenching grunts.

The truck's door opened and closed. Byrnes clamped his jaw. By force of will, he stopped shivering. He lay still. Absolutely still.

Boots trudged through the mud, slurping and sucking. Keys jangled. Metal scratched metal and the padlock to the shed opened.

Byrnes gripped the stone close to his chest, the stabbing of his wounded thumb stoking his resolve to act. This was his chance. He was sick and getting sicker. His throat was raw, and he had begun coughing. He was starved and feverish. Another night in the open and he'd be too weak to stand, let alone escape.