The Undertaker

Sandy dug to the bottom of her purse. “We have the newspaper clippings, the obituaries, all of it,” she said as her hand came back out with a thick sheaf of papers, talking nervously, non-stop as she laid it all in front of him. “Here's the stuff on my ex, Eddie. And in Columbus, they buried a man named Louis Panozzo and his wife using Peter's name and his wife's.”

“Panozzo testified in front of my committee, for Chris sake! He was their accountant,” Hardin said, looking at me. “And you have those data disks with you, Pete?”

“That's what started the whole thing.” Sandy kept on, digging deeper into her purse. “I have photographs, lots of them on a memory chip. I've got shots in Chicago of Tinkerton chasing us around, and some from Boston, before he broke my camera.”

“That's okay, Sandy,” Hardin held up his hands in mock surrender. “I believe you, I really do. What a mess. The mob. Hired killers. And now, this rogue agent Tinkerton. It's a miracle you two are still alive.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You did the right thing coming here. The absolute right thing. We need to get all that stuff locked up — especially those disks — and we need to find you two a place where you'll be safe.”

“And where would that be, Senator?” I asked. “In the Federal Witness Protection Program?”

“No, God, no! Of course not, Pete, but that's a real good question, isn't it? I guess “safe” doesn't mean what “safe” used to, does it? No, there is a top-secret staff section of the FBI that works directly with my Committee. They're top notch and they have nothing to do with the WP or with this guy Tinkerton.”

“The FBI?” I asked, still not sure.

“They're part of the Organized Crime Strike Force and I have them on standby. They have a safe house out near Winchester, Virginia, and I can have you on the way out there in minutes. Okay?”

I frowned as I thought it over for a few moments. The FBI? Sooner or later, I knew it was going to come down to something like this. FBI? City cops? State cops? Maybe the damned CIA? I didn't like it, but eventually we had to trust somebody, even if it was this greasy U. S. Senator with his lacquered hair.

“All right,” I nodded to him. “Call them. But it's both of us, Senator. Both or none. We've been on the run long enough, and I don't want to see Sandy get hurt.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way, Pete. It's a smart move, real smart,” Hardin winked at me as he picked up his desk phone and began dialing.

I got out of the chair and walked slowly over to the window. With the flood lights on, the Capitol looked clean and white set against the black, night sky. It reminded me that the government of the United States really did have lot more integrity than Ralph Tinkerton and his ilk. That was when I realized how tired I was, more tired than I had been in years. Hopefully, we were on the home stretch now, and I was damned glad all of this would soon be over. Each of the past six days and nights had taken their toll like a long series of body punches. The first ones didn't seem that bad, but like a long heavyweight fight, each successive blow took its toll. Punch after punch left me slumped in the corner, bruised and battered. All I wanted to do now was to curl up somewhere with Sandy and tune it all out.

“You know,” Hardin wagged a finger in the air. “I always wondered about that guy Tinkerton. His operation always seemed a little too pat, a little too perfect, but he was careful. There was nothing I could ever get my arms around. Well, this will bust it wide open, wide open... Hi, Warren?” I heard him say into the telephone. “Tim Hardin here...“

As gazed absently out the window at the Capitol, I realized the dark window glass also captured the reflection of Hardin's outer office. I could see his receptionist's desk. I could see the rear side of the office's telephone console. And I could see that none of the little red lights were on. I looked back at Hardin again and saw he was talking into the telephone anyway. I looked at the console again, then back at Hardin, and it did not compute. None of the lights on the telephone console were lit. Then I saw another reflection. In the back corner of Hardin's office, I saw a gaudy, red and gold U. S. Marine Corps flag and an icy shiver ran up my back. Next to the flag hung a large, framed photograph of men in jungle fatigues. Younger men smiling and laughing. Some framed ribbons and citations. And I saw a framed motto that read, “Zero Defects.” Hardin's shrine was not nearly as extensive or imposing as the one Ralph Tinkerton had in his office in Columbus, but I knew we had been had.

Hardin hung up the phone and smiled at Sandy. “They'll be here in a couple of minutes, so why don't you give me all that stuff you brought, especially those flash drives, Pete, and I'll lock it all up in my safe,” he said as he held out his hand toward me.

“Sure,” Sandy said as she picked up her stack of papers.