Part 11 (2/2)

Covered in blankets, a dozen Arabian horses whinnied and stamped the ground outside Chapman's large white barn. As handlers led them in a side door, Tucker backed the delivery truck up and jumped out of the cab. He needed to unload quickly so he could join Judd in the house.

A stringy man in padded winter coveralls walked toward him.

”Are you Dean Jennings?” Tucker said.

”I am. And you are?” Dean studied the Long Plains Feed & Supply jacket Tucker wore.

”Jon Jacobsen.” Tucker gave him the explanation about the illness of the regular driver. ”Where do you want your supplies?”

Dean took him inside. The earthy odor of horse manure sharpened the air. Tucker noted needlenose cameras observing from the rafters as two men tended, fed, and watered the horses. Although the grounds were not under observation, at least the interior of the barn was. But then Chapman was raising a small fortune in thoroughbred Arabians.

As soon as Dean showed him the storage area, Tucker hurried back outdoors, opened the truck's rear, and dollied the first batch of supplies inside. Horses stuck their heads out of the stalls to watch him pile sacks of feed. As he stacked bales of hay, his handheld vibrated. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his pocket and saw it was Judd.

Dean had been observing, arms crossed. He radiated disapproval.

”The wife,” Tucker explained.

As Dean gave a slow nod, Tucker silently read: Short hall inside door. Guards' locker room on right. Will change into a uniform and look for 2nd-fl room.

Tucker did not like the idea of Judd investigating without him. He texted back: In barn. Wait for me.

Stuffing the phone back into his jacket, Tucker rolled the dolly over to Dean. ”How about you or your men giving me a hand? My wife's on my b.u.t.t. I got to get home.”

His feet planted solidly, Dean shook his head. ”Tim never needed help.”

The man was so laconic he probably had no blood pressure, Tucker decided. His best course was not to argue. ”No problem.”

Silently cursing, he pushed the dolly back outside and resumed unloading. The minutes pa.s.sed slowly. Sweat streaked his face. By the time he rolled the last crate inside, his arms, shoulders, and back ached. He stored the dolly in the truck and slammed the door. With a wave of his hand, he got behind the steering wheel, closed the door, and started the engine. Fighting the urge to speed, Tucker drove past the garage and main house then downslope. In two minutes he was at the stand of spruce. Some hundred yards ahead were the service gate and protective granite wall.

Checking his mirrors, he killed the truck's headlights, downs.h.i.+fted so his red brake lights would stay dark, and searched for the opening in the woods he had spotted when they had driven past earlier. The trees had looked young and thin, and despite his slow speed, they seemed to blend together, a solid ma.s.s.

It came upon him suddenly, a narrow black tunnel fronted by saplings. The hole looked barely wide enough for what he needed. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and floored the accelerator. He smashed through the trees, bending and snapping branches, the snow geysering up in great waves coating the winds.h.i.+eld and side windows. Lurching against the seat belt, he felt the front end ram into something. The back tires spun.

Turning off the ignition, he wiped sweat from his forehead and set the jug of frozen water on the floor, reached behind him, and grabbed a balaclava and snowshoes. Rolling the black balaclava down over his head, he adjusted the face hole over his gla.s.ses.

He opened the door and strapped on the snowshoes. G.o.d, it was cold. He took out his Browning and stepped onto the snow, the snowshoes sinking only an inch. Moonlight shone in luminescent streaks down through the trees, giving the woods an unearthly glow.

Closing the door, he slogged forward to check what had stopped the truck-a bank of snow. The fender was burrowed into it. Needled limbs poked out. There was a downed tree under there somewhere. Snowshoeing back to the truck's rear, he discovered the tires had dug themselves deep holes. Driving out of here was going to be dicey, if they could do it at all. He would worry about that later.

With a glance at the moon, he got his bearings and snowshoed off, pus.h.i.+ng back branches and ducking needles. A gust of wind curled up and around him, spraying him with snow. He found the riding trail Judd and he had spotted in the satellite photos and moved onto it, increasing his speed. As he climbed, he watched through the trees for headlights, flashlights, moving shadows. The cold bit his flesh.

He paused within the forest to observe an open area that sloped up toward the compound. Bushes and trees made long-shadowed silhouettes. And then he saw a line of oval depressions-snowshoe prints. Holding up his Browning, he moved toward them, the snow m.u.f.fling his progress, and stopped abruptly. Hidden just inside the treeline was a large mound that seemed not to belong there.

Tucker peered up the slope. The garage was dark, no light to indicate anyone was there. He studied the oval prints of snowshoes. There were three sets. Two people-one following the other-had come down the slope from the garage. Then one had dragged the other into the trees and returned uphill.

Tucker moved until he could see the mound's face. He recognized him-the sentry who had walked down the drive when Judd and he had first arrived. Blood frozen on the side of his neck shone darkly in the moonlight. Beneath it was a narrow black well in the snow, where the man's lifeblood had poured out.

The wound was a neat slice, a single well-placed thrust of a blade into the jugular. The man had probably been followed here, or forced here, then knocked unconscious so he would not yell or resist, and finally-and expertly-stabbed to death.

He stood. Where was the victim's M4? Stepping from the woods, he searched for the rifle along the treeline. There was no sign of it. Either the killer had taken it with him or he had flung it deeper into the forest. He looked up the hill again. No one was in sight, no guard, no horse trainer. If this were the sentry's patrol area, it was now without security. But who had killed him?

Taking out his handheld, he texted Judd: Sentry killed near spruce forest. Expert knife to jugular. Know anything about it?

Wary, watching all around, Tucker hurriedly climbed toward the compound, following the snowshoe prints. Lights shone from windows in the main house and the barn, while the garage remained dark. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled.

When he finally reached the garage, Tucker was sweating and s.h.i.+vering at the same time. Still following the prints, he went around to the rear. The snow was gray and pounded flat here. He was a.s.sessing the prints when his handheld vibrated again. A response from Judd: No. Still in locker room. Hurry.

His back to the garage, Tucker stood where he had a 180-degree view of open s.p.a.ce, trees, and a parking lot behind the barn, where there were a dozen cars and pickups-probably the employees' lot. Farther away was Chapman's airstrip and the hangar, a blocky silhouette. A narrow road led to it from the parking lot.

To Tucker's left was a large wood cart, the kind for hauling small equipment or hay. Snow heaped high and untouched on it while the snow on the ground alongside it was trampled. He moved closer, gazing down, following little speckles black against the snow. He checked under the cart. Another corpse in a white snowsuit lay there, face up, eyes open, iced over. Frowning, Tucker gazed around then crouched, examining the red blotch frozen on the dead man's neck-a single knife thrust to the jugular again. What in h.e.l.l was going on?

He texted Judd: Another dead guard knifed behind garage.

As he rose, the noise of one car engine then another crackled across the still hilltop. He hurried back to where he could see the employees' parking area. As he watched, steam curled up from the tailpipes of parked cars, and an SUV rolled off. Two bundled men ran from the barn to a car and fired up its engine, too. Members of the staff had finished for the day.

As he watched, his handheld vibrated again. He dug it out. Judd at last: Figure 4 live guards inside. Watch out.

As the noise of approaching engines grew louder, Tucker hustled back around the barn and ripped off his snowshoes. Ramming them deep into a s...o...b..nk until they were out of sight, he ran full tilt across the drive to the mansion's rear door.

30.

In the library upstairs, the three armed guards had not moved from their posts at the door, while Eli Eichel and Martin Chapman had taken to wingback chairs, drinking bourbon and branch water and waiting impatiently to find out where Judd Ryder was.

Chapman drank. ”Are you married, Eli?”

Eli felt a dull ache in his chest. ”Not now. My wife died thirty years ago, in childbirth. The baby died, too. Young love, young death, end of story.” He remembered Madonna Millman, whom he had erased in Mayfair with a single shot between her eyes. He had not been told she was pregnant. He had always wondered whether he would have accepted the job if he had known.

”I'm married to a good woman,” Chapman was saying. ”Beautiful. Smart. Nice. She's usually visiting friends in St. Moritz or Cabo San Lucas or Paris. You get the idea. She thinks I don't understand the reason she travels so much is that she's lonely for me. I don't spend much time with her even when we're under the same roof.” He shrugged. ”It's my fault, my weakness. You must know about loneliness.”

Before Eli could respond, Danny said, ”Eli lives with me. He can't be lonely.” He stopped beneath a large crystal chandelier. Staring up, he clasped his big hands behind him and muttered, growing lost in one of his calculations.

”I imagine all a.s.sa.s.sins are lonely,” Chapman said.

”My money keeps me warm,” Eli told him, ”as I'm sure yours does you.”

The phone rang. Chapman picked it up, checking the caller ID. ”It's Senator Leggate,” he said with obvious relief. Then into the phone: ”h.e.l.lo, Donna. I hope your investments with us are paying well.” He listened. ”I'm glad. We want to keep a fine public servant like you happy, and in the Senate. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do need another favor. It's Judd Ryder again. He's back from Iraq, but we don't know where.” He paused again. ”Thanks, Donna.” Then his tone hardened. ”I expect to hear from you quickly.”

Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C.

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