scoonts.theminotaur-第34部分

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　If　the　key　to　the　Minotaur's　behavior　was　in　his　past；　it　was　going　to　remain　buried　unless　a　small　army　of　agents　with　a　lot　of　time　were　told　to　dig　deep。　The　agents　Camacho　could　get。　What　frustrated　Camacho　was　his　suspicion　that　he　was　running　out　of　time。　What　infuriated　him　was　his　conviction　that　no　matter　how　deep　they　dug；　the　investigators　could　e　up　dry。　And　without　something。。。　some　artifact。。。　something　tangible；　how　could　he　sell　a　man　to　Albright　as　the　Minotaur？　Albright　would　want　a　man　he　could　understand；　with　a　motivation　that　could　be　reduced　to　writing　and　passed　from　the　Aquarium　to　the　Kremlin　and　would　explain。　The　mittee　should　have　thought　this　problem　through　two　years　ago。
　He　went　back　to　his　office　and　found　a　photo　of　Terry　Franklin　in　the　file。　Actually　there　were　four　of　them。　The　one　he　selected　was　a　full…figure　shot　taken　with　a　hidden　camera。　Franklin　was　looking　just　to　the　right　of　the　camera；　perhaps　waiting　for　a　car　to　pass　the　parked　van　the　photographer　had　used。　This　picture　he　placed　in　an　inside　pocket　of　his　sports　coat。　He　glanced　at　his　watch。　If　he　went　to　the　Pentagon；　he　could　probably　still　catch　Vice　Admiral　Henry；　who　rarely　left　before　7　P。M。
　
　Terry　Franklin　stopped　at　a　neighborhood　bar　after　he　got　off　the　bus　from　work。　On　the　Friday　evening　of　the　longest　week　of　his　life；　he　deserved　a　few　drinks。　Waiting　for　the　ax　to　fall　was　squeezing　the　juice　right　out　of　him。　He　had　been　a　bumbling　fool　all　week；　botching　one　job　after　another；　having　to　ask　the　chief　for　help　with　several　problems　that　were　so　minor　he　had　been　embarrassed。　The　chief　was　solicitous；　asking　if　he　was　having　problems　at　home。
　The　problem　was　he　couldn't　think　about　anything　else。　He　could　no　longer　concentrate　on　his　job；　his　wife；　the　kids；　anything。　He　had　to　get　his　mind　off　it　and　he　just　couldn't！　Sitting　here　at　the　bar；　he　glanced　warily　at　the　other　customers；　then　bit　his　lip。　A　panic…stricken　scream　was　just　beneath　the　surface。　He　was　losing　it。　It　was　like　one　of　those　nightmares　he　had　as　a　kid…he　was　fleeing　from　a　hideous　monster　and　his　legs　went　slower　and　slower　and　the　monster　was　reaching　out；　within　inches　of　catching　him…and　he　woke　up　screaming　with　pee　soaking　his　pajamas。
　He　was　going　to　have　to　get　all　this　crap　stuffed　into　one　sock；　going　to　have　to　wire　himself　together　so　he　could　get　from　one　end　of　the　day　to　the　other。　He　had　all　of　tonight；　all　day　Saturday；　all　day　Sunday…three　nights　and　two　whole　days…before　he　had　to　face　his　demons　on　Monday。
　He　ordered　another　CC　on　the　rocks。　Sure；　he　could　do　it。　No　one　knew。　No　one　was　going　to　arrest　him。　No　one　was　going　to　toss　him　into　prison　with　a　bunch　of　homo　thieves　and　killers。　After　all；　this　is　America；　land　of　the　gullible；　home　of　the　foolish。
　He　would　deliver　and　collect　on　another　dozen　floppies　or　so。　Then　he　would　empty　his　safe…deposit　box　and　be　on　his　way　to　a　new　life。　Perhaps　Rio。　He　would　lie　on　the　beach　all　day　and　fuck　beach　bunnies　at　night。
　He　sipped　on　his　drink　and　thought　about　how　it　would　be。　The　life　he　had　always　wanted　was　right　there　within　his　grasp；　so　close；　within　inches。　But　he　was　going　to　have　to　be　realistic　about　the　monsters；　going　to　have　to　keep　trotting。　No　urine…soaked　pajamas。　No　screaming　fits。　Amen。
　He　paid　the　tab　and　left　two　quarters　on　the　bar。　Outside　he　forced　himself　to　pause　and　examine　the　headlines　on　the　newspaper　in　the　vending　stand。　Same　old　crap。　The　world　was　still　turning；　things　were　burning　down；　trains　were　still　crashing。。。
　He　walked　the　two　blocks　home　with　his　head　up；　breathing　the　spring　air。　It　seemed　just　yesterday　that　it　was　so　cold　and　miserable。　Spring　is　here。　And　I've　got　a　fortune　in　the　bank　and　no　one　knows　but　me。
　His　neighbor　was　washing　his　car　in　the　driveway。　〃Hey；　Terry；　how's　it　going？〃
　〃Pretty　good。　And　you？〃
　〃Just　fine。　Say；　I've　been　meaning　to　ask　you。　How's　the　spy　business？〃
　Terry　Franklin　froze。
　The　asshole　tossed　his　sponge　into　a　bucket　and　wiped　his　hands　on　his　jeans。　He　grinned　as　he　reached　for　his　cigarettes。　〃Lucy　has　been　telling　Melanie　that　you're　a　spy。　I　laughed　myself　sick。　So。。。〃
　Terry　didn't　hear　any　more。　He　lurched　for　the　front　door。
　〃Lucy！〃　He　slammed　the　door　behind　him　and　charged　for　the　kitchen。　〃Lucy；〃　he　bellowed；　〃you　stupid…〃
　Lucy　was　sitting　with　her　mother　drinking　coffee　at　the　counter。
　Both　women　stared；　openmouthed…
　〃What…what　does　Jared　mean…about　Melanie？　What　did　you　tell　Melanie？〃　He　thought　he　was　doing　pretty　welt　under　the　circumstances；　staying　calm　and　keeping　the　legs　going。　But　it　came　out　as　a　roar。
　〃Now　listen　here；　Terry…〃　Lucy's　mom　began。
　〃Lucy；　I　need　to　talk　to　you。〃　He　grabbed　her　arm　and　half　lifted　her　from　the　stool。　〃Now；　Lucy。〃
　〃Let　go　of　her；　Terry！〃
　〃Mom　Southworth；　please！　I　need　to　talk　to…〃
　〃No！〃　The　old　lady　had　a　voice　like　a　drill　instructor。
　〃Lucy；　what　did　you　tell　that　moron　Melanie？〃
　〃I　told　her　that…〃
　〃Get　your　hands　off　her；　Terry。　I　know　all　about　you。　You　stupid；　greedy…〃　The　older　woman　was　fat；　with　two　chins。　Just　now　Terry　Franklin　thought　her　the　ugliest　woman　he　had　ever　laid　eyes　on。
　〃Shut　up；　you　nosy　old　bitch！　What　the　hell　are　you　doing　here　anyway？　Lucy；　I　want　to　talk　to　you。〃　He　grabbed　her　arm　and　dragged　her　from　the　stool　toward　the　downstairs　half…bath。　He　pulled　her　inside　and　slammed　the　door。　〃What　in　the　name　of　God　have　you　been　saying　to　Melanie？〃
　Lucy　was　scared　witless。　〃Noth…〃
　〃Did　you　tell　her　I　was　a　spy？〃
　Terry　didn't　need　an　answer；　it　was　written　all　over　her　face。　The　mother…in…law　was　pounding　on　the　door　and　shouting。　Something　about　calling　the　police。
　〃You…you…〃　he　whimpered　as　his　legs　turned　to　wood　and　the　monster's　fetid　breath　engulfed　him。
　Lucy　opened　the　door　and　slid　out　as　he　sagged　down　onto　the　floor　and　covered　his　face　with　his　hands。　His　whole　life　was　shattered；　smashed　to　bits　by　that　silly；　simple　twit！
　
　It　was　8：30　P。M。　when　Luis　Camacho　parked　in　front　of　Mrs。　Jackson's　house　and　locked　his　car。　It　was　a　delightful　spring　evening；　still　a　nip　in　the　air；　but　almost　no　wind。　The　foliage　was　budding。　Summer　was　ing　and　the　earth　was　ready。
　As　he　walked　down　the　street　Camacho　glanced　at　the　crack　house。　Someone　was　peering　though　a　curtain　on　the　second　floor；　he　saw　it　move。　No　one　on　the　sidewalk。　Mrs。　Jackson's　gate　was　ajar；　but　not　a　light　showed　through　the　curtains。
　He　mounted　the　stoop　and　rapped　on　the　door。　As　he　waited　he　glanced　around。　Street　still　empty。　Such　a　beautiful　evening。　He　knocked　some　more。　Perhaps　she　had　gone　to　the　store；　or　to　a　neighbor's？
　Suddenly　he　knew。　He　tried　the　knob。　It　turned。　He　pushed　the　door　open　several　inches　and　called　into　the　darkness；　〃Mrs。　Jackson？　Mrs。　Jackson；　are　you　here？〃　He　gingerly　pushed　the　door　open　wider　and　reached　under　his　jacket　for　the　butt　of　the　。357　magnum　on　his　right　hip。
　All　the　lights　were　off。　Camacho　closed　the　door　behind　him　and　stood　in　the　darkness　listening　with　the　revolver　in　his　hand。
　Nothing。　Not　a　sound。　Not　a　squeak；　not　a　creak；　nothing。
　He　waited；　flexing　his　fingers　on　the　butt　of　the　gun。　All　he　could　hear　was　the　thud　of　his　own　heart…
　Slowly；　carefully；　he　groped　for　the　light　switch　on　the　wall。
　She　was　lying　near　the　kitchen　door　with　her　right　leg　twisted　under　her；　staring　fixedly　at　the　ceiling。　In　the　center　of　her　forehead　was　a　small　red　circle。　No　blood。　She　had　died　instantly。
　With　the　revolver　ready　he　went　from　room　to　room；　turning　on　lights　and　glancing　into　closets。　Everything　was　neat；　clean；　tidy。　Satisfied　that　the　killer　was　gone；　he　came　back　to　the　living　room　and　stood　looking　at　Mrs。　Jackson。　He　stooped　and　touched　her　cheek。　She　had　been　dead　for　hours。　Around　the　bullet　hole　in　her　forehead　was　a　black　substance。　A　powder　burn。
　The　phone　was　in　the　kitchen。　Her　purse　sat　beside　it；　the　catch　still　latched。　Camacho　wrapped　his　handkerchief　loosely　around　the　telephone　receiver　before　he　picked　it　up。　He　dialed　with　a　pen　from　his　shirt　pocket。　As　he　waited　for　the　duty　officer　to　answer；　he　idly　noticed　that　the　fire　under　the　coffeepot　had　been　turned　off。　A　professional　hit。　With　any　luck　the　body　would　not　have　been　discovered　for　days　and　the　time　of　death　would　have　been　problematic。
　〃This　is　Special　Agent　Camacho。〃　He　gave　them　the　address。　〃I've　discovered　a　corpse。　Better　send　the　forensic　team　and　the　D。C。　police　liaison　officer。　And　call　Dreyfus　at　home　and　ask　him　to　e　over。〃
　Back　in　the　living　room　he　tried　to　avoid　looking　at　Mrs。　Jackson。　Something　shiny　in　a　candy　dish　on　the　sideboard　caught　his　eye。　He　stepped　carefully　over　the　body　and　bent　to　look。　A　spent　。22　caliber　Long　Rifle　cartridge。　The　killer　hadn't　bothered　to　retrieve　the　spent　casing！　And　why　should　he？　Twenty…two　caliber　fire　ammunition　was　sold　everywhere　and　was　virtually　untraceable。　But　how　had　this　shell　got　here？
　He　went　back　to　the　corpse　and　stood　near　it。　Then　he　stooped　down　and　felt　her　head　carefully。　Another　bullet　hole　in　the　back　of　her　head。　Okay；　where　is　the　second　shell？
　The　FBI　agent　got　down　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　looked　under　everything。　He　found　it　in　a　corner；　half　hidden　by　the　edge　of　the　carpet；　bearing　the　Remington　〃U〃。　Camacho　didn't　touch　it。
　So　Mrs。　Jackson　had　opened　the　door　and　admitted　her　killer。　Locks　not　forced　or　scratched　up。　She　had　started　back　toward　the　kitchen；　the　killer　behind；　and　he　had　shot　her　in　the　back　of　the　head。　She　had　died　on　her　feet　and　collapsed　where　she　stood。　He　had　walked　over　to　her　and　fired　a　second　shot　into　her　brain　with　the　pistol　held　inches　from　her　face。　That　shell　casing　was　ejected　by　the　pistol　into　the　candy　dish。　The　killer　had　then　proceeded　on　through　the　house；　checking　for　other　people；　turning　off　lights；　turning　off　the　stove；　making　sure　nothing　would　cause　a　fire　or　call　attention　to　the　house。　Then　he　had　left　and　closed　the　door　carefully　behind　him。　He　hadn't　bothered　to　lock　it。　Even　that　was　smart。　No　doubt　the　assassin　had　worn　gloves；　so　he　left　no　fingerprints。　If　the　local　punks　tried　the　knob　and　came　in　to　see　what　they　could　steal；　they　would　probably　no