The twenty-eight ounces had first pulled his arms away from his shoulders, in a kind of Olympic hammer-throwing way, and then they had pulled his trailing shoulder hard, in a kind of whip-cracking way, so he was well into a serious but uncontrolled spin by then. And my elbow was doing pretty well by that point. A muscle memory thing. It happens automatically. If in doubt, throw the elbow. Maybe a childhood thing. My weight was behind it, my foot was braced, and it was going to land, and it was going to land hard. In fact it was going to land very hard. It was already scything and clubbing downward. And it was accelerating. It was going to be a vicious blow. It was going to be the kind of vicious blow he might survive if he took it on the side of the neck, but not on the back. A blow like that on the back of the neck would be fatal. No question. Something to do with how the skull joins the vertebrae.
So it was all about time, and speed, and rotation, and eccentric orbits. It was impossible to predict. Too many moving parts. At first I thought he was going to take it mostly on the side. On the angle, really, but with the ratio tilted toward maybe surviving it. Then I saw it was going to be closer to fifty-fifty, but the twenty-eight ounces suddenly pulled him off in some new direction, and from that point onward there was no doubt he was going to take it on the back of the neck and nowhere else. No doubt at all. The guy was going to die.
Which I didn't regret.
Except in a practical sense.
67
Frazer went down by his desk, not hitting it, making a sound no louder than a fat guy sitting down on a sofa. Which was safe enough. No one calls the cops when a fat guy sits down on a sofa. There was carpet on the floor, some kind of a Persian thing most likely left behind by a previous occupant long dead of a heart attack. Under the carpet would be pad, and under that was solid Pentagon concrete. So sound transmission was strictly contained. No one will hear a thing, Frazer had said. You got that right, I thought. Asshole.
I pulled the illicit Beretta from my Class A coat pocket and held it on him for a long moment. Just in case. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. But he didn't move. No way could he. Maybe his eyelids. His neck was loose right at the top. He had taken no vertebrae with him. His skull was attached to the rest of him by nothing but skin.
I left him where he was for the time being and was about to step into the center of the room to start scoping things out when the door opened.
And in walked Frances Neagley.
She was in woodland-pattern BDUs and she was wearing latex gloves. She glanced around the room once, twice, and she said, "We need to move him near where the picture was."
I just stood there.
"Quickly," she said.
So I got myself going and I hauled him over to where he might plausibly have fallen while he was hanging the picture. He could have gone over backward and hit his head on the edge of the desk. The distances were about right.
"But why would he?" I said.
"He was banging in the nail," Neagley said. "He flinched when he saw the claw coming at him on the backswing. Some knee-jerk reaction. A reflex. He couldn't help it. He got his feet tangled up in the rug and over he went."
"So where's the nail now?"
She took it off the desk and dropped it at the base of the wall. It tinkled faintly against the gutter of tile beyond the edge of the rug.
"And where's the hammer?"
"It's near enough," she said. "Time to go."
"I have to erase my appointment."
She showed me diary pages from her pocket.
"Already in the bag," she said. "Let's go."
Neagley led me down two flights of stairs and through the corridors at a pace somewhere between moderate and brisk. We used the southeast entrance to get outside and then we headed straight for the parking lot, where we stopped among the reserved spaces, and where Neagley unlocked a large Buick sedan. It was a Park Avenue. Dark blue. Very clean. Maybe new.
Neagley said, "Get in."
So I got in, onto soft beige leather. Neagley backed up and swung the wheel and headed for the exit, and then we were through the barrier, and pretty soon after that we were on a bunch of highway ramps, and then we were through the last of them and on a six-lane road heading south, just one car among a rolling thousand.
I said, "The inquiry desk has a record of me coming in."
"Wrong tense," Neagley said. "It had a record. It doesn't anymore."
"When did you do all that?"
"I figured you were OK as soon as you were one-on-one with the guy. Although I wish you hadn't talked so much. You should have moved to the physical much sooner. You have talents, honey, but talking ain't top of the list."
"Why are you even here?"
"I got word."
"What word?"
"The story of this crazy trap. Walking into the Pentagon like that."
"Word from where?"
"From way down in Mississippi. From Sheriff Deveraux herself. She asked for my help."
"She called you?"
"No, we had a seance."
"Why would she call you?"
"Because she was worried, you idiot. As was I, as soon as I heard."
"There was nothing to worry about."
"There could have been."
I asked, "What did she want you to do?"
"She wanted me to watch your back. To make sure you were OK."
"I don't think I told her what time the appointment was."
"She knew what bus you were on. Her deputy told her what time he'd gotten you to Memphis, and so it was easy enough to figure out what line you would take."
"How did that help you this morning?"
"It didn't help me this morning. It helped me yesterday evening. I've been on you since you left the bus depot. Every minute. Nice hotel, by the way. If they ever catch up with me for the room service, you owe me big money."
I said, "Whose car is this?"
"It belongs to the motor pool. As per procedure."
"What procedure?"
"When a senior staff officer passes away, his Department-owned car is returned to the motor pool. Where it is immediately road tested to determine what remedial work needs to be done before it can be reissued. This is the road test."
"How long will it last?"
"About two years, probably."
"Who was the officer?"
"It's a fairly new car, isn't it? Must have been a fairly recent death."
"Frazer?"
"It's easier for the motor pool to do the paperwork first thing in the morning. We were all counting on you. If anything had gone wrong we'd all have had red faces."
"I might have arrested him instead."
"Same thing. Dead or busted, it makes no difference to the motor pool."
"Where are we going?"
"You're due on post. Garber wants to see you."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"That's three hours away."
"So sit back and relax. This might be the last rest you get for a spell."
"I thought you didn't like Deveraux."
"Doesn't mean I wouldn't help her if she was worried. I think there's something wrong with her, that's all. How long have you known her?"
"Four days," I said.
"And I bet you could already tell me four weird things about her."
I said, "I should try to call her, if she's worried."
"I already tried," Neagley said. "From the scheduler's phone. While you were giving Frazer all that theoretical shit. I was going to tell her you were nearly home and dry. But she didn't answer. A whole Sheriff's Department, and no one picked up."