Last Man Standing by David Baldacci
“You can’t know that. It can allow you to address some issues you ordinarily would be inhibited from doing.”
“There are some things in my head maybe I don’t want to figure out.”
“You never know, Web, until you try. Please think about it. Please.”
“Look, Claire, I’m sure you’ve got lots of crazy people to help. Why don’t you think about them for a while.” He clicked off.
Web pulled his car into the driveway, went inside, packed a duffel of clothes and then hesitated at the bottom of the attic stairs, holding the Harry Sullivan box under one arm. This really shouldn’t be so hard, he told himself. An attic was an attic. Though he had told Claire otherwise, there was something about this house that had rattled him somewhere deep in his soul. Yet he reached up, gripped the cord and pulled down the stairs.
When he got to the attic, he put the box down and reached for the light cord but then drew his hand back. He looked to the various corners, seeking out threats, an endeavor that was now more instinct than habit. He drew his gaze across the plywood floor and then to all the blackened shapes of his family’s bleak history, in the form of clothes racks, piles of books, heaps of junk left to rot. The stack of burgundy-colored rug remnants near the stairway held his attention. They were tightly rolled and bound with tape. He picked one up. It was heavy and very hard, stiff as it was with both cold and age. The remnants matched the rug on the floor below and Web wondered why his mother had kept them.
Off to the side there once had been a large pile of clothes. Now the space was empty. Web had sometimes come up here, pulled the attic door closed after him and hidden under the clothes pile during his stepfather’s many rampages. His stepfather had also kept his stash of drugs and special liquor up here too, because he feared his wife getting her hands on them. He would stumble up here in the middle of the night, already wasted, and seek out additional means to do his mind further damage. It was the early seventies, the country still digging itself out from Vietnam, and people like his stepfather, who had never taken up arms for his country or for any other cause, used the general angst and indifference of the times as an excuse to live life on a perpetual high. Part of the attic floor was also over the ceiling of Web’s bedroom. When he was young and in bed, Web would hear his stepfather’s footsteps overhead as the man sought out his mood-altering substances. Young Web would be terrified that Stockton might come crashing down through the ceiling, to land on top of him, and beat the hell out of him. A cobra in your bed, kill or be killed. When Stockton did beat him Web would have gone to his mother, but most of the time she was not there to console him. She often took long drives at night and came home in the morning, hours after Web had dressed and fed himself and rushed off to school so he wouldn’t have to confront the old man across the breakfast table. The creak of steps still bothered him to this day. He closed his eyes and breathed in the chilly air, and in his mind that old, vanished pile of clothes rose high into the air. And then right on cue there was a slash of red and then sounds flooded him that made Web open his eyes and rush back down the stairs and close the attic door. He had had this vision a thousand times and could never figure it out. He had gotten to the point where he didn’t want to decipher it, but for now, for some reason, he felt like he was closer to its true meaning than ever before.
He sat in the Mercury and pulled out his cell phone and the piece of paper Big F had given him the night before. He checked his watch. It was right at the time the paper said to call. He punched in the numbers and the phone was immediately answered. He was given a set of instructions and then the line went dead. At least they were an efficient bunch. Well, he was going to have a busy night.
As he drove off, he paraphrased the immortal words of TOC:
“Web London to the rest of the human race, nobody has control.”
30
Web drove to Romano’s house and picked him up. Angie was standing in the doorway when Romano came out with his bags and she didn’t look very happy. At least, Web deduced this when he waved to Angie and got the finger in return for his troubles. Romano loaded two sniper rifles, an MP-5, a set of Kevlar and four semiautomatic pistols along with ammo clips for each into the trunk.
“Christ, we’re not going after Saddam, Paulie.”
“You do it your way and I’ll do it mine. The guy who blew away Chris Miller is still out there and if he’s getting off thousand-yard shots at yours truly, then I want to be able to shoot the son of a bitch back. Capeesh?” He turned and waved to Angie. “Bye-bye, sweetie-pie.”
Angie flipped him the bird too before slamming the door behind her.
“I take it she’s upset,” said Web.
“I had some leave time. We were supposed to go see her mother in bayou country. Slidell, Louisiana, to be exact.”
“I’m sorry, Paulie.”
Romano looked at him and smiled, before pulling his Yankees cap over his eyes and settling back in his seat. “I’m not.”
They drove to East Winds, where they were met at the gate by a pair of FBI agents. They showed their creds and were allowed in. The Bureau presence was here in its full glory after the attempted murder of Billy Canfield via exploding cell phone. The Bureau’s bomb squad van passed them going out, no doubt with every bit of evidence they could scrounge from the debris. Web felt sure that Bureau agents were interviewing everyone on the farm who might be remotely connected with where that phone might have come from. Web was also sure Billy Canfield would be less than thrilled with all that activity. Yet at least he had saved the man’s life. That had gotten them entry into the farm.
He had just finished this thought when a horse and rider came into view. It was a big, glossy Thoroughbred with a perfect blending of shimmering muscle, tendon and bone, all moving in a delicate synchronicity that made it seem more machine than animal. Web had ridden a few times but had never really gotten into it, and yet he had to admit, the sight was really something to behold. The rider was dressed in brown riding britches, high, polished black boots and a light-blue cotton sweater. The hands were gloved. The black riding helmet failed to fully cover the long blond hair.
He rolled his window down as the woman rode the horse over to the car.
“I’m Gwen Canfield. You must be Web.”
“I am. This is Paul Romano. Did your husband tell you the arrangement?”
“Yes. He asked me to show you to where you’ll be staying,” said Gwen.
She took off her helmet, pulled back her blond hair and it fell across her shoulders.
Web looked at the horse and said, “She’s a beauty.”
“It’s a he.”
“Sorry, didn’t check the equipment. Didn’t want to embarrass anybody.”
She patted the horse’s neck. “Baron doesn’t mind, do you? Secure in your masculinity, aren’t you?”
“We should all be so lucky.”
Gwen eased a bit back on the small English-style riding saddle, one hand firmly holding on to the double loop of reins, and looked around. “Billy told me what happened in the Rover. I want to thank you for what you did. Billy probably forgot to.”
“Just doing my job.” Though he had never met Gwen, other HRT members at the trial in Richmond had described her as high strung and emotional. This woman was very calm, almost detached in a way; despite her words of gratitude her tone was subdued. Maybe she had just used up all the emotions she had back then.
Web had seen pictures of Gwen Canfield taken by the media at the trial. Unlike her husband, Gwen had aged very well. She was, he figured, in her mid- to late thirties. Her blond hair was still long. Her figure was that of a woman ten years younger, with curves where men enjoyed seeing them and a bosom that would never fail to draw stares. Her features were lovely, with high cheekbones and full lips. If she had been an actress, the camera would have fallen in love with her. She was also tall and carried herself very erect. The horse rider’s posture, Web assumed.
“We’re going to the carriage house. It?
The carriage house, as it turned out, was the place with the big Palladian windows and patinaed weather vane Web had seen earlier. Gwen dismounted from Baron and tethered him to a post. As they were unloading their stuff from the car, Web gave Romano a sign not to unpack his weapons in front of the woman.
Web looked at the location of the carriage house and its relation to the main house, which he could barely see down the long, tree-lined road. He turned to Gwen. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but would it be possible for us to stay in the main house? If anything goes down, it might take us a little too long to get to you.”
“Billy said the carriage house. If you have a problem with that, you’ll have to take it up with him.”
Well, I guess I will, Web told himself. To her he said, “I’m sorry about all this, Mrs. Canfield. You shouldn’t have to go through this again.”
“I never assume the world is fair anymore.” She looked at him closely. “I’m sorry, Billy said that we know you, but I don’t remember from where.”
“I was part of the Hostage Rescue Team that was at the school that day.”
She looked down for a moment. “I see. And now that man is loose again. The one who killed David.”
“Unfortunately, yes. But hopefully not for long.”
“He should have been put to death.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Mrs. Canfield.”
“Just make it Gwen. We’re not too formal out here.”
“Okay, Gwen. And you can make it Web and Paulie. But we’re here to make sure that you and your husband are safe.”
She glanced at him. “I haven’t felt safe in years, Web. I don’t think things are going to change now.”
She led them inside. The ground floor of the carriage house was filled with restored antique cars. Web looked at car-happy Romano and thought his partner was going to have a coronary.
Gwen explained, “Billy collects them. His little private car museum, I guess.”
“Geez,” exclaimed Romano, “that’s a right-hand-drive Stutz Bearcat.” He walked around the space in wonder, like a boy at the Baseball Hall of Fame. “And that’s a 1939 Lincoln LeBaron. Only nine of them were ever made. And omigod.” He rushed over to the far corner of the room and stopped dead. “Web, this, this is a 1936 Duesenberg SSJ Speedster.” He looked at Gwen. “Am I wrong, or were there only two of these ever built, one for Clark Gable and the other for Gary Cooper? Please tell me I’m not wrong.”
Gwen nodded. “You know your cars. That’s Coop’s.”
Romano looked to Web like he was going to faint.
“This is beautiful,” said Romano. He turned to the woman. “I want you to know, Gwen, that I am truly honored to be under the same roof with these legendary machines.”
Web thought he was going to be sick to his stomach.
Gwen looked at Web and shook her head, a tiny smile clutching at the corners of her mouth. “Men and their toys. Do you have any toys, Web?”
“Not really. Didn’t have any as a kid either.”
She gave him a penetrating stare and then said, “Upstairs are two bedrooms, each with its own bath and a fully stocked kitchen and living area. This used to be the estate’s carriage house back in Colonial times. It’s a very historical property. In the 1940s the owner set it up as the firehouse. Billy reconfigured it as guest quarters when he bought the place, although with twenty bedrooms in the main house, I always thought a guest house was a bit superfluous.”
“Twenty bedrooms!” said Romano.
“I know,” said Gwen. “I grew up on a farm outside of Louisville. We had two bedrooms for seven people.”
“Billy didn’t come from money either that I remember,” said Web. “Trucking is not an easy business, but he did it.”
“He was complaining that this farm is sucking every cent of his down the drain,” commented Romano. “But those cars don’t come cheap.”
Gwen really smiled for the first time and Web felt himself smiling at her. “You’ll soon learn that Billy Canfield likes to complain. About everything. But especially about money. I’m sure he told you we sank every cent we had into this place, and we did. But what he probably didn’t tell you is that the first colt we ever sold won the Kentucky Derby and was third in the Preakness.”
“What was that horse’s name?”
“King David,” Gwen answered quietly. “Now, we didn’t get any of that purse, of course, but it put us on the map, and we have the brood mare here that had the King. The stallion that we had her studded with wasn’t all that great, which means that our mare’s bloodlines got a lot of the credit for the King’s prowess.”
“Seems sort of right, though, considering the female does all the real work,” said Web.
Gwen shot him a glance. “I like your way of thinking. So with the King to our credit, everybody in this country who knows anything about horse racing knows about East Winds and our horses generally fetch a nice premium. Now, we do have some race winners here and the stud fees are impressive. On top of that we’ve got a good crop of yearlings the past two years and we run a tight ship. Don’t get me wrong, it is amazingly expensive to run a breeding farm. But as much as Billy complains, I think we’ll be okay.”
“That’s good to know,” said Web. “I guess you came up here soon after the trial.”
She said curtly, “If you need anything, just call the house and we’ll take care of it. The number’s on the wall next to the phone upstairs.” She left before they could even thank her.
They went upstairs and looked around. The furnishings were all antique, the appointments refined and elegant and Web was sure that Gwen Canfield’s touches had been felt heavily here. Billy Canfield just didn’t seem the interior decorator type.
“Man, this is some place,” said Romano.
“Yeah, some place that’s a long way from the people we’re supposed to be protecting, and that I don’t like.”
“So call Bates and have him call Canfield and they can yell at each other. We’re just the foot soldiers, we do what we’re told.”
“So what do you make of Gwen Canfield?”
“Seems nice enough. She’s a real looker too. A lady. Canfield’s a lucky guy.”
“Don’t get any ideas, Paulie.”
“Yeah, like Angie would let me live to enjoy it.”
“Unpack your stuff and let’s make rounds. I want to hook up with Canfield. If we’re going to protect him, we need to at least be near the guy. And we’re probably going to have to go in shifts, Paulie, so we’ll alternate sleep.”
“Hey, just like the good old sniper days.”
“Yeah, just like the good old sniper days, except you snore like a damn freight train.”
“Not anymore; Angie had me fixed.”
“How’d she do that?”
“I really don’t want to get into it, Web.”
They went outside and immediately ran into Percy Bates.
“Any luck on the bomb?” asked Web.
“It was a pretty sophisticated device, from what the techs told me. We’re talking to everybody who might know something, but so far nothing. But that phone didn’t get in there by itself.”
“So maybe we have an inside job. A Free Society member on the premises, maybe?” added Web.
Bates nodded and he looked very worried. “They recruit people from areas just like this. Rural white guys wh
“Anything happening with the Frees in southern Virginia?”
“We’ve got people watching them but nothing so far. Now they might just be lying low after all this activity. That would be the smart thing to do. And they’re not dumb. They have to know they’re suspected in this and that we’re watching. All we need is one link and we can go after them.”
“Where’s Canfield? I sort of like to keep track of the man I’m supposed to be protecting.”
Bates said, “And Gwen too. She received the same death threats that her husband did.”
Web thought about this. “Well, Paulie and I can split up, but it’d be nice to have more men on this. East Winds looks to be a pretty big place.”
“Two thousand acres and sixty-eight buildings, actually. I talked to Canfield about that and he said if I wanted to bring more guys out here, he’d see me in court and then see me in hell, and I’m taking the guy at face value. It’s up to you two, but listen, Web, we’re not going to be very far away.”
“I’m counting on that, Perce.”
“Oh, and Web?”
“Yeah?”