Dead Watch

involved somehow . . . it was set up to resonate with the idea that the Watchmen are Nazis, or Klan, who kill people and burn them as examples.”
    “And they don’t? How about the Mexican kid . . . ?”
    Jake held up his hands, shutting Green off: “I don’t want to get in a political argument. The Watchmen may be Nazis, for all I know. But the scene itself seems to be a setup, managed by Lincoln Bowe’s friends. That’s what we believe.”

    He left Green staring at the cell phone. In the outer office, the secretary ditched the Vanity Fair again and stood up. “All done with the secret talks?”
    “Nope. I’ll be back. Could you tell me where I could get a bagel and a book?”
    She drew a quick map on a piece of printer paper, pointing Jake toward the campus and the campus bookstore, at the far end of State Street. As she gave him the directions, she patted him on the arm: a toucher, he thought. She was nothing but friendly, smiling as she sent him on his way. If he’d been fifteen years younger, he would have been panting after her.
    Might be panting a little anyway.
    Of course, there was Madison—the woman, not the town. Madison, who’d once kissed him. And then didn’t. He thought about that as he got oriented with the hand-drawn map, and started toward the campus.

    The girl’s map was accurate enough, but didn’t have a scale. He had to walk nearly a mile; flinched at the sight of a big GMC sports-utility vehicle with blacked-out windows, rolling along beside him. Remembered the beating he’d taken. If God gave those guys back to him . . .
    He smiled at the thought.
    The day was a nice one, the beginning of warmer weather, and the college girls were coming out of their winter cocoons, walking along with their form-fitting jeans and soft breast-clinging tops. Excellent.
    Maybe get a novel, Jake thought: he’d just read the first of a series of novels about British fliers during World War I, by Derek Robinson, and was anxious to get another. And, of course, university bookstores were the most likely place to find his own books; like most authors, he always checked.
    The store was a good one. He found The Goshawk Squadron and copies of both of his books, though only one of each, in what he thought was an obscure location. When he was sure nobody was looking, he reshelved some outward-facing books so that only their spines showed, and then faced out his own book. The shelf was still too low, but there was nothing he could do about that.
    Nevertheless, two copies. With a sense of satisfaction, he walked across the street, got a bagel with cream cheese, and sat on a bench in the sun and started reading about the Goshawks . . .

    Madison Bowe stood behind the etched-glass insert in the front door, watching as Howard Barber climbed out of his car, straightened his tie, patted his pockets as though checking for keys, then headed up the walk onto the porch. He was wearing the usual wraparound blades–style sunglasses and dark suit. He was reaching for the doorbell when she opened the door.
    He stepped inside, took his sunglasses off, said, “Maddy, what happened, you sounded . . .”
    She hit him hard. Not a slap, but with a balled-up fist, hit him in the cheekbone as hard as she could; but she was not a big woman, hadn’t thrown many punches, and he twitched away before the punch landed and that took some of the impact out of it.
    She tried again, but he was ready this time, brushed her off. “Hey, hey, what the hell?”
    She shouted at him: “You killed Lincoln and you killed Schmidt and now the whole thing is coming down on us.”
    “No, no, no . . .” He had his hands up now, backing away from her.
    She was spitting, she was so angry, the words tumbling out of her. “Don’t lie to me, Howard. I know about the brain tumor, I know about the medication. I stayed up all night, trying to work out explanations, and there aren’t any. You killed Howard and you killed Schmidt. Now Jake Winter knows about the package and he’s looking for it.”
    “Ah, jeez,” Barber said, dropping his hands. She took a step toward him and he said, “Maddy, don’t hit me again. That hurt like hell. Just listen for a minute, huh?”
    “Howard . . .”
    “Linc died at . . . a friend’s place. He’d worked out the whole thing, the whole thing involving Schmidt. When he’d died, we took him down to the basement and shot him. We shot him in a way that would keep the slug in the body