Dead Watch

the package out into the open.”
    She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “How did this ever start? How could you and Lincoln . . . What could possibly be worth it?”
    Barber examined her for a moment, as though he were puzzled, and then said, “We’re talking about the presidency, Maddy. We might be talking about changing the history of the country. If people like Goodman get their way, this place could go down like Rome. A hundred years from now, two hundred years from now, people will look back . . .
    “Spare me,” she said. “I don’t need any historical analysis. I need to get back to the farm. I need to go riding. I need to get away.”
    “Hang on, baby. We’re almost there. Hang on.”

    The whole thing had gone to hell, and Darrell Goodman didn’t quite know how to get out of it. He and George had flown to Chicago on a state plane, on Watchmen business. At O’Hare, they’d rented a Dodge van, the most inoffensive and invisible car that he could think of, and had headed north for Madison.
    The trip had taken longer than he thought. Both he and George were wasted from the overnight flight, and the stress; and Darrell was annoyed with George, because George kept having to stop at roadside rests and gas stations to pee.
    George had been an operator with the CIA, a contract guy, but wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Arlo Goodman had once said to Darrell, “Even the CIA needs guys who carry stuff. That’s what George did.”
    Darrell had driven: George had ridden silently along, half asleep, waking up every hour or so to ask if they could stop. George thought he had an infection, Darrell thought it might be his prostate, but whatever it was, George couldn’t drink half a Coke unless he was standing next to the can.
    And that seemed wrong; that simple problem had unbalanced Darrell. You didn’t have a mission fouled up because a guy had to take a leak. That wasn’t the way the pros did it.
    They’d gotten to Madison later than they’d hoped, but had just spotted the PollCats building when they saw Winter walk out the front door, tapping along with his cane. “Knew he’d beat us,” Darrell said. They watched as Winter turned away from the building, going on down the street. George, sleepy eyed, said, “Want to take him?”
    “No. No, for Christ’s sake. We find out if he got it, and if he didn’t, who’s got it, and we take it away from them .”
    They watched until Winter was out of sight, then pulled into the parking lot in back. From the parking lot to the PollCats front door, everything went fine. They saw nobody, heard nobody. George said, “This place is a ghost town.”
    Then they opened the door and everything went to hell.
    Now the blond-chick secretary was pressed back against the office wall, eyes wide with fear, George in front of her, dressed all in black like a movie villain from Batman , not letting her move. Darrell pointed a leather-gloved hand at Alan Green and said, “If you don’t give me that fuckin’ package, you fuck, I’m gonna break your fuckin’ weasel neck.”
    He knew that wasn’t the idea. There should have been an urbane approach, an understated threat, a sly blackmail, and instead, it had gone straight in the dumper, and here he was . . .
    And then he made the mistake of pushing Green in the chest. Green didn’t just look like a wrestler: he’d been one, at the University of Wisconsin, twenty years earlier. He was scared and angry and strong. He caught Goodman’s arm and made a move, so quick that Goodman, good athlete that he was, was spun off balance and found his arm locked and bent and choked off a scream and Green said, “I oughta throw your ass out. . . .”
    Nobody found out where he was going to throw Goodman, because George, in one quick motion, pulled a silenced .22 from a shoulder holster and shot Green in the back of the head. The gun made a spitting sound, clanked as the action moved, and Green went down like a load of beef.
    Goodman twisted in surprise, said, “Jesus Christ,” looked at George, looked at Green. The blond secretary looked at both men, looked at Goodman’s eyes, knew she was dead: she launched herself at him with her fingernails, slashing, as quick as Green had been, cutting Goodman at the neck and down his arms, and Goodman said, “Jesus, Jesus,” trying to fend her off, and there was another quick spit and the blonde went down, bounced, landed on her back, naked blue eyes staring