Page 138 of The Devil's Advocate

‘They’re stopping vehicles here at the checkpoint,’ said the driver.

A line of vehicles and men in FBI-branded tactical vests were blocking the road, checking every vehicle. The driver slowed and stopped as an agent waved them down.

Before the agent could say anything, two men approached the car. One was tall, wearing a dark suit, white shirt. The other was much smaller. He took off a panama hat as he opened the front passenger door and got inside.

‘I’m Alexander Berlin, Homeland Security, good afternoon, Governor,’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Patchett.

‘We’ve received intel on a highly credible threat of assassination. We will be escorting you from here. My colleague Mr. Anderson will be driving you to Montgomery.’

The driver’s door opened and the man in the black suit waited while Patchett’s confused driver exited the car. Anderson got in, closed the door and took the wheel. The roadblock cleared up ahead – the FBI vehicles parting as the governor’s car was waved through.

‘There’s really no need for …’ said Patchett, and then stopped himself. He couldn’t play down the threat. He was relying on it.

‘My driver was fine, and I’ve got the sheriff with me as security. I don’t need—’

‘You do,’ said Berlin, looking into the back seat. Sheriff Shipley was behind him, and Patchett behind Anderson.

‘Sheriff, how are you?’ asked Berlin.

Shipley gritted his teeth, said, ‘You don’t have authority out here, Mr. Berlin.’

The man named Berlin turned for a moment to look around, and saw that they were on an empty highway, with no cars around. The traffic was still held up at the FBI checkpoint. They wouldn’t let any cars through for another half hour, as Berlin had instructed.

He shuffled round in his seat, faced Shipley and said, ‘Far as I know we’re over the county line. One thing is clear here, and that isyoudon’t have authority. Now, hand me your side arm. Slowly.’

Patchett felt his spine turn into a block of ice as he saw Berlin’s arm come up over the back of his seat with a gun in his hand.

‘You can’t be serious,’ said Shipley.

‘The threat could be from anyone, Shipley. Even you could be the assassin. Now give me your weapon.’

Shipley’s shoulders slumped as if he was pissed off at the bureaucracy of the federal law enforcement agencies, and that he had lost a pissing contest with Berlin. He slid his side arm from his holster and handed it to Berlin, who took the weapon, then pointed it at Shipley and blew his brains out through the back of the window.

‘Jesus Christ !’ cried Patchett.

‘Calm down, Patchett,’ said Berlin as he put his own gun away and trained Shipley’s weapon at Patchett. Berlin noticed something then. He was sitting the wrong way on the passenger seat, his knees up, back to the windshield, facing the back seat. From this angle he had seen something.

With his free hand, Berlin searched the gap between the seat and the center console and drew out a pink iPhone.

Skylar Edwards’ phone, which Patchett could not find in her clothes or her purse after he had beaten and strangled her.

‘You almost got away with it, didn’t you,’ said Berlin. ‘I just thought I would let you know that Denvir is dead. The people on your hit list are safe, for now. Here’s what’s going to happen. We went by the Buckstown Sheriff’s Department, took the evidence found in Francis Edwards’ house. Neither you nor anyone else will use his murder for your cause. The media will record his death as a tragedy brought on by grief, causing a mental breakdown. And that’s all. There will be no political angle. Now, Shipley here, well, that’s different. The FBI are going to find a lot of white supremacist memorabilia in his home. And a list of targets, too. You’re on that list. In about three minutes this car is going over the Luxahatchee Bridge, into the river. Don’t worry about drowning, you’ll be dead already. Murdered by Shipley, a white supremacist. You’re going to be a civil rights martyr, Governor. How does that feel?’

Patchett lunged forward, his hands clawing for Berlin’s face.

There was the sound of a shot, and another, and another.

And then silence, and darkness.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Eddie

The Next Morning

The diner on Main Street was pretty empty when I walked in with Harry. The big guy behind the counter, Gus, noticed us as soon as we came in.