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“So either he and Kerra are screwing like bunnies and barely coming up for air, or he’s keeping her in his hip pocket for some other reason, and, knowing Trapper as I do, I’m scared even to speculate on what that might be.”
As he listened to all this, The Major’s features had become increasingly knit with worry and indecision. He asked Glenn to close the door.
Glenn did as requested, then returned to his perch at the foot of the bed. “This looks and feels serious.”
“It is,” The Major said. “I’m afraid John is creating a dreadful situation for himself.”
“What kind of situation? With Kerra?”
“No, this ha
s nothing to do with her, except that he’s drawn her into it.”
He stopped with that, but it was clear to Glenn that his friend was still wrestling with indecision, so he kept quiet and gave him time to collect and arrange his thoughts. Then The Major began to talk and did so in a steady stream without interruption. It was ten minutes before he finished, and by then he was spent, his respiration wheezy.
Glenn ran his palm across his forehead, unsurprised to find that it had turned damp. “Jesus. It’s almost too much to take in.”
“You only just heard it. In three years, I haven’t taken it all in.”
“Well, now I know how the rift between you and Trapper came about. Did he ever hand over Debra’s diary?”
“No. But there’s no doubt in my mind that he would have used it against me if I’d taken that book deal. He didn’t want me out there talking about the bombing.”
“For your own protection.”
“That’s what he believed and still does. I was hoping that he had let go of it while the rest of his life was going down the drain. Then Sunday night got him all fired up again. He’s more certain than ever.”
“That this Thomas Wilcox was behind the Pegasus?”
The Major nodded.
“And that now, twenty-five years later, he made an attempt on your life?”
“Because of Kerra’s unexpected emergence and what the two of us might recall during the rehashing of the experience we shared. I know it sounds outlandish. But John is…is…John.”
Seeking to reassure his old friend, Glenn addressed him by his real name. “Frank, listen to me. Trapper is as sly as a fox, impulsive, cocky as hell. About half the time, I’d like to whack him up alongside the head. The other half of the time, I wish my own son were more like him.
“But for all his brass, Trapper is also one damn good detective. He has an instinct for it that, honestly, I envy. What I’m getting to is, he wouldn’t base a hunch on an influential millionaire unless he had something on the guy.”
“He did tell me one thing. After the Pegasus was bombed, Wilcox acquired the site. He’d been coveting it for years.”
Glenn tugged on his lower lip. “That’s all Trapper’s got?”
“Slim, right?”
“Very. Not enough to hang a conspiracy theory on. Did he advance this hypothesis to the ATF?”
“They dismissed it. He bucked them. It cost him his career and his fiancée but did nothing to sway his conviction. What happened to Kerra and me was the clincher. He’s always been headstrong and rash, but now—”
“You’re afraid he might actually be crazy.”
The Major met his friend’s gaze. “No, Glenn,” he said softly. “I’m afraid he might actually be right.”
On the other side of the car’s console, Kerra sat hugging herself. Trapper asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Body language screams otherwise.”
