In a very private, very secure room at Fort Carson, Rupert Hollingshead poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, then a rather more generous portion into another. He picked up the second glass and handed it to Chapel.
Chapel sipped at it to be polite, but he’d always been more of a beer man.
He was sitting in a wooden chair, facing a broad pane of one-way glass. On other side of the glass, Terry Belcher sat, facing him, handcuffed to a similar chair. Neither room was designed for comfort or ambience.
Chapel was in pain from his various injuries, but he would survive. His prosthetic arm was out for repair, so one sleeve of his shirt was pinned up at his side.
“Angel,” Director Hollingshead said, “what were the final numbers?”
Angel’s voice on the room’s speakerphone was muted and flat, and not just because it was an old phone. “There were 306 soldiers dead, 167 wounded. On the . . . other side, they’re still identifying remains, but they estimate at least 700 dead. A lot of those deaths were self-inflicted. Only 32 wounded from Belcher’s army.”
At least a thousand people dead. The sip of scotch turned to pure bile in Chapel’s stomach, and he forced himself to keep down his breakfast.
“Sir,” he said. “I’m . . . so sorry.”
Hollingshead sat down on the edge of a wooden table and folded his arms across his chest. He frowned in concentration. “Son, I wasn’t trying to admonish you. Do you know how much higher those numbers would be if Mr. Belcher here had had his way?”
“I don’t like to think about it, sir.”
306 dead soldiers—306 families who expected their fathers, their sisters, their uncles to come home for dinner that night. And the wounded—Chapel knew what it was like to be wounded in battle . . .
“You’re a hero,” Hollingshead said.
“I’m afraid I don’t feel much like one at the moment,” Chapel told him.
Hollingshead nodded. “I understand. So let’s just say . . . you succeeded in your mission. We’ve recovered all the rifles that Favorov sold to Belcher, every last one. They’ll be quietly destroyed.”
The rifles. Right. That was what this had all been about. Chapel kind of wanted to laugh. He kind of wanted to cry, too. And he was still feeling nauseous. “I made kind of a mess of it, though. There’s no way this will stay off the evening news. I’m sure Twitter is already on fire with it,” Chapel replied.
“I suppose so. But your name will stay out of it.”
That was good. Chapel had no desire for anyone to know his part in what had happened at the Pueblo Depot. He didn’t do the things he’d done for fame or glory. It had been his job. Just as always.
“As for Mr. Belcher, he’s already indicated he’ll cooperate with us. He happens to have contacts in almost every domestic terrorist organization in the Western states. What he knows will allow us to protect an untold number more American citizens.”
“Wait,” Chapel said. He looked at Belcher. The maniac was still wearing his denim jacket. His cheek and forehead were bruised—maybe from when Chapel hit him, maybe from when somebody else did—but his face was placid, expressionless. “Wait. You’re saying—he wants to make a deal with us? He wants to give us evidence in exchange for . . . what?”
“He won’t walk,” Hollingshead assured Chapel. “He’s headed for a supermax prison, and he knows that. For life. That’s all he gets. The alternative was to ship him to a CIA black prison, where he would be held indefinitely without trial.”
“Son of a bitch,” Chapel muttered.
“Jim, we’re not going to send him to some country-club white-collar jail. Supermax is terrible—he’ll be in isolation twenty-three hours a day, he’ll have no access to visitors or the press or anyone but his lawyer, he’ll—”
“A lawyer.” Chapel picked up his glass again and drained most of the scotch in one gulp. “Who will pass on every message Belcher gives them to the media. He’ll make sure everybody knows his name, even from prison.” He turned to glare at Hollingshead. “That’s exactly what he wants! He’ll bring down the white-power movement, and history will remember him for it. That’s what he wants.”
Hollingshead nodded, slowly. “I know. In my estimation, it’s worth it, for what he can give us. But I knew you might not feel that way.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a pistol. He placed it carefully on the table. “Angel, forgive us, but I need you to switch off your ears now. What I’m about to say can never be recorded or repeated.”
“Yes, Director,” Angel said, then her voice was replaced by a dial tone.
Hollingshead pressed a button on the phone, and the noise went away.
Then he gestured at the pistol. “The door to the next room isn’t locked, son,” he told Chapel. “I won’t try to stop you.”
Chapel stared up at his boss.
Hollingshead sighed. “You are a hero, whether you feel like one or not,” he said. “And not for the first time. I can’t give you a medal or a commendation. I can’t recommend you for promotion even if I think that’s what you deserve. But I want you to be rewarded in some way. You were given a terrible job, and you did it exceedingly well. I’m proud of you, son, and I will not judge you in any way for what happens next.”
Chapel held his gaze for a while. Then he glanced down at the pistol.
He stood up and went over to the table. Picked up the handgun and stared at it for a while.
Then he put it back down.
“I’m not an executioner,” he said.
“Of course not,” Hollingshead replied.
“But thanks for the offer,” Chapel told him. “Do you think I could have another drink?”
“Certainly,” Hollingshead told him, and reached for the bottle.
They never spoke about that moment again.