Read Online The Hanged Man’s Song by John Sandford - Free Book Online
Authors: John Sandford
Tags: thriller
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blinds and Barrister bar stools.
“What are we doing?”
“Watching.” We sat there for ten minutes, watching the phone a block away, to see if any cops showed up. None did. She backed out and turned toward the street.
“Probably watching us by satellite,” I said.
“Funny man.” She leaned over and sniffed me. “You know, we ought to fool around more often. You
really
smell good.”
I won’t tell you where she’d splashed the Coco when we finally got out of the shower, but hey: when she was right, she was right. I
did
smell pretty good.
BACK at the motel, we read the memos again, talked about them, then, as it began to get dark, changed into some running clothes and went for a jog. We did three miles in nineteen minutes, running around the edges of a golf course. When we finished, I felt better than any time since we first walked into the
Wisteria
and started dropping coins in the slot machines.
We ate a quick dinner and then I went back to the DVDs; and a little more sex. And finally, after one of the longest days I’d had in a while, we crawled into bed.
“Would you like me better if I was more boobilicious?” LuEllen asked as I began to drift away.
I mumbled at her.
“What was that? What?”
I pushed myself up from the pillow. “I’m nowhere nearly stupid enough to answer that question,” I said. “Go to sleep.”
AS A news service, CNN is pretty predictable: bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, weather, sports, bullshit, bullshit. The next morning, though, things were more serious. We turned on the tube a few minutes after 7:15, to a professionally cheerful guy just finishing up the sports.
The next thing up was a silent film showing a man in blackface, wearing a stovepipe hat, with an open black umbrella overhead, doing a vaudeville-style softshoe with two other guys, who were similarly dressed.
There was no commentary for a full five seconds, then one of the talking heads, speaking with his Voice of Doom, said, “You are looking at a videotape of a racially charged fraternity show in which one of the participants was National Security Advisor Lyman Bole, the man with the black umbrella. The videotape was sent to a number of news outlets this morning by a man identifying himself only as ‘Bobby,’ who said that many more such revelations would be coming in the next few weeks. CNN has learned exclusively that while Mr. Bole has yet to comment, the film is genuine, and that the fraternity party took place approximately nineteen years ago at Ohio State University, Bole’s alma mater.”
“Oh my God,” LuEllen said, goggling at the TV.
I was already rolling across the bed. I picked up my cell phone and dialed John. He came on, sounding sleepy, and I asked, “Have you seen it?”
“What?”
I told him, not using the name Bobby, and he said, softly, “Oh, no. The guy’s working the machine, whoever he is.”
“Yeah. And I’ll tell you what-I’m coming up empty on the DVDs. There’s not a thing about who might have the laptop. I’ll tell you what else: the big guys don’t know, either.”
“You got in, uh…”
“Yeah. And they don’t know.”
After a long moment of silence, he said, “I’ve been thinking…”
“You’re gonna retire to Guam.”
“No, I’m serious. Our friend was crazy about his security. There are only three ways somebody could have gotten to him. One: the asshole knew who our friend was, and where he lived, because our friend knew him and trusted him. Two: the asshole tracked him somehow, by computer. Three: it was purely local and purely random, done for money or something we don’t know about-something that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”
He was using the “our friend” circumlocution because we’d shared an earlier difficulty involving Bobby and had learned about the government’s ability to intercept and sort meaningful phone conversations from billions of words of garbage.
“That last one’s out,” I
“What are we doing?”
“Watching.” We sat there for ten minutes, watching the phone a block away, to see if any cops showed up. None did. She backed out and turned toward the street.
“Probably watching us by satellite,” I said.
“Funny man.” She leaned over and sniffed me. “You know, we ought to fool around more often. You
really
smell good.”
I won’t tell you where she’d splashed the Coco when we finally got out of the shower, but hey: when she was right, she was right. I
did
smell pretty good.
BACK at the motel, we read the memos again, talked about them, then, as it began to get dark, changed into some running clothes and went for a jog. We did three miles in nineteen minutes, running around the edges of a golf course. When we finished, I felt better than any time since we first walked into the
Wisteria
and started dropping coins in the slot machines.
We ate a quick dinner and then I went back to the DVDs; and a little more sex. And finally, after one of the longest days I’d had in a while, we crawled into bed.
“Would you like me better if I was more boobilicious?” LuEllen asked as I began to drift away.
I mumbled at her.
“What was that? What?”
I pushed myself up from the pillow. “I’m nowhere nearly stupid enough to answer that question,” I said. “Go to sleep.”
AS A news service, CNN is pretty predictable: bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, weather, sports, bullshit, bullshit. The next morning, though, things were more serious. We turned on the tube a few minutes after 7:15, to a professionally cheerful guy just finishing up the sports.
The next thing up was a silent film showing a man in blackface, wearing a stovepipe hat, with an open black umbrella overhead, doing a vaudeville-style softshoe with two other guys, who were similarly dressed.
There was no commentary for a full five seconds, then one of the talking heads, speaking with his Voice of Doom, said, “You are looking at a videotape of a racially charged fraternity show in which one of the participants was National Security Advisor Lyman Bole, the man with the black umbrella. The videotape was sent to a number of news outlets this morning by a man identifying himself only as ‘Bobby,’ who said that many more such revelations would be coming in the next few weeks. CNN has learned exclusively that while Mr. Bole has yet to comment, the film is genuine, and that the fraternity party took place approximately nineteen years ago at Ohio State University, Bole’s alma mater.”
“Oh my God,” LuEllen said, goggling at the TV.
I was already rolling across the bed. I picked up my cell phone and dialed John. He came on, sounding sleepy, and I asked, “Have you seen it?”
“What?”
I told him, not using the name Bobby, and he said, softly, “Oh, no. The guy’s working the machine, whoever he is.”
“Yeah. And I’ll tell you what-I’m coming up empty on the DVDs. There’s not a thing about who might have the laptop. I’ll tell you what else: the big guys don’t know, either.”
“You got in, uh…”
“Yeah. And they don’t know.”
After a long moment of silence, he said, “I’ve been thinking…”
“You’re gonna retire to Guam.”
“No, I’m serious. Our friend was crazy about his security. There are only three ways somebody could have gotten to him. One: the asshole knew who our friend was, and where he lived, because our friend knew him and trusted him. Two: the asshole tracked him somehow, by computer. Three: it was purely local and purely random, done for money or something we don’t know about-something that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”
He was using the “our friend” circumlocution because we’d shared an earlier difficulty involving Bobby and had learned about the government’s ability to intercept and sort meaningful phone conversations from billions of words of garbage.
“That last one’s out,” I
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