Chapter 1: Matt Striker

I didn’t jump at the three volleys fired by the seven riflemen in Arlington. I didn’t cry when the bugler sounded Taps. I accepted the folded flag with my left hand underneath, my right hand over the stars on the blue field.

We were about 200 yards from the pavement, from Highway 14. The windshield exploded just as the crack of a rifle registered.

Matt hit the accelerator and brake, twisting the wheel viciously to his right. The power skid placed the driver’s side facing the shooter. I was already over the console, tearing open the rear passenger door, hanging onto my rifle.

I flung myself to the rocky ground and elbow-crawled forward, behind the engine block. Matt was beside me in a second. Neither of us spoke.

The shooter was now moving his aim from side to side — from front to rear of the Pathfinder. The bullets were coming out a a measured pace, nothing frantic, nothing hurried.

The three driver’s side windows shattered, one after the other. Both driver’s side tires were shredded and the Pathfinder listed to one side. Steam and screeching metal sounds were coming out from under the hood. A smell of burning rubber.

Matt said, “Two shooters.” He looked up at the evening sky, “Still an hour or so.”

My breathing had calmed; I wasn’t panic-thinking. Like Matt, I was assessing.

He said, “They’re trying to blow up the gas tank. One of them is shooting tracers.”

I said, “Okay.”

He said, “We’ll split up. You stay here, I’ll head for those trees.” I looked past him, past the rear of the Pathfinder. Three Lodgepole Pines, probably close enough together to give him some protection. I nodded.

He said, “Once I’m set, head for those rocks.”

I looked to my right. Nodded again.

“Hold your pistol around the front of the truck, just your hand, nothing else.”

“Cover fire.” I made certain the safety was off.

“Right.” He crawled to the rear tire, raised himself in a sprinter’s stance, tightly clutching his rifle, “Now!”

I fired blind, not even aiming, just pointing in the general direction. Matt grunted and I turned to see him flung sideways, chest-shot under his right arm. His body crashed to the ground, loose, lifeless.

I blinked Matt from my mind and crawled under the Pathfinder, crawled toward the shooters. Not enough headroom, but I wasn’t going far, just to the edge of the driver’s side. I could feel cuts and scrapes on my body, I gouged the top of my scalp on something.

The setting sun was to my back, slanted a little in their eyes. I was still completely under the truck, not even the tip of my rifle showed. I lay my head on its left side and carefully brought the scope to my right eye.

Wexler and Hoffstatter were advancing steadily toward me. They took turns raising a rifle and slamming another bullet into the Pathfinder. Less than a hundred yards away. Two country boys out plinking at varmints.

Still lying with my head forced a little to my left, still under the truck, I brought the rifle to my shoulder, my index finger to the trigger. I paused one more time to check that the safety was off.

Wexler was on my left, the Aryan to the right. They were coming toward me, still at a steady pace. But they were also moving further away from each other. Ten yards apart, twelve.

The rocky ground between us was on a slight grade; they were moving a little uphill. Towards me, always towards me. But out in the open now.

I was back in Virginia, resting my left arm on a sandbag support. I pressed the cartridge down until it clicked under the frame rails of the action. The bolt went forward and down like silk — the parts painstakingly fitted and polished.

I concentrated on my breathing — there, a natural respiratory pause. At the exact right moment, I continued the trigger press until the sear was released — sending the firing pin toward the primer in the base of the round. Setting off the sequence of tiny events that sent the bullet spiraling forward.

Hoffstatter’s chest exploded and his body heaved backwards through the air.

I eased my rifle to the left. Wexler had frozen. He couldn’t see me, didn’t know exactly where the shot had come from. I watched through the scope as he carefully laid his rifle down. Raised his hands in surrender. Locked his fingers behind his head. Kneeled down on the rocky ground.

I waited for the exact right breath-moment and fired dead-center into his chest.

Was anyone else with them? The thought never occurred to me. In fact, I wasn’t thinking. Was barely functioning. Numb.

I had to wriggle backwards, back to the passenger side, to scrape myself out from under the Pathfinder. I walked to my left, walked to Matt. I took off my black fleece vest, gently draped it over his head, covering his face.

I reloaded my pistol, re-holstered it. Reloaded my rifle. Double-checked that the safety was off.

Then I moved toward the shooters, rifle pointed ahead of me. I was dazed, oblivious to the physical sensations, to my abrasions and bruises. Mentally oblivious too. There would be plenty of time to think about Matt. Too much time.

Karl Hoffstatter was still handsome, his apple-cheeked countenance unbothered by death. I walked over to Dixie Wexler. Did I see a look of hurt surprise? Maybe. Blood everywhere. I looked over at Hoffstatter, back to Wexler.

Done and done.

I wish I could say that the days following Matt Striker’s murder were a blur.

No. Everything was crystalline clear, etched in my mind. Time somehow slowed down, making the anguish even more intense. The slower pace gave me extra time for reflection, for regret, for ... sorrow.

I had left Hoffstatter and Wexler in their individual pools of blood; returned to Matt. Sat beside him on the hard, rocky ground. Didn’t look at his body, couldn’t. I sat with my arms around my knees, staring straight ahead as the sun faded behind me, then set.

I wasn’t in shock, but I was ... numb. Not thinking tactically, not even thinking very clearly. Numb.

I had seen a corner of a cellphone sticking out of the front pocket of Wexler’s greasy jeans. I wouldn’t have touched him for a million bucks.

Eventually, a man in a battered green pickup stopped in the road, Highway 14. He was in his 60s and was on his way back to the Crow Reservation, just over the line in Montana. He called it in, sat with me until the authorities from Sheridan — both the police and sheriff departments — careened in, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

My rifle and pistol were on the ground, three or four feet away.

I gave them Sandra Fleming’s number, “I work for the FBI.”

That accelerated the process.

I borrowed a police lieutenant’s cell and made three calls. Vanessa. Daddy. Constance Grayson.

Vanessa ached for me. Pilar was still in shock — this too-sudden, too-soon-in-her-young-life reminder of ... life. And death. Walker was in the worst shape though. Hurting for me, feeling guilty for having resented Matt. No, not that exactly, more for having resented Matt and me. Our couple-ness.

Daddy was a rock. Bear too.

But it would be Washington DC — Constance Grayson and Senator Harper Wainwright — who gradually nudged me back to life.

Life in our glorious Wrigley loft seemed ... dimmer. Less vibrant. Hushed. I wondered, idly, if that would change. Couldn’t seem to find the energy to care all that much one way or the other.

Fortunately, I was busy. That old cliché probably had some truth to it. Keep moving, stay engaged, fight to keep grief at bay.

In an ironic way, Matt’s death had simplified my life, my Kansas City life. He had been my love affair; now I focused every emotional atom I had left on my family.

In essence, my life was divided into three segments:

> Vanessa and the kids.

> My private-detective gig, which now consisted of one case — working for that famous, or infamous, Los Angeles attorney, Gloria Allen. On a major Big Pharma case unlike anything I’d imagined.

> Closing out the Matthew Striker phase of my life. Not his memories, not my tears, just the ongoing thrum of day-to-day obligations.

Which meant going back to DC, back to Matt’s condo, back to his world.

Senator Harper Wainwright spoke at Matt’s memorial service at the Washington National Cathedral. Had Matt been Episcopalian? Didn’t matter, I guess.

The senator spoke in a quiet, soothing, baritone. No hurry in his voice, just a pleasant conversational tone. A pal chatting, sharing reminiscences with a group of old friends. A refined delivery, one that had propelled him into what some call the most exclusive club in the nation. Membership: 100.

I looked around the cathedral and felt a vague discomfort, a mild yearning to be somewhere else. Reminiscent, I guess, of that achy, cooped-up feeling when sitting in a classroom. But here, some resentment too. I looked at the stained glass windows, the religious icons, felt the hush of reverence.

I resolved, irrationally, in that moment to never live in a town named after a saint. Diego, Francisco, Louis, Barbara. My thinking, of course, was ex cathedra.

Constance squeezed my elbow, brought me back into the real world. She whispered, “Penny.”

I just shrugged. Difficult to rail against the unfairness of the world in the tranquility of ... this place.

Several hundred of Matt’s friends and acquaintances attended. Later, I told Daddy, “I don’t even know that many people. Let alone people who would ... you know”

He just patted my hand.

Three of us — the senator, Constance Grayson, and I — followed the flag-draped coffin up the aisle, out the door. The flag’s blue field, with stars, was secured over Matt’s head and left shoulder.

I looked over the attendees, anything to avoid thinking about ... Matt. Dozens and dozens, maybe over a hundred, police and military uniforms. More than one senator, several representatives, even more staff.

But I knew that most of the people were just everyday folks. Matt had been a man of the streets — his confidants, his sources, his friends — were cab drivers, waitresses, stockbrokers, structural ironworkers, office workers, bartenders. And, some grifters, conmen, thieves.

Plus, and this made me smile, some women I recognized. Vivian Villarreal, who had provided the automotive contribution to my secret life — a 1980 Chevy Impala. Big Cutesy and Little Cutesy — of oyster renown. I hoped they all had been Matt’s lovers at one time. Greta Hoffstatter, language maven, no relation to Karl.

During the memorial, Senator Wainwright had mentioned, briefly, the multiple military ribbons and medals Matt had earned. Matt had never once spoken of any of that. Like Daddy.

The senator ended his remarks, “Matt Striker died, just as he lived, in service to his country.” He started to say something more, then didn’t. I closed my eyes.

At least one part of our anti-Nazi campaign had worked.

Thanks to the doctored videos, White Patriots Day was a flop. Rather than tens of thousands, only a few hundred haters had shown up. And those stragglers were spread out over a dozen cities.

The videos that the Los Angeles FBI office had altered made the white supremacists look ridiculous. Assertions of homosexuality, sex with African-Americans, Jewish parentage...

Add the rumors that the movement leaders were ratting out some members to keep the heat off themselves ... well, the national day of resistance turned into a fiasco. And had the various white-power compounds fighting with each other. Internal dissent in many of the camps was rife too.

There could be a ripple effect. The alt.-right demonstration in DC on the anniversary of the Charlotte rally was a flop. White-power attendance was anemic — protestors far outnumbered the American Nazis. Editorials in two major newspapers credited the failure of White Patriots Day.

So some of our campaign seemed to work. And may still be effective.

But what captured most of the national media’s attention was the Wyoming National Guard’s raid on the WHITES compound outside of Sheridan. One phone call from Senator Harper Wainwright to the governor proved just how inside politics can work.

The official rationale was based on false accusations of child molestation. The real reason? Wexler and Hoffstatter had killed one of our own. And when our team included a Untied States Senator ... well, things got done.

The truck convoy, bristling with heavily armed men, and a few women, hit WHITES at dawn on May 1st. White Patriots day. The lead truck easily battered its way through the cross-guard barrier and 48 trucks plus 17 Jeeps and 4 ambulances rolled inside.

Three Jeeps stayed back at the one entrance; the WHITES — men, women, and children — were trapped in their own box canyon.

As Hank Morristown and his team had done at the Gunther compound, the Guard immediately took over the armory.

Women and children were escorted off the premises and taken to the Sheridan High School gymnasium for processing.

Acting on FBI information, snitches, and intel gathered from the Sheridan video sessions, forty-six men were arrested for parole violations. Then there were illegal, and unregistered weapons charges — thirty-two more arrests.

One guy — Roger ‘Hoppy’ Cransdale — will be going away for a long time. He had helped Wexler escape into those dense Minnesota woods.

The WHITES weren’t completely broken, but they were in disarray. And, possibly even worse, they were being laughed at by supremacists around the country. Even the ‘federal jackboots’ charges rang a little hollow.

I hadn’t been informed of the raid. Just read about it like most people. But at least part of our operation had been successful. Something.

A week after the memorial, the funeral, the burial, I flew back to DC. Constance and her driver met me at Reagan. We drove directly to Matt’s Georgetown condo; Constance unlocked it.

She and I sat in that familiar, cozy, sun-dappled kitchen. On that red leather banquette. Matt’s breakfast nook measured the age of his apartment as accurately as tree rings. Nuclear family of four, maybe five, sitting down together for a traditional breakfast. Ancient history.

Constance opened her case, pulled out a leather envelope. Unzipped it and placed Matt’s will on the table.

No preamble. “Matt named three organizations and his ironworkers union. He bequeathed $10,000 each to the union, the NRA, Wounded Warriors, and the Army Emergency Relief Fund.”

I nodded, numb.

“And an additional $100,000 to a local charity he co-founded — it’s for DC children who have lost a parent in combat. Capital Heroes.”

I tried to blink away tears.

“Everything else, Winter, and Matt was very specific, goes to you.”

I didn’t care.

“Including this apartment. Take your time, don’t rush to a decision. You can rent it out, sell it. Location, location, location. Or you can leave it as it is for now.”

I nodded. Door number three.

“You were Matt’s sole individual beneficiary — he had $250,000 in a twenty-year term policy with New York Life.”

I nodded. Felt even worse. She had more to say; realized that this was enough for me. For now.

Constance placed a single sheet of paper in front of me, “Summary statement.” Then she stood, handed me a card, “My direct lines — work and home. Reach out anytime. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call.”

I walked her to the door. Awkward hug, mostly on my part. Still numb.

Back in KC, I resolved, for about the billionth time, to get back at it. Claw my way out of this cocoon of grief and re-enter ... well, life. I had to, for my sake, the sake of my worried family. Especially Walker.

Vanessa was tough, such a strong inner core. Pilar too ... she’d soldier through. Walker, though, had a nice case of the Guilts. Sorrow for me. Spiked by his initial distrust of Matt. Of Matt and me.

Well, I knew my son. Knew myself. Road trip.

Dinner Tuesday night. Wild boar tacos around our kitchen table where so much of our life revolved. I was forcing myself to concentrate on tastes. Flavors. Trying to trick myself into enjoying small pleasures again.

I nudged Walker’s thigh with the heel of my foot, “Pack tonight. We ride at dawn.”

Pilar was startled; she caught herself, nodded. Hit the road — good idea.

Vanessa caressed Walker’s cheek with the back of her fingers, smiled, “Don’t get up to anything naughty, now. Pilar and I expect a full report.”

Pilar said, “Detailed.”

Walker grinned and blushed and looked down at his plate and reminded me of the little boy he used to be.

Vanessa and I sat down with Gertie Oppenheimer, our feisty financial advisor, our friend. We were in my office in the Livestock Exchange Building. In the resurgent Stockyards. Sipping house-made espresso. Office-made.

I handed them copies of Matt’s will. Well, the summary sheet. “He left me $250,000. Insurance policy Plus $280,000. Municipal bonds.”

Gertie nodded, “Munis. He’d know where to park his money from his ... ah, legislative contacts.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Gertie was rolling an unfiltered Camel between her index finger and thumb. She’d be heading down to her office soon.

I said, “He left me his condo too. No idea what I should do with it. What it’s worth.”

Gertie, a rare flash of compassion regarding financial stuff, said, “No need to do anything now, Winter.” She patted the real estate file, “I’ll make sure the mortgage stays current. Utilities too.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll also run some comparables.” She held up her hand, smiled, “Just learning what it’s worth doesn’t mean we have to do anything. Plenty of time to think about it.”

Vanessa said, “You might want to just keep it. You know, for when you go back to DC. If you decide to do some work for Constance.”

Vanessa and Gertie glanced at me. Vanessa’s statement had really been a question — was I planning to do some work for the senator’s chief of staff? I didn’t know. Like so many things, I was postponing the decision.

“I carried you to term. I’m having second thoughts, Walker.”

“Luckiest day of your life. When I graced you with my presence.”

I looked at Vanessa, “You want to shoot him?”

“I do, but you have the honors today.”

Pilar, arms spread, flung herself in front of him, “PLEASE! Spare him!”

My last case — the hunt for Dixie Wexler — had gone awry almost from the beginning. Matt hadn’t liked my carefully crafted plan. Threw almost everything out. So I started off, off balance.

Things really tilted when I watched, frozen in shock, as Matt shot and killed the forger who was creating my false ID. Bones.

I’d been a step behind the entire time. Behind Matt, Constance Grayson, Ash Collins and the FBI infrastructure. But mostly behind that fucking Dixie Wexler.

Some things, I guess, we’ll never know.

How much funding, if any, were the Meriwethers providing to Dixie Wexler and Karl Hoffstatter? Up to the time I shot and killed them.

Who in the Diamond District had passed my 800 # along to Solomon Grunwald? Who was actually Liam O’Leary. Not even Jewish, let alone Hassidic. So far as we could determine, he was still in Britain.

No charges were ever filed against that Riggs banker, William Corcoran. Nor against the Meriwether bagman, Percival Highbottom.

The forensic accountants, FBI accountants, were wrapping up the case against the Kiryas Square rebbe, Naftali Weissman. He’ll be serving time.

As was Greta Gunther. The one who started the whole process by setting Wexler after me. I’d never see her again. Wexler and Hoffstatter hadn’t killed me. But they’d killed part of me. And I’d never let Gunther gloat. Not to my face. Not once.