Chapter 44

"The only really relevant part's maybe about ten minutes in," I told Feathers once he'd escorted me to what he called a "witness interview room" on the fourth floor.

He held out his hand to take the iPod, but I pulled it away. "Not now," I said sharply. "We can listen, you and I, but I'm going to run it. I told you, that's for McDonough only, OK?"

He smiled and nodded agreement. "Very well, Mr. Costain," he added. "What is it that you want me to hear?"

I set the thing to start about where I figured was right. "The voices you'll hear are mostly mine and Senator Golden's," I said. "Senator Robert Golden—"

"I'm privy to our investigation there," he interrupted me. "Mr. McDonough said you promised to have some additional information."

"Oh, I've got that, all right," I said wryly. "There's a little by an aide of his, a Walter Quiller, who was also in the room. Just the three of us. This was only recorded an hour or so ago, less, you understand? In Senator Golden's office, in the Russell Building."

"Go ahead."

I hit the "play" button. The sound was surprisingly good, apparently the clerk hadn't been lying about the fidelity of the microphone. I had to fumble for a minute but quickly I found the point where I'd entered Golden's private office.

"Now listen," I told him. It played on out through my handing the flash drive over to Golden and my helpless bleating while Quiller checked it out. Then we got to Golden's big speech.

Feathers had listened fairly impassively up to then, his eyes flickering back and forth between the iPod and me, but suddenly he was riveted. His jaw hit the floor as Golden ordered Quiller to kill me.

I punched "stop." That was why I'd wanted him to hear it. Now, no matter what happened, I had confirmation. Somebody else, somebody besides me, somebody I'd never met before and who had no reason to lie for me, had heard it.

"That's all?" he said breathlessly. "But what happened after—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. He gave me an irritated look, and went over to open it. "What is it?" he snapped as he toggled the doorknob.

I guess he had more to say, but he was given no chance to say it. The instant he unlatched the door it was shoved heavily open, sweeping him back to be crushed between it and the wall. Two men with drawn pistols pointing at me—real pistols, not my homemade Liberator—were standing there, both of them shouting instructions at me to get down, lie on the floor, not to move, to keep my hands in sight.

Not sure which of them to obey, I simply extended my hands in front of me, palms up and sat stock still. I wasn't going to give them the slightest excuse to shoot. For a minute I wasn't sure even that would be enough to stop them, but then one of them cautiously approached, roughly grabbed one wrist, slapped a handcuff on it tightly, wrenched my arm behind me and linked it to the other one behind my back. I made no effort to resist.

They patted me down, finding, of course, nothing beyond my wallet and keys. Then the one guy pulled me up to my feet. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Senator Robert M. Golden and his aide," he barked. Attempted? I'd been sure Quiller was dead, and maybe his boss too. Evidently it was harder to kill people than you see on TV shows, where they obligingly drop dead at a dirty look. "You have the right to remain silent..." and he ran through the rest of the Miranda litany.