Dale Wilmot still could not find the right words. Although he’d written dozens of speeches, business plans, and corporate mission statements over the years, nothing had ever been as hard for him to write as this. It was a letter to his son. Part of Wilmot’s indecision came from knowing his words would eventually find a much wider audience than Evan. They would be disseminated by the media, scrutinized by law enforcement agencies, and ultimately, judged by history. Was it arrogance to compare this document to the Declaration of Independence or the Gettysburg Address? After all, it was more than just one man’s attempt to explain himself to his son; it was a call to action intended to wake the American people from the stupor of complacency that had enslaved them for so many years. And for that, he was willing to give up everything, including his own life.
He sighed and turned away from the blank computer screen. On the nearest wall of his mahogany-paneled study hung photographs of himself shaking hands with presidents and prime ministers, playing golf with quarterbacks and corporate titans. The photographs showed a man of great confidence. Beneath the thick head of hair and above the square jaw, his quick grin told you this was someone who not only moved comfortably among the rich and powerful, but who could just as easily ride a horse, rewire a breaker box, and shoot a Winchester rifle. Over the years he had amassed a small fortune through timber interests, heating and air-conditioning, and trucking. He was a big man, with big hands, and the impression he left was of a man used to giving orders.
But Dale Wilmot no longer recognized the man in the photographs. The fire of optimism that once animated his eyes had dimmed over time, until it had finally been extinguished, replaced by a cold, singular determination. He had become a stranger to himself. And the photographs that once inspired feelings of patriotism now mocked him, staring down at him as a reminder never again to trust the hollow words of other men.
Anger had always fueled Wilmot, whether on the gridiron or in the boardroom. And so it was with this. Into the rich soil of his anger, the seeds of a plan had been sewn twenty-one months ago, when Evan, his first and only child, had returned from war.
He remembered walking down the echoing corridors of Walter Reed, past a room where young men with wrecked bodies sat like zombies before a droning television. He remembered being met by Major General William D. Bradshaw, who solemnly ushered him into his office. When you were Dale Wilmot beÑ€†, news of any kind—good or bad—was always delivered by the most important man in the building. But Wilmot preempted the general before he could get out a word. “Where’s my son?”
Bradshaw put on a face intended to express regret and said, “Mr. Wilmot, we’ve made tremendous strides in our ability to treat our wounded warriors and help them transition—”
“Take me to my son. And don’t make me ask you again.”
Wilmot’s hands balled into fists at his side. They reminded Bradshaw of sledgehammers. “This way, sir,” Bradshaw said, leading him from his office down a short hallway to the elevator bay. They rode down together in silence to a subterranean floor, where they followed a sign directing them to the burn unit.
The shrunken grotesque patient Wilmot saw sleeping inside the transparent oxygen tent bore no resemblance to his son. His thicket of short sandy hair was gone, replaced by a motley skullcap of scar tissue. His once-handsome features were denuded, as if his lips and his nose had been melted into blunt shapes. The bandaged remains of his legs terminated just below his knees, and his right arm extended only as far as his elbow. His left arm remained intact, although a patchwork of frag wounds and burns were visible through the clear antibacterial bandage.
A ringing phone pulled Wilmot from his memory. The sharp smell of hospital disinfectant and urine lingered in his nostrils as he put down his pen and picked up the receiver.
“What is it?” Wilmot said.
Collier’s soft voice answered. “We’ve got a problem, sir.”
A few minutes later Wilmot pulled up to his horse barn in his Jeep Wrangler, parking beside Collier’s F-150. After Evan enlisted in the army, Wilmot had sold all the horses, and now the barn and the adjacent hayloft stood empty.
Wilmot entered the frigid barn. The stalls had been swept clean, but inside one of them Collier was standing over one of the young women he had brought over from Africa. She was lying on a thin, rust-stained mattress atop an army cot. Her eyes were large but rheumy, and now rolled toward Wilmot, silently appealing to him for help. He found himself distracted by her beauty until Collier spoke. “Konzo,” he said.
When he first presented the plan, Collier had warned Wilmot that this might happen. He’d explained that in the Congolese factories, the hydrogen cyanide contained in the cassavas presented a workplace hazard even more dangerous than the machinery itself. Collier had said they could avoid toxic exposure among the women by limiting and rotating their shifts, but he’d clearly miscalculated. Wilmot tried keeping the irritation from his voice. “Will she die?”
Collier nodded. “Paralysis usually sets in after the initial seizures, resulting in respiratory failure.” Collier hesitated a moment before he continued. “But, sir, we can’t risk taking her to a doctor.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Of course Wilmot knew they couldn’t bring the girl to a hospital or even bring a doctor to her. Because she had cyanide poisoning the doctor would be compelled by law to report the case to some public health service, not to mention the immigration authorities. Their only choice was whether to let her die a painful protracted deat hÑ€†th or to end her suffering themselves.
“I’ll handle it,” Collier said.
Wilmot heard in Collier’s voice more than a simple willingness to carry out this unpleasant but necessary act; he was eager to do it. Collier had grown up on Wilmot’s ranch, where his mother worked as a housekeeper. When he was in his early teens, a stable hand found a dog in the woods that had been dismembered and disemboweled. Six months later, a fawn was discovered hanging from a tree, suspended by a grappling hook. Even back then, Wilmot had suspected Collier of committing those atrocities. Now, the predatory darkness in the young man’s eyes only confirmed Wilmot’s earlier suspicions.
“No.”
Collier blinked, surprised by Wilmot’s sharp tone.
Gideon's War and Hard Target
“I’ll do it myself,” Wilmot said, his voice softer this...
He leaned close to the girl’s face. Her warm breath smelled of bitter almonds, the telltale symptom of cyanide poisoning. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said softly. “Truly, I am.”
In a quick and decisive movement, he pinched her nostrils shut with his thumb and forefinger, and clamped the rest of his hand over her mouth and chin, covering the lower half of her face like a muzzle. Her eyes widened, and she began to buck and writhe. Wilmot pressed her to the mattress with his left arm. She was surprisingly strong, her body fighting through the cyanide-induced weakness in a desperate attempt to preserve itself. He pressed down harder, pinning her pubic bone to the mattress with his massive forearm.
He was not insensitive to the sexual aspect of the moment, the girl’s breasts moving beneath her thin dress, her warm hips bucking beneath his strong arms. Christiane’s resistance, however, soon gave way to resignation, until her eyes stared emptily at the ceiling.
Wilmot removed his hand from her face. Then, tenderly, he lowered her eyelids and straightened her wrinkled dress. “I want her given a proper burial,” he said without looking at Collier. “Ground’s frozen solid. You’ll need a pick.” And with that, he left the barn.