Page 3 of The Fallen Man

“There wasn’t supposed to be one! He was supposed to make her shut her fucking mouth.”

Jackson sucked in a sharp breath. “He? He who? Was someone supposed to attack Eleanor?” he demanded.

“Eleanor, pffff,” Granger sneered. He reached into the pot at the base of the palm tree and produced a vodka bottle. “He said she would be a push-over. He was supposed to be able to work all the angles. Guess he got outworked. Who knew Eleanor Deveraux had balls that big?”

“Uh, anyone who ever met her?” suggested Jackson. As far as he could tell, his grandmother had a pair made of steel. She probably kept them in a pretty box from Tiffany’s, but that didn’t mean they didn’t clank.

“She’s old,” complained Granger.

“And mean,” said Jackson. “And she doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Granger looking outraged.

“It runs in the family,” said Jackson. Granger growled at him.

“So who was this fixer?” asked Jackson. He suspected that whatever Granger had thought was going to happen had been a delusion, but on the other hand, he might as well get a lead on whatever other threats were out there.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Granger. “You think I’m going to hand him over to you all pretty like?”

“Sure,” said Jackson, easily. “Why not? Why should you be the only one to go down in flames? Why not flip on this douchebag? He couldn’t deliver for you. Why should you cover up for him?”

“Because,” said Granger, unscrewing the vodka bottle with anoticeably shaking hand, “I don’t want you getting the credit. I want every one of you fuckers to burn. I want you in this same hell that you put me in.”

“Going to be hard to do from a jail cell,” said Jackson. “But we all have dreams.”

“No,” said Granger, taking a gulp. “I’m not going to jail. I have one last card to play.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” asked Jackson skeptically.

“I have all the files. All the emails. All the everything. I got all the proof that my deal with the VA was approved at the highest levels. And when it comes out, everyone will know that I was right and Eleanor was grandstanding and scapegoating me.”

“And your partner will go to prison too?” asked Pete, sharing a skeptical look with Jackson. “Why not just do a WikiLeaks dump?”

“Because everything is on paper,” said Granger.

Jackson tried not to laugh in the older man’s face. “Oh, OK. And they couldn’t possibly be scanned. All right, where is your magical paper file full ofallllllthe papery paper-type evidence?”

“I mailed it to a secure location where my representative will release it at the right time,” said Granger with dignity.

Jackson shook his head, his black mood lifting. Granger was pathetic. This drunk idiot was going to spend years in jail and learn what it meant to be ignored and forgotten. That was enough of a punishment.

“Uh-huh,” said Jackson, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “I will definitely hold my breath waiting for that. In the meantime, you’re going to put those on. Frankly, I wish you’d make my life easier and keel over dead.”

“I feel the same about you,” said Granger, raising his bottle in a toast. His voice was noticeably getting thicker, and he slurred on the S sound onsame.

“But since Pete over there disapproves of murder, I’m going totake you back to New York where a very lovely A.D.A. is going to throw your ass in prison.”

“I’m not going to prison,” said Granger, sounding tired but smug.

“Yeah, you fucking are,” said Jackson. “It’s not ideal, but seeing you in an orange jumpsuit and knowing you have to squat and cough on command is going to make me laugh every time I think about it. Your only real choice is if you put the cuffs on yourself or if I make you do it.”

Jackson suspected that he would have to put them on, but he wasn’t looking forward to it because he thought it highly likely that Granger would puke on him or worse.

“I’m not going to prison,” said Granger, shaking his head. Then he paused, clearly trying to regain focus on his vision. “Because one of us is going to get their wish.”

“What?”

“I called him, and the fucker actually took my call for once. Said I should turn myself in. Said I should just accept it.” His voice was getting weaker. “Accept it? I am fucking James Percival Granger, and I don’t have to accept anything.”