Page 11 of The Fourth Option
Walker couldn’t help but recall the main points of the NYU dissertation he had abandoned after Afghanistan, the debates on determinism versus free will. His thesis supported the ideas of Arthur Schopenhauer, the German nineteenth-century philosopher who believed that while man’s actions are free, his predetermined, unchangeable desires are not. A man could physically alter his actions, but not the core drivers of his soul.
As he listened, Leigh Ann’s voice cracked, steadied, and then cracked again as she painted a picture of Connor’s final months, his obsession with the story, the trail of overdoses, the coded journals, the bricks of heroin planted in his car. The cops said Connor was a dealer. The headlines agreed.
Walker closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the heavens, another thunderclap. Paladin barked and hopped off his seat. He stood in the narrow passage between the van’s sliding starboard door and port-side galley. Walker suddenly remembered the call.
The tribal cops. Shit.
“Leigh Ann, let me call you back. Give me one minute.”
He pressed END and then dialed another number.
“Quinault Nation Tribal Police.”
Time to put some of his CIA training from the Farm into use.
“I am so sorry,” he began, explaining that a drunk friend had taken his phone and called them earlier in a poor attempt at a practical joke. Heassured them that his friend was now sleeping it off and that all was well. Annoyed, the dispatcher hung up. Walker called Leigh Ann back.
“Sorry about that. You were about to tell me how you know the cops had something to do with Connor’s death,” Walker said, bringing the conversation back on track.
“I have some of his notes, from the story he was working on.”
“Notes?”
“He kept journals.”
“And the journals point to police?”
Leigh Ann paused.“Not exactly. He wrote key items like places and people in a kind of code that I haven’t yet figured out. But there is something to do with bribes to people in high places. I can see that much. I think he was framed.”
“But it’s just notes? Did he ever discuss his project with you?”
“No. He kept me at arm’s length, telling me I’d get the big reveal when he was done.”
“I see.”
“Chris, I would not ask if I thought I had anywhere else to turn.”
And maybe because you know I can’t possibly say no, not after what I did to your husband. He pushed the thought from his mind.
You owe her, Chris. And you owe Connor.
Is that why you didn’t put a bullet in your brain?
“Journals,” Walker whispered.
“What? I think the connection is breaking up.”
“Nothing,” Walker said, thinking of the intercepted phone calls that had led to the deaths of terrorists on the Agency’s target list over the years. “Leigh Ann, give me your address. I’ll be there in a few days.”
After Walker had written down the address and said his goodbyes to a tearful and grateful Leigh Ann Staub, he stroked Paladin’s head, the rain still coming down in torrents.
I owe them.
“Dein platz,” he ordered, pointing to the front passenger seat.
Paladin sprang to the front of the van but positioned himself so as to keep a watchful eye on his master. The passenger seat worked on a swivel, facing aft when the vehicle was parked as it was now.
