Page 173 of The Fourth Option
Was it? Not according to Plato or Aristotle.
I told myself I was doing it for justice, for Connor and Leigh Ann. For John.
You told yourself… What about honesty?
Honesty?
What would all your philosopher friends say about honesty? Kant, Hume, Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, how would you justify your actions to them?
I thought I was doing it for justice, but when I killed Gormley and Kimbel, was it for justice or for me?
Then turn what you have over to Greer and finish what you started in Washington State; put the gun to your head and pull the trigger.
Not yet.
You’ve done enough damage.
He tried to put the debate in his head to rest by walking the perimeter of the property, noting the terrain: a narrow dock, a shallow inlet perfect for boat access, and a thicket of palmetto and cypress. It was peaceful. He imagined Gloria and Alexandre sipping sweet tea on their porch. By late afternoon, as the sun filtered through the moss like golden smoke, he was back at the typewriter.
Finish this, attach what evidence you have, turn it over to both Greer and someone you trust at the federal level, and then put that pistol in your mouth. Or you could kill Bates, Matheson, Isaacson, and Vargas.
Philosophers have debated the merits of justice for centuries.
While you continue to debate, get that swamp boat running, and build more bombs.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
New Orleans
JARRETT STANTON STEPPEDout of his house, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. His girls were on the balcony, giggling at something on their tablets. Alma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling.
“Don’t forget the recital tonight,” she called.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Stanton replied, flashing a grin.
His watch let him know he was at 1,842 steps. He made a mental note: ten thousand before bed. No excuses.
At the rear of the Tahoe, he opened the hatch and laid his suit coat neatly across the flat top carpeting of the TruckVault next to his FBI windbreaker, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He adjusted the AC vents with the same methodical care he applied to casework.
He had just maneuvered out of the parallel spot when his phone buzzed.
J.J.
He answered on speaker. “Morning.”
“Don’t bother driving out to the office,”she said.
Stanton frowned. “Why? Please don’t tell me that something else blew up.”
“Two days ago, the Metairie police put out a BOLO for a suspect vehicle in the Walt Kimbel murder. Then they abruptly pulled it.”
“Why’d they pull it?”
“According to the detective I interviewed, it was at the request of the NOPD, specifically Lieutenant Cornelius Bates, who said it was related to an undercover case.”
Stanton’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Is that so. You talk to Bates?”
“I thought I should speak with you first.”
