The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone 13)

Longer than the others.

More detailed.

From Jansen.

March 16, 1968

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Internal Security-C

For CIP Supervisor Only

GALT has been present in Los Angeles since November 19, 1967. He was told to stay in the city until needed for further smuggling activities into Mexico. Funds have been continuously provided, allowing him to pursue more activities. During the past four months he has attended bartending school, explored again the possibility of working in the pornography business, taken dance lessons, and enrolled in a correspondence locksmithing course. Without our knowledge he began seeing a local clinical psychologist, DR. MARK O. FREEMAN. We covertly obtained the doctor’s file, which contained little to nothing in the way of new information, then we maneuvered GALT into ending that relationship, playing off his fears and paranoia of the police.

GALT has also been active in the GEORGE WALLACE presidential campaign, becoming a member of the American Independent Party. He has been working the streets, going door-to-door for the Wallace-for-president effort. Over the past few weeks he has identified himself more and more with Wallace’s racist ideals and has clearly revealed himself as an ardent segregationist. White rule and apartheid appeal to him. He has repeatedly talked of wanting to emigrate to Rhodesia and help fight for the white-rule cause. He is impressed and influenced by J. B. STONER and the National States’ Rights Party. He now subscribes to the Thunderbolt, the party’s newsletter, which openly calls for violence against minorities and the expulsion of all Negroes from the United States. He refers to MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. as Martin Luther Coon, mimicking the label STONER utilizes. His comments of late reflect a deep-set resentment at the attention many Negro leaders receive in the media.

One further note. GALT underwent plastic surgery to alter his nose, offering little explanation as to why. Disturbingly, he was dissatisfied with the initial results, so he removed the bandages and remodeled the nose himself before the cartilage set. He’s also frequented a hypnotist, but nothing substantial occurred from that association.

“You do understand who they’re talking about,” Coleen said.

I got it. “James Earl Ray.”

“He went by the name Eric S. Galt in Canada, Mexico, and back in the United States. What Ray said at his trial makes sense now.”

I waited for her to explain.

“Thirty-six hours before his trial began, Ray pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced to ninety-nine years in prison. Toward the end of the sentencing proceedings, he interrupted the judge and objected on the record. He said he freely pleaded guilty to murder, but did not agree with comments made by Attorney General Ramsey Clark and J. Edgar Hoover. His words at the time were odd. He said, I don’t want to add something on that I haven’t agreed to in the past.”

I was confused, since the statement made little sense.

“After killing King,” she said, “Ray went on the run from April 4 to June 8, 1968, prompting the largest manhunt in history. Yet he made it to Canada, to England, to Portugal, then back to England where he was finally caught. Clark and Hoover both proclaimed to the world that Ray acted alone. No conspiracy. Case closed. The prosecution relied heavily on those statements during Ray’s sentencing hearing. But Ray said he did not agree with them. The judge pressed him on what he meant and he said, I mean on the conspiracy thing. Now I see why. There actually was a conspiracy.” She paused. “A big one.”

I watched the guy with the boat work a wench and drop the keel into the water. It was about a fifteen-footer. V-hulled. Open deck. High-sided. Good for the ocean. He tended to it with affection, tying the bow rope to a piling and easing his truck and trailer out of the way.

A lot was happening. Much more than I’d been told about yesterday by either Stephanie or Jansen. The idea had been to retreat here until dark, then make our way off the island.

Now I knew how.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I rose from the picnic table and walked over to the guy with the boat, who was locking up his truck.

“Headed out for some fishing?” I asked.

“Looks like a good night for it.”

The saltwater inlet between here and the next patch of land over, Palm Beach Shores, was about a hundred yards across, the water calm and still. A damp breeze was working in from the east that felt good, but had so far done little to tussle the surface. Out over the water two squawking seabirds fought in midair for a fish.

“I was wondering,” I said. “How about I contribute twenty dollars to your gas and you give us a lift across to the other side?”

He gave me a cautionary look.

“It’s not a problem,” I said, adding a chuckle. “We’re not on the run or anything. We just need a lift.”

“That your girlfriend?” he asked.

Explaining would be far too complicated, so I lied. “She’s mine, though sometimes she doesn’t see it that way.”

He grinned. “I’ve got one of those, too.”

I fished out a still-damp twenty from my wallet and handed it over. Then I returned to Coleen and told her we had a ride. We gathered up the files and quickly stuffed them back into the waterproof case.

We climbed aboard the boat with the case and our driver revved the outboard, backing away from the ramp. Behind, in the park, headlights cut a swath through the growing darkness. I glanced back and saw a car come to a stop near the concrete ramp. But it wasn’t towing any boat. The door opened and Jansen emerged.

“Malone,” Coleen said.

I turned and followed her pointing finger toward the far shore, where another car had arrived.

Two men stood waiting.

Seems like I would have learned what being bait felt like, but once again we’d stepped right into their trap.

Then the driver leaped from the boat.

“Get down,” I yelled to her, realizing what was coming.

The men on both sides of the channel drew their weapons and fired our way. We dove to the deck. Bullets ricocheted and tumbled past, leaving a whirring sound in their wake. I belly-crawled forward and seized the helm, whipping the wheel hard right, increasing the throttle, and heading toward open ocean that lay about five hundred yards to the east.

More shots came our way.

But none of the rounds found us.

The outboard was now fully revved, the bow planing as we skipped across the narrow inlet. We were far enough away now that the shooters were not a threat. A sloping jumble of boulders to our right extended a hundred-plus yards from the beach out into open ocean, the jetty blocking the currents into the inlet and providing a relatively safe harbor west of the park. A few fishermen were stan

ding atop it. We motored past the jetty’s end into open ocean.

“That was way too easy,” she said.

And I agreed.

“They knew we were there,” she said. “Why not just take us?”

The answer to that question appeared off our starboard bow. The boat from earlier, the one the two guys in the inflatable had returned to, had shifted position and was now much closer to the jetty. In the scant few rays of light left I saw the inflatable tied at its side and men climbing down into it.

“They made a deal,” I said.

The idea had been to get us out here, with the coin and the files, leaving us to Valdez’s men. Tom Oliver had apparently determined that was the quickest and easiest way to solve his problem. How the deal had been made so fast after Valdez’s attack on Oliver’s house was hard to say. But it clearly had. And we’d been maneuvered into stealing a boat and coming right to them.

The inflatable swung away from the larger vessel and headed our way.

“We need to get out of here,” Coleen said.

I swung the wheel left and vectored north, paralleling the coast of Palm Beach Shores. High-rise apartments and condominiums lined the way, lights dotting the buildings up many stories. Beaching the boat and making a run for it seemed the smart play, but we’d never make it to shore before the inflatable overtook us.