The White Mountain by Ernie Lindsey Read Free Book Online

to keep quiet.  The orchestrator, which might
possibly be the German Randall mentioned, each assassin, each contact used to
get in touch with the assassins.  The level of exchanges needed to hide
something of that magnitude would be incomprehensible.  There had to be a
simpler explanation.
    But what if?
    Who knew what actually went
on in the subterranean, back-alley dealings of D.C.?  Some of the stuff that
got out was believable, expected even, by men in powerful positions.  A blowjob
in the White House, clandestine affairs, abuse of privileges.  These simple,
visible, easily discoverable indiscretions were likely just a shark fin
cresting the surface.  The threat of something sinister above water, the real
danger hidden below.  For every intern found dead in a city park, a victim of
passion, how many more people went missing because they knew something and
threatened to tell?  Something so deep, so dark, that it required a complete
disappearance—no body to ever be found, a believable story spoon-fed to the
media so inquiring minds wouldn’t be suspicious enough to look beyond the
jealous boyfriend or random act of violence.
    How much money changed hands
on a daily basis to keep something hidden, to save careers?
    Randall’s theory, such that
he believed it to be true, was so far out there that even the shadiest of
corrupt, conniving politicians would laugh at its absurdity.
    The old saying goes, the
truth is often stranger than fiction .  You couldn’t make up shit like
this.  At least not Randall.  He was a simple, lovable, trained killer that
followed orders and did as he was told.  A small-town son of an Appalachian
farmer, who had deadly aim and a decorated military past.  Not somebody that
would go around concocting fantastical stories in hopes of escaping an arrest
for murder. 
    If he was trying to establish
an alibi, it was a fairly goddamn dumb way to go about it. 
    Mary used the heel of her
palm to massage her aching leg.  It didn’t help. 
    She turned off the aging
hatchback’s failing air conditioner, which did nothing more than provide a cool
puff of air that was weaker than a baby’s breath, and rolled down the window. 
Even at seventy miles per hour, the rushing wind was dense with mugginess as
the late afternoon sun burnt away the moisture. 
    But for once, it felt good. 
Comforting.  Familiar.
    Completely unlike the
situation she now drove toward, and away from.
     
    ***
     
    Mary hit Northern Virginia’s
rush hour traffic with unintentionally perfect timing and joined the massive
horde of drones being ushered through a construction zone.  Multiple lanes
jammed down to two lines that crept forward, moving at inches per hour instead
of miles.  The sense of urgency around her was palpable—each driver desperate
to hurry up and wait.  Orange lights blinked on the tops of striped
construction barrels.  Horns blared.  Middle fingers were extended.  Cars edged
and nudged and forced their way into the tiniest of openings.  Bass thrummed in
the jet black SUV to her left, vibrating her windows, rattling every loose
fitting in the hatchback.
    She slapped the steering
wheel, took a sip of her soda, and felt the oncoming singe of heartburn.
    Insanity like this was the
exact reason she chose to stay in Smythville, rather than moving to a bigger
city where her one-woman private investigation firm might actually earn her a
living, where Jimmy might get a spot on a morning drive-time talk radio show.  Where
she knew he would excel.  He was warm, friendly, and funny.  Quick-witted and
sharp.  His talents wasted, night after night, as he talked to the handful of
people listening at 3AM.  She knew it, and regretted her selfishness, but Jimmy
seemed happy to keep her content.
    Regardless of everything else
that had hindered her enjoyment of life over the past five years, she was happy
with all that Smythville provided.  Easy trips to the grocery store without
having to fight