Under Cover of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page B

okay, he dated some. Mel, do you remember Grace Wembley?”
    â€œSure.” She worked here. We’d shared dinner twice. She also dated taxpayers, though; she hung out in the better bars. Then—“She was mugged. Poor damn Grace.”
    â€œShe always talked her head off. I never knew how you could stand it.” He was typing. “And she dated Harry.”
    I said, “See if any of the victims was considered a Security risk.”
    Of nine possible deaths by foul play, seven were considered Security risks. “Maybe they talked to the other Gatherer clans. Or even to taxpayers,” Woody said. “That could be bad, couldn’t it? What happens to Security risks in the IRS?”
    â€œOr here in Sales Tax? Nobody quite knows. Woody, let’s see how far back this goes.”
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    It must have started slow. The first disappearance that fit the pattern was in autumn of 1978. Then nothing for four years. Then it started building up, deaths and disappearances.
    The hair stood up on the back of my neck. There were dozens. “Five on Independence Day, various years. That mean anything?”
    Woody said, “Yeah, that was the other thing they had in common. July fourth, and lots more on the thirteenth of every month. It’s two different messages, Mel, and that’s why the program didn’t catch it.”
    â€œWhat’s it mean? Bad luck? And . . . independence.”
    A long silence ensued. Then Woody asked, “Have you ever listened to old Monroe Kennedy?”
    â€œI try not to.”
    â€œHe’s over a hundred twenty. In his day the Gatherers were sure that no tax should ever go over twenty percent. You could double—and triple-tax them, but if any tax went over double-tithe we’d all be found hanging from lampposts.”
    â€œObviously he was wrong. Your point?”
    â€œThey fixed it by taxing smaller groups. Any one group might want someone else’s taxes to go up instead of his. Graduated income tax, it’s called, and property tax increases. It’s worked for years, decades, but how long can it last?”
    â€œIn California . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    The memory wouldn’t come.
    We wandered back to the room where Glyer was still hassling Massoglia. We watched for a bit. They’d shot him with a truth drug. Veritas isn’t proprietary; all of the tax agencies have it. Massoglia was babbling all his secrets, if he had any.
    Office work can be entertaining at the IRS. They bring in famous writers and singers for audits and get them to dance through hoops, perform or lecture or autograph. Here, it’s too much like work.
    â€œMarion’s backpacker,” Woody whispered, “must have been carrying a bomb. We’ve got no protection at all against a suicide bomber. How’d he get there? He didn’t come in the Director’s flight car. He couldn’t have walked in, could he?”
    I said, “Flight belt.”
    â€œDid you see any other fliers?”
    â€œNo. I got to dinner a little late.”
    â€œIf he’d walked in, the guards would have stopped him. Hey.” He pointed as Glyer puffed a mist into Massoglia’s face. The dealer would go home with no notion of where he’d spent the last six hours.
    â€œAmneserol. Give a guard a little less than the standard dose, he’ll lose an hour’s memory of hanging out in the woods.”
    I nodded. “He’d still have to come in with a flight belt. We’ll find it ditched somewhere.”
    Woody didn’t answer.
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    Woody left after work. In an hour and a bit he’d be back in Portland with his wife.
    I called the secret hospital, but Marion was asleep. I decided to stay in Washington. I booked a room in the Watergate, the part above ground, then went to the Smithsonian. I’d get them to open the back rooms. They’ve got more stuff stored than most taxpayers would believe.
    I stopped in the gem