Frames Per Second Read online

  FRAMES PER SECOND

  BILL EIDSON

  Copyright © 1999 by Bill Eidson

  Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.

  www.ereads.com

  FOR MY FATHER, WILLIAM B. EIDSON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Frank Robinson, Richard Parks, David Hartwell, Jim Minz, Chris Dao, Catherine Sinkys, Rick Berry, Kate Mattes, Nancy Childs, Sibylle Barrasso, and John Cole for their help with my career and this story. And a special thanks to Donna for everything.

  PROLOGUE

  “Company, Thad,” Louise said. She stood looking out the barn door for a moment, and then came over to him with a cup of coffee.

  “Somebody in a hurry,” she said.

  Thad Greene looked over his wife’s shoulder. Over a mile away, he could see the plume of dust rising from the road. A car, coming along pretty fast. Greene felt a touch of irritation. He liked these mornings alone with his family; he had since he was a boy on the very same farm. Get everybody up, feed the animals.

  “Early.” Greene set the wheelbarrow down, and shoveled a scoop of grain into SnackPack’s bucket. His daughter, Katy, was grooming the horse.

  Lost tourist, he figured. It happened all the time—the main drag was a dirt road, and plenty of times people ignored the private property sign and simply took a wrong turn at the bend onto his road. Some apologized, some got out with their cameras and asked him to stand in front of his old red barn like a real farmer.

  Katy said, “SnackPack says thanks, Dad.”

  “And she’s welcome.” Greene took the coffee from Louise, and put his arm around her shoulders. As always, she felt good under his arm. Together, they watched Katy groom her horse.

  The chestnut mare stretched her neck out, inhaled deeply from the bucket, and then stepped forward to take in the first mouthful.

  Greene said, “Must be a boyfriend for Katy here. Come to take her to school, I bet.”

  Katy rolled her eyes. “Boys, gross.” She was eight.

  “That’s my girl, keep that attitude.”

  Behind him, his son, Thad Jr., tossed out a section of hay into the stall. He was twelve, but as big as a fifteen-year-old.

  Thad Jr. leaned on the pitchfork. “Dad, he’s flying.”

  Greene let go of Louise and went to look out the window himself. She followed him over.

  “Thad …” she said.

  But he had already felt the first jab of alarm himself.

  “Cops,” Thad Jr. said. “There’s cops behind them.”

  The car in the lead, a Ford, must’ve been up near sixty or seventy on the dirt road leading to his house, his barn.

  His family.

  Behind the Ford was a Virginia State Police car with the lights swirling.

  “Get in the back,” Greene said. He waved at Katy. “All of you get behind the tractor.”

  He felt tired all of the sudden. Married late, ten years after he got out of the army. Damn near fifty now.

  “I’ll go with you,” Thad Jr. said.

  “You’ll do what I tell you,” Greene snapped. He hurried over to the open barn door, looked back at Louise who was frozen for just a second. Standing there in her quilted coat and jeans, coffee in hand.

  He said, “Right now, honey.”

  She suddenly began to move. “You heard your father,” she said to Katy. “Out of that stall.”

  Louise grasped Thad Jr. by the upper arm.

  Greene saw the crowbar sitting there beside the doorjamb. It had been there for God knows how long, just sitting and rusting, waiting to be put away. He grabbed it, feeling as much foolish as anything, walking out there. Feeling that this could be nothing, this could be a speeder who got a little rambunctious, took the wrong turn, and went down a farmer’s road.

  But the siren on the Virginia State Police car was now wailing, and the car in front was floating up and down on the road, the engine roaring.

  “Dad!” Katy said.

  Greene turned. The three of them were standing there, scared. “Get them in the back, goddamn it,” he said to Louise. He tried for frustration, but to his own ears, he sounded scared.

  Louise did what he said. She hustled them away.

  Greene turned back to the car. Wishing he could lock the barn behind him, but it’d take him fifteen minutes to find the padlock for the hasp on the sliding door.

  “Get out of here,” he yelled, as the Ford slewed into his barnyard. He kept the crowbar behind his leg. “Get the hell out of here!”

  The cop car came right after it.

  And the cops banged into the other car.

  Greene’s breath was rushing now. “Oh shit,” he said, “Oh shit, and goddamn it.”

  Because it looked like the cops had rammed the car on purpose. Trying to shake up the two men inside.

  But it was too late. The two men fell out of the open doors and scrambled to their feet. One of them bald. With a gun. Not just bald, a skinhead. With the leather.

  The other was tall and handsome. Salt gray hair. Somehow familiar. “Get off my farm!” Greene yelled.

  The skinhead fired his gun. Automatic weapon. Just a little thing, a big pistol. But the windshield of the cop car blew in, and then the two cops were out of their car and shooting from around the doors.

  Then the man with the gray hair looked at Greene and then yelled to the skinhead. “The barn, Billy. Go for the barn!”

  Greene began backing up. Looking to the cops.

  Get them, he was thinking. Put them down.

  And indeed the cops were shooting.

  But Greene had done a tour in Vietnam. He knew how many shots it could take. Everyone running. Everyone scared. Harder to hit people than it looked in the movies.

  The skinhead was out front, the familiar man was in back.

  Greene backed up to the barn door. He kept the crowbar close, angled his left side toward them so they couldn’t see it.

  The skinhead saw him, just a glance, raised his gun, and there was flame. The barn door beside Greene splintered, and behind him, Greene could hear Louise scream out. He glanced back to see Thad Jr. rushing out to help him, and Louise took him by the arm again and pulled him back.

  Greene shoved away from the wall and swung the crowbar.

  It connected neatly, right on the guy’s hand. The skinhead’s. Must’ve broken the goddamn thing, the way he screamed, the way he dropped the gun and held his wrist.

  The cops were shooting again.

  And suddenly the skinhead staggered, and blood poured from his mouth.

  Greene raised the bar and went for the familiar man. The guy who looked like he was supposed to be somebody.

  But that guy lifted his revolver and shot Greene point-blank.

  It was like the time Greene had been kicked by a horse. Big black stallion called Breaker that his dad kept for no more than a year. Broke Thad Greene’s ribs badly, laid him up for almost six months.

  Now Greene slid down the wall, suddenly weak and tired.

  The cops were firing again, but the man wasn’t hit. He slid open the barn door all the way, and Greene could hear the man grabbing Louise and maybe slapping Thad Jr. down.

  “Stop,” Greene said. He gasped, and coughed blood on himself. Praying even as he did that he wouldn’t hear a gunshot inside the barn.

  God, he felt so weak.

  “I’ll do it,” the man screamed behind him. “So help me God, I’ll do what I’ve got to do!”

  Greene put his hands up to the cops. “Don’t,” he cried. His voice was barely a whisper, and his hands just fell to his lap. “Don’t push him,” he said. But his voice was barely audible even to himself.

  The cops stopped anyway. Two tall, young cops. No older than thirty, either
of them. They stood there, guns poised, uncertain. And then they backed away to the police car.

  Greene looked up. He saw the man holding a gun to Louise’s neck.

  That familiar man.

  “Back off!” The man screamed. “Back off, and get me the media. Get me reporters, get me TV. I want cameras on this! You try to hurt me, these people die. Give me access to the people of America, or this family dies! You got that? I’ll do what’s got to be done!”

  Greene coughed, and then there was more blood on his chin. Hell, on his shirt and lap, too. Just covered. And though he desperately tried to pay attention, tried to think of how he could get his family away from this terrible, familiar man, his ability to think seemed to be pouring out of him into the barnyard dirt.

  The dirt of the farm where he was born, and, apparently, dying.

  CHAPTER 1

  AGENT PARKER’S RADIO CRACKLED. HE TURNED AWAY AND SPOKE into it and then came back to Ben. “OK, the two from NBC have agreed.”

  Ben said, “I’d be the only photographer?”

  “That’s right,” Parker said. “You and two television guys from NBC that Johansen remembers from some interview before. He says he remembers your face, so I can’t put one of my men in.’’

  Ben looked over at the barn. Five days had passed since Jarrod Johansen had shot Thad Greene. Last night, the word had spread among the sandbags that Greene was now conscious and expected to survive.

  The morning mist was just beginning to burn off the fields behind the barn, but the light inside would still be poor. Ben double-checked his camera to make sure he was shooting with his fastest film.

  Parker said. “So what do you say?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Ben knew that even if he didn’t have a camera, he would have helped get those children out. Just as he hoped someone else would do the same for his ex-wife and kids.

  But Ben also knew he simply wanted the shot.

  “You talk to me first when you get out, OK?” Lucien said. He was the Insider reporter assigned to cover the story along with Ben. His black eyes were shining, his aftershave was coming on strong. “It’s not like I have to actually be there. You know that Kurt is going to want us to tell our story first, not let everyone else have it. So even if Johansen starts shooting, kills somebody, don’t talk in front of the TV cameras or anybody else. All right?”

  “Jesus,” Parker said. He was an enormous black man with skin so dark it was almost blue in some light. The black Kevlar bulletproof vest seemed to draw in even more light and somehow had the effect of making him appear larger.

  Parker made Ben feel small, and Ben was six-two, two hundred pounds, himself.

  Lucien pointed to the tripod-mounted camera with the six-hundred-millimeter lens and said, “I’ll even cover you. Kurt’ll like that.”

  “Who’s Kurt?” Parker asked.

  “Our editor,” Lucien said.

  Parker looked at Ben and the faintest of smiles crossed the agent’s face. He swept his hand toward the barn door. “Then, by all means—cover him.”

  They wired Ben and strapped a bulletproof vest onto him. Parker waited with him just inside the command post vehicle, ready to begin the walk across.

  Ben turned to watch the hostage negotiator, a guy by the name of Burnett, finish outfitting the two from NBC.

  “How long?” Parker asked Burnett.

  “Three minutes, we’ll be all set.”

  Parker grunted. He looked over at Ben. “Tell me about this photo shoot you did of Johansen before.”

  Ben shrugged. “It was nothing special.” Ben had photographed Johansen a year ago, back when he was making a surprisingly strong senate run from his home state of Alabama.

  The day of the interview, Johansen had refused to allow any shots until he was ready—and that meant wearing jeans and an open-necked plaid shirt, one foot up on a bale of hay, the flag waving gently in the background. Strictly cornball.

  “I hear you got yourself some prize for pictures of those prison kids in Rwanda,” Johansen had said as Ben had settled in to take the shot. “I’m a great believer in the power of the press. So you help get me in the senate with this shot, and I’ll send them nigras some food, tell them to stay home instead of coming here. Fair deal?”

  “You meet Saunders?” Parker said.

  “He looked familiar when I saw his picture later. He was there, but I guess he was keeping himself away from the camera.”

  “I’m sure he was,” Parker said, dryly. “Something that undercover agents learn early.”

  When Johansen had somehow discovered that Saunders was an FBI agent, he shot him himself. He did this even after the agent told him that he was wired, that surveillance cameras were tracking them right then. “I’m the America that you have forgotten,” Johansen said.

  That video appeared on the news every night for almost a week, making Johansen a hero to what a New York Times editorial called “… a depressingly large minority.”

  Parker sighed. “You see his 7-Eleven video?”

  “Who could miss it?”

  Johansen’s name had faded from the media until three weeks ago, when he escaped from prison. A few days after his escape, he bolstered his hero status by politely introducing himself to a 7-Eleven convenience store clerk and making a statement into a handheld tape recorder saying that he was on the way to Washington, D.C., to “kill that draft dodger.” The audio was mated to the security camera video and once again he made the nightly news.

  “His little media campaign almost took a hit right here,” Parker said, moving his chin toward the barnyard. “White farmer. Vietnam vet.”

  Ben looked over his shoulder at the top of the hill where picketers were holding up signs. From the distance, he could just make out some of the larger ones: “Not another WACO,” “Free America— Free J. J.” One with the old standby, “God Bless Jarrod Johansen.”

  Parker snorted quietly. “People.”

  “Think we’d be seeing those signs if Greene died?” Ben said.

  “Sure,” Parker said. “You watch the news—lots of people went for Johansen’s spin.”

  Ben nodded. Since the first news truck had arrived, Johansen had maintained that the cops had shot Greene, not him. All evidence to the contrary, it seemed many people still believed him.

  “Just another government conspiracy,” Ben had seen a woman in Alabama say. “Just like the Kennedy boys, only this time it’s one of our own.”

  Parker looked at Ben. “The man knows his audience. And that you folks in the media are the way to them.”

  Ben rolled his shoulders, and exhaled, looking at that open barn door, the darkness inside. “Yeah, well here we are.”

  “They’re all set,” said Burnett. “Wired and vests.”

  Parker and Ben turned. Ben knew the reporter on sight as most people would. Chuck Haynes was rumored to be next in line for a national anchor slot at NBC if he could keep his visibility up. The videographer, Ben had never met before.

  “Gentlemen,” Parker’s voice was a deep rumble. “Understand that we’ve only agreed to let you folks from the media in to appease this fool long enough to walk him out of the barn. You operate under our orders. You do not ask him questions that will incite him, do you understand me?”

  “I know I speak for all of us, when I say we’ll cooperate,” Haynes said.

  Ben turned back to look at the open door, scratching distractedly at his beard. He felt scruffy. Suddenly aware that in that small barn, he would be part of the news, too. On the other side of the lens. That had only happened once before in his career, and it had been a distinctly unpleasant experience. Ben had a beard for the last few years, and he wondered what he looked like underneath it now. He looked down at himself. His jeans were dirty from the days of lying on the ground peering through the camera at that barn door. His shirt was damp with sweat. He yawned, feeling that curious combination of sleepiness and excitement that he’d felt whenever he was waiting for something to start.
Like high school football, back in Portland, Maine. Later, it was waiting with his camera in hand, ready to jump out of an armored car with the marines in Sarajevo, or capturing images of young Zapatista rebels in Mexico.

  Ben knew he usually did fine once things got started. But at the moment, he couldn’t help but wish he was back at the motel, taking a shower, the exposed rolls of film tucked in his bag.

  The two television guys were talking between themselves. Ben could hear the same nervousness in their voices, but Haynes was trying bluster over it. “Just be damn sure that thing is on the whole goddamn time,” he was saying to the cameraman.

  “Got it, got it, got it,” said the cameraman.

  Ben glanced back, smiling. Haynes was a big, good-looking guy with just the right amount of gray at the temples. But he didn’t have a reputation for brains.

  Haynes saw Ben’s smile and he snapped, “Don’t get in our way, clear? We’re capturing this live.”

  Ben laughed, shortly, and didn’t answer the man. Instead, he looked over at Parker. He thought of the Newsweek issue that had just been distributed behind the sandbags that morning. Under the headline, “Collision Course,” the cover had depicted high school photos of Johansen with a winning smile, Parker solemn and serious.

  “Nervous?” Parker said.

  “Hell, yes.”

  Both of them started slightly when the telephone on Burnett’s belt sounded. He flipped it open. “All right, Mr. Johansen. Give us a second to secure everybody here.”

  He nodded to Parker, who spoke rapidly into his radio to the SWAT team. “The girl’s coming out. Everybody be goddamn sure you hold fire.”

  Katy was shoved into the doorway. Around Ben, he could feel everyone relax slightly. This was the first they’d seen of her in the whole stand, and although she seemed terrified, she looked all right otherwise.

  “I’ve got one her age at home,” Parker said. He clapped Ben lightly on the arm. “Swap with her.”

  Ben started across the grass. He lifted his camera slowly to his eye and captured a shot of her standing in the doorway. Her lower lip was trembling. “Hey,” he said, as he got closer. “Hey, Katy.”