Jericho's Fall by Stephen L. Carter

What do you thinks in there, an airplane? Or maybe a crate full of zombies?”
    “The locks were already on when I got here,” said Audrey. “Butthere were these rumors about a delivery. Big wooden crates.” Pamela glared, and her sister dropped her eyes. “I heard them in town.”
    “What rumors?” said Beck.
    “Nothing,” said the others, simultaneously.
    “His mind is going,” said Pamela. “We have to accept that.” She got up from the table. “Nothing he does has to make any sense.”
    But after half a day of tending to Jericho’s needs, Beck was already unsatisfied with the tempting simplicity of that answer. Maybe Jericho was mad, maybe he was sane. Either way, he remained the same schemer he had always been, seeing the world as a series of conspiracies, to be defeated by counterconspiracies. Pamela and Audrey might think they knew him, but Beck had known him better. She could tell when he was conspiring, and he was conspiring now. The question that troubled Beck was not precisely what Jericho might be up to: that was a very moot point. No, what she worried about was whether Phil Agadakos was right, that Jericho planned to make her a co-conspirator. And she remembered the tag line of a dreadfully biased but alarmingly penetrating documentary on Jericho’s career produced by a popular leftish filmmaker who had won about twelve awards for it: Whenever Jericho Ainsley had an idea, people died .
    “I think we should try to find out,” she said.
    “Find out what?” said Audrey.
    “What’s in the garage.”
    Pamela laughed. “You’re not the mistress of this house any more, Rebecca. You’re leaving on Thursday. We’re here for the long haul. Nobody’s breaking down any doors.”
    Beck was about to say something sharp in response when the beep-beep-buzz told them that a car had entered the forecourt.
    The screen showed a red Ford Explorer, exactly like the one that had passed her on the road just before the dog was shot.
    (iii)
    When the doorbell rang, Beck and Pamela were looking at the monitor. They saw a very tall man, skinny, almost scrawny, with a mop of fiery hair and a short beard to match. He was staring directly into the camera, features calm, letting them know that he was aware of their scrutiny. “Come on,” said Pamela. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”
    “How what’s done?” said Beck, hurrying after her.
    “How we get rid of these nuisances. Like the couple I Maced today. I’m so sick of these people. Even in Hollywood, people don’t pull this shit.” She hesitated, licked her lips. Audrey was in the kitchen, washing up. “Tell you what, Rebecca. You do this one. Just be mean, and he’ll go away. You remember how to do that, right? Be mean? That’s when you hurt other people for no good reason.”
    Before Beck could answer, Pamela had the door open.
    “May I help you?” Beck said, once she realized that everybody was waiting for her.
    “Rebecca! What a pleasure to see you again. Remember me? Clark. Lewiston Clark.” The redheaded visitor unveiled a brilliant smile, and held out a slender hand for a shake before Beck quite needed it. Then held on. His grasp was confiding, like an invitation to intimacy. She had no memory of ever meeting him before, so she supposed he was the type who greeted everyone that way, just in case. “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy, and I’m not a reporter. Well, I am, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to pick up my notes.”
    “What notes?” said Beck, having finally wrested her hand free.
    Lewiston Clark had a smooth voice, mellifluous, made for television. His sentences were short, to accommodate commercial breaks. “I should apologize. For being away so long. The research took longer than we planned.” He noticed Beck’s confusion. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. We’ve been working together. The Ambassador and I. I assume he’s mentioned me?” Evidently he had not, because Pamela wassquaring to start throwing