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Copyright ©2002 by Echelon Press Publishing
First published in 2002, 2002
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The Plot
By Kathleen McCabe Lamarche
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2002 by Kathleen McCabe Lamarche---
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information, please address Echelon Press™, P.O. Box 1084, Crowley, TX 76036.
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Published by arrangement with the author.
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ISBN 1-59080-200-4 Paper---
Cover illustration Copyright © 2002 Stacey L. King
To
My husband, Alan,
For his unwavering faith and encouragement
This book owes its existence to many people, not the least of whom are my professors at Florida State University. In particular, I want to thank Dr. Sheila Ortiz-Taylor, whose advice and encouragement have been invaluable. I must also thank my mother, Katheryn McCabe, and my sister, Colleen Rojas, for their steadfast support and confidence in me. A special thanks, too, to my friend and critic, Jim Cohn, who helped me over the rough spots and to Anne Ireland, who went the extra mile.
July 30
-
The hollow echo of Cassandra's footsteps followed her through the semidarkness of the cavernous parking garage. Squinting into every shadow, studying every broad concrete column, she watched for any movement, listened for any sound, and clutched the red canister of pepper gas in her right hand. It wasn't being alone that she feared as she hurried toward her car in the far corner. It was not being alone. Muggers and rapists haunted parking garages, and she cursed the committee that had decided security was only needed after dark. It was always dark in here.
As she neared her burgundy Mercedes, a sudden scuffling sound drew her attention to the left. Tensing, she searched the shadows for its source, acutely aware of the canister in her hand, then breathed again as a pair of pigeons scurried from beneath a car and flew into the eaves. Covering the remaining few steps to her car, she unlocked the door and slid gratefully onto the white leather seat, locking the door immediately. "What a world we live in," she sighed and, starting the engine, backed into the exit lane. She checked the clock on her dashboard. Deadline was fast approaching.
The cell phone rang as she pulled out onto the busy street. "Cassandra Hart," she answered, annoyed. It was probably her editor.
"Hi, Cassie. It's Daddy."
"Well, hi there, stranger," she answered, steering left-handed around a construction crew. "Are you still in Florida?"
"No, I'm at Reagan Airport. How about meeting me here? I need to talk to you."
She slowed her car to allow a jaywalker to cross in front of her. "Well, I'd like to, but I promised my editor I'd be back right after lunch. My article's due by four o'clock."
She could almost feel her father's frown. "Cassie, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
Oh, boy. She recognized that tone. "Why? What's going on?"
He hesitated a moment. "I can't talk about it over the phone. Let's just say, I've got a story that's gonna blow the lid off the election."
Cassie pulled over into a No Parking zone. She couldn't talk intelligently and drive at the same time. "Can't you tell me about it this evening? We could have dinner."
"I won't be here this evening." He sounded tense. "I've gotta catch the three-thirty flight to New York."
"Well, couldn't we talk about it when you get back?" She'd missed last week's deadline and dreaded another scene with her editor.
"Honey, I'm racing against time. Even a few days..." He paused a long moment as if making up his mind, then gave a long sigh. "Cassie, I'm about to expose a conspiracy that's poised to rock the foundations of this nation. If I didn't have hard proof, even you wouldn't believe me." He hesitated again. When he spoke, his tone was even more serious. "This is the most important book I've ever written. It's a sure bet to win the Pulitzer-if I can find a publisher."
"What do you mean 'if'?" she asked. There wasn't a publisher in America who wouldn't jump at the chance to have Madison Hart on his list of authors.
"It's so hot, nobody's gonna want to touch it," he said, almost whispering.
She pursed her lips, considering his words. The clock read "12:45." If she had lunch with him at the airport while they talked, she could probably make the deadline. Probably. "Well, I guess I can come-it's just that my editor has really been on my case."
"Don't worry about Sue, Cassie. She seems gruff, but she's really a good egg."
Overwhelmed by curiosity and the intensity in her father's voice, Cassie couldn't refuse. "Okay. I'm on my way. See you in about thirty minutes."
She heard the smile in his reply. "Good girl. I'll be waiting for you in front. Oh, and Cassie? Keep this under your hat." He hung up without saying goodbye.
Cassie contemplated calling her editor but decided against it. No point in getting her riled up. "All I have to do is get back by two-thirty," she told herself aloud. "That'll give me enough time to finish the article-in fact, Daddy might give me a good idea for the conclusion." She grinned. I can tell Sue I was tied up by some last minute research.
Traffic was always heavy when Congress was in session, and it seemed to take forever to get onto the Beltway. In a few days, they'd be leaving town for their August recess, and D.C. would be markedly more pleasant-if less interesting.
The blazing sun made water-mirages on the highway and beat through the windshield as she wound in and out of the slower traffic. "Daddy's story isn't the only thing that's hot in this town today," she grumbled aloud. Turning the air conditioner to maximum, she thought of the various conspiracies that littered history. There was Watergate, of course. And Chinagate. The murder of Julius Caesar. The crucifixion of Christ could be termed a conspiracy. Had the assassinations of Lincoln, the Kennedys, and Martin Luther King been conspiracies? Lots of people thought so. Of course, there were those who were always looking for some conspiracy to explain the unexplainable. Their theories cluttered the Internet, many of them so far-fetched they were laughable.
But some conspiracies were real-and definitely not laughable. The attacks on the Twin Towers and Pentagon had been the worst. No. The embassy bombing was the worst. For me, anyway. The memory of Alan's sparkling eyes sneaked into her thoughts. She took a deep breath and shook her head, pushing the image away.
Conspiracies always involve power, she thought as she turned onto the road leading to Reagan Airport. And who wields it. Ronald Reagan, himself, was the target of an assassin, and there had been countless attempts on the lives of other world leaders. So why should I doubt it when Daddy says he's uncovered another one?
Passing the big sign announcing the airport entrance, Cassie pressed a little harder on the accelerator, then slowed the car as she turned off the highway and approached the terminal where her impatient father would be waiting.
The traffic ahead of her crawled, and Cassie grimaced. Typical D.C. foul up. The cars in the right lanes were at a complete standstill, and drivers jockeyed for position to get around the crush. Cassie waved her arm out the window as a cabbie drew up behind her in the left lane. He frowned but allowed her to squeeze her car in front of his, and she smiled at him. Salt of the earth, she thought, looking in the rear view mirror at the scowling cab driver. Yes, sir. Salt of the earth.
The pickup truck in front of her and a stalled airport van on the right spewing steam from its engine made it impossible to see the cause of the traffic jam until she was almost on top of it. A born rubbernecker, she stopped her car and looked over her shoulder toward the people milling around an ambulance and police car. Oddly, the crowd seemed to part, and Cassie found herself staring at her father's bloodied body lying on the asphalt.
Oh, my God! She strained to get a better look, but the crowd had knit itself back together as suddenly as it had parted. It can't be Daddy. My eyes are playing tricks on me. Frantic, she shifted into park and jumped out. Forcing her way through the gawkers, she caught a glimpse of short silver hair mottled with blood. Lots of men have short silver hair, she told herself, shoving past a heavy-set woman. The man in front of her turned to speak to someone, and Cassie spied a worn, brown leather suitcase lying half open off to the left. It can't be him, her brain insisted, but her heart lurched at the sight of the hand-painted red, white, and blue striped necktie like the one she had given her father to wear on Independence Day. A policeman stepped in front of her and grabbed her arm, trying to pull her away, but she yanked it from his grasp. "That's my father," she snapped, pushing the startled officer out of her way as she went to kneel beside the still figure, whose left side seemed sunken into itself and left leg lay at an odd angle to his body.
Disjointed voices filtered to her ears. "Hit and run ... saw it all ... black sports car ... out of nowhere." Her own voice blended into the mix as she reached out to touch her father's bloody forehead. "Daddy? It's Cassie, Daddy. Oh, Daddy ... " His blue eyes stared vacantly up at her. No. Not blue. Gray. His lips are blue. No. That's not right. Lips aren't blue. Eyes are.
A sudden movement drew her attention to the paramedic kneeling across from her. "No, don't," she objected, but he didn't seem to hear her as he gently closed the dead man's eyes, detached the monitors and handed them to his partner. When he turned to face her, his brown eyes were soft, his full lips drawn into a tight line. "I'm sorry, Miss. We were just too late. There wasn't anything we could do. I'm sorry."
Cassie stared blankly at him for a moment, then looked at the motionless body lying before her. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from her father's cold forehead and studied the sticky blood that clung to her fingers. Her stomach knotted. She felt sick. Dammit! Daddy's dead, and all I can feel is sick? She closed her eyes and shook her bowed head. Dear God. Help me.
A pair of strong hands closed around her elbows, lifting her to her feet, and she blinked, trying to bring the round face of a policeman into focus.
"Excuse me, Miss, but did you say that the victim is your father?" He motioned toward the limp body on the pavement as he spoke.
Victim? Daddy? She looked down at her father's ashen face, then back at the policeman, and nodded.
"I need to get some information from you," he said. His voice was soft and deep, and he spoke with a slow drawl. Or maybe she was just hearing him slowly.
"I ... What?" she asked, trying to make sense of his words.
Glancing at the crowd, he took her arm and guided her a few steps away. "You know. Your name and address," he said, taking a small notebook from the left breast pocket of his dark uniform. "Phone number. Victim's name, stuff like that. There'll be an investigation, and..." His pen was poised above the blue-lined paper.
Yes. An investigation. Somebody killed Daddy. Somebody killed him, and somebody has to find out who. She took a deep breath and gave him the information he asked for, then turned to watch the paramedics place her father's body onto the gurney, covering him from head to toe with a white sheet. When they wheeled him to the ambulance and placed him inside, she blinked hard against the tears that stung the corners of her eyes. We didn't even get to say goodbye.
An airport security guard approached as Cassie started toward the ambulance. "Uh, Miss? I'm sorry, but, uh, your car is blocking traffic."
Cassie looked at him, then at the swarm of cars, and was suddenly aware of the honking and cursing of frustrated drivers. "The keys are in it," she replied. "But, I need to go with..." She gestured toward the ambulance.
"It's okay. We'll take care of it. Just give us a call when you're ready to pick it up." He patted her on the shoulder, then turned and picked his way through the chaos, motioning as he went for the angry drivers to calm down.
Everything was under control.
August 3
-
As the limousine driver guided the car up the long driveway, Cassie gazed through the windshield toward the stately red brick house on the hill. Someone should have been on the wide front porch watching her approach, ready to welcome her home. But only memories lingered there to greet her. She looked at the white cardboard box on her lap marked simply, "Hart." The funeral director had offered to handle it for her, to bury the ashes next to her mother, but she thought Daddy would want to come home one last time.
The limousine eased to a stop, and Cassie allowed the driver to open the door and help her out. She thanked him and asked him to thank Hamilton Bates again for all he'd done. When the car whispered away, she turned toward the house. The lightless windows stared at her vacantly as she trudged up the steps carrying her father's ashes. Nothing had ever felt so heavy.
"You're home, Daddy," she murmured. Turning the key in the lock, she stepped from the stifling August heat into the cool semidarkness of the foyer. The echo of her high heels against the hardwood floor made the house seem even emptier. She slipped her shoes off and set them beside the blue suitcase she'd brought from her apartment this morning, then turned toward the living room on the right, where her parents smiled down at her from their wedding portrait above the fireplace. Her own portrait hung on the wall above the piano. The curios from around the world that Mother had collected were still in the corner display case, and the overstuffed rose-and-green flowered couch rested invitingly beneath the wide front window. The comfortable green chairs-where Mother and Daddy had spent their evenings reading and talking-waited in front of the cold hearth. Funny how things could be so different and yet seem so much the same.
She glanced over her shoulder at the blue suitcase in the foyer. It would feel good to change her clothes. But a cup of coffee would be even better. The plush gray living room carpet cushioned her steps as she crossed to the dining room and entered the kitchen, which seemed strangely foreign without May Lee there cooking or cleaning or eager to share her latest recipe. Setting the small cardboard box on the round oak table, Cassie reached for the can of Folgers, measured enough for a potful, and added water.
While the coffee brewed, she looked out the window above the sink at the croquet course in the broad backyard. She could almost hear her father teasing Mother when she missed the easiest shots, and Mother's dismay when he knocked her ball far out of the way. Croquet had been a favorite pastime of theirs, but Daddy quit playing after Mother died.
The comforting smell of the steaming coffee drew her attention from the window, and she reached into the cabinet for her father's favorite mug. He had given her one just like it when she got her first job as a reporter, and the familiar inscription on its side-No news is bad news-made her smile a little. He'd been so proud that she had chosen to follow in his footsteps. She poured the coffee and, with mug in hand, walked over to stand in the doorway of the sitting room that adjoined the kitchen.
This had been Mother's favorite place in the whole house. Her "retreat," as she put it. The painting she was working on until she became too ill was still propped against the easel in the corner. Her sewing machine and yellow sewing basket rested against the far wall. The book about flower arranging lay unopened on the lamp table. The only thing missing was Mother.
The scent of cigarette smoke filtering through the door of her father's study to the left of the sitting room interrupted Cassie's thoughts. No one in the household smoked except the handyman, Jonathon. Daddy had quit when the government raised taxes to three dollars a pack, but Jonathon bought his on the black market. He said there were two things in this world he wouldn't give up willingly-his family and his cigarettes. She smiled. Jonathon was a nice old guy, funny, and he liked coffee almost as much as she did. She'd fix him a cup, and they could "visit for a spell," like he always said. Maybe she'd even light up with him-if he'd let her bum one of his precious "cigs," she thought, crossing the room and turning the doorknob.
"Hi, Jon-son of a bitch!"
The room was in shambles. File drawers hung open. Her father's framed certificates and photographs had been ripped from the walls. Papers were strewn everywhere, and a thin spiral of gray smoke rose from the floor. Scowling, Cassie stepped into the room and crushed the smoldering butt beneath her shoe. A flicker of light drew her attention to the right, where the ever-changing shapes of the screen saver meandered across her father's computer monitor. The disk storage box lay upside down amid a clutter of pens and pencils on the desk. The drawers had been removed and smashed into splinters.
Cassie's mind raced. Neither the living room nor dining room, where the sterling silver was kept, had been disturbed. The sitting room or kitchen, either. She shook her head sharply. Focus, dammit. There was nothing in here but Daddy's mementoes and his work. Why would anyone ... His work ... "rock the foundations ... Pulitzer." Her scalp prickled. If someone did this ... if they were this determined ... would they have gone so far as to ... what if I'm not alone? She dashed from the study, through the sitting room and into the kitchen, where she grabbed the telephone and punched 9-1-1.
A husky female voice answered on the first ring. Cassie cupped her hand around the phone and spoke as softly as she could, then listened to the dispatcher contacting a patrol car. She heard the garbled radio response of a policeman and held her breath until she was told that units were on the way.
"Stay where you are," instructed the operator, "and remain on the phone with me until our officers arrive. If you see or hear anything unusual, tell me immediately. Understand?"
"Yes," she replied, almost whispering. God, how she hated the fear that threatened her ability to think.
Although she had been aware of every creak in the old house, every rustle of the wind and leaves against its walls, the first she knew of the policemen's arrival was from the emergency operator.
"Miss Hart, the perimeter is secured, and some officers will be coming to the kitchen door. Once you've let them in, put one of them on the telephone. Okay?"
"Yes. And thank you for everything." She'd seldom said thank you with such sincerity. "I see them now."
"Miss Hart? I'm Officer Gatlin," said the tall, squarely built black man as she opened the door. Three other officers followed him inside. "Is that your burgundy Mercedes parked in front?"
She nodded and handed him the telephone. Her legs went weak, and she sank onto the nearest chair. Two of the policemen positioned themselves by the dining room door. A short, wiry officer squatted beside her.
"Are you all right? You look kind of pale," he asked, studying her face.
"Yes, I guess so. It's just, well, I've never stumbled upon a burglary before," Cassie responded, or seen my father dead or sat in the kitchen with his ashes. She brushed her black hair from her forehead with trembling hands.
The officer nodded, gave her an encouraging pat on the arm, then stood and walked to the corner of the room to huddle with the others. She caught only bits and pieces of their conversation. "...two sets of footprints ... no vehicles ... probably gone."
"Miss Hart, you said that the only room you found disturbed was your father's study? Where is that?" It was Gatlin. Obviously, he was in charge.
"Yes, that's right, but I didn't check the rest of the house. As soon as I saw the study, I called 9-1-1. It's through that door and to the left," she responded, waving toward the sitting room.
"Is there an attic? A basement?"
"An attic, yes, but not a basement really. Just a small cellar that opens from the outside. You probably passed the entrance on your way around the house. The door to the attic is at the far end of the upstairs hall." The attic. "Uh, but there's nothing up there but junk. I don't think you need to waste your time."
Gatlin ignored her. "I'll start in the study. Davies, you and Rodriguez check upstairs. Williams, stay here with Miss Hart and radio a couple of the guys outside to check the cellar."
The one who had shown such concern for her spoke briefly into his shoulder-mounted radio, then stood by the back door with his arms folded while the other officers spread out through the house.
Several minutes passed with Officer Williams standing alert and silent. Cassie closed her eyes and prayed that they wouldn't search the attic too well, as she listened to the soft sound of footsteps traversing the house, doors opening and shutting, muffled voices checking in with one another. She leaned her elbows on the table, cradling her forehead in her hands. The image of her father lying in the morgue waiting for the coroner to dissect him merged with the image of his defiled study. The words of this morning's eulogies mingled in her imagination with the sound of breaking glass, splintering wood. She clenched her teeth and opened her eyes.
The small, plain box holding her father's remains lay mute just a few inches away, and Cassie wrapped her hands around it. There was nothing warm or human in the feel of the thick, white cardboard against her fingertips, but it was all she had to hold onto. It was a beautiful service, Daddy. Everyone was there. They sang your favorite songs, and ... She paused. No, that wasn't true. Everyone had not been there. Someone had been here instead. Someone who probably knew-or wanted to know-what you were writing about. But who? You hadn't even confided in me yet.
"Miss Hart?"
"Yes?" She blinked and raised her eyes toward the voice. A tall, lanky man with short, chestnut colored hair and a scar across the bridge of his nose stood beside Officer Gatlin a few feet away.
"I'm Chief Investigator Max Henshaw, Miss Hart. You may remember that I spoke with you after your father's ... accident."
She nodded. Oh, yeah. I remember. You're the one who told me there'd be an autopsy. Tell me, Officer-It's-Only-Routine, did the coroner find Daddy's sense of humor? His talent? His courage, maybe? I could use a little of that right now.
"It looks like the burglars left just moments before you got home," he continued. There was a trace of the south in his speech. "And it appears that your father's study was their prime target. As far as we can tell, the rest of the house is undisturbed, but while I'm tied up with the Crime Scene folks, I'd like you to personally check through the house to see if any valuables are missing. Williams, go with her."
What's the point? She felt like asking. What could be more valuable than his life? But as Henshaw and Gatlin disappeared back into the study, Cassie forced herself to stand and walk to the dining room with Officer Williams close at her heels.
The policeman gave her a pair of opaque, one-size-fits-all latex gloves that were too large for her small hands. She put them on anyway, feeling like a bad actor in some made-for-television cop movie. The silver was still in its drawer; the china her mother had received as a gift from the governor of Hong Kong was still arranged carefully on the shelves. If I were a burglar, these are the things I'd be after, she thought, closing the doors of the big mahogany cabinet to see her frowning reflection in its glass panes. There wasn't a journalist in the world who didn't covet the Pulitzer Prize. But who knows anything about the story Daddy was working on? Or that it could be Pulitzer material? She chewed on her lower lip. Someone does. Someone who might be concerned about more than just the Pulitzer. Suddenly aware of Williams' eyes on her, she forced herself to smile. "Sorry-just wool-gathering-been doing that a lot these past few days."
He returned her smile. "Ready to check upstairs?" he asked, leading the way toward the foyer and up the tall staircase.
Except for the chair and reading lamp that had been moved away from the corner and placed by the window to make room for the new bookcase, her parents' bedroom looked like it always had. The "wedding ring" quilt, a wedding gift from Grandma Hart, still covered the large four-poster bed where Mother had finally surrendered to cancer. The blue drapes hung open, letting the sunlight fall onto the cologne bottles standing like expectant little dancers next to Mother's jewelry box atop the cherry dresser. Her father's suitcase and the large manila envelope filled with the contents of his pockets lay on the floor beside the closet where she had left them. Funny. She'd made such a big deal about getting Daddy's things from the police, but as soon as she had them back, she'd forgotten all about them.
Cassie crossed the room and stood in front of the dresser for a long moment. She had given her mother the ornate jewelry box for Christmas many years ago. "It's just what I've always wanted," Mother had said. Cassie couldn't help smiling a little. She always said that. Even when I brought her those nondescript clay sculptures I made in kindergarten. As gently as if she were touching something sacred, she raised the lid and sifted through the trinkets. Other than the ruby tie clasp and cuff links Mother had given Daddy on their last anniversary and Mother's charm bracelet, there was little here to entice a burglar. Daddy had given Cassie all of her mother's other jewelry. He'd kept only the charm bracelet, because it commemorated so much of their lives together. She held the bracelet up to the sunlight filtering through the window and studied the glittering silver shapes: the "#1" for their first anniversary, the replica of the White House for the Inaugural they'd attended, the small key for-wait. This was no charm...
"Is anything missing?" Williams' voice interrupted the silence. She had forgotten he was there.
"Uh, no. Everything's here," she said, quickly placing the bracelet back into the jewelry box and closing the lid. "We may as well go back downstairs."
He frowned. "Don't you want to check the other rooms?"
"There's no point. The policemen said nothing was disturbed up here, and there's nothing of value in either my old bedroom or the guest room. If they didn't take the jewelry, it's obvious they weren't even up here. Let's go on back downstairs." She turned to face the young officer standing in the doorway.
"Are you sure? What about the attic?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What do I have to do to get him out of here? "Yes. I'm sure," she answered, emphasizing each word.
"Well, uh, you really ought---" Williams said, glancing down the hallway over his shoulder.
Cassie pushed past him and was descending the stairs before he could finish his sentence.
She had almost finished a third cup of coffee by the time Investigator Henshaw returned and led her into the study. The room was covered in sticky black dust from the fingerprint technicians. Cassie grimaced and shook her head. It would take May Lee forever to clean up the mess.
"It looks almost more like vandalism than burglary," she murmured as she surveyed the chaos.
"Nope. Not vandalism. Desperation. With a little meanness thrown in." He took a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his dark blue suit coat. "Tell me, does your father employ any household help?"
"Yes. May Lee Chang is the housekeeper and cook. Jonathon Sinclair is Daddy's handyman, kind of a general all-around fixer-upper. Keeps up the grounds, repairs things," she replied, frowning at the pieces of her father's life that lay desecrated about the room.
"Where were, uh..." He checked his notes, "Jonathon and May Lee when you got here?"
"They've been on leave. When he was-killed, I told them there was no need to return until after the memorial service. Both of them were there today, although I saw only May Lee at the reception afterward. In fact, when I smelled the cigarette smoke, I thought Jonathon had come back here to check on things."
"What kind of cigarettes does he smoke?"
"Whatever is cheapest, I think. But you're wrong if you believe Jonathon-or May Lee-had anything to do with this. In the first place, they'd have no reason. In the second place, if they wanted to take anything, they could have done it anytime. They come and go freely."
Henshaw turned away, studying the room. "Have you been using your father's computer?" It was still waiting for someone to turn it off.
She shook her head. "No. I don't live here, you know. I have my own place. Besides, I've been a little busy these past few days." She couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice.
"I just thought you might have been curious to know what he was writing about before he was killed."
She looked down at her hands. "I didn't even think about it." Why the hell didn't I? She shook her head. Because I've been sleepwalking the past couple of days."
"It looks like whoever did this walked off with all of your father's computer disks."
Cassie went over to the desk, where the empty disk storage box lay upside down amid a clutter of everything except the disks that should have been there. The heart-shaped clay paperweight she'd made in third grade lay off to the side, its "Happy Father's Day" message still as clear as when she gave it to him. She picked it up and turned it over. "From Cassie with love" was etched on the back. Frowning, she set it down and looked across at the detective.
He leaned against the wall and seemed to stare at something only he could see. "Would your father have made copies of his computer files?"
"Sure. He was meticulous about backing up his work. He lived in fear of losing even one word he had written."
"Do you think he might have stored them somewhere else?"
"I doubt it. I suggested to him once that he shouldn't keep everything in one place in case of fire or something, but he liked having his backups where he could get to them easily."
"I noticed that your father has an alarm system."
Cassie hesitated a moment, looked down and then back up at Henshaw. Damn. "I guess I forgot to turn it on. Uncle Hamilton was rushing me to get out of here, the limo was waiting, and..."
"It happens," he said, frowning a little. "When was that?"
"This morning, right before the memorial service. I came over here to get Daddy's photograph. It was in the study."
"And at that time, the study was still undisturbed." It was a statement, but it sounded like a question.
"Yes."
"Was the computer turned on then?"
"No."
"What time did you leave here?" he asked, his pen hovering above the notebook.
"About eleven-thirty. I was at the church by noon for the service, then we went to Hamilton Bates' to receive well wishers."
"Hamilton Bates? The publisher? Wasn't he the guy who was with you when I interviewed you at the hospital after your father's accident?" He stopped scribbling to look at her.
"Yes. But he's not really a publisher. He just serves on the board of a publishing house. He's on the boards of a lot of businesses. He's been a close friend of my family for years and has been helping me through this-ordeal."
"What time did you leave Mr. Bates'?" He started scribbling again.
"Oh, I don't know. The service ended about twelve-thirty, and we went straight to his house. I probably stayed forty-five minutes to an hour, but I just couldn't stand to hang around there very long. You know, everybody telling me how wonderful my father was-having to say 'thank you' over and over like some kind of robot, so Uncle Hamilton, uh, Mr. Bates had his chauffeur drive me here. What time did I call the police? About two o'clock?"
He checked his notes. "Yeah. That would have given the burglars plenty of time, especially if they watched you leave..." he paused, "and knew when you'd be back. Who knew what your father was working on?"
"As far as I know, no one."
"And you have no idea." He had a talent for making a statement sound like a question.
She hesitated. The police could be helpful in finding out what-and who-Daddy had planned to expose. She thought of the key on her mother's bracelet, Daddy's fear of saying anything over the phone, the urgency in his voice. He hasn't acted so secretive since that time in Hong Kong just before he was transferred back to the States. She looked down at her hands again. If this is anything like Hong Kong ... She looked back at the tall man waiting for her answer. The police had to tell her what they knew, but she didn't have to tell them anything.
"Miss Hart?" Henshaw's expression changed to one of concern. "You're shaking. Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that, well, I'm afraid I'm exhausted." And it's time for you to leave.
The investigator studied her face a few moments then, finally, with a brief nod, put the pen and notepad back into his breast pocket. "Yeah. Sure. A funeral and a burglary all in one day would be too much for anyone. But if you think of anything, anything at all, call me."
She offered him a strained smile and walked him to the door. When he stepped onto the front porch, he turned toward her, his eyes serious. "Miss Hart. There could be a lot more to this than you may think." He paused as if searching for the right words, then shrugged. "I urge you to be careful."
"I always am," Cassie replied in a flat voice and, closing the door, wondered whether he was concerned about her safety or warning her against meddling.
Henshaw eased the unmarked car down the long driveway and dialed the office. His partner, Ricky Sims, answered on the second ring.
"Ricky? It's Max. I'm just leaving the Hart residence and am on my way in. Anything going on I need to know about?"
"We had a call from the National Security Agency asking for information about Madison Hart's death. Other than that, it's been pretty much routine."
"Did they say why?"
"Nah. I asked, but they didn't answer. Said just to keep them informed about anything we turn up." Sims was talking around a mouthful of something. Probably a Snickers bar, Henshaw guessed. Sims seemed addicted to them.
"Well, listen. I'd like you to contact Sheila in Intelligence and ask her to do a background on May Lee Chang and Jonathon Sinclair. And let's arrange an interview with both of them as soon as we can." He paused, thinking. "I'd like a deep background on Madison Hart, while she's at it."
"The dead guy? What for?" Sims sounded surprised.
"I'm not sure. I just have a hunch that---" He stopped in mid-sentence as something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Max? You there?"
"Uh, yeah. Sorry. I just had a thought. Ask her to find as much as she can on Hamilton Bates, too. Especially anything that links Bates and Hart."
"Hamilton Bates? What's he got to do with this?"
"I'm not sure. It might be nothin', but I just have this, uh, this, idea, ya know? Hey, just get Sheila to find out what she can, and we'll see where it takes us. I'll be there as soon as I can," he replied and hung up. As he pulled onto the street, he glanced in his rear view mirror. The large brick house stood as silent as Miss Hart had suddenly become when he pushed to know what her father was working on. What was it about that question that had so upset her? And why can't I shake the feeling that I'm getting into something I might someday wish I hadn't?
Sheila was sitting beside Sims' desk going over some documents when Henshaw entered the office. "Hi, Max," she said, smiling.
"Have you already got what I need?" he asked, sitting down and going through the messages that formed a small pink pile on his cluttered desktop.
"Depends on what you need," she replied with a wink.
He grinned and shook his head. "You never give up, do you, Sheil?"
"Well, you're gonna have to start living again someday," she answered. "Alice was a great gal, I'm sure, but she's been gone a long time."
He scowled a little. Alice was a great woman. The best. Five years wasn't long enough to get over her ... and little Lisa. Maybe fifty years wouldn't be enough. Time heals all wounds? Not all of them. Some never heal. "Did you find the information I asked for? Doesn't seem like thirty minutes would be enough time to find out anything."
"Are you kidding? Sheila's a whiz," Sims said.
Sheila smiled. Everyone knew she was the best Criminal Information Analyst in D.C. She knew it, too. "Well, haven't got much on Sinclair and Chang yet. I did find a lot of stuff on Bates, some on Hart, and even some on Hart's editor, Sid Welinsky. But, so far, it's mostly surface stuff. It'll take a little longer to get into any real deep background. Might even have to do a little hacking for that. Especially on Bates. Everything I've found on him is like something you'd find in Who's Who. You know, 'graduated from Yale in 1972, was a Rhodes scholar, attended Oxford,' stuff like that. Is there anything specific you're looking for?"
"I'm not sure. Just keep an open mind and see if anything jumps out at you. What'd you get on Hart and, what's his name-Welinsky?"
"Pretty much the same sort of stuff. Except there was a curious editorial by Madison Hart in the Times." She paused to leaf through a pile of papers on Sims's desk. "Yeah, here it is. Shortly before China took control of Hong Kong, he was involved in some kind of dispute with the authorities and wrote a scathing article about the British selling out an entire nation to oppression.
"'Britain,'" she read aloud, "'the motherland of democracy, has faltered in her principles, sacrificing generations of Hong Kong citizens on the altar of the New World Order. Ownership of this mecca of industry and commerce, gateway to Asia, last remaining jewel in the British crown will be transferred amid pomp and ceremony, but the carefully orchestrated festivities cannot mask the dread that fills the streets and homes of this majestic island. Long before the fireworks have cooled and Prince Charles' yacht has reached the horizon, the heavy hand of the Chinese will be closing around the neck of this freedom-loving people. This betrayal is but the first act by those who seek to weave their silken web around the world. Mischief is afoot, and the transfer of Hong Kong to China bodes ill for all free nations.'" She set the paper down.
"He was right about China, anyway," Sims commented, leaning his elbows on the desk.
Sheila looked at him, then at Max. "A few weeks after the editorial was published, Madison Hart was sent home to America and assigned to D.C. A number of Congressmen denounced his article-as did the President and Secretary of State."
"Who did he work for?" Max asked.
"Hamilton Bates, d.b.a. Bates News Service."
"How involved was Bates in ordering Hart back to the States?" Max slouched against the back of his chair and tapped his pen on the gray steel desktop.
"According to this article in the Post, Bates was supportive of Hart but disagreed with his editorial." She pulled another sheet of paper from the pile and read from it. "'Because the relationship of the press with the Chinese is tenuous, Bates concurred with his Board of Directors that Madison Hart should be replaced as head of their Asian office.'"
"When did Welinsky become Hart's editor?"
"Let me see," she murmured, shuffling through a second sheaf of papers. "Okay. Welinsky replaced Don Samuelson about a month after Hart returned to America."
"Tell me more about Hamilton Bates," said Max.
"Well, he and Hart graduated from Yale in the same year. Both were members of the same fraternity. Bates got a B.A. in history and a Master's in business. Shortly after he graduated, he took over Bates Enterprises from his father, Will Bates, who had dabbled in politics and bought himself an ambassadorship to Europe. His mother, Ramona Hamilton, was a blue-blood from Boston, heiress to Hamilton Publications, a worldwide conglomerate of magazines, newspapers, and radio and television interests. Hamilton Bates was, um..." She shuffled through the papers again. "Hamilton Bates was active in the anti-Vietnam War movement during his time at Yale and Oxford and traveled throughout Europe with a group of protesters." She paused, skimming down the page. "He formed a think-tank at Yale that called itself 'Penseur.'"
"Penseur?" Sims looked puzzled.
"Yeah. 'Thinker.' The group was apparently into philosophy. Held debates on campus and stuff like that."
"Where did Welinksy go to school?" Max asked, sitting up straight.
Sheila picked up the third pile of papers. "Columbia. Majored in journalism, of course."
"Hmm. No connection there, then."
"Wrong. He got his master's at Yale. Graduated about a year after Bates and Hart," Sheila interrupted.
"Were either Welinsky or Hart members of this 'Penseur' group?"
"I don't think Welinksy was. As for Hart, I'll have to dig further."
"Good job, Sheil. As always. I'd sure like to get whatever information we can about the relationship between Hart, Welinsky, and Bates. You might also check on-what was that other editor's name? The one Welinsky replaced."
"Samuelson," Sims interjected.
"Yeah, him," Max said.
"No problem." She picked up the stacks of paper and stood to leave. "I'll get it to you as soon as I can."
The telephone on Max's desk rang. He gave her a thumbs-up sign, then checked the caller ID screen before picking up the receiver. Whoever was calling had blocked their name and number-something that invariably irritated him.
"Investigations. Henshaw." He sounded gruff even to himself.
The caller hesitated before speaking. "Yes, Detective Henshaw. Hamilton Bates here." The man's voice was soft, though not quite a whisper, and his words carried a distinct Boston accent.
"Yes, Mr. Bates." Max looked over at Sims and raised his eyebrows.
"You may recall that we met the day you interviewed Cassandra Hart."
"Yes. How are you today, sir?"
"I'm well, thank you. I am calling to find out what you have learned about the accident that took Madison Hart's life."
"Well, we rarely discuss ongoing investigations, Mr. Bates. I'm sure you understand."
"Of course. However, as a close friend of the family and Cassandra's only real ally in this whole affair, I feel it is important that I remain abreast of whatever action is being taken in her behalf." There was a certain muscle in Bates' tone, although his voice remained even.
Max looked meaningfully across at Sims, who was chewing on a Snickers bar and listening intently to Henshaw's side of the conversation. "I see. Well, what exactly is it you wish to know? I'll be as helpful as I can."
"Have you located the automobile that was involved in the hit and run?"
"No, sir. Not yet, but we're working on it."
"In that case, do you have any leads as to who was responsible for the accident?"
Max raised his eyebrows at Sims again. "As I said, we're working on it. However, we're no longer convinced that it was an accident." He paused for effect and heard Bates catch his breath.
"Not an accident? Why?" His voice had lost some of its muscle.
Max was taking notes and didn't answer immediately. "I take it your 'good friend'-Miss Hart-has not contacted you about events at her father's home today." It was not a question.
"Ah, no. I haven't spoken with her since the memorial service. Perhaps, you should be more specific." He was back on the offensive.
Max spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially. "Well, Mr. Bates. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this. I mean, since Miss Hart has not confided-but, then, since you're such a 'close friend' of the family and her 'ally,' I guess it's okay."
Bates said nothing, apparently content to wait for the information he expected.
Max cleared his throat, then continued, "Mr. Hart's home was burglarized during the memorial service."
Bates responded so quickly, it bordered on interruption. "But, surely, that's not uncommon when a prominent person like Madison Hart dies." The words spilled out like they'd been rehearsed. "Everyone in and around Washington knew about his death, the memorial arrangements, all the specifics..." His voice trailed off.
"Well, yes, that's true. But, it wasn't a normal burglary, you see, and frankly, this entire case is startin' to look less and less ordinary." Max deliberately reverted to his north Florida accent. Bates obviously thought he was just an ignorant cop, and he didn't want to disillusion him-yet. "Of course, it could turn out to be what it appears to be, but like the politicians say, 'The devil is in the details.' And, naturally, it's our job to check out as many details as we can before we draw any conclusions."
"What was so extraordinary about the breakin?" Bates was pushing again.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bates. But I can't give you any more information. Maybe you should give Miss Hart a call. She's free to share whatever she chooses at this point, but I've already stretched the limit. I mean, what with you bein' such a good friend an' all, I don't mind keepin' you up to date as much as I can, but, well, you understand."
Bates didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, his voice was expressionless. "Yes, I see how it is, Detective Henshaw. But, may I ask whether Cassandra knows of your suspicions?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Yes, well, thank you for your help. Please keep me informed of your progress. It's better for, ah, for Cassandra to learn what's going on from me than from, ah, outsiders. She's had a lot to cope with already, and she trusts me. May I count on your cooperation?" Prodding again.
"Of course, Mr. Bates. You'll receive as much cooperation as I am free to give," Max replied, looking across the room at Sims as Bates hung up.
"What a prick. He didn't even wish me 'good day'," Max said, grinning at the other investigator.
"Prick," Sims echoed.
Hamilton Bates put the receiver back in its cradle and punched the intercom button.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Martha, get Chief of Security Spano on the phone for me."
"Yes, Mr. Bates. Right away."
Bates stopped drumming his fingers on the shiny teak desk top at the sound of Martha's voice over the intercom.
"Mr. Bates, Mr. Spano is on the line."
He picked up the phone without acknowledging her. "Walter, what's going on?"
"What do you mean, Hamilton?" Spano yawned around his words. "Sorry, I was up late last night on that-other detail."
"I just talked to that investigator, ah, Henshaw, who's working the Hart case. He seems to think there's something suspicious about Madison's death."
"Why would he think that?"
"That's what I'm asking you."
"Well, I don't have any idea. My agents contacted his office earlier, but the guy they talked to didn't say anything like that. What exactly did Henshaw say?"
"Only that things were shaping up in an, ah, unusual way. He wouldn't tell me much, other than that Madison's house was burglarized today."
"Burglars break into houses during funerals all the time. I think they consider obituaries a personal invitation."
"I mentioned that fact, but he said it was not a 'normal' burglary."
"Have you talked to Hart's daughter?"
"Not yet. I wanted to check with you first."
"Look, Hamilton. Hart's dead. Killed in a hit-and-run accident. His house is burglarized during a memorial service. There's nothing, absolutely nothing suspicious about it. You sure that investigator wasn't just tweaking you?"
Bates pursed his lips. "I guess it's possible. But I need to know for certain. How about checking with your informant at the Police Department again? Meanwhile, I'll talk to Cassandra. Perhaps she will shed some light on what's happening."
"Roger. I'll get back to you," Spano said, hanging up.
Roger? God. The man must watch too many old John Wayne war movies, Bates thought, grimacing as he sat back in his chair and looked out the window at nothing in particular. It was strange that Cassandra hadn't called him about the burglary. It was even stranger that the investigator sounded so suspicious. Especially since Walter was convinced there was nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, it was essential to know everything. More than essential. Critical. He picked up the telephone and began dialing, but stopped midway. Perhaps it would be better to wait for Cassandra to call him. It would seem far more ... natural. He nodded to himself and hung up. Yes. But if she hadn't called by the time he was ready to leave the office, he'd call her. Just to make sure she is okay. He smiled a little and turned his attention to the speech he was drafting for the President.
Cassie sat down on the big bed and emptied the contents of the manila envelope onto the quilt. Her father's suitcases had yielded nothing but clothes and a sense of invading his privacy. At first glance, the small pile of gum wrappers, paper scraps, and Bic pens didn't hold much more promise. She took the airline ticket from the bottom of the stack and opened it. Tallahassee to Atlanta to D.C. and then to New York. She frowned. "Why did he stop in D.C.?" She wondered aloud. "To see you, Dummy. He said he needed to talk to you right away, remember?" And I hesitated, argued even. If I hadn't wasted time, if I'd just gotten there a few minutes earlier. If, if, if. Damn. Damn. Damn."
She set the ticket on the night table and picked up the passport. Her father's picture stared at her as she studied the countries he had visited. Britain, France, Switzerland. She'd known he was going there, but why would he have gone to Russia? He hated the place. Depressing, he had called it. She squinted at the dimly stamped date-last November. Wasn't that when the G-8 held their summit in Moscow? She set the passport beside the airline ticket and, frowning, sifted through the rest of the pile. Well, now I know he was chewing Freedent gum the day he died. And that he ate at Wendy's. And McDonald's. She shook her head at the receipts for hamburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes.
Daddy's accountant had told her not to throw any receipts away. She would need every deduction she could get to reduce the income taxes. Uncle Sam was determined to get his pound of flesh-even the dead weren't exempt. She put them in a small stack beside her, along with the Hertz rental car receipt and the gasoline receipts. Daddy was nothing if not frugal, she thought, studying the receipt from Welcome Inn. Funny how much we can learn about someone from these insignificant pieces of paper. Thirty-five nights. Eight pay-per-view movies. Sixty-two telephone calls. Double occupancy. Double?
The jangle of the telephone on the night table startled her. She answered on the second ring and caught her breath at the familiar throaty voice.
"Hello, Querida. It's Selena."
"Selena. Oh, God, it's good to hear from you." Her father's long-time secretary and friend was the closest thing to a mother Cassie had since Mother died.
"Darling, I only just found out about Madison's-your father's death. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. As you know, he was very special to me. If only I'd known, I'd have been there with you ... and with him."
Cassie had been surprised and disappointed that Selena had not come to the memorial service. She hadn't even telephoned. "You mean you hadn't heard? I thought surely you'd read it in the papers."
"No, darling. I've been out of the country. I only found out about it today when I ran into, eh, a mutual friend."
"Where are you?"
"I'd rather not say, Cassie. I do not trust phones." The slight lilt in her voice betrayed her emotion. Selena had lost all trace of her native Spanish accent except when she was tense or upset. "But, tell me, Cassie. How are you?"
"As well as can be expected, I guess. Oh, Selena. It was so awful. I went to meet him at the airport. The sight of him lying there all broken and bloody." Her voice cracked.
"How terrible this has been for you, Querida. If only I could have been there to help you. So much for such a young woman to handle all alone." Her voice fell on Cassie's ears like a caress.
"It's okay, Selena. Really. I know you would have been here if you could've. And Uncle Hamilton was here to help me. He handled practically everything."
"Hamilton Bates?" She sounded surprised. "But he was the one your father-oh, well. Never mind. It is good that you had someone there for you. And, actually, it's far better that I did not know about it in time to be there. Your father would have wished me to stay away."
"Why? He thought the world of you."
"Well, let's just say that it is better for me to be where I am. Did you speak with him before his death?"
"Briefly. He called me from the airport. Said it was important that he see me right away." She paused. "Selena? That was the last time I ever spoke to him, and I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye."
Selena was silent for a long moment. "Did he explain to you why it was so important? Please. You must tell me."
"Sort of. He just said he was working on a story that had something to do with the election and would win the Pulitzer."
"But, Cassie, did he tell you anything else? Anything at all?"
"No, nothing. Only that he needed to talk to me before he went on to New York. But, of course, he never had the chance." She heard the other woman take a deep breath.
"Tell me, Cassie, is everything else okay?"
"The truth is that nothing's okay," Cassie answered, hating the whine that entered her voice. "Someone burglarized the house during the memorial service."
"It is as I feared," Selena murmured. "What did they take?"
"Daddy's computer disks. They went through his files and trashed the study but didn't touch anything else in the house."
"What about your mother's jewelry box? Is it safe?" There was an edge in her voice.
"Yes. I checked it earlier. Everything is there."
"That, at least, is good news. Listen, Darling. I wonder if you would do me a favor?"
"If I can."
"You remember when I visited D.C. at Easter? Well, when I left, I forgot to pack my address book, and I desperately need it. I believe it is in the desk drawer in the guest room. It would be a great help if you could find it for me. I know you have much on your hands right now, but you know I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."
"Sure, Selena. No problem. Do you need me to look something up for you and call you back?"
"Oh, no. Mailing it to me will be okay." She hesitated a moment and added, "I am not going to be here long."
"I see. Well, just a second while I find something to write on," Cassie replied, holding the receiver between her chin and shoulder as she opened the small drawer.
"That is not necessary," Selena said quickly. "The information is in the address book. I must go now, Cassie darling. Please take care of that right away. I will be back in touch with you as soon as I am able."
"I will, Selena. And thanks so much for calling."
"Goodbye, Cassie. Take care," she said, breaking the connection.
Cassie put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at the motel bill as memories of Selena Cordon filled her mind. The first time she'd met the striking olive-skinned woman with the thick, wavy black hair and chocolate-colored eyes had been at Daddy's Hong Kong office. She had worked for his predecessor, and Daddy decided to keep her on as his own secretary. When he returned to the States, Selena resigned and came back, too. Cassie remembered the rumors that had spread about them, but Mother refused to listen and told Cassie to do likewise.
"Your father and Selena have a very special relationship," Mother had said when Cassie asked her about the odd looks people gave them at dinner parties. "Your father is not that kind of man, and Selena is definitely not that kind of a woman. As far as I'm concerned, I'd trust Selena with my life, and I hope you won't let people's foolishness bother you." Cassie had taken her at her word, and Selena had indeed become a very dear friend to all of them.
So Mother was wrong about them, Cassie thought, pursing her lips as she lay the motel bill with the other receipts. Yes, indeed, how much we learn about people from these insignificant pieces of paper. She took a deep breath and shook her head. You're jumping to conclusions. Just because Selena may have been with Daddy in Tallahassee doesn't mean they ever betrayed Mother. She shook her head again. "No. Selena has been good to me. To all of us. If she and Daddy had an affair, it wasn't until after we lost my mother. And Mother would have approved," she said aloud, remembering how her mother said she hoped Daddy wouldn't be lonely after she was gone. Selena would never betray Mother-or any of us. To believe otherwise is just plain stupid, and I'm not going to let stupid ideas ruin my relationship with someone I love and who loves me.
Cassie stood and went across the hall to the guest room, thinking about the many nights Selena Cordon had spent there. How convenient, she thought, but pushed the ugly suspicions from her mind as she went to the small, cherrywood writing desk that rested beneath the front window. She turned the switch on the white ginger jar lamp atop the desk and opened the drawer. The blue address book was right where Selena had said it would be. Cassie pulled it out, closing the drawer quietly as if to avoid awakening anyone.
She'd never known much about Selena's private life. Only that her parents had fled from Cuba when Selena was a child, had settled in Miami with so many of the other refugees, and that Selena still had family in Cuba. Cassie wondered if that was where Selena was now.
She opened the leather book and caught her breath, unprepared for what was written there:
-
My dear Cassie,
If Selena has contacted you to send this to her, it means that my fears were well founded. I don't know if I will have had the chance to tell you about my work. If not, or even if I have, I hope you will try to finish what I've begun.
I'm sorry to be so cryptic, but the very fact that you are reading this means I am right to be careful. I have long known that I'm in danger because of what I have learned, and now, sadly, I am placing you in danger. If it wasn't so important, I would never put you in this position. But, Cassie, everything we cherish, our entire way of life hangs in the balance, and I know you are as smart as you are courageous. If anyone can pick up where I leave off, it is you.
It will help you to know that Freedom has its own charm. Use it to unlock Freedom's door and look to the second right for direction.
I hope you know how proud your mother and I have always been of you, Sweetheart, and I hope that you will keep the words of my favorite song close to your heart as you follow in my path. They will encourage and comfort you-as they have me.
And Cassie, it's essential that you keep this under your hat. Their influence is so widespread, you must trust no one except Selena.
Love always,
Daddy
-
There was a postscript at the bottom written in Selena's familiar left-leaning handwriting.
-
Cassie. Two days from the day I telephone you about this book, please go to Books and Beanz. Wear the silk flower corsage you will find in your top dresser drawer. I will call you there at 7:00 p.m. Eastern Time. I am certain that your father's telephone is being monitored by the authorities, but we must talk.
And, Darling, be careful. Remember, you are not really alone.
Much love,
Selena
-
With a heavy heart, Cassie folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket, remembering the sound of Daddy's smooth baritone voice seeping through the bathroom door as he sang the theme song of The Man from La Mancha---"To fight for the right without question or pause ... to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause..."
Sighing, she replaced the address book in the drawer and turned to see May Lee watching her from the doorway. "Oh! I didn't hear you come upstairs." How much did May Lee see?
"Am I intruding?" she asked, looking toward the drawer that held the address book.
"No. Uh, not at all. Of course not," Cassie answered.
May Lee's face relaxed a little. "I've brought you some dinner and a few groceries. It is time someone began taking care of you."
"Oh, you needn't worry about me. I'm okay. A little tired maybe," Cassie replied, walking toward the other woman to guide her from the guest room and down the stairs. "A lot has happened today."
The maid nodded. "I know. The service was beautiful, though. Your father was a great and good man."
Cassie looked at her. She doesn't know. "May Lee, there's something I need to show you," she said, stopping at the foot of the steps and opening the front door of the study.
May Lee's eyes opened wide. "Dear Lord! What has happened?"
"We had a visit from some very unfriendly people, I'm afraid," Cassie replied. "I discovered it when I returned from the service."
May Lee stepped gingerly into the room and looked around. "Oh, Miss Cassie. All of Mr. Hart's pictures. His awards." Her voice quavered. "Why? Who would do such a thing?"
"I'm not sure, but I think they were---" Trust no one but Selena.
"What about the silver? And the jewelry?"
"All where they're supposed to be. Completely untouched," Cassie said, placing her hand on the maid's arm to calm her.
May Lee shook her head. "It is wrong. So very, very wrong. Mr. Hart's whole world was wrapped up in this room in one way or another. It is bad enough that he had to die when he had so much reason to live ... but, this ... this insult is too much."
"I know. But the police will find whoever did this, I'm sure." Cassie made herself sound more confident than she felt.
The maid looked into Cassie's eyes. "You must eat. You need all the strength you can get. I will fix your dinner now," she said and, turning on her heel, headed toward the kitchen.
It was dark outside by the time May Lee drove away. Cassie waved goodbye from the porch and returned to the kitchen just as the telephone rang.
"Hello, Cassandra. It's Hamilton Bates."
"Oh. Hi, Uncle Hamilton," she replied almost absently, staring at the box containing Daddy's ashes that May Lee had moved to the sideboard before putting dinner on the table.
"I thought I should call and see how you're doing. It's been a trying day for you, to say the least."
"Yeah. You can say that again. More than you know." She forced her eyes away from the box that held so much-and so little.
"Why? What do you mean?"
"Someone broke in here while we were at the memorial service. The police were here until just a couple of hours ago."
"Someone broke in? Did they take anything?" His words sounded measured.
"Well, all of his computer disks are missing. The study is trashed. All of his pictures, certificates, and mementoes destroyed."
"Anything else?"
Good grief. Isn't that enough? "No. They didn't touch either the silver or the jewelry-nothing of real value." Her voice rose a notch. "When I got home, everything looked just like it always did. I didn't even know anyone had been in the house until I went into the study."
"Are you alone?"
"I am now. May Lee brought me some dinner, but she just left."
"I spoke with an Investigator Henshaw earlier."
"Oh. Did he tell you about the burglary?"
"Yes, but only that one had occurred. He wouldn't tell me much. Something about 'an ongoing investigation'. He suggested I call you. I was going to call you anyway, of course. To check on you."
Why didn't he say he already knew? And why didn't he call right away? "Well, I'm more angry than upset. I was scared earlier, but now I just want to find out who stole Daddy's work."
"Do you, ah, know what he was working on?" An almost imperceptible edge had crept into his voice.
"I told you before, just like I told the police, Daddy was killed just before he could tell me about it." Her voice rose even higher.
He took a moment before answering. "Well, did the police-or you-find any evidence as to who might have broken in?"
"Nope. I don't think so. Not yet, anyway."
"You know, Cassandra, rumors have been around for a long time that your father was researching something he considered very important."
"Yeah? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if some rival publication-or some sleazy journalist-broke in here. There's not a reporter in the world who wouldn't sell his mother for a Pulitzer, and Daddy thought his story would win it hands down."
"He told you that?"
"Yes," she replied, dragging the word out, wondering whether she should have mentioned that. "Didn't you know?"
"Ah, well, not specifically. You know, your father and I haven't seen much of each other since his return from Hong Kong."
In the agony and confusion of the past few days, Cassie had all but forgotten the estrangement between her father and Uncle Hamilton. His helpfulness to her-almost from the moment of her father's death-had driven the memory of Daddy's bitterness toward his old friend from her mind. Now, she questioned whether she should be accepting his help. She took a sip of cold coffee.
"Cassandra? Are you there?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm here. I was just thinking. How come you called Investigator Henshaw?"
It was Bates' turn to pause before answering. "I was hoping to find out how the investigation of the hit-and-run was proceeding. As your godfather, I feel it's important for me to be certain that they, ah, don't drop the ball. Even if it was an accident, it shouldn't go unpunished."
"Yes, of course. Well, that was very kind of you. You've been so good to me throughout this whole ordeal."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," he said. "I hope you'll allow me to continue being of help to you. In fact, I hope you'll tell the police they have your permission to keep me informed."
"Uh, well, I really hate to be a bother to you."
"It's no bother, Cassandra. Believe me. I want to do it. In fact, I insist on it. You know you have always been very special to me."
"Yes. Thank you, Uncle Hamilton."
"Oh, and Cassandra?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I know this has all been very painful for you, but try to remember that, no matter what happens, everything is working according to plan. And call me if you need anything."
"Yes, thanks. G'bye," she replied, feeling a little embarrassed for him as she hung up. According to plan? How odd. Surely he meant according to God's plan? He must be more upset than he's letting on. Uncle Hamilton never misstates anything.
Max dropped his briefcase on the coffee table and went to the small kitchen, turning the television on as he passed. Once upon a time, the television had been the least used piece of furniture in his home. But that was before a drunken teenager who couldn't read a Stop sign killed Alice and little Lisa. Now, it was his constant companion in the small, one-bedroom apartment, whose utter silence was broken only by the drone of the TV. It kept him company at breakfast, welcomed him home at night, and lulled him to sleep in the lonely bed. Taking a glass from the cabinet, he dropped a couple of ice cubes into it and poured himself a generous portion of Jack Daniels-another companion that had once been almost a stranger to him.
The dog food commercial was about over when Max dropped tiredly onto the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table and taking a sip of the liquid that stung his throat. Maybe I should get a dog, he thought, watching the golden retriever's big brown eyes staring into the camera. Naw. I'm not here enough to take care of one. It'd crap all over the place. And more crap is not what I need right now. Maybe Sheila is right. Maybe it's time to bury the dead. The image of Alice's auburn hair and brown eyes, the memory of Lisa's tiny giggle filled the room. Problem is, what's not 'dead' can't be buried. He took another sip of whiskey as the local news came on.
"Good evening. This is Genevieve Stone sitting in for Tom McGuire. Topping the local news, a memorial service for famed journalist and Pulitzer Prize winning author Madison Hart was held at National Cathedral today," said the square-jawed brunette. "Dignitaries from all walks of life gathered to mark the passing of this remarkable man," continued her voice as a video showed the crowd leaving the church.
At the sight of none other than a grinning Hamilton Bates walking beside the Vice President, who appeared to be telling a joke, Max suddenly sat up straight, fully attentive. From their expressions, it was clear they were unaware that the camera was focused upon them.
"Among those attending were the Chinese Ambassador to the United Nations, the Vice President, and Hamilton Bates, CEO of the international conglomerate, Bates Enterprises." An impeccably dressed Asian man joined the Vice President and Bates as the video clip ended and the face of the anchorwoman reappeared. "As a young man fresh out of Yale University, Madison Hart served as war correspondent during the last years of the Vietnam War and was later in charge of the Asian office for Bates Press Service in Hong Kong." An old film clip of a young man dressed in camouflage, holding a microphone and speaking from an embattled airstrip, appeared on the small screen. He looked remarkably like his daughter-thick black hair, oval face, round blue eyes.
"With the return of Hong Kong to Chinese control, Hart was reassigned to Washington, D.C. and later was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his book, Linchpin, an in-depth study of the Bill of Rights. He died Tuesday in a traffic accident," Genevieve Stone said, reappearing on the screen.
"Traffic accident?" Max asked aloud, leaning back against the soft cushion. "How did yesterday's 'hit-and-run' become today's 'traffic accident?' My God. Can't these news folks ever get the story straight?"
"In other news, the Vice President arrived in Los Angeles today on the first leg of her presidential campaign through the western states and is expected to raise millions of dollars from Hollywood supporters for what she calls her 'Era of Enlightenment' campaign. She received a warm welcome from Mayor James Jefferson and a large crowd of well wishers. Meanwhile, the Conservative candidate for President was met by nearly fifty student protestors at a Dallas-Ft. Worth speech attended by an estimated five thousand people. The protestors carried signs decrying his 'regressive' policies."
Spin, spin, and more spin, Max thought, swirling his drink so the ice clinked against the glass. Not much doubt about which candidate this channel supports. Fifty protestors in a crowd of five thousand? Big deal. I wonder how many protestors greeted the Vice President. He shook his head. What was it Alice used to say? "The world is spinning out of control." He swirled his drink again, downed the last of it, and shook his head. Not out of control, Alice darling. Spin is in control. Era of Enlightenment, my ass. Someone ought to enlighten the media.
He only half-listened to the rest of the report as he went to the kitchen to freshen his drink, pausing to look in the refrigerator. It was empty except for the leftover pizza he'd ordered two days ago, a half quart of skim milk, and some wilting, ready-to-serve salad. He put the pizza on the tray in the toaster oven to reheat and returned to the living room. The anchorwoman was signing off, her face partly obscured by the credits scrolling down the screen.
A childhood friend used to taunt him for not reading the credits. "Everybody knows who the stars are, but does anyone pay attention to who the hair stylist is?" he had asked. Max leaned against the wall and watched, determined to know who had done Genevieve Stone's hair and makeup. Maybe it would make for interesting dinner conversation someday. If he ever went to a dinner party again. But it wasn't makeup or hair that caught his attention. It was the small print at the very end: "Copyright by Bates Enterprises. All rights reserved."
"Good grief," he muttered. The man is everywhere-like kudzu. He was at the hospital where they took Hart's body; he hovered over Cassandra Hart while we interviewed her; he even hosted the memorial service reception-and he bugs the hell out of me about the investigation. Now I find out he even controls the evening news.
He looked at the briefcase containing Sheila's research and shook his head. "Worse yet, I had to bring 'im home with me tonight," he said and, opening it, withdrew the large sheaf of papers Sheila had thrust into his hands when he left the office.
"It's not all here," she had said, an intense look in her green eyes. "But it's enough to keep you awake tonight."
"Oh, well. I don't sleep so good anyway." He settled himself on the sofa and began reading.
The Tiffany lamp on the dresser cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the ceiling but did little to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners of the room. Cassie opened the jewelry box and withdrew the silver bracelet. "Let's see what Freedom's charm will unlock for me tonight," she said aloud, almost smiling as she closed the lid and walked into the hallway. She'd recognized the key the minute she'd seen it this afternoon, so her father's first clue had been easy. She would figure out the rest as she went along, she thought, climbing the attic stairs with the bracelet clutched tightly in her hand.
She flipped the light switch at the top of the stairwell and looked around. As a little girl, the attic had been her favorite playground, a place where make-believe became almost real. Yeah. Just like my fairy tale wedding that never quite happened, she thought, her eyes falling on the long white dress hanging from a hook on the far wall. Her chest grew tight as she remembered the twinkle in Alan's blue-green eyes, the dimples that accented his easy smile. How he made me laugh. And cry. Her father had been there for her from the moment she learned the embassy had been bombed and that Alan would never come home again. Two months before we'd have been married. She shook her head. This time, she had only herself to lean on, and, taking a deep breath, she forced her eyes away from the dress, her mind away from what might have been.
In the far corner, the table and chairs her mother had planned to refinish were still as worn and scratched as when they'd belonged to Grandma and Grandpa Jamison. Shelves full of books that no one read anymore-but couldn't bring themselves to part with-lined the walls beside the front window. Toys and clothes long ago outgrown and outmoded lay discarded in heaps and bunches wherever there was room for them; and the steamer trunks that had followed her family's travels filled whatever floor space was left. It was the perfect hiding place for little kids at play-and for secrets.
As she wound her way past the remnants of so many yesterdays, dust motes stirred around her, hovering like golden specks in the bright overhead light. The distant roll of thunder broke the stillness, a half-promise of relief from the drought that had plagued the eastern seaboard since June, and Cassie imagined the smell of rain as she reached the far wall.
The door was concealed between the knotty pine panels, and it had been a long time since she'd been up here. The trick was finding the keyhole. All the knots in the wood looked so much alike. There. Is that it? She knelt and pushed against the dark knot about two feet above the floor, smiling as it fell to the floor to reveal a small, black steel lock. When she turned the key and the panel swung open, she felt a rush of anticipation.
The dark brown steel safe was almost as tall as she but was twice as broad. At the sight of the combination lock on the door, she cast about in her memory for the sequence of numbers that would open it. It's something obvious. Something Daddy said we would be able to remember, even under stress. Of course. "Freedom's birth date." Bending close, Cassie turned the knob left to seventeen, right to seven, and left again to six. When the final tumbler fell into place, she stood and pulled on the handle.
The yellowed copy of the Bill of Rights clung tenaciously to the inside of the door. How the masking tape had made it through the heat that built up in the attic during these many summers, she had no idea, but, somehow, it had stood the test of time. As had the dark, gleaming weapons standing like soldiers before her-soldiers the government had banned. She grimaced at the memory of the pleasant young clerk at the Jiffy store who'd been shot to death during that robbery last week. Bet he was glad no one is allowed to have guns anymore.
The rifles and handguns her father had collected over the years were all there-to serve and protect," Daddy always said. The two AR 15's from the Vietnam era stood ready and waiting alongside the 20-gauge Remington double-barreled shotgun Daddy had bought her for bird hunting. She reached out to touch the cold steel of the old Winchester rifle her great great grandfather had used in the Spanish-American War. It would be worth its weight in gold if people were still allowed to collect and sell weapons. There was the M-1 carbine from World War II; the 12-gauge Browning shotgun that Daddy preferred for dove shooting; and the Remington .243 Grandpa Hart gave to Daddy on his sixteenth birthday for his "first ever" deer hunt. Her father had killed a six-point with it and, even though it wasn't a "trophy" buck, he was prouder of that deer than of any he'd shot since. If the police had discovered the Freedom Safe during their search this afternoon, they'd have confiscated and destroyed not only the firearms, but the memories that lingered within them. And I'd be under arrest.
Cassie pulled the letter from her pocket. "Look to the second right for direction." She studied the Bill of Rights attached to the door, but it revealed nothing she didn't already know by heart. She looked at the letter again-second right" was not capitalized. Second right. On the top shelf, red, yellow, and green boxes of ammunition were stacked on top of one another in neat rows. Cassie took the second box from the top at the far right, surprised that it was not at all heavy like a box full of bullets should be.
"Bingo," she said aloud. Her fingers trembled as she removed the cardboard lid and took out the key and handwritten note. "Hank Charles. Independence Bank. Tallahassee, Florida. #371." It looked like the key to a safe deposit box. But who was Hank Charles? An alias her father had used to rent it? No. He'd have had to present identification to the bank. She pondered the note for a long moment. It was like an address. Hank Charles was his contact at the bank.
Cassie's breathing grew shallower and faster as she considered her next move, aware that the minute she boarded a plane to Tallahassee, her life would be in danger. No longer would she be just the bereaved daughter of a threat. She would be the threat.
August 4
-
The morning dawned as bleak and gloomy as Cassie's mood. She had awakened early, despite being up most of the night searching through her father's computer. It was a wasted effort. The burglars had deleted everything from the hard drive except the programs themselves, and there wasn't a floppy disk to be found anywhere. Now, as she sat cross-legged on the floor of the study boxing up what photos and certificates hadn't been destroyed, she wondered why the intruders had spent so much energy on them. After all, they were just memorabilia.
The photo of herself and her parents at the airport the day they departed Hong Kong lay at her feet, and she picked it up. Mother's large brown eyes looked across the years at her, and the furrow between her dark eyebrows belied the smile on her lips. Daddy was smiling, too, as was the Governor who had come to see them off, but neither looked very happy. The only one who seemed genuinely happy was her-a gangly kid who couldn't wait to come back to American stores and real McDonald's hamburgers. A cadre of police officers formed a tight line in the background, and Cassie shivered at the sight of them. It hadn't been until several years later that Daddy told her the police were there not as bodyguards but as enforcers.
She shuddered, remembering the night they took her father and mother away. The loud banging on the door just as they sat down to dinner. The smell of baked fish. May Lee's voice rising as she spoke rapidly in Chinese to the soldiers, who pushed past her into the dining room. Their big rifles. The thick gloves. The goggles on their faces. Daddy's whispered instructions to pretend they didn't understand Chinese. It was nearly a week before Mother came home. So thin. Dark circles under her eyes. Daddy had been gone for nearly a month. Cassie shook her head. When he did return, the interim Hong Kong government, controlled behind the scenes by the Communist Chinese, ordered him to leave the country within twenty-four hours.
She recalled their hasty packing. Many of her mother's cherished keepsakes had to be left behind. Although the Governor promised to have them shipped later, he was unable to do so. The new government had "appropriated" them as the "rightful heritage of the Chinese people." Cassie frowned. Yeah. Like Mother's collection of German nutcrackers.
"Mother and Daddy are both gone now, the Hong Kong they loved exists no more, and I'm no longer a little girl," Cassie murmured. She laid the photo between sheets of tissue paper and placed it atop the others in the small box, closing the lid as May Lee came into the study.
"I've put everything away that can be salvaged," Cassie told her. "So you can take over as soon as you're ready."
May Lee nodded, then bent down to pick up a torn photograph. "Why would they want to destroy your father's pictures?" she asked, fitting the two pieces together.
"I don't know, May Lee. It makes---"
"Look. There's some writing on the back of this one," May Lee interrupted, handing it to her.
Cassie studied it for a moment, turned the picture over to see who was in the photo, then again looked at the notation on the back. Firethorne. With my compliments. Joshua. "That's funny. Why would Daddy keep a photo of Uncle Hamilton unless he was in it, too?" she murmured aloud. "May Lee, I don't remember ever seeing this before. Have you?"
She looked at the photo again. "No. Not ever. And I dust everything twice a week."
Cassie lay the photo on the desk and turned on the lamp. The picture was grainy, as if it was copied from another photograph. No. More like it was copied from a videotape. Some of the faces were hard to make out, but she recognized the former President, the now-dead Russian Premier, and Uncle Hamilton. They were seated at a broad conference table across from a couple of Asian men and one who looked distinctly Middle Eastern.
"Maybe he had it in one of his files," May Lee offered.
Cassie walked back across the room that was still littered with torn photos and papers. "Where did you find it?"
"Right there," she answered, pointing to the floor just in front of her.
Stooping, Cassie picked up another photo that had been torn in half. It had been taken during Mother and Daddy's anniversary trip to Europe. They were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding hands. She went back to the desk and lay the photo of her parents on top of the other photograph. The tears were a perfect match. Daddy had hidden the Firethorne photo behind the other one. Apparently, the burglars had torn them up as one, not realizing two different pictures were in the same frame.
"Do you recognize either of these Asian men?"
May Lee crossed to the desk and looked closely. She still had ties to Hong Kong and kept abreast of the news from there. "This one here," she pointed to the one on the left, "looks like the Chinese Minister of Defense. I can't remember his name, but I saw his picture the other day in the Hong Kong newspaper. He was on a tour of Naval bases."
Don't trust anyone, Daddy had said in his note. Cassie wished she knew if that meant May Lee. "Well, I guess Daddy must have had his reasons for keeping the photo. It doesn't really matter anymore, though." She made a show of tossing the torn pictures into the waste basket.
"You're right, of course," May Lee replied, her eyes on the photos that fell from Cassie's hand. "I made some iced tea if you want some."
"I'll have some later. Right now, I need to get these things out to my car." She picked up the boxes and left the maid in the study, sweeping up the shards of glass.
By the time Cassie returned, May Lee had filled the trash can with the debris left by the burglars and was already busy scrubbing the sticky black fingerprint dust away.
"Why don't you just use paper towels?" she asked.
"Because it is wasteful," May Lee replied, not turning from her work. "In Hong Kong, we value our trees above almost all else, because they help fight the smog that covers the island. These old rags can be washed and used again."
Cassie nodded. She had forgotten the choking smog that often blanketed the mountainous island. "Well, I guess I'll take the trash out and empty it," she said. "Then, I need to get busy sorting through Daddy's other stuff."
The maid grunted her acknowledgment as she vigorously wiped at a particularly resistant smudge on the bottom file drawer.
As soon as Cassie was out of May Lee's sight, she set the trash can on the table and riffled through its contents. The Firethorne photo was still there. Satisfied that the housekeeper was trustworthy or, at least, disinterested in the photograph, Cassie breathed a little easier. The discovery of the torn picture had piqued her curiosity, and she was eager to sift more carefully through the debris. Emptying the trash into a brown paper bag, Cassie carried it upstairs. May Lee might be trustworthy, disinterested or both, but Cassie didn't want to arouse her curiosity by revealing her own intense interest.
She passed the door of her parents' bedroom and felt tempted to pursue her task amid the comforting memories that room offered. But, no, she would need privacy. May Lee would be less likely to disturb her if she were in her own bedroom with the door closed. She'd probably think she had just decided to take a nap-or have a good cry beyond the prying eyes of others.
Cassie closed the door and set the bag onto the floor at the foot of her bed. The room smelled of disuse, but it was otherwise the same as when she'd moved to her own apartment. Her doll collection still waited patiently in the mahogany curio cabinet. The double bed, covered with the hand-made quilt Mother won in a church raffle, was rumpled from her tossing and turning during the night. As a teenager, she had decided it was dumb to make the bed when in a few hours it would get messed up again. She frowned a little at herself and took a moment to straighten the coverlet.
There was an old oil cloth in the closet, and Cassie pulled it from the shelf. Laying it on the floor, she dumped the contents of the bag onto it. She didn't want to leave any trace of her activity on the blue-green carpet. Neither did she want to accidentally leave any of the broken glass on the floor where she might step on it in her bare feet.
With the debris in a heap before her, Cassie sat down cross-legged and began her search. Until a few minutes ago, she had forgotten that, when they were forced to leave Hong Kong, Mother and Daddy hid important documents behind innocent looking photographs. Even the suspicious Communist authorities hadn't bothered to check the framed pictures that filled the big, black steamer trunk.
Piece by piece, Cassie sorted meticulously, careful not to cut herself on the sharp glass that peppered the pile of torn faces and bodies. She found nothing but broken bits of memory. Discouraged, she poured the trash back into the paper bag, stashed the old oil cloth back onto the closet shelf, and looked around the room for a safe place to store the grainy Firethorne photograph. Under the mattress? Nope. Mother always used to find what I'd hidden there, and May Lee will be changing the sheets.
The row of books on the shelf across the room caught her eye, and she went to it, scanning the titles. Roget's Thesaurus. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights. The Compleat Patriot. Where did that come from? She pulled it from the shelf and caught her breath as she read the back cover. It was a kind of handbook for revolutionaries. An inscription written in her father's hand was on the front flyleaf-"Extremism in defense of liberty is no vice. Moderation in pursuit of justice is no virtue." How often her father had quoted those words Senator Barry Goldwater had uttered so many years ago. But what need did Daddy have for a book like this? He was no radical. And why was it on her shelf? She shook her head. "Curiouser and curiouser," she said, replacing the book. That was definitely not the place to hide the torn picture, but where would it be safe? She grinned at the sight of the large, illustrated Alice in Wonderland at the end of the shelf. Perfect. Opening it, she lay the photo over the smiling picture of the Mad Hatter. Perfect.
As Cassie put the oft-read book back into its place, May Lee knocked softly on the door. "Miss Cassie? Are you awake?"
Panicking, Cassie looked around. The brown bag was still by the bed. Damn! She rushed over to hide it, but May Lee had already opened the door. "Uh, no, I was just, uh, putting a few of my clothes away," she said quickly, noticing the woman's dark eyes focusing on the bag. "I had a few things that didn't fit into my suitcase." God, I sound lame.
May Lee shifted her gaze toward her. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but an Investigator Henshaw is here. He says he needs to speak with you."
Cassie turned her back to avoid the housekeeper's eyes and nonchalantly picked up the brown bag, folding the top to hide the contents. "Tell him I'll be down in a minute." Now she sounded curt. Brother. I can't seem to get it right.
May Lee closed the door, saying nothing, and Cassie cursed herself softly. Asians could be very sensitive to insult, and she had just spoken to her like some ... some peasant. She shook her head and frowned as she placed the bag into the corner of her closet. As soon as the policeman left, she'd sneak it outside to the garbage can. Even though there was nothing important in it, she didn't want May Lee to know that she'd been going through the trash from the study-and lied about it.
Cassie stood in front of the mirror and forced herself to smile. Provoking May Lee's curiosity was one thing; provoking the investigator's was another. Taking a deep breath, she tried to relax as she opened the door and went downstairs.
"Good morning, Detective," she said, entering the living room. He was studying the portrait of her mother and father.
"Good morning," he replied, only half turning in her direction. "Handsome couple, your parents." He motioned toward the portrait.
"Yes, they were beautiful people," Cassie answered, walking over to stand beside him. "Inside, as well as out," she added, looking into the almost perfectly rendered image of the faces that had been so dear to her.
He turned and looked at her. "You look very much like your father."
"People often say so, although I think I have my mother's mouth."
He looked at the portrait again and smiled as he turned back to Cassie. "But you have your father's eyes."
Cassie nodded, uncomfortable at the personal nature of his remarks. "Yes, I've been told that." She hoped her matter-of-fact tone would curtail any more comparisons. Her father and mother were who they were. She was who she was and, because of her father's prominence, crawling out from under his shadow was a never-ending battle. Even in death, he hovered over her, challenging her to fulfill his ambitions. True, she had chosen to follow in his footsteps, loved reporting-and writing-as much as he did, but she was more than just a reflection of him. She was herself. Cassandra Hart.
"May I sit down?" he asked, all formal and professional again.
She motioned him to the loveseat and sat across from him on the couch, saying nothing.
He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to have to bother you again," he began, "but I have some more questions I need to ask you."
The piercing look in his eyes reminded her of a hawk about to swoop down upon a rabbit, but she wouldn't look away. "Fine. I'll tell you what I can," she answered, sounding altogether too nervous. She had to relax, to get control of herself. After all, he wasn't the enemy. Of course, she wasn't sure who-or what-the enemy really was.
"Miss Hart, do you know a Philip Sinclair?"
"Why, yes. That's Jonathon's son. Or rather, his adopted son. He and his wife adopted Philip when he was two years old. I believe Philip's mother had died. When Jonathon and Sarah, his wife, learned he was available, they were so excited. They'd given up hope of having children of their own, and there were hardly any healthy babies available for adoption in America. It was difficult, because the Chinese don't like placing orphans with anyone who is not Chinese. But somehow-Jonathon used to say 'as if by magic'-the adoption went through."
"How well do you know him?"
She thought a moment. He was three years younger than she was, but as youngsters, they had played together on those days when he accompanied his father to work. It had been a long time since she'd seen him, though. Daddy had forbidden Jonathon to bring him around after Philip took Mother's car without permission and nearly wrecked it. "Pretty well, I guess, but it's been awhile since I've seen him. Why?"
"Is Jonathon here today?"
"No, in fact, I haven't seen him since the memorial service. What's going on?" Cassie didn't like the feel of this.
"Miss Hart, do you have any alternate telephone numbers or addresses for Jonathon?"
"Only the ones I already gave to you."
Max stared through the window behind Cassie for what seemed a long time. At last, he cleared his throat again and spoke. "We have reason to believe that Philip may have been involved in your father's death."
The image of her father lying on the pavement like a bloody rag doll leaped into Cassie's mind. Philip had been her friend. Her playmate. Her Tarzan to his Jane. Her hide to his seek. Her Hyde to his Jekyll? "Philip killed Daddy? He was the hit-and-run driver?" The words felt sticky on her lips.
May Lee entered the room before Max could respond. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Bates is on the telephone."
Max looked at Cassie a long moment, then turned to May Lee. "Please tell Mr. Bates that Miss Hart cannot be disturbed." His voice was firm.
"I did, but he said it was imperative that he speak with her immediately." She raised her eyebrows and turned her hands palm up as she spoke.
"Tell him that Miss Hart cannot be disturbed. She will return his phone call." He looked sternly at Cassie as he spoke.
Cassie nodded at May Lee, feeling sorry for the woman who retreated back into the kitchen. Nobody said "no" to Hamilton Bates.
Once the housekeeper had disappeared behind the door, Max's face relaxed, his voice softened. "Miss Hart, I didn't say that Philip did it, only that we have reason to suspect him."
Cassie focused on him with difficulty. "I don't understand. What makes you think it was Philip?"
He took a deep breath. "The airport has a security camera mounted at the entrance to the terminal. We retrieved the video, and our people in the Crime Lab were able to enhance the picture of the car enough to read the license plate. It was registered to Philip B. Sinclair."
"Maybe it was stolen."
"That's always possible, but the car was never reported as stolen. And we can't locate either Philip or his father."
Jonathon. Kindly, devoted Jonathon. So quick with a kind word, always available to help-no matter what else he might be doing. The pride on his face as he spoke of his adopted son. The shame on his face, the way his shoulders sagged the day Philip "borrowed" Mother's car. Was there any anger there? Not that she could remember. Even Daddy hadn't shown any anger. His voice had been measured, gentle as he spoke to Jonathon about it. Philip had looked angry. No, not angry. Defiant. But that's the way kids always react when they're caught red-handed.
"Do you have any idea where we might locate either Philip or his father?"
"N-o-o-o." She paused. "Not if they're not at home. They have no relatives. Wait. Jonathon used to talk about a place they went fishing-what was it called?"
The ringing of Max's cell phone interrupted them. "Excuse me," he murmured, standing and moving a few steps away. "Henshaw," his voice was gruff as he answered. "They have? Where? Okay. Thanks. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
Cassie noticed the change in his expression as he turned around. He seemed softer, somehow.
"Miss Hart, they've found the vehicle that killed your father. A couple of fishermen discovered it in a small lake in Virginia."
"In a lake?"
"Yes, it was under about seven feet of water. There was a young Asian man inside. Shot to death. They've tentatively identified him as Philip Sinclair."
The sudden crashing of dishes pulled their attention toward the dining room. Standing at the open kitchen door was the maid, wide-eyed and shaking violently above a shattered tray of coffee cups and cake.
"May Lee! What is it?" Cassie cried as she and Max rushed toward her.
She looked at them through glazed eyes, weaved slightly, and dropped to the floor before Max could catch her. Glass from a broken cup pressed against her smooth cheek, and blood oozed down her face.
"Oh, May Lee," Cassie murmured as Max picked the woman up and carried her to the couch.
"She'll be okay," he said. "She's just fainted. Do you have some smelling salts? Or ammonia? Bring a clean towel, too."
Cassie dashed to the kitchen, rummaged around for the ammonia and a clean dish towel, then hurried back to the living room to see Max bending over the maid and dabbing the cut on her face with a handkerchief. May Lee's eyes were open, and she was speaking softly.
"Is she all right?" Cassie asked, setting the ammonia aside and handing him the towel.
"She'll be fine," he replied, pressing the clean towel against the woman's still-bleeding cheek. "She overheard us talking, and the shock of hearing that Philip might be, uh," he paused, looking into May Lee's eyes, "dead, hit her very hard."
"Is that right, May Lee?" Cassie asked, surprised. May Lee had never seemed to care much for the handyman's son. In fact, when Philip had been a regular visitor to the house, May Lee had either scolded him or acted like she hardly knew he was there.
"I'm okay, Miss Cassie. Don't worry. I was just startled. Philip was such a sweet boy ... like a member of my own family." She locked eyes with Max, not even looking in Cassie's direction.
Cassie watched from the porch while the investigator escorted May Lee down the front steps toward his car. The tiny woman walked unsteadily, and the bandage on her cheek made her look even more fragile. Cassie frowned, wondering why May Lee had reacted so strongly to the news of Philip's death. Maybe it was the way he died. She shook her head. So much sorrow in so short a time. It was even getting to May Lee, who had proved her resilience time and again.
The mailman turned into the driveway as the housekeeper drove away with the investigator, and Cassie waited on the porch, thinking he must have a package too large to fit in the white mailbox by the gate.
He climbed from the jeep-like vehicle and smiled when he approached. "Miss Hart? I've got a certified letter for you." He held an envelope and ballpoint pen out toward her. "Sign where I've marked the 'X' on both receipts."
Cassie took the pen and did as he asked, then returned it to him. He tore the green receipt from the back of the envelope and handed the letter back to her along with the rest of the mail. "I was mighty sorry to hear about your father," he said, his eyes avoiding hers. "He was a fine man. Generous."
Daddy gave big tips to the postal workers and garbage collectors every Christmas, and the mailman obviously hoped she would continue the tradition. "Thank you. Daddy always appreciated your efforts."
"Well, we try," he replied, color rising to his cheeks. "Anyway, have a nice day." He turned and retreated down the wide steps toward his waiting vehicle.
"You, too," she answered, studying the envelope as she went back into the house. It was addressed to her, but there was no return address-just a postmark from some place in Florida named "Chattahoochee." She was certain that she didn't know anyone who lived there. Opening it, she found herself looking at a picture of her father and turned the foyer light on to see more clearly. He was standing in front of an ornately painted sign on a white wooden gate. On either side of the gate were lanky, red-berried shrubs espaliered against a high red brick wall. The sign read simply "Firethorne." She turned the photo over and pursed her lips at the scrawled message-With my compliments. Joshua. The same message that was on the back of the torn photo. A second, smaller photo lay inside the envelope, and taking it out, Cassie felt doubly puzzled. It showed what, at first, appeared to be a single-story, white stucco house, but on closer look, she could just make out a sign by the door: "Independence Bank of Tallahassee."
The telephone rang, and Cassie dropped the mail onto the foyer table. It was probably Uncle Hamilton again. She went into the study to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Cassie, it's Sue."
She breathed a sigh a relief. "Oh, hi, Sue. How's it going?"
"That's what I called to ask you. We postponed your article until you could finish it, but I can't keep putting fillers in its place. Of course, I understand that you've been through quite an ordeal, but, you know, life does go on."
Sue seems gruff, but she's a good egg, Daddy had said. He was right. She does seem gruff. "I know, Sue, and I appreciate it."
"So? When are you coming back to work?"
"I'm not sure," she replied, enunciating each word. "A lot has happened since I spoke with you last. Things I haven't expected. I doubt I'll be able to come in before next Friday."
"Next Friday? Cassie, that's way too long to be out. We've got a magazine to publish, you know." The woman gave no quarter.
"I know, but even next Friday may be too soon." Cassie wouldn't give any quarter either.
Sue grew unusually quiet, and Cassie pictured her thin lips drawn into a tight frown. She'd probably taken off her horn-rimmed glasses, too. At last, she spoke. "Well, see if you can get the article finished in time for Tuesday's deadline and e-mail it to me. Things change pretty fast, you know, and if the article's not here by Tuesday, it'll be too outdated to print." She hung up without giving Cassie a chance to reply.
Bitch, Cassie thought, staring at the telephone in her hand. "Yeah, right. Tuesday. Well, Mizz Sue Barker, don't hold your breath. There's a lot more going on in the world than you know about. A lot. And I'm going to ferret it out, even if you fire me. She was tempted to call her boss back, tell her she had more important things to work on than an article about the new Speaker of the House. Instead, she placed the receiver back in its cradle and sat down at the desk.
Minutes later, Cassie had booted her father's computer, accessed Lexis-Nexis, typed in the search instructions, and watched as ten titles appeared on the monitor. Four were from AP reports, one was from The New York Times, another from Newsweek, and the others were from Home and Garden and Arts Today. She pulled up the one from the Times, which had been written by her father just a few months ago. The headline, "Philanthropist Hosts Presidential Hopeful," was followed by a subhead, "Vice President travels to Florida for campaign strategy session."
-
CHATTAHOOCHEE-The small north Florida town of Chattahoochee, known primarily for being the home of the state mental institution, is gearing up for the arrival of the Vice President on Wednesday. Billed as a 'working holiday,' the Vice President will be the guest of millionaire philanthropist, J. Harold Otis, at his ten thousand acre plantation and game preserve, "Firethorne," located about ten miles outside of this quiet little town. She will be joined later in the week by the Secretary of State and several members of Congress.
According to the Vice President's press secretary, the visit to Otis's retreat will offer some much needed time for recreation and relief from life inside the Washington Beltway. The Vice President is looking forward to being surrounded by nature, doing some hiking and horseback riding along the banks of the Apalachicola River, and watching a private performance of the Chinese Ballet, which is in residence at the plantation in preparation for their tour of the United States. Toward the end of the week, campaign strategists will join the Vice President to plan the upcoming Presidential campaign. Anonymous sources report that high-ranking foreign officials have also been invited to join the campaign strategy sessions.
Residents of Chattahoochee have mixed feelings about the Vice President's visit. Norma Rae McCall, who operates Bob's Fish Camp with her husband, is pleased about the publicity. "We have great fishing here, both on Lake Seminole and in the Apalachicola River, and the Vice President's visit will let more folks know about it." James Simon, retired truck driver, has a different attitude. "Chattahoochee's a nice, quiet, God-fearing town, and we don't need any hell-raising Yankees coming in here and messing things up. Let them stay in Washington where they belong and leave us alone." Others, like Jenny and Logan Taylor don't see what all the "fuss" is about. "Our lives are going to go on no matter what politicians do or where they do it," Taylor said, speaking for both himself and his wife.
Sources within the campaign disagree with Taylor. "People like Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are just the kind of voters we hope to attract with our education, health care, and trade proposals. When the Vice President assumes this nation's top office, people from all walks of life-both at home and abroad-are going to experience an America unlike they've ever known before."
-
Cassie scrolled down the article, past the description of Firethorne and its owner, looking for some hint of what linked Firethorne with her father. She found it lurking at the very end.
-
When asked to comment on the statement from the campaign staffer, an aide to a powerful conservative Senator said, "An America unlike we've ever known before' is an understatement. It won't be America at all."
-
Cassie sat back in the chair and stared at the last sentence. Now that was something, which would definitely interest her father. "I wonder what the other articles have to say," she murmured and began pulling them up one by one.
Max was eager to see what Sheila had dug up about Jonathon Sinclair. More specifically, his son, Philip. His conversation with May Lee had left him with even more questions than he started out with, but the telephone rang just as he walked into his office. It was the Chief's secretary.
"Max, Chief Baldwin wants to see you." She spoke in a soft Virginia drawl.
"What's it about?" he asked, taking the holstered pistol from his belt and stowing it in his desk drawer.
"I don't know. But he's got a mighty serious look on his face."
"You can't even give me a hint? I sure hate walking into the lion's den without some idea about how hungry the lion is."
"All I know is that some FBI agent was in his office for a long time, and when he left, the Chief was acting pretty surly."
"I'll be right there." Max made a face at no one in particular as he strode out the door and across the hall to the elevator.
"Taking the easy way up, Henshaw?" It was Barney Smith, a disgruntled officer who'd been on the force for almost ten years without a promotion. When Max had first joined the Department, they'd been friends. But that was before Max was appointed Chief Investigator. Now the paunchy officer never failed to make some pointed remark when they crossed paths.
"Yep. How 'bout you? Down?" Two could play that game.
Barney glared at him and started to say something, then turned and ambled toward the stairs.
Max grinned. The walk will do you good, Barney old pal. Get some of that blubber off your gut.
Andrea, the Chief's secretary, grimaced meaningfully at Max when he entered and passed her desk. He raised his eyebrows in response and walked into the Chief's office, shutting the door behind him.
"You wanted to see me, Chief?"
"Sit down, Henshaw," said the gray-haired, square-faced man with the ruddy complexion, motioning him to the chair in front of the desk.
Max obeyed, wondering if the seat was still warm from the FBI agent's butt.
The Chief leaned back and looked directly into the investigator's eyes. "Max, I'll get right to the point."
Uh, oh. He called me by my first name. Max sat up straighter.
"I've got to take you off the Hart investigation."
"What?" Max felt like he'd been slapped. "Why?"
The older man placed his elbows on the big steel desk and leaned forward, knitting his fingers as he spoke. "It's one of the hazards of working in D.C., Max. Cross-jurisdiction between the Feds and us." He paused, clearing his throat. "An agent from the FBI came in here about an hour ago and took up a lot of my precious time explaining that Madison Hart's death carries serious national implications. I tried to explain that it also has some serious local implications, but he gave me a letter from the Attorney General, for Chrissakes, ordering us off the case and to turn over..." He paused to read from the official Department of Justice stationery in front of him, "any and all information concerning the death of Madison Hart immediately." He leaned back in his chair when he finished reading.
"Son of a bitch." Max slammed his fist against the arm of the chair. "Son of a bitch. Well, I won't do it. Those incompetent bastards will just foul it up-if they ever even get around to really working it."
"Sorry, Max. You don't have any choice. Neither do I."
Max looked at him long and hard. "What about the burglary? Do I still have that?"
"Nope."
"How about the body they found in the car-Philip Sinclair? Can I can keep that?"
The Chief grinned. "Yep. I don't think they even know about that one yet. And that occurred in Virginia, where they have less say in police matters. And, since he was a resident of D.C., the folks over there won't deny our participation."
Max sat back and took a deep breath. "Okay, Chief. Okay. But don't be surprised if things don't turn out quite the way the AG expects."
"I won't, Henshaw. I won't be surprised at all. But keep me posted."
Max stood and walked to the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "Ten-four. You'll be as up-to-date as my shadow."
Andrea was talking on the telephone and blew Max a kiss as he passed her desk. He grinned and blew one back in her direction as he stepped into the hall and closed the door.
"What's up?" Sims asked when Max returned to their office. "You in trouble?"
"Not if I'm careful, Ricky. Not if we're careful," he answered and, in a few sentences, filled him in.
"Well, better a slice of the pie than no pie at all." Sims sighed. "Tell me. How much are we going to turn over to the Feds?"
"Not as much as they'd like. We have to turn over the crime scene information, video of the hit-run, fingerprints, and stuff. But as far as I'm concerned, Sheila's research stays right here. If they want that, they can damn sure have their own folks dig it out."
"Right on, Pardner," Sims said. "Right on."
Max turned his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. More information from Sheila. She's been busy, he thought. Hope she doesn't expect anything more than a pat on the back. "It'll be a while before the dunderheads at the FBI dig out as much as our Sheila has," he said aloud. "But we'd better not let any grass grow under our feet. See if you can get that Sheriff down in Virginia on the phone. I'd like to get with him tomorrow and see what they've got."
Sims picked up the telephone. "Hope he's not a redneck."
Max looked up from the report on his desk. "No sweat, buddy. I'm a redneck. We'll get along great."
Cassie was tearing lettuce into a big wooden bowl when the doorbell rang. Who the hell is it now? She wiped her hands on the flowered apron tied around her waist and walked to the door, wishing the world would back off for just a little while. She looked through the peephole and sighed. Him again. Oh, well. Support your local police.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Hart," Max said when she opened the door. "I know it's kind of late, but..."
She took a deep breath. "Please. Come in," she said, not too warmly. "I know you have your job to do."
He stepped from the dark porch into the foyer and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. He motioned toward her apron and apologized again. "I guess you were just getting dinner."
"Yes. But that's okay. I can cook while we talk."
He hesitated a moment, looking down at the photos on the narrow foyer table. "Uh, Miss Hart?" He picked them up.
Damn. Why hadn't she put those away? "Yes?"
"Where did you get these?"
"Why?" Can't I have a picture of my own father without being questioned about it?
His sudden grin was disarming. "Oh, it's just that I know this place," he explained, handing the photos to her.
She took the pictures and pretended to study them. "How interesting," she finally said. "Well, anyway..." She placed them in her apron pocket. "I'm starved. Have you eaten? I have plenty-if you like leftover Peking duck and salad."
He smiled. "No. And yes, I do."
She nodded and led the way to the kitchen.
Max set his brown, imitation leather briefcase on the floor and sat down at the table, while Cassie resumed making the salad. "The kitchen used to be my favorite place in the house," he said.
"Used to be?" She didn't look at him, concentrating on the lettuce.
He paused a moment before answering. "Yeah. When I was growing up, the kitchen was more than just a place to cook. It was where the whole family gathered to eat and talk and, well, you know. It was the same way for my wife and me." He stopped, blushing when she suddenly looked in his direction.
"Was?"
He shifted in the chair and looked toward the window above the sink. "Sorry. It's just that this is kind of a rare situation for me-you know, sittin' in the kitchen, watchin' a woman cook."
"Are you divorced or something?" She took an onion from the refrigerator.
"No. I lost my wife-and my daughter-in a car accident several years ago." He cleared his throat.
"Oh, my. Both at once? How awful. How old was your little girl?"
"Two."
"Two years old. I can't imagine. It was bad enough losing Daddy the way I did, but losing your wife and a child. That must have been nearly impossible for you." She didn't mention Alan. No point in telling him everything.
"You could---" He stopped suddenly and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up unhappy things. I mean, you've got..."
She looked across at him and, realizing what he thought, smiled. "It's the onion," she said, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. "I love them, but they always make my eyes tear."
Max sat back in the chair, his cheeks reddening again. "Sorry, I thought..."
She nodded and handed him the knife. "Maybe you could finish it for me? I'll cut the tomatoes and carrots."
Apparently grateful for the distraction, he stood and walked around the table while she went to the refrigerator. "I haven't fixed a salad in years," he said. "Hope I remember how." He cut the onion into thin slices.
"It's like riding a bike. You never forget how." She brought the tomatoes and carrots over and placed them in the bowl. "Would you like some tea or coffee?"
"Tea sounds great," he answered, carrying the knife and cutting board to the sink. "Can I help with anything else?" The microwave sounded as he spoke.
"Sure, you can get the duck out of the oven while I get the dishes." She took two dishes, two large bowls, and some glasses from the cupboard, thinking that she probably should put the tablecloth on. Oh, well. It wasn't exactly a formal dinner.
Max set the steaming duck on the table and carved it expertly while she poured May Lee's homemade dressing over the salad, tossed it with a wooden spoon and fork, then placed a generous helping into each bowl.
"Lemon?" Cassie asked, pouring tea in their glasses.
"No thanks." He sat down and took a sip. "Tea's great. I didn't know northern girls knew how to make sweet tea." He smirked a little.
"You'd be surprised what us 'northern girls' can do," she teased back, squeezing the lemon into her glass.
He didn't reply, seemingly focused on the meal, chewing slowly.
Cassie barely tasted hers, wondering why he had shown up here tonight. She knew it wasn't because he was hungry.
"Did you make the duck?" he asked around a mouthful, breaking the long silence at last.
She swallowed and wiped her mouth with her napkin before answering. "Nope. May Lee fixed it. She's a wonderful cook. Especially Chinese dishes."
He nodded. "It's a far cry from Lucy's Oriental Take Out. If I had the money, I'd hire her away from you."
"Not a chance. May Lee's as loyal as they come." She paused a moment. "Funny how she reacted today. I mean, I always thought she had absolutely no use for Philip."
Max acted almost as if he hadn't heard. "How long have you known her?" he finally asked, watching her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of tea.
"Oh, she's been with us for years. She worked for us in Hong Kong, and when we returned to D.C., she came along."
He stirred his salad, pierced a tomato with his fork, and held it in the air a moment. "So she's from Hong Kong?" He looked at the tomato as if seeing it for the first time before placing it in his mouth.
"Not originally. She had emigrated from the mainland during the confusion of Tienenmen Square."
"Wow, that must have been some feat. All hell was breaking loose over there in those days. How did she manage it?" He finished the last of his meal, washing it down with the tea, and leaned back in his chair, watching Cassie eat.
"I don't know. But it couldn't have happened without a lot of money and influence."
"Can I have some more of that amazing northern-girl tea?" He reached for the pitcher without waiting for her response.
She took the last bite of her salad and sat back. "Where are you from? Originally, I mean."
"Florida. I was born in a small town in north Florida. Place called Chattahoochee. The same area that's in those photos I saw on your foyer table."
She nodded. "How long have you been in D.C.?"
"Since Alice ... my wife ... died." He stood to carry his dishes to the sink.
"What brought you here?" She watched him rinse his dishes and stack them neatly in the sink-bowl on top of plate, knife and fork to one side.
He turned, leaning against the counter, and folded his muscular arms across his chest. "It's a long story, Miss Hart. Too long."
"Why don't you call me Cassie? After all, you've become almost a permanent fixture around here in the past few days." She grinned as she spoke.
"In that case, I mean, since I'm 'permanent,' you'd better call me Max." He smiled back.
It was the first real smile he'd given her, and she noticed the evenness of his teeth, his unbelievably white teeth. The creases around his dark brown eyes deepened. He had a nice face. Not handsome, but nice. "Mm, you want some dessert? I think there's still some of that pound cake May Lee never quite had a chance to serve this morning." She knew he was here on business, but it was nice not to be eating alone.
"Sounds good," he answered, taking his seat at the table. "My momma used to make pound cake. It'll be almost like home."
"Home. When you say that, it sounds like you really miss it. Washington can't be all that bad, can it?" Cassie asked, cutting a small slice of cake for herself, a larger one for him. "Coffee?" She felt his eyes following her as she crossed the kitchen.
"The tea's fine, thanks. As for D.C., it's not so bad. It's just that, well, you know. Every place has its own flavor."
She put some fresh coffee in the coffee maker, turned it on, and took a cup and saucer from the cupboard. While it brewed, she walked to the table and pulled the photos from her pocket. "You say you're familiar with this place?" She lay the photos on the table between them, and he picked them up.
"Yeah. It's something else." He pointed to a black rooftop that was just visible behind the high brick wall. "See this? That's the gate house. I spent about two years in there checking people when they came and left. I was going to Chipola Community College at the time, studying law enforcement, and worked as a security guard. The pay wasn't too hot, but it gave me plenty of time to study." He shrugged his shoulders.
"What was it like?" She had sat down and was listening intently.
"Beautiful. It's a huge game preserve. Most modern plantations are designed for hunting. Quail. Turkeys. Sometimes deer. But Mr. Otis didn't allow hunting. In fact, he had all kinds of exotic animals on the place-ostriches, antelope, zebras-things like that. He had security so tight you couldn't spit without somebody knowin' about it. Or," he grinned a little, "so he thought. Was your daddy a regular guest there? I don't recall havin' seen him. 'Course, it's been a long time since I was doin' my schoolwork on J. Harold Otis' time."
"Not that I know of. He never spoke to me about it if he was." The smell of coffee filled the big kitchen, and Cassie stood to pour herself a cup. "Are you sure you don't want some?" she asked, carrying the steaming cup back to the table.
"Nope. Thanks anyhow." He paused. "When I was goin' through your father's things after the accident, I noticed he'd been to Tallahassee." He seemed to study her expression as he spoke. "The Vice President was down in that area at about the same time. Reckon your father was part of her group?"
Cassie stirred Coffeemate into the dark liquid, watching it melt. She'd been a journalist long enough to know the difference between conversations and interviews. This was not just a conversation, and he wasn't going to give her anything unless she reciprocated. "I honestly don't know, Max. I seriously doubt it. Frankly, he wasn't very high up on the Vice President's list of friends." She looked straight at him. "But," she added, "The last time I spoke with him, he mentioned that, uh, he was writing about something to do with the election." She was surprised to see him blink at her last words.
Max looked down at his plate and made a production of cutting the golden cake with his fork. "I see," he finally replied. "The election. Well, that could explain a few things."
She waited, but he said nothing more. "What things? I'd like to get some answers myself."
He looked at her, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. "Miss Hart, uh, Cassie, you know, as much as I've enjoyed dinner, I am here on official business."
She leaned back, watching his face closely. "I know."
Max lifted his briefcase from the floor and placed it in front of himself on the table. Opening it, he withdrew some photographs and a yellowed newspaper article, pushing them across the table to her.
"Where did you get these?" she asked, staring at the bold headline-Famed journalist arrested for espionage, bribery-above a photograph of her father and an elderly Chinese woman identified in the caption as secretary to the Chinese Ambassador to Hong Kong.
"We have some very efficient researchers," he replied.
She shifted her attention to the glossy black-and-white photograph of her father being handed a large envelope by the personal assistant to the former Governor of Hong Kong; then studied the photo of Daddy in shackles and prison garb flanked by two Chinese soldiers. The final picture was a close up of her father's face-left side of his forehead bruised, a cut across his lips, his right eye swollen almost shut. She turned the photos over, unable to look at them any longer.
"Cassie, I've shown you these, because I need your help. I think there's a whole lot more to your father's death than we originally thought. And I'm running out of time to find the answers."
"Running out of time?"
"Yes. You see, the situation has changed."
"What situation has changed?" A million possibilities flashed through her mind.
"The FBI has gotten involved."
"The FBI? Why? I thought they only cared about crimes against the government and interstate stuff." She frowned as she spoke.
He lowered his voice. "They say that's why they are taking over the case-national security." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
"What do you mean 'taking over'?" She fidgeted, uncomfortable with the thought.
"They're taking Metro D.C-and me-off the investigation. They've demanded that we turn everything we have over to them."
She looked into his eyes. "You mean they're taking over the whole investigation? Daddy's death? The burglary?"
He nodded, frowning. "All except the body they found in the lake in Virginia. They have no real jurisdiction there. Although they could probably trump something up if they decide it's to their advantage."
Cassie stood, picked up the dessert dishes and forks, and walked to the sink. Keep this under your hat. Trust no one. She shook her head as if that physical action would clear the turmoil from her mind. Telephone monitored by the authorities. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes falling on the secret photos he had shown her. Our very way of life hangs in the balance. She forced herself to look at the investigator. He was watching her. Waiting.
She turned back toward the sink, rinsed the dishes, and dried her hands on the dish towel. Hong Kong. FBI. Firethorne. With a deep breath, she made up her mind and turned to face the man who had asked for her help.
"Max?"
His voice was low and even, but his eyes were intense. "Yes, Cassie."
"I don't trust the Feds."
He nodded, took some papers from his briefcase, and leaned back in the chair. "Your coffee's gettin' cold," he said softly. "How about pourin' us both a cup? It looks like we've got a long night ahead of us."
August 5
-
It was hard for Max to believe such lush forests could exist so close to the concrete and glass of Washington, D.C. He opened the car windows to the smell of trees and earth recently rained upon as he drove up the narrow mountain road. He hadn't felt this free-or at home-since he'd arrived in D.C. six years ago, and he wondered if he'd made a mistake leaving the hills of north Florida for the ills of the nation's capitol.
Of course, he'd had to get away from the constant reminders of Alice and Lisa, and Ed's offer of a job at the FBI had seemed perfect. Tired of drive-by shootings, dopers, road rage, and just plain stupidity, Max had felt certain he could accomplish more with the Feds than with the Leon County Sheriff's Office. After two years, he knew he'd been wrong. There was nothing satisfying about filing mounds of paperwork, kow-towing to superiors, or having the enforcement of laws take a back seat to bureaucratic bickering. His old buddy, Ed, whom he'd met at Florida State University, assured him that things would get better when a new President took office, but the new Administration was even worse about mixing politics with law enforcement than the one before. When he heard about the job at D.C.P.D., Max jumped at the chance. He'd never regretted it.
A large billboard with a big silver bass painted on it peeked out from between the tall, thick-trunked pines, just as Cassie had described. "Curley's Fish Camp, five miles on right. Bait, tackle, groceries. Boats and cabins for rent." Max grinned as he drove close enough to read the slogan at the bottom of the sign: "Fishing is not a matter of life and death. It's much more important than that." God, that's what I've been missing. What was it my Dad used to say? "A bad day of fishin's better than a good day at work." He shook his head. Maybe it was time to start enjoying life again.
Another sign, nearly identical to the first, announced the entrance to Curley's, and as Max turned onto the narrow dirt road, he wondered whether he should have brought Cassie with him. She knew Jonathon and would recognize him immediately. Jonathon would trust her. But no. The risk was too great. The less we're seen together, the better for both of us-and for the investigation.
A small group of men huddled beside the boat ramp next to the gray concrete block marina as Max pulled up to the gas pumps and climbed out. The smell of fish mixed with the odor of live bait from somewhere behind the building. It reminded him of Ed and Bernice's Fish Camp on Lake Talquin, just outside of Tallahassee, and despite his urgent errand, some of the tension left his shoulders.
A shirtless boy of about thirteen, wearing blue shorts and stained top-siders, walked over. "Hi, Mister. Welcome to Curley's. I'm Curley's son. Ya want some gas?"
Max nodded. "You bet. Fill 'er up with regular." It had been a long time since he'd seen an honest-to-goodness gas pump attendant.
"This yer first time here? Don't 'call seein' you before." The boy asked, watching the gas meter turn like a slow slot machine.
"Yeah, sure is. A guy I used t' know told me there ain't no better place for bass or bream anywhere." He replied, leaning against the hood of the blue Chevy pickup he'd borrowed from Ricky Sims. "Finally got some time off to give it a try."
"Yeah? Who was it told ya 'bout us? Maybe I know 'im," the boy responded, hanging the nozzle carefully back onto the pump and closing the gas cap. "That'll be fifteen dollars-American."
Max looked at him dumbly. "American?"
Curley's son grinned broadly, showing a chipped front tooth. "Yeah. Don't take plastic," he said, counting the money Max put into his hand. "You never told me who yer friend is."
"His name's Sinclair. Jonny Sinclair. Don't know how often he comes here anymore, though. Ain't seen 'im in awhile, an' he's gettin' on up in years."
"Oh, yeah. I know 'im. He still comes here a lot. Too bad you didn't get here sooner. He left out early this mornin'."
Max covered his disappointment at the unwelcome news. "That's too bad. He's a pretty good fisherman, an' I sure could've used some advice. Like I said earlier, I don't have much time for fishin' anymore."
"Yeah. But my Daddy can give you all the advice you need. He's in the marina."
As he followed the boy inside, Max cast about for some way to get more information. Maybe Jonathon had told someone which way he was heading. Maybe someone knew something.
Forty dollars worth of bait, snacks, and boat rental charges later, all Max had learned was that Jonathon always rented cabin number twelve and that Curley was a bald, surly and suspicious person who asked all kinds of questions. Where was Max from? What kind of a job did he have that didn't even leave him "time to fish, fer cryin' out loud," and how he happened to know a "plain ol' handyman like Jonathon Sinclair?" Despite his carefully researched and planned answers, Max had a strong feeling they didn't satisfy Curley's curiosity.
Curley's boy, whose name, or rather nickname, turned out to be Squirrel, helped him get his gear and supplies into the twelve-foot aluminum boat, then stood back with his wiry arms crossed, watching his new customer struggle to start the old Mercury outboard. "Check the choke," he suggested as the motor sputtered and died for the third time.
Chagrined, Max obeyed, and the motor revved up on the first pull. As he eased the boat away from the aging wooden dock, he was grateful to escape the boy's laughter.
Cassie closed the lid on the steamer trunk and stood up, surveying the attic. So far, she'd found none of the answers she sought amid the memories that hovered as thick as the dust she'd stirred up. Mother's wedding dress. Daddy's old Little League uniform. Baby clothes, childhood drawings. Grandma Hart's scrapbooks. How Grandma loved to show off those articles about Daddy-"Hart leads team to Brain Bowl win"; "Madison Hart awarded Rhodes Scholarship"-and the photos of him growing up.
Sighing, she crossed the room. One more cardboard box. That stack of magazines in the corner. The bookshelf and its neglected tomes. As she bent over the box and opened the top flaps, a gray moth flew out, its rough wings scraping her cheek as it fled. Moth heaven, she thought, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the old woolen sweaters. They were so full of holes even the Salvation Army wouldn't want them. Cassie didn't bother to close the lid. She was tired and dusty and sweaty and ready to be done with this.
She contemplated the stack of magazines as she made her way to it. Mother was the world's worst about hanging onto old magazines. "For the recipes," she always said, but, somehow, she never quite got around to trying any of them. Cassie leafed through them. Woman's Day. Ladies Home Journal. Redbook. Halfway down, she saw an issue of Time and pulled it from the pile. A photo of a thin-faced man with dark, close-set eyes and a mane of white hair that reached nearly to his shoulders graced the cover. Cassie sucked in her breath as she read the headline: "J. Harold Otis-Man with a Mission." Mr. Firethorne himself. She flipped to the article, but it had been torn out.
Puzzled, she set the magazine on the floor beside her and leafed through the rest of the pile, but the others were just more of Mother's someday reading. She made a mental note to have Jonathon include the magazines in his first load of trash. Except for the Time magazine, they represented little more than a fire hazard.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew her attention to the doorway just as May Lee appeared. Cassie felt like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She had told May Lee she was up here separating the keepers from the throw-aways. By now, there should be some sense of order. There wasn't.
May Lee looked around and raised her eyebrows. "Making any progress?"
"A little," Cassie replied, shrugging. "I guess the memories are getting in my way."
"Yes. Well. Are you still planning to go to the cemetery?"
Cassie looked at her watch. She'd been at this for nearly four hours. "Yeah. I've already put it off too long."
May Lee surveyed the attic again. "Would you like some lunch before you go?"
"That would be great. I'll be down in a few minutes."
"Do you need any help sorting through these-things?"
"No. I can handle it. But thanks, anyway."
May Lee took one more look around and retreated to the stairwell.
Cassie waited until the maid's footsteps faded away before turning to the bookshelves. Her old library of Golden Books glimmered in the sunlight that filtered through the window, and Cassie pulled one from the shelf. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. She smiled, remembering the sound of her mother's voice reading to her, imitating the voices of the Dwarfs perfectly. While other families gathered around their televisions, her family had read. Books. Magazines. Anything containing the written word. She put the book back and looked at the titles of the books on the shelf above it. The Old Man and the Sea. The Great Gatsby. Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. Boy, that one had caused a stir when Daddy discovered I was reading it. The Fearful Master and The Creature from Jekyll Island by someone named G. Edward Griffin. Sounded more like something by Stephen King.
Barry Goldwater's Conscience of a Conservative caught her eye. That one had practically been her father's Bible. She took it down and leafed through it. If any of these books held any secrets, it would be this one. But nothing fell from the worn pages. Closing it, she hugged it against herself, a long forgotten memory tugging at the edges of her mind. Something about this book. A conversation. No. An argument. She shook her head. Maybe it would come to her later. Replacing the book, she took a step back to get a better look at the volumes on the top shelf.
A thin black binder was wedged next to the collection of outdated World Book Encyclopedias. Cassie didn't remember having seen it before. Taking it down, she caught her breath. Scrawled across the cover was a single word-"Penseur." Jackpot. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she laid the binder across her lap and opened it, spellbound by the May, 1972 issue.
-
Student Leaders Share Views with Progressives
Members of Penseur conferred with leaders of the Progressive Movement during the weekend of May first at the ten thousand acre estate known as Firethorne Plantation, owned by millionaire industrialist J. Harold Otis, in the wilds of rural north Florida. Among the topics discussed were how the lessons of Vietnam can be harnessed to prevent future wars; ways in which the anti-war and civil rights movements can help change existing American attitudes toward personal freedom and collective responsibility; how the United Nations might become a more effective tool for peace; and methods by which nations and resources could be realigned to remove the root causes of war.
According to Herbert Goldmayer, spokesman for Penseur, leaders of the Progressive Movement expressed great interest in the students' thoughts, calling them "articulate, well-conceived, and workable." They evinced particular enthusiasm for the students' ideas for creating a new world order through international regulation of populations and resources with the United Nations as the controlling body. Goldmayer stated that those present at the meeting agreed that the United States has perpetuated the conditions which cause war and that future wars can only be prevented by a sea-change in American attitudes and policies.
"It will take a long time to bring about the changes we seek, and the Bill of Rights poses a major obstacle," Goldmayer quoted their host as saying, "But if we're patient and the right people control not only government, but the courts, education, and mass media, it can be accomplished. War is the greatest enemy of mankind, and no nation has the right to cling to its way of life at the expense of other nations."
Penseur has been invited to return in September when an international student group will be visiting Firethorne.
-
Cassie raised her eyes from the newsletter and stared across the room at nothing in particular. Peace? She shook her head and looked back down at the aging pages in front of her. Changing American attitudes toward personal freedom. Collective responsibility.
She thumbed through the other newsletters. A reprint of the Port Huron Statement. A treatise on Freud's theory regarding "unnecessary repression" and a discussion of the tactics that would effect the greatest change with the least amount of resistance. An essay about "Nixon's criminal administration" and the need to elect a "socially responsible" president in 1976.
The group's Mission Statement was printed inside the front cover of each issue:
"Members of Penseur seek knowledge and understanding through the study of history and philosophy in order that we may devote our lives to creating a better world for our posterity. Through effective use of the public school system, the courts, and the election of sympathetic officials, we believe it is within the power of our generation to lead America to think globally, rather than nationally, and socially, rather than individually. We believe that, through the willing abandonment of traditional American values, the United States will be able to use its influence to lead the world into a new millennium where peace and cooperation replace armed conflict."
There it was again. Collectivism versus individualism. But that's been tried and failed. Of course, back in 1972, they couldn't have known that the Soviet empire would collapse under its own weight-and the determination of President Reagan. She looked at the binder containing the seven monthly issues of Penseur. The newsletter had existed for less than a year, which meant the group had probably died a natural death. But what became of the people in the group? She glanced at the masthead and blinked, thinking she had misread the name. "Editor-in-chief: Madison Hart." Daddy? The man who wrote Linchpin? Who had devoted his life to defending the Bill of Rights? She shook her head again, remembering Hong Kong, the documents Max had shown her, her father's sudden estrangement from Uncle Hamilton. She studied the masthead more closely. Uncle Hamilton's name was listed nowhere, even though Max said that Hamilton Bates was one of the founders.
May Lee's voice from the foot of the stairs roused Cassie from her thoughts. Standing, she placed the binder back on the shelf and threaded her way through the clutter toward the door. Lunch was getting cold. The trail wasn't. She suddenly realized that her visit to the cemetery wasn't the only thing she'd postponed too long.
Max returned to the dock three hours later with four hand-sized bream and a stringer full of catfish. Although fishing was only a cover, he hadn't had so much fun in a long time. He'd been a little awkward putting the crickets on the hook, but the minnows and worms were as easy as ever. As he unloaded the boat and threw his stringer of fish on the dock, a tall, broad-shouldered young black man and his very pregnant wife strolled over. She was almost as tall as her husband.
"Had a pretty good day, huh?" the young man asked.
"Not too bad, I reckon," Max replied, hefting the red cooler onto the dock.
"Ya done a sight better than us," the woman said.
"Oh, yeah? How come?" Max guessed the answer before it came.
The young man squatted down on the dock, picking up the stringer and testing its weight. "Had t' come back in," he said, laying the fish back on the wooden planks. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the woman behind him. "Mah ol' lady started gittin' back cramps just 'bout the time the fish started bitin'." The woman rubbed her swollen belly.
Max finished unloading the boat, and the young man helped him carry his rods and tackle to the truck parked across the way. The woman shuffled along slowly behind them.
"You come here much?" asked Max, hefting the ice-filled cooler into the truck's bed.
"Now an' then," he answered, laying the fishing rods down carefully. "Shouldna come this time, though. Shavonda, uh, mah wife, didn' think she could handle goin' in a boat. I guess I shoulda listened. How 'bout you?"
"Naw. It's my first time. You just here for the day or are ya rentin' a cabin?"
"Had a cabin since yesterday. Tomorrow I'll go fishin' alone and leave her t' sleep in."
"Sounds like the best idea for both o' ya," Max said, pulling a couple of Budweisers from the cooler and handing one to his companion. "Ya know, I've got an old friend who was supposed t' be here this week. Hoped I'd run into 'im. Don't suppose y'all mighta seen 'im? Tall, kinda skinny guy. Got gray hair that he wears in a short ponytail?"
Shavonda cocked her head. "Yeah. Cabin twelve. We seen 'im. 'Member, Sam? He helped us carry our stuff into the cabin."
"Yeah. Nice ol' guy. Saw 'im head out first thing this mornin'," said her husband. He popped the can open and took a long drink.
"Head out?" Max asked, taking a healthy swig of his own.
"Yeah. He goes fishin' early, stays out real late-past dark sometimes. Says when the moon's full like this, fishin' just keeps gettin' better as the sun goes down."
So that's what Squirrel meant when he said Jonathon had left out early. He'd gone fishing. "He ain't come back in yet, then?" Max looked out across the big lake for some sign of a boat.
"Nope. See that ol' green Ford F-150? That's his." Sam motioned toward the cabin at the end of the long, dirt drive.
Max nodded. "Great. Maybe I'll wait around then. I reckon I can entertain myself 'til he gets back. Oh, hey, since y'all didn't have much luck this mornin', how 'bout takin' these fish off my hands? I love catchin' 'em, but I can't cook 'em worth a diddly-squat."
Shavonda smiled for the first time. "We'd sure 'preciate that, Mister..."
"Just call me Max," he answered as he took the fish from the cooler, put them in the plastic bag he'd gotten from the marina, and handed them to Sam. "Enjoy them with my compliments."
Sam looked at his wife, then back at Max. "Tell you what. How 'bout eatin' with us? Seein' as how you gon' be stuck aroun' here 'til the ol' man gits back."
"Yes, why doncha?" Shavonda joined in. "I can fix us up some grits to go with it, and I brung some greens from home."
It was Max's turn to smile. God. Real food. "If yer sure it wouldn't be any trouble. Man, I can't tell y'all how good that sounds."
"We're in number eleven," Sam said, putting his arm around his wife. "See ya around six? Sooner if ya like."
"I'll be there," Max said. "Oh, by the way..." They stopped and looked back at him. "Mister Jonathon ain't expectin' me. So, if ya see 'im, don't tell 'im I'm here. I'd like to surprise 'im."
Cassie placed the two white roses that she'd cut from her mother's bushes into the vase by the headstone and knelt down beside the grass-blanketed grave. She and Daddy had always visited here together. They'd hold hands, say a prayer, and share their memories. Now she was alone, and he was with Mother.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the box. It was time. Taking a deep breath against the sick feeling that pulled at her stomach, she watched her father's ashes fall soundlessly to the ground-the bits and shards and gray-white remains of the man who had been her hero, her friend, and now, merely a memory. How could such a great man be reduced to so little? She remembered the priest's words on Ash Wednesday-"Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return"-and crossed herself, trying to pray. But she couldn't. Any more than she could cry. The ache was too deep.
The clouds that had been gathering throughout the day turned the skies a dark gray, and Cassie stood up. A soft breeze brushed against her cheeks and stirred the small mound of ashes at her feet. She thought of Alan. His ashes were preserved in a tiny little drawer in a mausoleum. His mother couldn't bear the idea of not being able to visit him. Cassie shook her head. Being reunited with the earth was better. She was sure Alan would have preferred it, too. But he was dead. His mother had to go on living.
A cardinal sang in the distance, interrupting her thoughts, and she looked across to see it flit from a lilac bush to the cherry trees lining the long drive. How Mother had loved the beautiful red birds. She smiled a little, remembering her father's attempt to mimic their song. He hadn't succeeded.
Cassie sighed and took one last look at the mound of gray ashes beside the white marble headstone, then turned and walked away. It was time to get on with the business of living-and to finish the job her father had begun.
Deep in her own thoughts, she hardly noticed the light rain that dusted her face nor the distant thunder that threatened worse weather to come as she hurried to her car. She needed some answers and could think of only one person who could supply them.
A fender-bender in the southbound lane slowed traffic almost to a standstill, and Cassie glanced impatiently at the clock on the dashboard. "3:00." It was almost an hour's drive in normal traffic. Getting past the accident scene would add at least another twenty minutes. And she had to be at Books and Beanz by seven o'clock. Maybe she should call to make sure he'd be there. For all she knew, he could be out of town. Or in a meeting. Or anywhere but at his office. She reached for the cell phone, paused, and withdrew her hand. No. If he wasn't there, well, he just wasn't there. He might ask her what she wanted to see him about, and she wanted to see his face, the look in his eyes, when she asked him.
Heavy rain scalded the street, sending up clouds of steam from the hot pavement as Cassie drove up to the gated entrance of the Bates Building parking garage and rolled down her window.
"Cassandra Hart to see Hamilton Bates," she told the uniformed guard, who compared her face to the photo on the driver's license she handed him. Rain dripped through the window of her car while the guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, and she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she waited for permission to enter. Not much chance of getting mugged here. Unlike the parking garage at the magazine offices.
The guard's voice broke into her thoughts. "Okay, Miss Hart. You'll find a parking space on the far end of level two. The guard inside will direct you," he said, handing her license back to her and opening the gate.
Minutes later, the elevator doors closed, shutting out the scent of the rain. As the floors passed slowly, Cassie planned what she would say, what questions she would ask of the man who had known her father since their days at Yale. She would play upon her grief, which was real enough, and his long affection for her. "You're like the daughter I never had," he often said, and she decided to approach him like he was Daddy.
When the doors slithered open at the fifth floor, Cassie put on what her father had called her "little girl, lost" face and stepped into Uncle Hamilton's suite. It took up the entire floor, with a reception area, three offices for his assistants and their secretaries, his own secretary's office, a fair-sized library, and his own office.
Surprisingly, the receptionist was not at her desk, but Cassie didn't have time to wait for her to return. Pushing open the door to the secretary's office, Cassie paused. Martha was not here, either. She glanced at the clock on Martha's desk. "4:30." Maybe everyone had left for the day. But no. The security guard had announced her, so Uncle Hamilton had to be here. Making up her mind, Cassie stepped past the secretary's wide mahogany desk to knock on the door that was slightly ajar. The sound of voices stopped her hand in mid-air.
"Have they got any leads on the Cordon woman yet?" asked a man whose deep, New York-accented voice sounded vaguely familiar.
"No. She says it's not as easy as it sounds 'finding one dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a continent filled with them,'" Uncle Hamilton replied. "They've tracked her from Mexico as far as Cuba, but the authorities there are as recalcitrant as ever."
"My God, Hamilton. They've got the resources of the entire United States intelligence community and FBI at their disposal." The deep-voiced man sounded incredulous.
"Yes, but Georgeanne Dalton is almost as much of a clown as the buffoons she hired when she became Attorney General. It's a wonder she accomplishes anything." Uncle Hamilton clipped his words, a sure sign he was irritated, and Cassie wondered whether she'd picked a good time to talk to him.
"What about that thing with D.C.P.D.?"
Uncle Hamilton paused before answering. "Georgeanne says that's all been taken care of. God, I'll be glad when this administration is gone, and we can get the right people into office."
The other man cleared his throat. "Uh, didn't you say Cassandra Hart was on her way up? Shouldn't she be here by now?"
Cassie could tell from the sound of the man's voice that he had turned and was looking toward the door. She walked quickly back to the outer door, opening and shutting it loudly, then strode to the door marked "Hamilton Bates, Private" and knocked twice.
A large-bellied man with ink-black hair and heavy jowls opened the door. Walter Spano. Of course. "Hi. I'm Cassandra Hart. Mr. Bates is expecting me." She smiled innocently up into his dark brown eyes.
"Cassandra," came Hamilton Bates' voice from behind his desk. "Come in."
Spano stepped aside to let her pass, and Cassie smiled across the room at the steely-haired, gray-eyed man who stood and walked toward her, his hands outstretched.
"Hi, Uncle Hamilton," she said, allowing him to take her hands in his and returning his gentle squeeze. "I hope I'm not intruding." She looked back over her shoulder at the man by the door. "I waited in the reception area for Susan to return, but she didn't, and then when I saw that Martha wasn't at her desk either..."
"It's quite all right. It's always a pleasure to see you. Do you remember my Chief of Security, Walter Spano?"
Cassie nodded. "Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Spano?"
"Well enough, Miss Hart," he answered, the smile on his face not reflected in the dark eyes that searched hers.
"Here, have a seat," Uncle Hamilton offered, then shifted his gaze to Spano. "Walter, be sure and get back with me tomorrow on that, ah, report."
"Yes, sir. I'll have it ready," replied Spano, not quite closing the door behind himself as he left.
"I really do apologize for barging in on you," Cassie began.
"Quite all right, Cassandra," he said again, sitting on the edge of his desk just a short distance from her. "Martha left early to run some errands. Tell me. How are you getting along? You didn't return my call yesterday." His eyes narrowed a little.
Cassie looked down at her hands, clasping and unclasping them slowly. "Sorry. May Lee ... uh, got sick." She kept her voice soft and low and looked back up at him before continuing. "I'm okay, I guess. Of course, it's hard being at Mother and Daddy's house. Everywhere I turn, something reminds me of other, happier times." She sighed. "And today, when I scattered Daddy's ashes over Mother's grave ... well, today's been particularly difficult..."
He leaned forward and placed his hands on hers. His gray eyes took on a softer hue, almost blue. "You should have told me. I'd have gone with you."
"I know. But, I felt like I needed to be alone with them ... with my thoughts. You understand."
"Yes, of course." He stood and walked toward the wide window that overlooked the park he had donated to the city.
Cassie waited in silence, watching him stare down at the rain-soaked world outside. He held his back straight, his shoulders as square as a soldier's, and she wondered what he was thinking that made him look so stiff.
"Uncle Hamilton?"
He turned toward her and leaned against the windowsill. "Yes, Cassandra." Permission granted.
She looked down at her hands. "I have so many questions about ... everything, and I didn't know who to go to except you." She furrowed her brow as she turned her eyes back to him.
He frowned a little and walked across to sit in the large leather chair behind his desk. "Yes, I suppose that's natural," he replied, leaning back. "I'll help you anyway I can."
She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat under his steady gaze. "There's so much, it's hard to know where to begin."
"The beginning is always a good place," he offered, allowing himself to smile.
She forced a little smile in return. "Well, for one thing, when I was, um, sorting through the stuff in the attic, I came across a copy of an old newsletter called Penseur. Daddy was listed as editor-in-chief."
"Yes?" He dragged the word out and turned his chair slightly away toward the window.
"Well, what I read in it just didn't fit the Madison Hart I knew," she said, biting her lower lip. "It was, well, like a revolutionary publication, I guess you'd say. All about how peace could never exist in the world as long as Americans clung to outdated attitudes ... like individual rights."
He turned to face her, shaking his head. "I guess that would be unsettling, considering that you knew your father as a staunch defender of the Constitution. But Cassandra, there's much you can't possibly understand about those times. Our generation had endured bloodshed in our own streets as African-Americans struggled for equality and young men and women protested against a bloody, pointless war. Your father, like the rest of us, was young, idealistic, searching for some way to 'make a difference. You mustn't take things too seriously."
"But he wrote so passionately about it."
"Of course. He was passionate about it. But everyone back then was passionate, no matter which side they were on. The slogan of our generation was 'I am as responsible for everything I see as I am for everything I do.' We fervently believed we could change the world. But, Cassandra," he paused, seeming to look back down through history, then sighed and continued, "those were the dreams, the ideals of youth. With maturity, ideals give way to the realities of life, the incontrovertible truths of human nature, and acceptance of what is inevitably replaces dreams of what should be. Your father was no different."
"But what changed him?"
"It's hard to say, Cassandra. He traveled. He became a father. Life, I guess one would have to say, had given him what he once described-quite vehemently, as I recall-as an appreciation for the 'rights and freedoms' he felt were 'guaranteed by the Founding Fathers.'"
Cassie watched his expression evolve from the softness it held as he spoke of the past to one of almost bewilderment, then finally, to anger. She hesitated, noticing that he clenched his jaw when he spoke of Daddy's conversion.
"Well, if that's the case, I just don't understand why---" She deliberately stopped before finishing her thought.
"Why what?"
"Oh, well, it's just so curious." She looked out the window at the dark rolling clouds.
"What's curious, Cassandra?" He sounded perturbed.
"Well, if Daddy wasn't involved in some kind of, uh, anti-government movement, why would the FBI take over the investigation of his death?" She opened her eyes wide as she looked back in his direction.
He took a visibly deep breath and looked away. "I, ah, I..." It was the first time Cassie had ever seen him at a loss for words. After a moment, he faced her again, more composed. "I am afraid I don't know. I'm sure they must have their reasons, however."
She shook her head softly. "Yes, well, do you think you could find out for me? I mean, I know it's a lot to ask, but you said you wanted to help me anyway you could."
"I don't know, Cassandra." He leaned forward, resting his arms against the top of his desk. "Getting involved with the FBI can bring suspicion onto oneself." He paused, seeming to think. "But, of course, if it's that important to you, I'll look into it." He gave her an encouraging smile.
"That would mean so much, Uncle Hamilton. You have no idea how troubled I've been. I mean, I can't help wondering why the FBI would be involved if Daddy's death was just an accident. And why they want to take over the investigation of the burglary. I mean, maybe I'm in some kind of danger, too."
He stood abruptly and walked around to the front of his desk, looking her squarely in the eyes. "I assure you, Cassandra, you are in no danger. What may or may not have occurred with your father has nothing whatsoever to do with you."
"I don't know..."
"I do. You must trust me. Can you do that?"
She turned her face away for a moment. Trust no one. "Of course, Uncle Hamilton," she answered, looking back at him with a small smile. "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"
He nodded. "Listen. This has been a terrible experience for you. Perhaps being at your parents' home these past few days is making it worse. Why don't you go away for a few weeks? Go to the mountains, maybe. It will give you a chance to gain a new perspective."
She cocked her head to the side. His eyes had turned steely gray again. "Maybe you're right. I guess I have been kind of obsessed. And I love the mountains. Maybe I could go to Gatlinburg. It's so quaint there."
"That's a good girl." He took hold of her elbows and raised her to her feet, walking her to the door. "Be careful driving home in this rain." He kissed her cheek, then added, "Call me when you get back."
She accepted his kiss without returning it, and, with a small wave of her hand, walked toward the elevator, smiling a little to herself. Selena would be calling in a little while, and Books and Beanz served the best cafe au lait in town.
"Yo' friend is back," said Sam, looking out the window above the sink where he was helping his wife with the dishes. "Lights just came on."
Max stood up from the rickety chair and walked to the window to see a shadow pass behind the curtains next door. It's time to dance, he thought and, taking a deep breath, turned toward the woman clearing the plastic cloth from the table. "Shavonda, I want to thank you-and Sam-for havin' me t' supper. It was mighty nice o' ya. And if that ain't the best meal I've had in years, well, then grits ain't groceries." He patted his stomach for emphasis.
"You mos' welcome, Mistah Max," she answered, her large dark eyes sparkling with warmth. "But it's us oughta thank you fo' sharin' yo' fish with us."
"Yeah," Sam piped in, wiping his big, calloused hands on a paper towel. "We sho' does 'preciate it."
"My pleasure. Anyhow, I reckon I better go on over and see if ol' Jonathon had any luck today," said Max, shaking Sam's hand before walking to the door.
"Hope y'all haves a nice visit," Shavonda said.
"Thanks." He closed the door behind him and stepped from the small porch to the moon-bathed yard that separated the two cabins. Stopping a few yards away, he reflected on his approach to Jonathon. After a moment of mental rehearsing, he stepped onto the porch and rapped twice on the door. When there was no response, he knocked again, louder.
"Who's there?" came a deep, hoarse voice from the other side of the door.
"A friend of Cassandra Hart's," he called back.
"What d'ya want?" He sounded gruff, annoyed maybe.
"I've gotta talk to you. It's important. Very important."
"Just a minute. I'm comin'."
Max listened to the old man's heavy footsteps approach. When the door opened, he took a deep breath and put on his best poker face. "Mr. Sinclair?"
Jonathon peered through the inches-wide opening. "Yeah. Who are you?"
"Max Henshaw, Mr. Sinclair. A friend of Cassie's. I need to speak with you." He kept his voice level but firm as he watched the old man making up his mind.
"I don't know you," Jonathon finally said. "Ain't never seen you around before. How do I know you're a friend of Miss Cassie?"
Max reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it toward the handyman. "Here's a letter from her."
Jonathon took it and closed the door in Max's face. A minute later, he returned with his glasses still on, holding the letter in his gnarled hand. "Okay, Detective Henshaw. Come on in," he said, opening the door and leading the way across the room to sit in a wicker rocking chair.
Max followed, closing the door behind himself, and sat on a wooden captain's chair just a few feet in front of the older man. For a long moment, they were both silent, studying one another.
Finally, Max cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry to bother you, Mr. Sinclair," he began, "But I've come on an urgent matter."
"I know. I read the letter." Jonathon took off his glasses and set them on the lamp table. "You're lookin' fer my boy."
"Yes, sir. That's correct. Do you have any idea where he is?"
"Nope. Ain't seen Philip since a week before Mr. Hart was ... passed on," he answered, his weathered face creasing with emotion. He looked toward the cold fireplace.
"He doesn't live with you?"
"Nope. My wife died a couple of years back. Philip moved out not long after. Comes by to visit now an' then, but that's about all. How come you're lookin' for 'im?"
Max bit his lip as he considered what to say. "Mr. Sinclair, Philip's car was identified as being the vehicle that struck and killed Madison Hart."
"The hell you say," Jonathon thundered, standing suddenly, his fists clenched. "Madison Hart wasn't just my employer. He was my friend. Get it, mister? My friend! When he died, it like to've killed me. That's how come I'm here. Had to get away. To think. Now you're tryin' to say my own son is responsible?"
Max tensed at the old man's outburst, but remained seated, watching Jonathon with practiced restraint. There was no doubt that years of hard work had kept the handyman's body strong, and any outward reaction to the man's anger could easily provoke him.
"I understand, sir," he finally ventured as the look on Jonathon's face evolved from anger to anguish and his hands and shoulders relaxed. "And I want you to understand that no one is accusing your son of anything. We just need some answers."
Jonathon turned on his heel and walked to the window, pulling back the white linen curtains to look out at the silvery, moon-splashed lake. His shoulders slumped. "What do you need to know?" he asked at last, his voice low.
Max let a moment pass before responding. "You say you haven't seen Philip since almost two weeks ago. Have you spoken to him?"
"Yes. He called me the night Madison Hart died."
"Did he seem upset or unlike himself in any way?"
The old man seemed to think a long time before answering. "Well, sure. He was upset at what happened. He called to see how I was doing."
"Did he say anything about his car being stolen? Maybe that he'd lent it to a friend?"
Jonathon let go of the curtain and turned around. He looked miserable. "Nope. Nothin' like that at all."
"What did you talk about?"
"Like I said. He called to see how I was, 'cause he knew I'd be upset." He pulled a package of Marlboro cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, blowing the smoke out through his nose. "I told him I was plannin' to come down here after the memorial service and invited him to come along."
This was the part that Max had dreaded, but he couldn't avoid it. "Did Philip say he'd join you here?"
Jonathon hesitated, glancing toward the bedroom. "No. He said he'd like to come, but he couldn't get away."
"Get away from what? His job?"
"No. He hasn't worked in over a month. Got laid off 'cause of some problem with his boss. He was lookin' for another job." He took a drag of the cigarette as he crossed the room and sat back down in the rocking chair. "I figured he just didn't want to come."
"Mr. Sinclair, is there any chance he might have changed his mind?"
"Could've. I don't know. Why?"
Max leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked as kindly at the old man as he knew how. "Well, it seems they found his car yesterday not too far from here."
"What's that you say? His car? Where?"
"Yes, sir. They found it in a small lake with a man's body inside."
Jonathon's hand began trembling, and he dropped his cigarette to the floor. He crushed it with his boot. "You mean underwater?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid so. But the Sheriff's people haven't been able to positively identify the body. Apparently, the man was not from around here. All they know is that he has oriental features. I'm here to take you to the morgue to identify ... uh, to see if it's your son."
"It's not him," Jonathon said, shaking his head slowly.
Max wasn't surprised. The first reaction was always denial. "You can't be sure, Mr. Sinclair. Please. Come with me."
Jonathon said nothing for a long moment. At last, he stood. "I'll follow you," he said, walking unsteadily toward the table where his wallet and keys lay.
"Uh, I think it would be better if you ride with me," Max said, striding to the table ahead of the other man and picking up the keys.
Jonathon stared at him in silence for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I reckon that'd be best," he said at last, taking his wallet from the table and slipping it into his back pocket.
The bell above the door announced Cassie as she entered the small bookshop. The young man behind the counter looked up from the receipts he was tallying and smiled in her direction. She smiled back, then went to the newspaper racks, picked up the day's issue of the Washington Times, and carried it with her to the small table farthest from the wide front window. The simple round clock above the door read "6:50." She hoped it was correct. Selena would only call once.
"Some coffee, Miss?" asked the clerk.
"Yes, cafe au lait, please."
"Hot or cold?"
"Cold, please," she replied, opening the newspaper to the editorial section. She liked getting a feel for a newspaper's opinion about the day's news before reading the articles themselves. That way, she could anticipate and not be influenced by the spin the reporters inevitably wrote into their stories.
"Here ya go, Miss," said the young man, placing the tall glass of frothy mocha liquid on the table. His eyes slid to the small corsage she wore. "Pretty. People don't usually dress up to come in here."
She gazed up at him. "Yes. I know."
He stood back, the color rising to his cheeks. "Can I get you anything else?"
"No. Thank you." She smiled briefly and handed him four dollars for the coffee and newspaper before returning to the editorial that had captured her attention:
-
Who Will Take Up the Cause?
-
His was the voice of reason in a world gone amok. The voice which, for forty years, reminded us that the true calling of journalists everywhere is to 'seek the light of truth and allow that light to dispel the shadows-uncensored, unvarnished, and without favoritism or bias.' He reminded us of our unique national heritage and our unique responsibility to that heritage. He was Madison Hart-colleague, friend, and mentor to this writer-gone now from the pages of newsprint to the pages of history.
-
The bell above the door tinkled, drawing Cassie's attention to a small, wiry young man in a faded WWF T-Shirt entering the store. He glanced in her direction, then sauntered to the counter, ordering coffee. "Black, no sugar," she overheard him say curtly. He dug into the pocket of his torn jeans and counted out two dollars in quarters and dimes. Homeless, she thought, watching him from the corner of her eye as he carried the mug labeled "Books and Beanz" to the table beside hers and sat down facing her. Odd. People usually sit as far from one another as they can, especially in a reading room. She looked back at the editorial but had trouble focusing on anything but the feel of his eyes on her.
The telephone behind the counter rang softly, and a moment later, the clerk came over with the portable phone in hand. "Excuse me. Are you Miss Hart?" he asked, handing her the telephone when she nodded.
"Hello?" Cassie said softly, glancing at the man at the next table staring at her.
"It's me, Darling."
"Yes. Uh, sure. Let me see," she replied, standing and making her way to the bookshelves along the far wall.
"Is it difficult for you to talk?" Selena asked.
"There's a man watching me, but I'm far enough away now," Cassie replied, pretending to search for a title among the stacks.
"I take it you found everything? The 'charm' and all?" She sounded tense.
"Yes. It's all been taken care of."
"Good. How is everything going?"
"As well as it can. Selena? Who is Joshua?"
She paused. "A good friend. Someone who was helping Madison, eh, your father. Why?"
"He sent me some pictures, and I don't know what to make of them."
"It is his way of telling you he has heard about your father's death," she replied and, pausing, changed to a lighter tone of voice. "He's looking forward to meeting you."
"I'm going to Florida tomorrow," Cassie responded. "Selena, where are you? Is there some way I can reach you if I need to?"
"No, darling." Her voice was soft and low again. "But if you, eh, follow in your father's footsteps, I will be able to reach you. Unless something happens..."
"Selena, the FBI has taken charge of investigating Daddy's death and the burglary. They claim it has something to do with 'national security.' I asked Uncle Hamilton to look into it for me, and he said he would. Are you in danger?"
"We all are, Cassie. You must be very careful."
"I know, even though Uncle Hamilton assured me otherwise. And, Selena? I think he's looking for you. Shall I let him know I spoke with you?"
"What makes you think so?"
"I overheard his security man ask him if you'd been located."
"I see. Well, I'm not surprised. But, no, Cassie, you must not tell anyone that we have spoken." Her voice rose a little. "Especially not Hamilton Bates."
"He knows a lot of people. He can help."
Selena was silent for several seconds. When she finally answered, she was emphatic. "Cassie, please. Just do as I say. Tell no one about me. And say nothing to anyone at all about your activities."
"Uncle Hamilton suggested I go to the mountains for a few days of rest. I let him think I would."
"Good girl." Selena sounded relieved. "I cannot talk much longer. Be sure to stay where 'the welcome mat is always out,' okay? And, Cassie, you will be safer if you register 'double occupancy' for your room. I would, eh, travel with you, but I must take a detour. There are those who are eager to have a word with me that I do not wish to speak to." She paused. "How long will you be, eh, vacationing?"
"I figure about a week, but I'll stay as long as I'm, uh, enjoying myself. I quit my job at The Beat this morning, so I'm free to come and go." As she spoke, Cassie turned to steal a glance at the T-shirted man. He was still watching her.
"That is good. Cassie, your father would be very proud of you. As am I. I will be back in touch. Meanwhile, pay close attention to everything around you. Treachery lurks where you may least expect it."
"Don't worry, I will. Thanks for everything. Hope you can join me. Exploring will be much more fun with you along."
"I'll try, Darling. Vaya con Dios," Selena said, breaking the connection.
"Go with God," Cassie echoed into the dead receiver. She handed the telephone back to the shopkeeper and left. As she passed the big window, she couldn't help stealing a glance inside. The T-shirted man picked up the newspaper she'd been reading and carried it to his own table. She smiled at her own suspicions. He was just waiting for my paper. Hope he's gonna check the want ads. Looks like he could use a job.
Lights shone through the windows of the funeral home that served as the county morgue, and Max sensed Jonathon bracing himself when they pulled up to the front. Shutting the engine off, he opened the truck window and leaned back against the seat, his arm on the window sill. "Mr. Sinclair, what you're about to see is going to be difficult, whether it's Philip or not," he said kindly, looking across the darkened cab at the man staring at the building in front of them. "The body had been in the water for at least forty-eight hours."
Jonathon turned to him and nodded. "I'm ready," he said, opening the door and climbing out.
The buzzer was answered by a rotund man of about fifty in a white polo shirt and dark blue slacks, who introduced himself as funeral director and county coroner. Max showed him his badge; then he and Jonathon followed single file through a plush office to a large heavy door marked "Authorized Personnel Only," and, finally, into a small anteroom with barren white walls and a gleaming white tile floor.
"Wait here," the coroner said. He went into the room on the other side of a wide window that was heavily curtained from the inside.
Max stole a glance at Jonathon and felt a pang of pity. The aging handyman stared at the curtains in front of him, jaw clenched so tightly his muscle twitched. Philip's adoption went through 'like magic,' Cassie said. Jonathon and his wife had never been so happy. He steeled himself for the old man's response as the curtains were drawn aside and Jonathon stepped closer to the window to look at the bloated face of the young man on the gurney.
"It's not him." His voice was so soft, Max wasn't sure he heard right.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair. What did you say?"
Jonathon looked at him, tears welling into his brown eyes. "It's not him, Mr. Henshaw. That's not my Philip."
"Are you sure? Being in the water distorts---"
"It's not him. Philip had an inch-long scar on the right side of his chin from falling off his bike when he was seven years old. That there is somebody's son, but he ain't mine," he reiterated as the coroner closed the heavy curtains.
The house was dark when Cassie pulled into the long driveway, and she cursed herself for not leaving at least one light on. The last thing she needed was for the whole world to know that no one was home. Or to break her neck walking up the dark steps. Of course, stopping by her apartment to get what she'd need for her trip had kept her out much later than she'd expected. She'd been tempted just to spend the night there, to get away from the ghosts for awhile, but she'd left the charm bracelet and safe deposit box key in Mother's jewelry box.
With a sigh, she turned off the engine and climbed out, thankful for the delay setting that would keep the headlights turned on a few extra minutes. As she unlocked the front door, the headlights went out, and she jumped at the sound of a voice.
"Miss Cassie? It's me. Philip."
She peered into the darkness as the young man's familiar form emerged from the shadows. "Philip?"
"Yes, Miss Cassie. I'm sorry I scared you. But I need to talk to you, and I wanted to be sure you were alone." He spoke softly but there was a certain-intensity-in his voice.
Cassie's skin crawled. She wished she could see his face better, but the dim moonlight offered little help. "Uh, yes. How are you, Philip?" she asked, her mind racing. Why does he want me to be alone? Does he really sound threatening or am I just being paranoid?
"I'm in trouble, Miss Cassie, and I don't know who else to turn to."
She looked at him for a moment, then pulled herself to her full height and strode across the porch to the rocking chairs. "I see," she said, hoping that the evenness of her voice conveyed an impression of control. "Sit down and tell me about it." She felt safer outside than in the house, where she could be easily trapped.
He sat on the other rocker, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed his head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He looked more like the boy she remembered than the man who had seemed so threatening just a moment ago.
"What is it, Philip?" she urged, breaking into his prolonged silence.
He turned his face toward her as he spoke. "I didn't do it, Cassie. I swear on my mother's grave that I didn't."
She grimaced. "Kill my father, you mean." It was not a question.
"Yes. I had nothing to do with it. You've gotta believe me."
"It was your car." She couldn't keep the accusation from her voice.
He looked down at his hands. "I know. I just found that out a little while ago. But, if I had done it, would I come here?"
She pondered that a moment. Who in God's name knows what a killer would do? "I don't know, Philip. Would you?"
A sob escaped his throat. "You don't believe me. But you've gotta. They're after me, and you're the only one who can help."
"Who killed my father? Tell me that, Philip. Who wanted my father dead?" The hate that twisted inside of her dripped from her voice.
"Ernie, I think."
"Ernie? Who the hell is Ernie?"
"My dealer. I owed 'im a thousand dollars. He said that if I'd let 'im use my car, he'd forget I owed 'im anything and even throw in a couple extra rocks as a bonus. You've gotta understand, Miss Cassie. I didn't know why he wanted it, only that it would get 'im off my back. He'd threatened to burn down Pop's house if I didn't pay 'im, so I figured it was a good deal. If I'd known, I never would've let 'im use my car. I swear." The words tumbled from his mouth, gathering speed as he talked.
Cassie's stomach turned in upon itself, and she had trouble breathing. A thousand dollars? My God. She pictured her father's broken body, the blood that clung to his forehead, his nose, his white shirt. "A thousand dollars," she finally breathed into the humid night air. "Does this Ernie have a last name?"
"I don't know what it is. I just always called him Ernie. I don't even know if that's his real name." He didn't look at her, staring instead at the moonlit lawn that stretched in front of them.
"So this 'Ernie' decided my father's life was only worth a thousand dollars on the open market," she said through clenched teeth. "Why would he want my father dead?"
"I don't know. I think someone must've hired 'im to do it," Philip answered, sounding miserable. "But whatever the reason, he's lookin' for me by now."
"Who was it they found dead in your car?"
"I don't know for sure. Do you remember Rei Takazawa, my friend from high school? I brought 'im over with me a couple of times when Pop wanted me to help out around here."
Cassie nodded, remembering the name, not the face.
"He's the one who introduced me to Ernie. He'd gotten into drugs pretty heavy after graduation. Anyhow, he called me the night after Mr. Hart died and said he was bringing my car back to me, 'cause Ernie was done with it and wanted it outta his yard. Pop had asked me to go fishin' with him. He was pretty upset about your dad's death, ya know, and just wanted to get away for a couple o' days to kinda sort things out. Well, anyhow, I told Rei to drive the car up to the lake. Then, your friend showed up at the cabin and told Pop they'd found my car in the water with a dead oriental guy in it. Pop didn't let on that I was in the next room."
"What are you doing here?"
He turned to face her, leaning forward a little. "Mama-san said it was the only place I'd be safe."
"Who in God's name is 'mama-san'?" She almost spat the word back at him. "Your mother's been dead for two years, in case you've forgotten."
He jerked backward like she'd slapped him. "No, Miss Cassie," he responded at last. He sounded solemn. "I haven't forgotten. But I have another mother, you know. I was adopted. Remember?"
"You still haven't answered my question."
"You didn't know that May Lee is my birth mother?"
Cassie's mind reeled. May Lee had always treated Philip like a naughty child. "No. I didn't."
"She told me after Mom died. She said she couldn't stand by and watch me grieve like I was and thought it would help if I knew I still had a mother to turn to."
So that's why May Lee fainted yesterday. And that's what she was telling Max. "And she wants me to take care of you?"
"Yes. She said that no one would look for me here, and what with her working here and all, she would be in a position to help me ... if you'd agree."
The sound of traffic passing in the distance mingled with the rattle of locusts and the stirring of the leaves on the rose bushes against the porch. The same sounds, the same sights that had always been there seemed to mock her now, and Cassie wished she could just crawl into bed and cover her face with a blanket until all the monsters disappeared.
At last, she spoke and heard him catch his breath at her words. "Would you be willing to tell this story to the police?"
"They think I killed your father."
"It's the only way you can convince me that you didn't," Cassie responded, not warmly.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, turning his face toward the roof overhead. It was the same gesture he'd used as a boy when he had to choose between doing what was right and doing what was easy. More often than not, he did what was easy.
"Philip?"
He lowered his head and began rocking slowly back and forth. The rocker made a hollow thump-thump, thump-thump sound against the wooden planks. It reminded Cassie of a heartbeat, and she shivered.
"Okay," he whispered.
"Okay? You'll tell the police about Ernie?"
The heartbeat quieted as Philip stopped rocking and looked straight at her.
"Yes. I'll tell them. If that's what it'll take to convince you, I'll ... Oh, my God---"
He froze in mid-sentence, and Cassie spun around to see a pickup truck speeding up the driveway, trapping them in the glare of the oncoming headlights.
Max slammed on the brakes, threw the gearshift into park, and grabbed his pistol as he jumped out, leaving the headlights shining on the pair seated on the porch.
"Police! Hold it!" he ordered, aiming at the motionless man beside Cassie. "Put your hands on top of your head where I can see them!"
"Max, wait!" Cassie cried as Philip obeyed. "It's okay. I'm okay."
"Mr. Sinclair, stand up and move away from Miss Hart slowly. Keep your hands on your head." He wasn't quite shouting, but his voice seemed to thunder in the silence around him. He kept his sights trained on the young man, who trembled violently as he descended the steps.
"Lie face down," he ordered. "Now."
With Philip on the grass in front of the pickup truck, hands flat against the back of his head, Max made his way toward him, put his knee against the young man's back, and handcuffed first his right hand, then his left. Patting him down, he pulled a slim knife from its hiding place in Philip's sock, then stood and pulled him to his feet. Only then did Max acknowledge Cassie.
"Cassie? Are you okay?" he asked, stepping away from Philip and glancing toward her. She stood wide-eyed at the edge of the porch.
"Oh, Max! I'm fine. Philip hasn't threatened me. For God's sake. Take those handcuffs off him," she begged, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Max looked at the knife he'd taken from Philip and shook his head. "Not in this life, Cassie. I'm sorry. This man is dangerous. We have a rap sheet on him as long as your arm."
"For what?" Philip finally found his voice. "Misdemeanor possession of drugs and drug paraphernalia? Passing worthless checks? Man, I'm about as dangerous as a mouse."
"That's not what I read," Max answered, pulling a computer print-out from his pocket. "My information is that Phillip J. Sinclair has done time for armed robbery, attempted rape, possession of a firearm..."
"Well, Phillip J. Sinclair may have done all those things," Cassie said, striding to where Max stood between herself and the smaller man. Grabbing the print-out, she read it closely. "For your information, Max Henshaw, this is Philip B. Sinclair. Philip with one 'l,' by the way." She glared at him as she thrust the paper back into his hand. "Now, for heaven's sake, take those handcuffs off him."
Max looked at the driver's license inside the wallet he took from Philip's pocket. Cassie was right, but he was still unconvinced. Philip's car had become a murder weapon, had been ditched, and a man was found shot to death inside it. Plus, he was carrying a more-than-unpleasant looking knife. "You may be right, Cassie, but there's still the small matter of killing your father. Not to mention carrying a concealed weapon." He looked at her sternly.
"Oh, Max. Dammit," she retorted as Philip sank to the ground and began sobbing so hard his shoulders quaked. "Philip didn't do it. If he had killed Daddy, do you honestly think he'd come here of all places?"
"Maybe. Any port in a storm," he replied, watching her bend over and try to comfort the crying man.
Cassie looked up at him, modulating her voice as she spoke. "He didn't threaten me. He simply came here because he wanted my help. And he has agreed to tell you the whole story. Max, please. I've known Philip since he was a little boy. Please. Calm down and at least let him talk."
Max pursed his lips and thought a minute. He was still upset at the sight of Cassie and Sinclair on the porch. So many thoughts had raced through his mind. But, if he was wrong, well, it couldn't hurt to listen. Even if he did end up taking him to the precinct ... and jail. "Okay, I'll listen. But don't try to con me, Sinclair."
Cassie helped Philip to his feet, but Max edged her out of the way and pushed him up the stairs onto the porch. She followed and stood beside Philip as he told his story a second time.
Max studied the young man closely during his explanation. His voice didn't waver, except when he spoke of the threat against his father and his friend's death. He looked straight into Max's eyes, glancing away only once-when he talked about Max's visit to the fish camp. That was the one part that didn't sit right.
"If you're innocent, why did you run? Why didn't you just come out of the bedroom and face me instead of forcing your father to cover up for you?"
"I thought you might be one of Ernie's buddies. Then, when I heard you say that I was under suspicion for killing Mr. Hart, well, I panicked."
"Why were you carrying a knife?"
"Officer, those guys have guns, ya know? They killed Rei. I've gotta try an' protect myself somehow. It isn't much, but it's better than nothin'."
Max looked at Cassie then back at Philip. During his ten years in law enforcement, he'd seen a whole lot of ugly and, unlike Cassie, he had trouble believing what he'd just heard. Yet, Cassie knew the man. "Do you believe him? I mean, really believe him?" he asked her.
"I didn't at first. I must admit, I figured he was just looking for a way out. Any way out," she replied, looking at Philip apologetically. "But he kept his promise and told you the whole story."
"But would he have told me if I hadn't shown up when I did? Tell you what, Cassie," he said, unlocking the handcuff on the man's left wrist to handcuff his hands in front instead of behind him. "I've had a long drive, and you look like you just got home, too." He gestured toward her dress and high-heeled shoes. "Let's go in, put on a pot of coffee, and see if we can sort this whole thing out. And turn those headlights off for me, will you?" Without waiting for her answer, he took Philip by the arm and guided him into the house.
Max sat across from Philip at the kitchen table, observing him as closely as a cat watching its prey. He looked just like the photograph Jonathon had reluctantly given him-small, no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, with delicate bones, narrow shoulders, and a scar on his chin. His dark, almond-shaped eyes were red and swollen from crying-and lack of sleep, he guessed. Grass stains smudged the front of his white T-Shirt. With his hands shackled and his shoulders hunched inward upon themselves, he looked even smaller than he normally would have, and Max felt a brief pang of guilt. This guy really does look about as threatening as a mouse. But, then, most of them do once they're caught.
As Cassie poured coffee into each of their cups, Max obliged Philip's request for cream and sugar, stirring it into the coffee himself, then leaned back against the chair and took a sip from his own mug.
"Can't you take those handcuffs off him? He's not going to hurt anyone or try to run away," she said when Philip tried awkwardly to raise the cup to his mouth.
Max frowned as he considered what she said, then pulled the keys from his pocket, dangling them in the air. "Is she right, Sinclair? You here to stay? Gonna behave like a good little boy?"
Philip nodded, spilling a little of the coffee when he set the cup down and held his hands out. "Yes, sir. I don't have anywhere to go, and Miss Cassie is like my own sister."
Max undid the clasps. "We'll see, won't we?" he said, looking hard at his prisoner. "Now, tell me who 'Ernie' is, where he hangs out, what he looks like."
"Well," Philip responded, looking away toward Cassie. "He's a dealer-sells it all, coke, ecstasy, acid-anything you want, he's got. I think he must have a regular job, though, because he's kinda hard to find. I always met 'im near the Vietnam War Memorial."
"White, black, what?"
"White. Dark hair. He's a big guy, more than six feet tall, I'd guess about two hundred, forty pounds, give or take a little. Has a skull-and-crossbones tattooed on his left upper arm." Philip turned to face him, an earnest look in his eyes. "He's dangerous. Has a bad temper. Saw him beat up a hooker once, just for approaching one of his customers during a deal. Left her in pretty bad shape."
Max looked across at Cassie, who hadn't touched her coffee, then back at Philip. "What did you do when that happened?"
He looked down, embarrassed. "Nothin'. What could I do? He's a lot bigger than me. I just left. Decided I didn't need to get stoned that bad."
"You said that May Lee told you to come here tonight. When did you see her?"
"I called her from the marina right after you and Pop drove away. I couldn't go to her house, 'cause her husband doesn't know about me."
"There's no car out front. Your father's truck was still at the cabin when we got back. How did you get here? Walk?" Sarcasm joined the suspicion in his tone.
"Hitchhiked. Got lucky. Curley was just closing up and drove me as far as the main highway. Trucker brought me almost all the way here."
"Cassie, call May Lee."
She walked to the counter and dialed the number, carrying the phone back with her to the table. "Mr. Chang? This is Cassandra Hart. I wonder if May Lee is available?" She looked first at Philip then at Max while she waited. "May Lee? Hi. I'm sorry to disturb you, but something has come up. Remember Investigator Henshaw? Well, he needs to talk to you. Hold on."
Max took the telephone from her and, with his eyes focused firmly on Philip's face, spoke into the receiver. "May Lee?" He paused, listening. "Yes, fine thank you. I need to ask you some questions." He waited for her response, then went on. "I have Philip here with me. Can you tell me the last time you spoke to him? I see. Can you tell me what he said?" He listened in silence to her reply. "Well, this is important, May Lee. Maybe you could go into the other room to talk. Yes, I'll hold on." He heard her tell her husband that Cassie was calling about some private family business. Her husband's voice faded in the background as he said something angrily in Chinese.
"Yes, May Lee, I'm here. Sorry if your husband is irritated. Yes, well I'm sure he'll get over it. We always do, ya know." Max smiled a little at the image of the family tiff he'd caused. "So, please tell me what Philip said when he called you ... Where did he say he was calling from? Mm, hmm. And what did you tell him? Okay. Yes. No. Don't worry. We'll be back in touch." Max handed the telephone back to Cassie and turned to Philip. "She corroborated your story. So, we know that, at least, part of what you say is true."
Philip downed the last of his coffee. "She is a good woman, my mama-san."
After a moment, Max stood and pulled Philip from the chair. "I want you to go in there," he pointed toward the sitting room off the kitchen, "and wait until I call you. I need to speak to Miss Hart."
Philip almost knocked his chair over as he hurried to obey.
Once they were alone, Max turned to face Cassie straight on. "Cassie, I don't like this. I don't like this one bit. Philip's being here places you in danger."
"But I won't be here after tonight," she replied. "And he needs a place to stay. May Lee will be here tomorrow and can take care of him."
Max chewed on his lower lip and looked toward the sitting room. "I'd feel better if he was in jail."
Cassie's eyes widened. "Jail? Oh, no, Max. May Lee would never forgive me if I let you do that."
"Cassie, I had a long talk with Jonathon tonight."
"Is he okay?"
"Yes, fine ... considering." He would have liked to tell her about his drive through the mountains, the fish he'd caught, the down-home meal the young couple had shared with him, but now was not the time. "Jonathon is deeply worried, not only about Philip but about you. Apparently, your father confided in him."
Cassie looked surprised. "What did he tell him?"
"According to Jonathon, your father was considering hiring some bodyguards. Someone had been tailing him on and off for several weeks, and your dad was concerned that they might try to get to him through you."
"They didn't," Cassie replied. "They got to him, instead." She frowned as she spoke. "Does Jonathon know what Daddy was working on? Or who was following him?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't say. Although he said something about Hamilton Bates that was puzzling."
"Hamilton Bates? I just saw him today. He said that he would help me find out why the FBI took over the investigation. He even assured me that I had nothing to fear." She paused, wrinkling her forehead. "But, somehow, I didn't feel very reassured. What did Jonathon say?"
Max scowled at her. "I wish you hadn't done that."
"Done what? Speak to Uncle Hamilton? But he---"
"Cassie. Your father didn't trust him. I don't think you should either."
"Max. Uncle Hamilton would never hurt me."
Max nodded. "Apparently, your father believed the same thing. He told Jonathon that if anything did happen to you, it wouldn't be Bates' doing. But for all his wealth and power, Hamilton Bates is just one of many and is consumed by his ambition. If that's true, then he's not the one to confide in or involve in our efforts. In fact, I believe he's the one that got the FBI involved. Remember when I told you about his repeated calls to my office? And that we found out his chief of security has a paid informant in the Department? I'm afraid your 'Uncle' Hamilton is not the person you thought he was."
She cocked her head and waited for him to go on.
"You have to understand, Cassie, there's just too much here to take anything-or anyone-at face value. It's obvious your father's death was not an accident. Someone paid to have him killed. And someone stole what your father was working on. Or tried to, at least. We don't know yet what they got. And we won't until we unravel this whole thing. But whoever is behind all of this is playing for keeps."
She nodded and sat up a little straighter. "So you think that what Daddy was working on had something to do with Hamilton Bates."
It was his turn to nod. "But I don't know if he's behind your father's death."
"Even you say he wouldn't harm me."
"He wouldn't, Cassie. But he can't guarantee that someone else wouldn't."
"Maybe that's why he suggested I take a vacation." She leaned forward, knitting her eyebrows. "He said it would do me good to get away from here for awhile and suggested I go to the mountains."
"Is that where you're going tomorrow?" he asked.
"That's where I told him I would go. Gatlinburg, I said."
"But you're not."
"No. I'm going to go explore your old haunts." She kept her voice low, glancing at the door that separated them from Philip. "I think I'll find it more, uh, enlightening." She paused. "I can't just sit around here on my hands any longer."
"I wish I could go with you," he said.
"You could draw me a map," she suggested.
"I'll do that. Meanwhile, there's still the problem of Philip. Sooner or later, they'll find out they silenced the wrong guy and will be out gunning for him again. I'd hate to see you ... or May Lee ... caught in the crossfire."
Cassie propped her elbow on the table and rested her forehead against her hand, closing her eyes. "I hate to think about him being in jail," she said, raising her head, a mournful look on her face. "If there's an informer at the Police Department, well, at least here, he has a fighting chance."
Max rubbed the corners of his mouth. "You may have a point, but I'd rather risk him than you."
"I'd rather not risk anyone," she answered and hesitated before continuing. "I think Philip should stay here. I can't picture myself allowing him to be trapped like a rabbit in a cage. If your main concern is my safety, why don't you spend the night here, too? I'll be leaving tomorrow anyway, and we have three bedrooms upstairs. Philip can sleep in the guest room, and you could use my parents' room. It's very comfortable."
Max stared at his hands folded on the table, feeling Cassie's eyes on him as she waited. He didn't like the idea of Philip being here with her, but unless he arrested him, he couldn't prevent it. He thought of his brown-eyed Alice and little Lisa. He hadn't been able to protect them, although he'd tried every day to keep them safe and secure. Sighing, he looked across at Cassie, in whose blue eyes he seemed able to see forever. He couldn't change her mind, but he could, at least, try to keep her safe.
Standing abruptly, he strode across to the sitting room door, where he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "I'll bunk on the couch, where I can keep a closer watch on things ... just in case you're as wrong as I think you are," he said, aware of the huskiness in his voice that threatened to betray the emotion he had thus far been able to hide.
August 6
-
The Hoover Building loomed high above him as Max climbed the broad concrete steps. He'd taken this path many times during the two years he'd been with the FBI. He took a deep breath against the sense of raw power that emanated from within the massive walls and paused to look up at the bright blue sky. Somewhere up there, Cassie was on a flight to Tallahassee and a rendezvous with God knows what. He wondered again whether he should have gone with her. Doesn't matter. She's on her way, and I'm still here.
Squaring his shoulders, he stepped from the sunshine to the fluorescent lights of the lobby and identified himself to the security guard at the entrance. "Eduardo Lopez is an old friend," he explained and, closing his wallet over the badge inside, strode down the long, tiled corridor to the far end. He didn't know if Ed would be in the office or not, but it was worth a try.
He was sitting behind the desk by the window and smiled when the door whispered open. "Hola, amigo. Cómo estás?" he asked, standing to shake Max's hand.
Max grinned and responded with what little Spanish he remembered from high school. "Bien, gracias. And yourself?"
"As good as can be expected, I guess. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?" Ed asked, motioning for him to have a seat. "Ready to come back to the big time?"
"Nah. It's still way too big for this country boy," he replied. "I just happened to be over this way and thought I'd buy you some lunch."
Ed looked at the clock on the wall above the door. "Well, if you're buying, how can I say no?" The phone on his desk chimed, and he picked up the receiver, motioning for Max to stay where he was. "Lopez ... Yes, ma'am. I was just going through her file ... Not yet. It was only assigned to me this morning." He rolled his eyes at Max. "Priority? Yes, I understand. Yes. Goodbye." He hung up and made a face. "God, every time I talk to that crusty old witch I feel like climbing aboard your wagon."
"Be glad to have you. But ya know that ain't ever gonna happen. You like the money too much."
Ed threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Found me out. What else do you have on me?" he joked, standing and snapping his holster to his belt.
"I have it on good authority that you've got a fondness for blondes," Max replied, standing up.
"Tall blondes," his friend corrected him and, putting his gray suit coat on, led the way out. "So, where are you taking me? French? Mexican? Or, more likely, McDonald's?" he asked when they stepped outside and descended the broad stairs to the sidewalk.
"How about Henri's?" It had been their favorite restaurant when they worked together.
"I think I can handle that. As long as you're buying."
The air conditioning in the small French restaurant was a welcome relief from the scorching heat. Max slid gratefully into the corner booth at the rear where they could keep their backs to the wall and an eye on the door. A tall, blonde waitress appeared immediately with menus in hand, and Ed winked at Max, who grinned.
"I'll have the Quiche Lorraine and a tall glass of iced tea," said the agent, declining the menu the waitress offered.
"Make that two. And I'd like my tea sweet."
"I'm sorry, sir," she replied, tilting her head. "We don't have sweetened tea. But there's sugar and artificial sweetener on the table."
Max shook his head. Nobody north of the Carolinas served sweet tea. Except Cassie, he corrected himself.
Ed took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Bitchin' hot out there. Bitchin' hot."
Max noticed that his friend had put on weight and no longer sported the deep tan that had been his one vanity. "Hot doesn't even begin to describe this weather," he replied, wondering if the change in Ed's appearance was caused by working too hard or playing too little.
"So, mi amigo," Ed began, putting his handkerchief away. "You still like your job at the P.D.? Or is it starting to get boring?"
Max shook his head. "Boring, it ain't, ol' buddy. In fact, I've got somethin' on my plate I thought I'd never be involved in."
Ed's eyes opened a little wider as he leaned forward. "Yeah? Sounds like you're worried that you might be in over your ugly head."
"Might be. I'm not sure yet. But since I'm buyin' lunch, maybe you'll let me pick your brain a little between courses."
"I should've known there was no such thing as a free lunch." He grimaced in mock disappointment. "Fire away."
Extracting a promise of confidentiality, Max explained-without going into detail-his suspicions about the death of Madison Hart, the subsequent burglary, and the body found in Philip's car.
"So how can I help?" Ed asked, leaning back as the waitress set their food on the table.
Max watched her leave, then poured three sugars into his tea and stirred it in silence as he wondered how to broach the subject. Finally, he looked across the table and spoke quietly. "Ed. I've been taken off the case."
"Why? By who?"
"The FBI. And 'why' is just what I'd like to know. Since when does the death of a writer merit the attention of the Castle Guard?"
"Mm, good question, my friend. A very good question indeed," he said. He was quiet a long time, concentrating on the quiche. Finally, he wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and looked up. "Let me run something past you."
"I'm all ears."
"I've been assigned to find Madison Hart's secretary. She's apparently skipped the country. Didn't even show up for his memorial service. And the AG is breathing hot and heavy down my neck to find her."
"Hart's secretary?" Max acted perplexed. "What's her name?"
"Selena Cordon. Ever hear of her?"
Max took a sip of tea. "Yeah. Only a couple of days ago, in fact. Why the hell are they tying you up looking for a secretary?"
"Word is that she's more than that. In fact, the word they're using is counterintelligence agent."
Max almost choked on his food. "A spy? Man, you gotta be kiddin' me."
"If it's a joke, nobody's laughin'." Ed motioned to the waitress as he polished off the last of his lunch. "Want some dessert?"
"Naw. But I could use another glass of tea."
The waitress reappeared, ticked off the list of sweets, and Ed chose rainbow sorbet. When she left, Max spoke. "I may be able to help you out with that one. I'll see. But, meanwhile, you need to fill me in on what you know about the AG's interest in the Hart case."
Ed waited to answer until the waitress delivered his dessert, had refilled the tea glasses, and left. "Buddy, if I knew I'd tell you. All I can figure is that it must be tied in with the Cordon woman. I mean if she worked for Hart and is suspected of spying, that would explain mucho. Comprendes?"
Max's cell phone rang. He answered it as he walked to the counter to pay the bill. It was Ricky Sims.
"Whatcha got?" Max asked, pulling his wallet from his pocket.
"Got a line on that guy they found in Sinclair's car," Sims said. "Thought you'd wanta know."
"Yeah? Talk to me."
"His name's Rei Takazawa. A Japanese kid who went to the same high school as Sinclair. He was identified from his DNA. Seems he'd been arrested about a month ago on misdemeanor marijuana charges. And get this. According to the autopsy, the kid died by drowning. He was shot after he was already dead. Can ya beat that?"
"No. I don't think I can," Max responded slowly, letting the information sink in. Somewhere, sometime he'd come across another after-the-killing-killing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the time and place. "Look. I'm just finishing lunch. I'll be in as soon as I can."
"Gotcha. See ya later."
As Ed ambled over behind him, Max hung up, paid the cashier, and led the way to the door.
"Problem?" Ed asked, breaking the deep silence that accompanied them back to the Hoover Building.
"I'm not sure," Max answered. "I'll let you know. Meanwhile, give me a call if you find out anything."
"And you'll let me know what you find out about the Cordon woman?"
"You bet," Max assured him, shaking his friend's hand before they went their separate ways.
August in Tallahassee was even hotter than in D.C., and the air conditioning felt good to Cassie as she stepped into the small bank and looked around. The lobby smelled like furniture wax and popcorn. There were two tellers on duty and a couple of glass-windowed offices on the left. A secretary sat at a desk between the two offices, and Cassie walked over to her, aware of the echo of her footsteps against the gleaming hardwood floor.
"May I help you?" asked the heavy-set woman, looking up from her computer screen. Her hair was bleached blonde and tightly curled. A bowl of popcorn and a dish filled with hard candy rested on the edge of her desk.
"Yes, please. Is Mr. Charles in?" Cassie offered her friendliest smile.
"Do you have an appointment?" She looked down at the calendar on her desk.
"Uh, no." Cassie's heart sank a little.
She looked closely at Cassie for a moment. "And you are?"
"Cassandra Hart. I believe he knew my father, Madison Hart."
"Oh, yes." The secretary's tone warmed considerably. "He came in here often. I was so sorry to learn of his death. Such a fine man. Always so friendly."
"Yes, he was. Thank you."
"Just have a seat. I'll let Mr. Charles know that you're here."
Cassie positioned herself in the leather chair beside the desk where she could watch what was going on behind the not-quite-closed blinds of the office window. She could just make out the secretary gesturing toward the window and the top of a bald head nodding. Within moments, the balding man in the office came out and extended his hand to her in greeting.
"Miss Hart. What a pleasure," he said, squeezing her hand warmly. "Please come in."
Cassie returned his handshake, then followed him into his office and sat on the chair in front of the wide mahogany desk as he shut the door. She noticed that he closed the blinds completely before he sat down.
"I was terribly sorry to hear about your father's death." He seemed to be studying her face.
"Yes, thank you." She wished she knew something to say besides thank you. After a few thousand times, it sounded so trite, fake even.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "You look just like the photos he showed me."
She smiled back. "I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment. Did you know my father well?"
He sighed. "Your father and I went back a long way. To our days at Yale. We once belonged to the same, er, group. I hadn't seen him for years, though. Not until he contacted me last May." He leaned forward with his thick arms stretched out on the desk in front of him. "His phone call was quite a surprise. I couldn't imagine why he would be looking me up after all this time." He stopped, peering sideways up at the security camera mounted near the ceiling, then continued, "But, well, it seemed we still had something important in common." He picked up the pen on his desk and scribbled something on a piece of note paper. "Tallahassee's a very historic town. While you're here, you ought to take a tour." He slid the paper across the desk toward her. "This should help you."
She nodded and looked down at the note. "We can't speak freely. The camera picks up voices as well as images." The more people insist on privacy, the less we have, she thought. Scanners record our purchases in central databases. Internet "cookies" insert themselves into our computers. And cameras watch everything from our driving to what we do in restrooms. She looked back at him and nodded. "Thanks. I'll keep this in mind."
"Well, I know you're eager to retrieve your father's belongings." Standing, he led her from the office and escorted her down the steps on the far side of the lobby. A guard behind the desk signed them in and unlocked the door, admitting them to a room filled top to bottom, wall to wall with locked, steel drawers and the inevitable surveillance camera.
Cassie handed him the key, watching as he unlocked a drawer containing a tapestry satchel like the one Mother had given Selena many years ago. "It is beautiful," Selena had said, caressing the soft paisley print. She'd meant it. He set the drawer on the table in the room's center.
She picked up the satchel, unclasped it, and peered inside. Four manila envelopes and a black leather book peered back at her. The back of her neck tingled. Soon. She closed the bag and looked up at Mr. Charles, who put the drawer back and turned toward her. His face was impassive, but the look in his brown eyes spoke volumes. She nodded slightly and, clutching the satchel's handle, followed him out of the vault and up the stairs.
"If you need anything while you're in town or, uh, have any questions about, uh..." He paused and looked at the teller standing within earshot, "anything, give me a call." He handed her a business card. His home phone number was written on the back.
"Thank you. I will." She put on her sunglasses and walked outside, almost bumping into two men rushing in through the door.
A hot shower and a warm meal were at the top of Cassie's wish list when she parked the rental car in front of the brick, two story motel and walked inside.
A young, red-haired woman behind the reception desk smiled at her woodenly. "May I help you?"
"Yes. I have a reservation? Cassandra Hart."
The redhead, whose name tag identified her as Sally, checked her computer records. "Ah, yes. Here it is. A reservation for two?" She raised her eyebrows when she said two.
Cassie looked at her squarely and handed the woman her credit card. "Yes. That's right." Cassie signed the bill and picked up her credit card.
"Room 211," the woman said, sliding the keycard across the counter. "Second floor. It's around there, about halfway down." She pointed her thumb over her left shoulder. "There should be a parking space right by the stairs. How long will you be staying?"
"I'm not certain. A few days, I imagine. By the way. Do you have a restaurant ... or room service?"
"No. But there's plenty of restaurants nearby." Sally's voice trailed off as she lost interest and turned back to the paperback novel lying open on the desk.
Cassie frowned and turned to walk outside. Well, at least they always leave the welcome mat out, she thought, climbing into her car and driving around to the west side of the building. Funny. Max said people around here were so friendly. Of course he's been away a long time. Things change.
The telephone rang as Cassie lay her belongings on the bed. It was Max.
"Hi," she said, gazing through the window at a live oak tree draped in Spanish moss that fluttered in the breeze. "I just walked in. Your timing is incredible." She heard him take a deep breath before he answered.
"Yes, I've often been criticized for just that." There was no smile in his voice. "Listen, I got some information today that I thought I'd better pass along to you." He paused as if gathering his thoughts. "How well do you know Selena Cordon?"
"Selena? Why, she's been like a member of my family for years. Why do you ask?"
"I did some checking with a friend of mine who, you might say, is on the inside. He says the FBI is looking for her."
"Did you find out why?"
"They say she's a spy. 'Counterintelligence agent' to be precise. Which may be why the Feds took over the case."
Cassie hesitated. Selena was the one person who knew everything about Daddy. Where he went and when. What he was working on. She'd been in Hong Kong during all the trouble and had followed to D.C. when Daddy was reassigned. She shook her head. "Max. That's preposterous. If they're looking for her, it's because of my father."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, how much do you know about her past?"
"Well..." She began, then stopped. What did Selena do before she entered their lives? And where did the money come from that allowed her to travel so freely? As far as Cassie knew, Selena only worked when Daddy was freelancing and needed a secretary. She shook her head again. No. Selena would never betray Daddy's trust.
"Cassie? Are you there?"
"Yes. I'm here. And it's true that I don't know much about Selena's life before she began working for my father. But, Max, I don't believe she is anything other than a dear, loyal friend. Anything they say about her is probably just an effort to discredit her. Selena knows what's going on, and she's a threat to them."
"I'm not so sure, Cassie. My friend is pretty reliable. That's why I had Sheila do some checking."
"On Selena? You had your researchers check up on Selena?" She felt her anger rise.
"Calm down, Cassie. There's nothing to get upset about."
"Selena's my friend, Max. The very idea that you'd go snooping..."
"Cassie, it's my job to 'snoop.' And it's a good thing I did." His voice was low, his words measured. "Selena's got one hell of a checkered history."
"Don't we all?" Cassie asked, but the fight had left her.
"Yes, but not like this. Do you remember studying about the Bay of Pigs invasion? Well, it appears that Selena Cordon, alias Celesta Carbon, also known as Selena Gordon, was involved not only in the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion but also in its aftermath."
"What aftermath? I don't understand."
Max took another deep breath. "A thirteen-year-old girl by the name of Celesta Carbon was publicly accused of tipping off Castro's forces about the planned military invasion. She was working as a babysitter and, apparently, overheard her employer discussing it with another freedom fighter. Shortly after the invasion failed, the man she worked for was murdered in a Miami parking lot. Celesta, alias Selena, disappeared right after the story broke but was finally traced to Havana, where she had close relatives-one of whom was associated with Castro."
His words hit Cassie like blows to the stomach. "That doesn't prove anything," she finally managed.
"There's more. In 1968, Selena Cordon-under the identity of Selena Gordon-turned up in New York where she worked as a secretary in Administration at Columbia University. Following the student siege of the Administration Building, information surfaced that she had been instrumental in coordinating the sit-in and was in large part responsible for its effectiveness. She was never caught or arrested, however, because she disappeared the night before the students took over the building. Need I go on?"
"But, Max," Cassie protested, regaining her composure. "That's all pretty much circumstantial, isn't it? I mean, I remember something about Selena getting sent back to Cuba. I think it was something about the immigration authorities. And, for Pete's sake. Dozens of people work in Administration at Columbia. I know. I went to school there. It's entirely possible she got wind of the students' plans and just didn't want to get caught up in it. I know I wouldn't hang around for it."
"Wouldn't you have told your boss ... or someone ... if you'd heard about plans like that?"
His logic was hard to refute, but she tried. "I don't know whether I would have or not. Being me, I might have. But I can't say what she would do. She was young ... and foreign ... Who knows how that might have played into her decisions?"
Max was silent for a long moment. "Anything is possible," he said at last. "But, I've never known anyone to use an alias who wasn't up to no good. And the Castro connection is pretty convincing. The Cuban government was deeply interested in the unrest of the sixties, even to the point of being implicated in the assassination of President Kennedy and being in league with the North Vietnamese."
"I know. But my father was extremely cautious about the people he confided in, and he trusted Selena completely. My mother trusted her, too." She paused. "And Mother was an excellent judge of character."
"Cassie, I hope you're right. But frankly, I can't help being concerned about your safety. Besides me, Selena is the only one who knows where you are. And she's the only one who may actually know what your father was working on. If she's not who-or what-you think ... well, there's already been two deaths."
Cassie considered what he said. If his suspicions were true, she couldn't let herself be blinded by loyalty ... or her own feelings toward the woman who'd been so much a part of life these past many years. "What do you suggest I do?" she finally asked, leaning back against the pillow she'd propped against the headboard.
"Well, I'd tell you to come back here where I could look out for you, but I know you're not gonna do that, so I won't. I will tell you that you need to be prepared to protect yourself. I've made arrangements with a friend of mine down there to provide you some, uh, protection other than just pepper spray, if you get my point." He paused. "He'll be contacting you around eight o'clock."
Cassie understood perfectly. "That's fine. I'd appreciate it," she said. "But what about Selena? What shall I do about her?"
"You'll have to play that by ear, I'm afraid," he replied, sighing. "When you talk to her next time, see what you can find out. Then I'll have Sheila check out what she says. If she's on the up-and-up, we'll find out. If not, we'll know that, too."
"I think it'll turn out that you're wrong."
"I hope so." He stopped, then changed the subject. "Did you find what you were looking for at the bank?"
"I don't know. Like I said, I just checked in and haven't had a chance to look through anything yet."
"Well, I'm getting ready to leave the office. Give me a call at home later."
"Will do," she replied, placing the phone in its cradle and sitting on the edge of the double bed. What Max had learned about Selena sounded incriminating enough to raise anyone's suspicions. Anyone who didn't know her. She shook her head against the dark thoughts gathering in her mind and glanced at the display on the clock radio. "5:00." She stood, picked up the satchel, and slid it under the bed. She had all night to discover the secrets it held, but right now, she longed to wash away the grime of her journey and get something, anything, to eat.
Max stood up from the not-very-comfortable chair, adjusting the pistol in his holster before putting his coat on, and walked out the door of the small office toward the lobby. The light from the lowering sun filtered sickly through the smog-smeared glass doors and windows facing the street. He envied Cassie who, for the moment at least, was surrounded by the fresh air and green forests he'd known as a boy.
"Detective Henshaw? Detective Henshaw!"
He stopped to look over his shoulder. Mildred Marshall, the rookie assigned to work the front desk, was motioning for him to come back. Reluctantly, he turned and went to see what she wanted.
"I'm sorry, Detective," she said when he drew closer, glancing from him to the curious stares she'd aroused from others in the room. "Detective Sims is on the phone for you."
Max nodded. "I'll take it over there," he said and strode toward the telephone on the wall, ignoring the handful of people waiting to file a complaint against their neighbors, their bosses, or just life in general.
"What d'ya have?" he asked, picking up the receiver.
"Glad I caught you," said his partner. "I'm at the courthouse and overheard a couple of Federal Agents talking about the Hart case. They've picked up Philip Sinclair."
"Shit. How'd they find 'im?"
"Don't know. Anything you want me to do?"
"No. I'll take care of it. Thanks." When Max hung up, Officer Marshall motioned to him again. Another phone call. He waited a moment for her to transfer it, then picked up the receiver. "Henshaw."
"Oh, Detective. It's me. May Lee."
He took a deep breath against the almost palpable emotion in her voice. "Yes. I've heard. I'm on my way."
May Lee was standing on the front steps when Max drove up the long driveway. She ran to greet him as he climbed from the car.
"Detective. Thank you so much for coming," she said, grabbing his arms. "I-I didn't know where to turn, what to do when..."
Max nodded. "It's okay. Let's go inside." He took her hands gently from his arms and led her into the house that reminded him so much of the plantation "big houses" that dotted the rolling hills around Tallahassee.
He sat down beside her on the couch and took out his ever-present pocket notebook. "May Lee, I know you're upset, but I need you to get control of yourself. Start from the beginning and tell me everything."
"Well," she began, kneading her hands in her skirt. "Philip was nervous after you and Miss Cassie left. He was either pacing or pouting or trying to pick a fight with me all morning. He acted like a caged animal, and when I asked him what was wrong, he just kept saying he had 'things to do,' that he couldn't 'just hang around here for the rest of his life.' When I told him it was for his own safety and would only last until things settled down, he got mad and stormed outside. A little later, he came in, acting a little calmer, and said he was going for a walk. When I asked him where to, he just got mad and told me to quit treating him like a little boy, that he knew how to take care of himself. Then he left."
"What time was that?"
"About noon."
"And then what happened?"
"Well, I was upset, but I didn't know what to do, so I just went about my work-trying to stay busy, hoping everything would be all right. But when I went to polish the silver-I do that once a week-I found four place settings missing. And I knew everything was not all right." Her voice broke.
"You think Philip took the silverware?"
May Lee looked down at her hands, still kneading themselves into her skirt. When she turned her face back to him, her dark eyes were filled with pain. "Yes. I'm afraid so. He was acting so odd."
Max reached over and patted her arm. "It's not your fault, May Lee," he said. "Then what?"
"Well, nothing really. Not until Philip telephoned. He said he'd been with some friends-just minding his own business-when these two FBI guys came up, read him his rights, and took him away." The creases around her eyes and mouth deepened. Tears traced down her cheeks. "I didn't know what to do, so I called you."
"Did he say why they picked him up? Had they charged him with anything?"
"No." She paused, apparently trying to remember. "He did say that he refused to talk to them unless they let him call me first. He sounded so scared, Detective. What can I do?"
Max put his notebook and pen back into his breast pocket. "Do you have an attorney?"
"No, I've never needed one. My husband and I have always obeyed..."
"Well, I have a friend who's a lawyer. I'll call him. But, first, let me see what I can find out about Philip. I'll get back in touch with you. And, meanwhile, May Lee, try not to worry. I'll do everything I can."
As he walked to the car, Max took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Ed's number. He answered on the first ring. Good. He hadn't gone home yet.
"Hi. It's Max."
"Hey, ol' buddy." Ed sounded tired. "Don't tell me you want to buy me a drink?"
Max forced a chuckle. "Sorry, pal. Not tonight. I'm still workin'."
"Oh, well. So I guess this is a business call, huh?"
"Yeah, 'fraid so. Listen, Ed. I've been workin' on somethin', and I just found out that your guys have picked up one of my suspects. Philip Sinclair. Know anything about it?"
"Aw, man. I thought you were off the Hart case." Ed didn't sound very happy.
"I am." Max assured him. "This has nothin' to do with that. So anyhow, what's the poop?"
"First, you tell me why you want to know."
Friends is friends, but business is business, Ed always said. This time he didn't say it, but his tone did. "Drugs, man. He's a lead I've been following."
"And here I thought you were callin' to find out why you were taken off the Hart case. Guess you don't care 'bout that anymore?"
"Of course I do. Have you found out anything?"
"Well, I've been nosin' around a little, and so far it all seems linked to that Cordon woman. They figure Hart was killed by someone associated with her who was tryin' to shut him up. According to what I've learned, she's involved in some sort of anti-government group. They figure Hart found out about them and was gonna blow the whistle."
"Yeah. That makes sense. I can see why they wouldn't want some yokel from D.C.P.D. monkeyin' around in that." He paused a moment, wondering just how much danger Cassie might be in. "Anyhow, what's the deal on the Sinclair kid?"
"Well, he's part of the whole Hart investigation, Max. It was his car used in the hit-run, ya know. He's a material witness at the very least."
"How'd they catch up with 'im?" Max figured he already knew the answer, but he needed to know for sure.
"Tried to pawn some expensive silverware. Pawn shop owner recognized him from the 'Stop/Detain List' on his computer and punched in our Catch Code, then kept bickering with the kid over prices until our guys got there."
"You say he's just a material witness?"
"Max, I don't know how far this thing is going to go yet. They're interrogating him now. You want in on it? I can call over there."
He thought a moment. Having been with the Bureau, he knew how they worked, how they thought. If he came charging down there, they'd get plenty curious. They might think he was just a little too interested in Philip-especially since he was only "investigating a drug case"-and that could lead them to start checking up on him. "Nah, it's not that big a deal, I guess. If my other leads turn sour, I'll come in and talk to him. Your investigation is a hell of a lot more important. But I appreciate it, Ed."
"Sure. Always glad to help an old friend."
"Thanks. And, we'll get together for a beer real soon, okay?"
"Sure. Just give me a call. Anytime."
Max hung up and climbed into his car. Bernie Schligerman's phone number was in the address book he kept in the glove box. He was a good attorney but not as expensive as the big boys with the fancy law offices in and around Washington. With any luck, he'd agree to represent Philip. With any real luck, he'd get there before Philip spilled his guts. God, Max thought. The last thing I need is for them to find out that I arranged for him to hide out at Cassie's. Damn. Bernie had better get down there-and quick.
The pizza had arrived hot and aromatic at the motel room door even before the steam from Cassie's shower disappeared from the bathroom. Now, curled up in her white terrycloth robe on the coarse, quilted bedspread with the pizza beside her, Cassie explored the contents of the envelopes her father had secreted away in the safe deposit box. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the pocket diary or worn address book; the black leather, thong-bound book, the news clippings, the computer disk or Digital Video Disk. But Cassie knew better. With trembling fingers, she opened the pocket calendar, and, biting her lip, looked into what should have been her father's future.
-
July 30:
1 p.m.---D.C., get with Cassie
7 p.m.---New York, Bodyguards, Inc. Robert
July 31:
1 p.m .---New York, Sherman and Solomon, Anne---"likely"---strong marketing
4 p.m. Bennigan Press, Patrick J.---"excellent"---good marketing
August 2: Call Hank, report if "go"
August 7: Tallahassee, Call Selena
August 14: Conservative Party Convention---Sacramento
August 28: Progressive Party Convention---Boston
September 9: Cassie's birthday. Buy something special.
-
Cassie paused. He'd never missed her birthday. Not even once. She caressed his rounded handwriting. So many plans left unfinished. So many words left unsaid. So many ... so much ... She laid the book on the bedspread, blinking away the tears that threatened to blur her vision. There would be time for that later. There would always be time for that. But now, right now, she had to concentrate on finding out who. And what. And what next.
She leafed through the address book, which contained some names that were familiar, some unfamiliar. Publisher's names, addresses, and phone numbers, mostly in New York, a few in London, and one, surprisingly, in Idaho. She saw names of her mother's friends, both in the States and abroad. Mother was so gregarious. She'd even made friends with the janitor at the Excelsior and sent him and his family a card every Christmas.
Under the letter "P," there were no names, just initials and phone numbers. She recognized only one-H.B." Hamilton Bates. It was his phone number, all right. But why was he under "P" instead of "B?" "P" for Penseur? Maybe this was a list of its members. She looked at the other initials listed, wishing she knew the names. Judging from the area codes, they were scattered not only across the United States but in other countries, as well. When she got home, she'd get Max to find out who the phone numbers belonged to.
A number of addresses and phone numbers were listed for Selena, all of them crossed out, nothing current. There were other names, too, all with quotation marks around them. How odd. These had phone numbers beside them, but Daddy had omitted the area codes.
Disappointed, she didn't find a "Joshua" listed anywhere. She had hoped she could track him down. Frowning, she closed the book and slid it under the mattress. In the right hands, this could be very valuable-or damning-information.
She picked up a now-cold piece of veggie pizza from the broad, flat box and took a bite, hardly tasting it as she picked left-handed through the pile of news articles, pondering the headlines. "UN declares national sovereignty dead." Daddy had been outraged. "US ratifies International Criminal Court Treaty," the subhead read, "US citizens, soldiers subject to international law, loss of Constitutional protection." Daddy had testified before the Senate Committee about that, arguing vehemently against ratification. His voice fell on deaf ears.
She shook her head and leafed deeper into the pile. A yellowing magazine article caught her eye. She unfolded it and read the headline. "J. Harold Otis: Man with a mission."
She read on. "Millionaire philanthropist, J. Harold Otis, has long been known for his unwavering support of the United Nations, and now, at the outset of the new President's term in office, he has been appointed United States Ambassador to that august body. 'I am very grateful to the President for giving me this opportunity,' he said in an interview with Time yesterday. 'The UN is the world's greatest hope for establishing and maintaining universal peace. It is my firm intention to use my influence to help the United Nations realize its full potential.'"
Cassie looked at the dates of the other two articles and realized they'd been written several years ago while Otis was still UN Ambassador. Clearly, he'd used his influence to bring Americans under the jurisdiction of the International Court and try to eliminate national sovereignty. She shook her head and set them aside for later, turning her attention to the remaining items lying on the bedspread. The thick black journal-buckled shut against prying eyes-frightened her as much as it beckoned to her. In it, she was sure, would be her father's innermost thoughts, memories, even fears maybe-all written in his familiar hand, all with the power to reach through the wall she had erected around her emotions. Next to it lay the computer disk and DVD. So small, so impersonal, and yet, she suspected, so revealing. Which would hurt most? More importantly, which would reveal the most?
She laid the pizza back in the box, reached for the thick journal, and unclasped its brass buckle. It felt cold. Like fear. With a deep breath, she opened it and exhaled quickly as she read the name stenciled in gold leaf inside the cover. J. Harold Otis. She shivered. "Oh, sweet Jesus," she murmured. "This must be it."
Willing herself to be calm, she turned to the first page. The handwriting looked neither young nor old. As timeless as evil, Cassie thought, as she began reading the private thoughts of one of the world's wealthiest and most reclusive of men.
-
May 4, 1972
It is settled. We have all agreed. The youngsters from Yale are just what we've been waiting for. We will harness their youth and idealism. We will place them in positions of power, money, and influence so they can carry on after we are gone. We will teach them patience and encourage them along the path. They will come to understand that tomorrow is built upon all of our todays, and it is a better tomorrow that we strive toward.
-
Dread warred with curiosity as Cassie trudged through the twisting, turning details of elections and assassinations. The World Bank. World Trade Organization. The giveaway of the Panama Canal. The secret pact with China. Campaign finance restrictions. It was all here-and more. She pictured the writer, smiling smugly or frowning flinty-eyed as he methodically recorded every event, personality, and, of course, his own influence. Turning to the last page, a slip of paper fell onto her lap. Joshua's now familiar greeting was scribbled across it. She laid it aside and read the final journal entry. It had been written shortly after the Vice President's visit to Firethorne in May.
-
I am growing old but feel stronger than ever as I see it falling into place. Who could have known that the discontent of the Sixties Generation could be so effectively harnessed? Or have dreamed that the ashes of those years would prove such fertile ground? From the 'modernization' of the public schools and liberalization of the universities, to the division of Americans into warring interest groups, the subversion of the Bill of Rights, and the consolidation of the energy supplies, all has gone more smoothly than we dared hope.
Of course, we have had strong allies-naiveté, idealism, human nature itself. The 'million moms' who believed our anti-gun propaganda. The environmentalists who helped cripple American industrial might. And, of course, petty despots like Saddam, whose territorial ambitions enabled the concept of a new world order to gain credibility, and Milosevic, whose lust for power allowed us to convert NATO into an offensive force.
Just a few details now remain before ultimate control becomes ours. I am reassured by all I see and read and all that my colleagues tell me that the day is close at hand when I can at last visit my brother's grave, knowing that I kept the promise I made to him as he lay in that wretched V.A. hospital-'No more war.'
-
Yeah. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Cassie thought as she closed the journal, buckled the clasp, and slid it beneath the mattress. Of course, it could be just the ravings of a lunatic, she consoled herself, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach didn't go away. She imagined how Otis must have felt when he discovered the journal was missing. But how did Joshua get it? And who is this Joshua who has that kind of access to the old man's belongings?
The shrill ring of the telephone startled her from her thoughts. "Hello?" Her voice sounded shrill, too.
"Cassie, darling. It's me." The familiar throatiness of Selena's voice threaded its way through the phone line. "I see you made it okay. Are you having a nice, eh, vacation?"
"Yes, but there are still some things I hope to see," Cassie answered, conscious of the danger Selena was in-or might pose. She pushed the thought away.
"I expected as much. In fact, that is why I have arranged a tour for you tomorrow if you don't have other plans?"
"Not really. I'm free to do whatever."
"Good. There's an historic town named Quincy just about thirty minutes west of Tallahassee that you must see while you're in the area. A friend of mine volunteered to show you around. Can you meet him in the morning?"
"Sure. What time and where?" Cassie jotted down the directions, promised to be there, and hung up reluctantly. The silence left in the wake of Selena's phone call made the sparsely furnished room seem even less friendly. Sighing, she forced her attention back to the items remaining on the bedspread-the computer disk, the DVD, and the other news clippings. "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe," she said aloud.
The shiny, silver DVD won, and Cassie carried it to the desk across the room. Sliding it into her computer, she caught her breath as she found herself looking down through a camera lens at a gathering of some of the world's most influential people. The date in the lower right-hand corner showed that it had been recorded a few weeks before the Vice President's visit to Firethorne in May. She turned up the volume on the computer as the First Lady began speaking.
"Martin will be on the golf course for the rest of the day, so we don't have to worry about him barging in. He thinks there's nothing going on today until the exhibition by the Chinese Ballet at 9:00 tonight, so he'll play all eighteen holes." She grinned broadly.
The British Prime Minister's wife turned toward the head of the table and addressed herself to someone hidden from the camera's eye. "It was really quite clever of you, J. Harold, to arrange the golf game. With Martin and Samuel out of the way, we can speak freely." The tall, dark-haired woman held her nose in the air like the aristocrat she had always aspired to be, but her accent betrayed her working-class background.
Max had said that cameras were concealed throughout the big house, and she wondered if the P.M.'s wife knew she was being recorded. Considering the positioning of this one to hide old man Otis from view, he obviously believed in no one's privacy but his own. Come to think of it, he hadn't been seen in public for a long time-ever since he'd left the United Nations. Bile rose in her throat at the sight of his hands appearing on the table, palms flat, fingers outstretched. His talon-like fingernails looked like they hadn't been clipped in months. He cleared his throat several times before responding.
"Yes. Then, let's proceed." His voice was almost as high as a woman's. His words carried just the barest hint of his southern upbringing. "Ambassador, what do you have to report?"
A heavy-set man with a face as round as a basketball responded. His speech carried a heavy Italian accent. "The new Secretary-General and Commission on World Governance have approved the final draft of the Constitution. Your suggestion that it specify the elimination of all national borders has been included. The Commission agreed-as does the Secretary-General-that this will go a long way toward eliminating any remaining vestiges of 'national sovereignty.' In addition, they have finally agreed upon a formula for internationalizing the production and control of armaments-everything from handguns to nuclear missiles. Once the Vice President assumes office and the United States finally acquiesces, other nations will follow-like dominoes."
The French Minister of Defense, a petite blonde whose pacifist views were well documented, spoke up. "We are quite pleased to have reached an accord that will place all armaments under United Nations control. The Russians and Chinese were most helpful in gaining the cooperation of the developing nations, such as India, Pakistan, and Turkey. With the total disarmament of individual nations, we will have removed all possibility of nationally initiated wars, including the border skirmishes that still occur. And after the citizens are disarmed, there can be no threat of a popular uprising to challenge our authority."
Otis' taloned fingers curled in upon themselves ever so slightly. "There is still the question of ancient animosities."
A short, bearded man with eyes as black as coal and a distinctly Middle Eastern accent responded. "It is believed that the elimination of national boundaries coupled with a new ability to trade and travel freely will be a giant step in resolving those problems. Of course, some hatreds go so deep that such interaction can only breed trouble-such as exists between the Jews and the Muslims.
"Once America signs on and the United World Constitution is implemented, we will revoke the Israeli charter and internationalize Palestine. In exchange for being out from under the Jews, the Palestinians are willing to yield control of their homeland to the United Nations with Jerusalem as the capitol of the new world government. Although the Jews will be welcome to stay and work, their presence is sure to be a constant reminder of the ... earlier strife, and their activities will have to be closely monitored to avoid any outbreaks of violence. Jews who do not wish to remain will be free to return to the countries from which their ancestors emigrated after World War II."
Cassie listened with her eyes closed, picturing the bloody, shattered bodies of Israelis and Palestinians that continued to fill the news. Peace would be a welcome change. But was another diaspora the answer? She thought of the pogroms in which European Jews had been terrorized and murdered down through the centuries. And the Holocaust. Skeletal bodies trapped behind barbed wire; infants thrown like so much garbage onto the corpses of their parents. She opened her eyes at the sound of Otis' voice. He sounded irritated.
"Have you given any thought to anything other than Israel? Ireland, for example? Africa?"
The color rose in the Middle Easterner's face as he floundered for an answer. He was saved by an all-too-familiar voice that made Cassie sit bolt upright. It was Uncle Hamilton. How she had failed to notice his finely-chiseled features before, she'd couldn't imagine.
"There will always be challenges for us to face, J. Harold." His voice was even smoother than usual, and he looked more relaxed than she'd seen him in a long time. "The point is that, in a united world, solutions will exist where none exist now. Once we limit religious observances to the home and eliminate the influence of religious leaders, we will be able to effectively re-educate the populace to understand the, ah, truth about religion, and problems such as exist in Ireland and the Middle East will die a natural death. And, as for the Africans ... " He allowed himself a small chuckle, "with the World Bank controlling the money supply and the WTO controlling trade, why, they will find themselves with such an abundance of food and resources from the coffers of the former Western nations that they won't have anything left to fight about."
From the silence that followed, it was clear that no one could find any flaw in his logic. Cassie couldn't either, although his words sent a chill through her and stirred a shadowy memory of a long ago argument. Try as she might, she couldn't quite grasp it.
Otis' voice broke into her thoughts. "Well, then, let's proceed to the situation right here in the United States. Hamilton?"
Uncle Hamilton smiled and leaned back against his chair. "We're on the verge of putting the last piece of the puzzle into place. We have the mainstream media where we want them. Between what we learned from their FBI files and all the 'public' pressure about their, ah, 'irresponsible' reporting, they're terrified that we will either expose their dirty little secrets or return to the McCarthy days of blacklists. Our 'investigative reports' about the underground militia have created an effective smokescreen for our operatives, so law enforcement has yet to tie one incident to any of them. Also, the 'exposes' of 'extreme right wing' groups, portraying them as zealots who want to impose their own ideas and agenda on the American people in the name of God and the Constitution, are having the desired impact." He paused and leaned forward. "In other words, when the time comes, we'll have the public well-prepared to accept our message, and the Conservatives' own words will work against them."
Cassie thought about the ever-present spin in the news. Even her own article-which she'd abandoned in favor of fulfilling her father's quest-had been "edited for content," eliminating the out-going House Speaker's comments about his resignation. "I can no longer effectively represent either my District or the people of the United States in an atmosphere so poisoned by misinformation." She shook her head. Sue had said that quoting the former Speaker was a waste of valuable space. And I believed her.
The Japanese man seated beside Uncle Hamilton joined the discussion. His English was flawless. "For our part, we have focused most of our attention on flooding the market with our video games. Those who oppose world unity are the villains. Those who support our agenda are the heroes. With the new graphics, our most recent releases are the most effective yet. They are selling as fast as they reach the stores. Even adults are buying them-"
"We, too, have been flooding the market with propaganda," interrupted a balding man with thick glasses and a nose that reminded Cassie of a hawk's beak. "We have three new movies being released for television and two that will hit the theaters in August."
"Excellent." It was J. Harold Otis again. "Yes, Pamela?"
The P.M.'s wife had been trying for several minutes to get the old man's attention. She sat up straight when he finally recognized her. "I just want to report that all is in order on our side of the Channel. We have the media in our pocket. Parliament is so concerned about the increasing popularity of the Conservative message that they are willing to do anything to preserve their power. Samuel, of course, doesn't know the whole plan, but he's solidly behind anything that will keep him-us-at 10 Downing Street."
"What about the Royal Family?" It was the diminutive man across from the First Lady. Until now, he'd been silent.
The P.M.'s wife smirked. "No one pays attention to the royals anymore."
"And the Vice President?" he interrupted, turning toward Uncle Hamilton.
"She's so power hungry, she'd sell her own mother down the river," Uncle Hamilton replied.
"That is what concerns me," the diminutive man responded, frowning.
"Does anyone else have anything to report?" asked Otis, resuming control of the discussion. "James?"
A thin, bespectacled man with black hair and skin as white as the walls leaned forward, his arms on the table. "Speaking of the Vice President, not everything is going as smooth as we would like," he said, knitting his brow. "Despite the way the media is spinning it, the truth is that the Vice President still commands only thirty-seven percent in the polls. If this continues, well ... 'the best laid plans of mice and men' ... " He paused and looked at the others seated around the table.
No one spoke for a long moment. The First Lady finally broke the heavy silence. "I see no cause for concern. Our plan is foolproof. The Vice President will occupy the Oval Office. Preparations are almost complete for the President's final..."
The rest of her sentence was lost as J. Harold Otis' hand suddenly slithered beneath the table's edge, and the monitor went black. Cassie took a deep breath and stared at the blank screen. What was the First Lady about to say that made the old man suddenly turn off the camera? Curiouser and curiouser. She squared her shoulders against whatever existed on the remaining unlabeled disk and inserted it into the port. Her heartbeat quickened. It was the missing manuscript.
-
IN THE NAME OF PEACE
Anatomy of a Conspiracy
By Madison Hart
Beneath the splendor of centuries old, moss-laden oaks, nestled among ancient hills where Native Americans fought and died, where slaves toiled toward freedom, and southern charm oozes from every pore lurks a secret as dark as the meandering waters of the Apalachicola River beside whose banks it was born. For decades, it has been nurtured, funded, and protected by a small, elite group of people who have paved the way for a new world order that spells the death of America's grand democratic experiment.
No, they're not the Trilateral Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations, nor the Fabian Society, although their ties with them are strong and their influence upon them great. Millionaires all, they are publishers and politicians, leaders in business and industry, and their reach extends far beyond anyone's comprehension. They consider themselves altruists, model citizens, patriots, repositories of all that is good and right and honorable in humankind, and their goal is not to harm but to heal. They are 'Penseur.'
I first discovered the group in the late 1960's while I attended Yale University. I was even a member, thinking-with the idealism of youth amid the turmoil and horror of the Vietnam War-that we could change the world, eliminate war forever from the human experience. It was a small group, deliberately kept thus by what I then thought was a need for a certain purity, not of race but of purpose. By little more than an accident of birth, most of us were from wealthy or near-wealthy backgrounds. We studied the great and not-so-great philosophers-Marx and Kant, Jefferson and Madison, Ghandi, Hitler, even Jesus and the Bible, and we studied war, itself. Every war known to man, including those small skirmishes that are little more than a footnote in history. And we debated endlessly about their causes, their effects, and what could have prevented them.
Eventually, we discovered the answer we so ardently sought. It was elegant in its simplicity. But the price of achieving it was high. Too high for me, and I abandoned the group. I believed the group had also disbanded, tossed aside like so many youthful fantasies that cannot withstand the harsh light of reality.
I was wrong. Penseur has remained viable and has laid the trap so masterfully that, once sprung, there will be no escape. Not for America. Not for Asia. Not for Europe. Not for anyone.
Perhaps, it is already too late, but I am compelled to try to stop the impending tyranny I helped plan so many years ago-in the name of peace.
Here then, in its entirety, is the manifesto of Penseur and the chronicle of its implementation throughout the world and now in the United States of America.
-
Target Number One-Education"
A well-educated, independent-thinking populace, familiar with the teachings of its ancestors and strongly grounded in moral absolutes, poses the greatest threat to our endeavor.
-
Cassie jumped at the sound of a faint knock on her motel room door. Quickly switching the computer off and closing its lid, she crossed the room and peered through the small peephole. A short, blond-haired man held up a small sign toward her-"Max sent me." She'd forgotten all about him. Leaving the chain in place, she opened the door just a few inches.
"Good girl," he said, smiling around his softly spoken words. "Can't be too careful these days." He handed her a Wendy's Hamburgers bag. "Old fashioned goodness," he said, then turned his back and disappeared into the darkness.
She re-bolted the door, then reached into the bag and drew out a gleaming black Glock Model 26, 9 mm. pistol. It was the compact model, perfect for her small hands, but the eleven rounds of ammunition it held-and the loaded spare magazine---were sufficient to handily defend herself.
She tested its weight, remembered the trigger safety, and checked the magazine, then, with her finger outside the trigger guard, pointed the weapon expertly at her image in the mirror above the dresser. It felt as familiar as an old friend. Knowing she had it gave her a sense of security and independence she hadn't felt since they'd changed the law and she, along with millions of other good citizens, lost her concealed weapons permit. Slipping the pistol back into the innocent-looking bag, she set it beside the bed and returned to the computer. She had much to learn before she decided her next move.
August 7
-
Cassie awoke in the morning to a stiff neck and the sound of raindrops beating against the window. "Oh, lord," she muttered, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the not-very-firm bed. "I hate traveling. Don't know how people do it." Of course, most people are willing to spend a little extra for their motel rooms. The clock on the night table read "8:15." She rubbed her neck and stood, stretching to get the knots out of her muscles, and went into the bathroom. Thank heaven they at least provide a coffeepot. She flicked the switch and listened to the coffee maker gurgle while she brushed her teeth and examined her reflection in the mirror.
"I look like something the cat dragged in," she said, noticing the crease in her right cheek from the pillowcase and the dark circles under her eyes. "Oh, well. It's not like Prince Charming is awaiting my presence. Or Max."
She splashed cold water on her face, toweled it dry, and poured coffee into the styrofoam cup. Sipping it gratefully, she went to the door, where the morning newspaper lay folded outside on the walkway. Life just keeps getting better all the time. She picked up the newspaper and carried it with her to the imitation-leather chair by the window. "Why, it's practically like being at home," she murmured, smiling.
She set her coffee on the lamp table and opened the not-very-thick issue of the Tallahassee Democrat. Her eyes widened at the sight of the headline.
-
One Dead, Two Injured in Bloody Bank Robbery
Two gunmen armed with a sawed-off shotgun and a .38 caliber handgun stormed into the Independence Bank of Tallahassee yesterday afternoon, demanding admittance to the safe deposit boxes. When Bank Manager Hank Charles refused, he was forced to the floor and shot once through the head. Security guard, Russell Davis, was also shot, and a female, whose identity has not been released, was wounded by a stray bullet. Both Davis and the woman are listed in serious but stable condition at Tallahassee Memorial Regional Medical Center.
-
"Oh, sweet Jesus," she said under her breath, thinking about the courtly old gentleman who had been so helpful to her yesterday. To the right of the article was a grainy, black-and-white picture beneath a small headline:-
Authorities seek woman for questioning
-
Stunned, Cassie recognized herself in the photograph taken from the bank's surveillance camera. Me? Why me? The memory of Max's words flooded her mind. "You might be getting into something a lot bigger than you or I initially believed." Calming herself, she studied the picture. Fortunately, it was not very clear. Certainly not clear enough for a stranger to positively identify her. And no one in Tallahassee knew her. Except Max's friend, but he wouldn't betray her. Who else? Hank Charles' secretary. But, if she was going to say anything, she already would have. Unless she was the unnamed woman who had been shot in the holdup.
Suddenly, she thought of the girl at the motel desk who had studied her so closely. Chances were good that someone else would be on duty this morning, but Cassie wasn't about to gamble. Within minutes, she'd dressed, loaded her belongings into the trunk of the rental car, and was driving west on I-10 toward Quincy and her meeting with the "tour guide."
The rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly as Cassie drove slowly around the town square. It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting-the imposing yellow brick courthouse; green park benches scattered along the white ribbon of sidewalk; small clusters of casually dressed people standing or sitting in the shade of the huge moss-draped live oaks. Cars of all hues and models rested beside old-fashioned meters. Mom-and-pop stores surrounded it all. Cassie found an empty parking place and pulled in to wait for whatever happened next.
While she fumbled in her purse to find change for the meter, someone tapped on her window. She looked up to see a hulking figure staring at her. Her hand closed around the pistol she'd hidden in her purse. The man tapped again, insistently. He was a giant of a man-at least six-and-a-half feet tall and almost as broad. His round face was devoid of wrinkles-no doubt because of the fat that bulged within-and was scarred, most likely from a bad case of youthful acne. Thinning, close-cropped gray hair accented the almost colorless blue eyes that peered in at her, and his full lips were drawn into a slight frown. Gripping the pistol securely, her finger against the trigger guard, Cassie opened the window a mere inch. He smiled.
"Excuse me, but are you Cassandra Hart?" he asked in a thick, cracker drawl. His breath smelled of stale coffee and tobacco, with maybe a hint of Certs thrown into the mix.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Joshua," he answered softly, holding his hand out politely to shake hers. She didn't take it.
He shook his massive head slightly, frowned again, and reached into his hip pocket. Her fingers tightened on the pistol. "Maybe this will help," he suggested, handing her a piece of paper folded around a small photo.
Cassie took it from his hairy, stubby fingers and rolled up the window. It wasn't much of a barrier between them, but it was all she had. The note was written on a piece of lined paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook, and she recognized the handwriting immediately.
-
Querida,
I have sent this with Joshua so you will know he is who he says. Follow his instructions and don't be afraid.
Selena
-
The old photograph of herself showing off her newly earned driver's license with Selena standing proudly beside her had been taken on her sixteenth birthday and was as familiar as the handwriting. No one but Selena had a copy of it. She relaxed her grip on the pistol and rolled the window halfway down.
"Where is she?" Cassie asked, still uncomfortable in the presence of the homely giant.
"Not far. My truck is just over there," he replied, pointing to an old, blue Ford parked in front of the Rexall drug store on the corner. "Follow me. There's a small airfield just a few miles outside o' town where ya can leave yer car. Nobody'll notice it, but if they do, they'll just think ya rented a plane. I'll take ya the rest o' the way." He seemed to study her closely as he spoke.
Cassie shifted in the seat, not thrilled with the idea of riding with a virtual stranger, but she had no choice.
Joshua suddenly stood up straight and turned toward the sound of booted footsteps on the sidewalk in front of the car. "Howdy, Crandall," he said, giving a small salute to the uniformed police officer striding toward them.
"Junior," the officer answered, looking curiously toward Cassie. "What's up?"
"Nothin'. Lady needed some directions," Joshua replied, smirking. "Just another lost Yankee..."
Crandall smirked, too, and nodded. "How 'bout a cuppa? I'm 'bout due fer a break..."
"Sorry, buddy. Can't. Gotta git back t' the farm. Wife's back is actin' up agin. Jus' came t' town t' pick up some medicine for 'er..."
Cassie pushed the pistol deep into her purse, hiding it beneath her wallet, while she listened to the exchange between the two men. Funny, she thought, how they never seem to finish their sentences. They just left them dangling in the humid air.
"Well, maybe next time," the officer answered. "Give Aggie mah regards. Hope she gits t' feelin' better."
"Thanks. I'll tell 'er..." Joshua replied, then turning back to Cassie, said loudly enough for the policeman to hear, "Jus' follow me, Miss. I'll git ya t' the crossroads."
"Thanks," Cassie replied, also loud enough for the officer's ears. "I appreciate your help." Her clipped northern accent sounded foreign even to her.
Joshua turned, gave a brief wave to Officer Crandall, and jaywalked across the broad street to his truck, his gait amazingly graceful for so large a man.
Cassie watched the policeman approach an elderly black woman standing at the bus stop on the corner, then backed her car out into the sparse traffic, falling in behind Joshua, whose truck looked like it would fall apart as it rattled over a speed bump.
Max scowled as he pulled up in front of Madison Hart's house and saw the black limousine in the driveway with its tall, muscular driver leaning against the hood. "That guy looks more like a bodyguard than a chauffeur," he muttered under his breath. He parked directly behind the limo and noted the Maryland license plate staring at him-"HB-1." Hamilton Bates. Wonder what the hell he's doin' here.
The burly chauffeur strode over and positioned himself in front of the porch as Max climbed from the car. "Sorry. No one's allowed in," he said in a deep voice marked by a strong Brooklyn accent.
"That a fact?" Max pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his suit coat and flashed his badge. "Well, I'm afraid that doesn't include me, now does it?"
The chauffeur wasn't impressed. "Yessir, I'm afraid it does. Unless ya got a warrant of some kind."
Max narrowed his eyes at the unexpected challenge. "I don't need a warrant. I'm responding to a call, and if you don't move out of my way, you'll be under arrest for interfering with a law enforcement officer." He used his well-practiced command voice.
The chauffeur hesitated, started to speak, but a smooth baritone voice interrupted. "It's all right, Busby."
Max and the chauffeur turned to see an impeccably dressed Hamilton Bates descend the broad wooden stairs. His steel-colored hair glistened in the morning sunlight.
"Detective Henshaw, I believe?" He held out his hand toward Max, paused, then dropped it to his side when Max ignored the gesture. "You'll have to forgive my chauffeur, Detective. He is long on loyalty, but somewhat short on discretion. Please, go on in. Miss Hart is not at home, however."
"I see," Max replied as if he was unaware of Cassie's absence. "In that case, may I ask what business you are here on?"
Bates chuckled. "Strictly personal, Detective. Strictly personal." With that, he turned and walked briskly toward the limousine, not waiting for Busby to open the door for him, and disappeared from sight behind the darkly tinted windows.
"Your boss seems to be in a hurry," Max remarked, grinning. The chauffeur glared at him but said nothing as he rushed to get into the car. Must be fun to kow-tow through life, Max thought, watching the car disappear around the corner.
May Lee opened the door before he had reached the top step. "Oh, Detective Henshaw! I am so glad to see you." Her voice was hoarse, her eyes red and swollen, and she held a crumpled handkerchief in her left hand. He wasn't surprised. She'd been frantic when she'd called to tell him that Philip had been charged with murder-a Federal "hate" crime.
Max followed her in and locked the door behind himself, then took the tiny woman's hand and guided her to the living room, seating her gently on the couch. "Why was Bates here?"
May Lee shook her head and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. "I have never known such trouble. First Mr. Hart. Then Philip. Now this." She pulled a white envelope from the pocket of her apron. "I never should have answered the door when I saw it was Mr. Bates." Her body shook from the force of her weeping.
"What are you talking about? Let me see that." He took the envelope from her trembling hand. The return address read "Bureau of Enforcement, United States Immigration and Naturalization Service." He opened it, withdrew the letter, and read it twice, shaking his head. "Sonuvabitch," he muttered under his breath. "Is this why he was here? To deliver this to you?" he asked as he replaced the letter in its envelope and set it on the coffee table.
She nodded. "He said he was very sorry, but when he learned of the INS' decision to deport me, he felt it would be better if I learned about it from 'a friend.'" She sniffled and swallowed hard. "I asked him if there was anything he could do to help me, but he said his influence is limited." She looked at Max, desperation in her eyes. "Maybe you can do something? I mean, I can't leave Philip. Someone has to be here for him. He is not a strong person, and I don't know how he will handle this murder charge. I have to get him an attorney, pay for the cost of his defense. I cannot do that from China."
When she paused for breath, Max spoke. "I don't know about the INS, May Lee. They're a whole different kettle of fish. But I've found an attorney for him. His name is Bernard Schligerman, and he is very good-although not as expensive as some. He talked with Philip last night and will meet with him again tomorrow."
Her face brightened a little. "He will help Philip? You know that Philip did not kill Mr. Hart. Remember? He told you all about what happened. And the police have the body of the boy who really was driving the car when Mr. Hart was killed. Doesn't that mean anything?"
Max considered her words. Had it been Takazawa who killed Madison Hart-or was he just a fall guy? He shifted his attention back to May Lee. "Mr. Schligerman said he will try to help him. But there is a problem. The FBI has a signed confession. Even though Philip says they coerced him, it makes it much harder to defend him." Max paused a moment and looked down at the envelope on the coffee table. "According to Philip, they told him that if he didn't, uh, 'accept responsibility,' they would have you deported."
"Dear God in Heaven. And now they've ordered me to leave anyway. Detective? I don't understand what is happening."
Max sat forward, his elbows braced against his knees, and studied May Lee's face for a long time. "The letter says that, because you have lost your sponsor, you are no longer entitled to remain in the United States. They do have the right to deport you under these circumstances. Why didn't you ever apply for citizenship?"
"I don't know. I was going to, but I just never seemed to find the time. It didn't seem all that important."
Max was quiet a moment, then took his pen and notepad from his pocket. "I'm not sure what, if anything, I can do," he said, "but maybe if you tell me the circumstances surrounding your immigrating to the United States, I can think of something."
"I worked for the Harts in Hong Kong. When they were accused of 'espionage' and sent back to the United States, they asked if I would come with them. My husband had always wanted to come here, Philip was over here, and Miss Cassie was almost like a daughter to me. So I said yes, Mr. Bates arranged for me to get a work visa, and then, well, here I am."
"So it was Bates and not Hart who helped you?"
She nodded. "Mr. Hart no longer had any influence."
"Why would Bates use his influence to help you? No disrespect intended, but Bates is a pretty high roller and, as I understand it, was involved in Madison Hart's expulsion from Hong Kong."
May Lee shook her head again. "I don't know. Maybe he just felt he owed it to the Harts. I remember him saying something about how important it was to have someone who could be trusted working for the Harts. I only know that I was very grateful for his help."
Trusted? By whom? Max wondered. The Harts? Bates? May Lee had shown more loyalty to the Harts than to Bates, as far as he could tell. But, she was beholden to Bates, and a debt was a debt. "Forgive me for asking, but what made Bates think you were so trustworthy?"
"Because I never gossip to outsiders about what goes on in my employer's house."
"What could have gone on that anyone would be ashamed of?" he asked.
"Well, not much. But, sometimes you hear things that are best kept to yourself..." Her voice trailed off, and for the first time, she didn't look at him as she spoke.
"May Lee. I know there was trouble for Mr. Hart in Hong Kong. I know that he was arrested. I know that he was expelled from the country. What I don't know is what happened between Madison Hart and Hamilton Bates. And I think it's important that I do. I can't tell you why, but I hope you will trust me."
She was quiet a long time, looking out the big window. Max followed her gaze toward the rose bushes fluttering in the breeze.
"I do trust you, Detective Henshaw," she whispered, interrupting Max's thoughts. "But Hamilton Bates is a very powerful man, and I already have enough trouble. I'm not sure that knowing any more than you do would help either of us."
Max considered her words but pressed on. "Let me be the judge of that. Please. Tell me what you know."
After a moment's hesitation, she stood and walked across to the curio cabinet, opened the door, and took out a small glass ball. Holding it gingerly, she came back and gave it to him.
He turned it over in his hand, studying it. About three inches in diameter, the hollow globe was etched in great detail with the nations, mountains, plains, and oceans of the world. Confused, he looked up at her.
"That is what came between Mr. Bates and Mr. Hart," she said simply.
"This? Why? Is it of such great value?"
May Lee smiled sadly. "No, not in and of itself. There are many just like it in the souvenir shops in Hong Kong. No, it is what it represents. You see, Detective, Mr. Hart and Mr. Bates had been very good friends for many years. Mr. Bates was Best Man at Mr. and Mrs. Hart's wedding. He was even Miss Cassie's godfather. But they had a serious, uh, philosophical disagreement, and Mr. Hart was using his position with Bates News Service to undermine Mr. Bates' goals." She stopped as if gathering her thoughts.
"It happened about the time Britain turned over control of Hong Kong to the Chinese," she continued. "Mr. Bates stopped by after dinner one night, feeling very festive about the impending change of government. 'Just think of all the strife this will resolve,' I overheard him tell Mr. Hart. But Mr. Hart was very dour. 'It sure will, Hamilton. Just imagine all those unruly, freedom-loving people who will finally learn to toe the line.' Then Mr. Bates started to grow irritable. 'Yes, Madison. That's exactly the point. People will be forced to work together for the common good. The two governments will no longer be vying for control of the resources, the people, or the money. The threats of war and bloodshed between Britain and China-with the people of Hong Kong caught in the middle-will disappear forever!'
"I was in the dining room clearing the table and couldn't help seeing and hearing what was going on, and neither of them paid any attention to me. I remember Mr. Hart picking up a globe just like this one from the coffee table, walking over to Mr. Bates, and holding it out toward him, saying, 'Hamilton, you're so blasted wrong. Look at this. See how unique every nation is? Some are mountainous, others plains, some desert. Their citizens are also unique, and a one-size-fits-all government won't work. Combining control of the nations of the world may prevent war-as you hope-but who will thank you for it?'
"Mr. Bates got kind of a strange smile on his face and said, 'Everyone but you, I imagine, as long as you insist on living in the past. Don't you realize that the thirst for liberty has been quenched by the desire for security?' But Mr. Hart said, 'Don't you realize that without liberty there is no security? Mankind was meant to be free, Hamilton. Free! What you seek will destroy the human spirit, for God's sake.'
"Mr. Bates looked at the globe for a minute, then grabbed it from Mr. Hart and crushed it in his bare hand. I will never forget the blood streaming from his fingers onto the white terrazzo floor. You can still see the long scars on his fingers. 'Madison,' he said, 'this is what will happen to the world if your idealism were to prevail. Mankind will destroy not only itself, but the world, and with it, the very freedom you so cherish.'" She shook her head. "I went into the kitchen, and when I returned, Mr. Bates had left. A few days later, Mr. Hart's column criticizing the British appeared in the newspaper. Twenty-four hours later, he was arrested for 'espionage.'
"Mrs. Hart told me later that Mr. Hart bought this globe at the airport before they returned to the United States. It was a reminder, he said, to be very careful into whose hands our fragile world is placed."
Max gave the globe back to her. "If Mr. Hart was so antagonistic toward Bates, why does Cassie still regard him with such affection?"
She returned the globe to its place of honor among the other mementoes and closed the door tightly, replying as she did so, "Miss Cassie was very young at the time and probably remembers very little of what happened. Mr. Bates was always very fond of her, and the Harts did not believe it was right to involve her in their disagreement. Don't misunderstand. The Harts remained cordial to Hamilton Bates, but the closeness they had once shared was gone, and neither the Harts nor Mr. Bates made any attempt to resurrect it."
Max leaned back against the soft couch, staring at nothing in particular. When he did speak, he was somber. "So Bates came all the way out here just to deliver a letter and refused to be of any help to you despite all his money and connections." He paused. "Or was there more to his visit, maybe?"
"Well, he did ask about Miss Cassie. Whether I have heard from her, things like that. He said he was concerned about how she was dealing with her father's death."
"What did you tell him?"
"Only that I believed a vacation was a good idea for her and that, no, I haven't heard from her. He wanted to know if I knew how to reach her, and I told him I don't." She sat on the piano bench and began wringing her hands. "Detective? What am I going to do?"
"I don't know, May Lee, but I'll do some checking and let you know what I find out."
"I only have 36 hours," she whined.
"I know. I'll do what I can," he replied. "I promise."
Selena watched from the front porch of the old house as the truck emerged from the thick woods and rumbled up the winding, red clay driveway. When it stopped in front of the porch, she mentally crossed her fingers and hoped it wasn't a mistake having Cassie come here, wondering-again-whether it was really necessary. So much was at stake. But they needed to talk, and there was no safer place than here.
"Hello, Querida," Selena said, smiling as Cassie walked up the steps to embrace her.
"Oh, Selena," Cassie murmured, melting into the woman's embrace like a child awakening into her mother's arms from a nightmare.
"Yes, yes, yo estoy aquí. I am here," she whispered as she held Cassie close. "My poor little Cassie. So much, so much you have endured. Come. Let's go inside. I'll fix you some of my famous Cuban coffee, and we will talk." She wrapped her arm around Cassie's waist and guided her inside.
Their footsteps sounded hollow against the hardwood floor as Selena led Cassie down the long hallway that separated the two halves of the farmhouse. On the right side were three bedrooms. On the left was a large living room, followed by the dining room, and then an enormous kitchen.
"Here, Querida. Put these on," Selena urged, handing Cassie a pair of soft cotton gloves just like the ones she wore. "We must be very careful. Even here."
Cassie obeyed without a word, then sat down at the round wooden table by the windows. Selena went across to pour coffee from the old fashioned pot on the stove. She had never been able to adapt to the modern electric coffee makers, which just didn't seem to make the coffee strong enough to qualify as Cuban.
Copies of several morning newspapers lay scattered on the table, and Selena watched from the corner of her eye as Cassie leafed through them. "Not a very good likeness, I'd say," she commented when Cassie picked up the Tallahassee paper.
"Good enough to cause some trouble," she replied, looking up at her then back down at the front page.
Selena put the cups on the table and sat down. "You are among friends, Cassie," she said, reaching over and patting her hand. "Friends who will protect you."
"It's hard to know who my friends are anymore," came the almost whispered reply.
"Querida, you must trust me. And Joshua. He risked very much coming to get you this morning. Your father trusted him implicitly." She paused before continuing. "And you know that you are very special to me."
Cassie leaned back, took a sip of coffee, and looked at her over the rim of the cup. "I know," she finally answered, setting the cup back onto the table. "It's just that ... oh, I don't know. It just seems that everyone I come in contact with ends up dead or hurt in some way. And I don't seem able to do anything about it. Daddy's note said to trust no one. Except you, of course."
"What has happened is not your fault. But you are right. It seems like evil is everywhere, which is why I am so thankful that you have made it to us safely. Believe me when I say that you're safer here than you have been anywhere for a long time. Joshua has lived in this area for many years with his wife. He is part of the community, and people don't notice him any more than they do a single flower in flowered wallpaper."
"Tell me about him."
"Why not let me tell you?" Joshua's deep voice echoed against the wooden walls as he entered the room, and Cassie blushed like she'd been caught gossiping.
"Straight from the horse's mouth," Selena laughed.
Joshua took a cup from the cabinet, filled it with coffee, and ambled across to sit opposite the two women.
Cassie, said nothing, seemingly fascinated by the rim of the coffee cup she traced with the gloved tip of her right index finger.
Joshua leaned back, holding his coffee in his left hand, his trunk-like legs sprawled out in front of him. "Not much mystery about me, little lady. At least, not in this house. Now, out there..." He pointed over his shoulder with his right thumb, "well, that's another story. But, like Selena here knows, and yer Daddy did, too, I'm just a simple country boy. I was born about forty miles up yonder." This time he pointed his index finger toward some invisible place to the north. "M' folks was sharecroppers and po' as can be, but, someway, they managed to feed themselves and seven hungry young'uns." He chuckled and patted his stomach, which protruded over his belt, hiding any lap he might have. "As you can see, I ate pretty good."
Selena was pleased to see Cassie smile a little. "Joshua lives here with his wife, Aggie. She's bedridden with a bad back," she said. "You'll meet her later. She told us to apologize for not being able to greet you personally."
Cassie just nodded.
"Boy, howdy, woman, you sure do make some kinda strong coffee," Joshua said, taking a long sip and putting his cup down. "No wonder you have such brown eyes!"
Selena smiled. It was an old joke between them.
"Anyhoo," Joshua began again, "Aggie and me settled here after I come back from Desert Storm." He paused and rubbed a place just above his left ear, then shook his head. "Sorry. Got some shell fragments in m' brain durin' the war, an' ever'time I think about it, m' head starts to hurtin'. Anyhoo, I tried farmin', but warn't no good at it. So, what with me always havin' been pretty good with m' hands---"
"And very gifted with electronics," Selena interrupted. "He got more than just some shrapnel from being in the Army. They taught him all about computers, too."
Joshua went on without missing a beat. "I ended up gittin' a job as a handyman over at Firethorne. You 'member me sendin' you the picture of yer daddy standin' out front? Well, after I worked there awhile, I ended up gittin' kinda, well, skittery, I reckon you could say. All them foreigners and high-falutin' folks comin' and goin', holdin' secret meetin's an' such sorta raised the hair on my neck, if ya know what I mean. And all them security guards. And surveillance cameras watchin' folks all the time."
"What did you do about it?" Cassie asked, breaking her long silence.
"What did I do? Well, nothin' at first. But, one day I heard the Vice President tellin' Mr. Otis how it wouldn't be long 'fore the U.S. military would be about as fearsome as a toothless ol' tiger and, what with me bein' a soldier once m'self, that really made me curious. So I started studyin' on it 'til I figured out how the system worked. You know, which of the guards was doin' their jobs and which were just punchin' the time clock. An' I figured out how often the surveillance disks were checked and changed, who did the checkin' and changin', and where they stored the old ones. An', well, ya see, I was sort of an all-purpose handyman, so I could pretty much come and go as I pleased without anybody payin' any attention." He paused to take a sip of coffee. "Ain't it funny how much folks don't see when they're lookin' down their noses, if ya git m' meanin'?"
Cassie said nothing.
"Anyhoo, to take the long outta the short of it, I snatched a couple of those DVD's, brought 'em home, an' Aggie an' me watched 'em. What we saw jus' 'bout took our breath away. All them powerful people, even the President of the United States, plottin' with a bunch o' foreigners to sell America down the river. I cain't begin t' tell ya how scary Aggie an' I felt hearin' them laughin' about how easy it is to fool people. An' it ain't just us, neither. You're lookin' at Europe, Asia, Russia, Africa-no country was bein' left out o' their plans. An' once I knew what was on them disks, I understood a whole heap more about what I'd been overhearin'."
"You mean they talked right in front of you?" Cassie looked incredulous.
"Sure. Like I said. Nobody never paid me no mind. I mighta been a footstool fer all they noticed me. I 'member one time when I was workin' in the tack room. The Vice President walked by, looked right at me, and kept on talkin' to that snooty lookin' Prime Minister of England about how once the Internet was in every home and every classroom, there'd be no limit to what they could find out 'bout people."
Cassie frowned and shook her head. "Yeah. And our taxes pay for their spying on us ... 'For the sake of the children,'" she mimicked, then asked, "How'd my father get involved?"
Selena had to suppress a smile at the way the young woman was beginning to imitate Joshua's speech pattern.
"Well, I'd read a lot o' his stuff. I never finished high school-didn't see much point in learnin' 'bout how great the Chinese are an' how selfish Americans are-but I read a lot. I take all the big newspapers-New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Miami Herald, and the like-an' I'd read yer daddy's book-the one that won him the Pulitzer Prize? So, when Hawks Risin, the host of a local talk radio show, had the Madison Hart as a guest one afternoon a few weeks after I saw those disks, I called up and next thing, I'm talkin' to him on the radio! 'Course, I couldn't say too much 'bout what I'd found out, but I did mention that I knew he liked to fish, and while he was in the area-he was here to interview our new governor-maybe he'd like me to take him out for some lunker bass. So, a couple of days later, ol' Hawks calls me to arrange a fishin' trip fer yer father." He paused, a pensive look passing across his face. "I reckon you can guess the rest."
"Madison had been suspicious for some time," Selena interjected. "Then when Hong Kong was transferred into China's hands, he became convinced that Penseur was still active. He tried to track down the members of the group, but after he was expelled from Hong Kong, many of his earlier resources-and contacts-dried up." She paused, thinking back. "So when Joshua contacted him and showed him the disks, then later, the journal, he finally had the hard proof he needed. Unfortunately, with so little time left before the elections, your father was forced to be less cautious, and, apparently, word of his efforts reached the wrong ears."
Cassie looked out the window and was silent. Finally, she looked straight into Joshua's pale blue eyes. "What is your real name? You call yourself Joshua, the policeman called you Junior."
Selena answered for him. "Junior is his nickname around town. There's no need for you to know his given name. 'Joshua' is his code name, because, in his own way, he broke through the walls at Firethorne ... like Joshua at Jericho in the Bible? We all have code names-for our own protection. Your father was known as Moses---"
"Because he was leading you to the Promised Land, I suppose," Cassie interrupted with a hint of sarcasm. "What about you?"
Selena hesitated a moment, looking at Joshua, who nodded ever so slightly. "St. Joan." She paused again, a little irritated by the disagreeable tone that had crept into Cassie's voice. "And no, not because he was leading us to the Promised Land, but because he was going to lead the way out of bondage."
Joshua sat up a little straighter and leaned forward in his chair, his thick arms resting on the table. "We've got an alias for you, too, little lady."
"And what, pray tell, would that be?"
"Godiva."
Cassie grimaced at him. "You've gotta be kidding. What am I supposed to do? Ride naked through the streets of D.C.?"
"No," Selena answered, trying to contain her growing exasperation at Cassie's attitude. "It is because if-and I do mean if-all goes well, it is you who must bear the naked truth to the world. And it won't be easy. They will scoff and ridicule. The media will attack you. The 'sheeple' will fear you. And you will find few allies. We can do nothing more than organize those people who believe that freedom is the most basic human right and are willing to stand up and be counted."
Cassie gazed silently through the window toward the field of dead cornstalks that stretched nearly two hundred yards from the house to the edge of a thick forest, and Selena studied her, trying to understand the change, the hardening, of her demeanor.
"Aliases have been part of your life for a long time, haven't they?" Cassie said, turning from the window. "Selena, I need to talk to you. Privately."
Joshua raised his eyebrows at Selena and stood. "That's okay. It's time for Aggie's medicine, anyway," he said, ambling toward the hallway. "Holler if ya need me."
Cassie said nothing until he was gone. When she did speak, her voice was low. "The investigator who's been working on Daddy's case told me some things I need to ask you about."
Selena listened in silence while Cassie related what she'd learned from Max. She had suspected that any investigation regarding Madison Hart would lead to her and, eventually, to her association with the Bay of Pigs and the sit-in at Columbia. The fact that it came from the local police rather than the Federal Government was, however, a little unnerving.
"Yes, Querida. That is all true," she replied, when Cassie had finished. "I was associated with both of those incidents, but it was not the way it looks. I was not involved in alerting the Cuban government about the planned invasion. You must remember, I was little more than a child myself at the time. The true villain was the man I overheard talking on the telephone. He wasn't discussing the invasion with a member of the resistance, he was talking to Castro's people in Havana. And when he discovered that I had overheard him, he told people that it was me who had alerted Castro. He was a powerful man, and the press believed him-or, at least, seemed to.
"My parents, fearing for my life, arranged to have me go back to Cuba for a few months 'to visit my relatives.' Castro, wanting to make the newspapers believe that I really was responsible, welcomed me back publicly. Many of the Cuban people in Miami knew better, though, and that is why the man was assassinated."
Cassie turned to the window, so Selena could see only her back. "But what about Columbia, Selena? You know, one incident is one thing, two documented incidents is another."
Selena paused, aware that her words were falling on unwilling ears. "Cassie, Columbia was different. I was a part of that movement. I was not a student there, but I was young and abhorred the killing. Not so much the killing in Vietnam, because that was war. But the killing in the streets of the United States-a country my family and I had adopted and loved-was something I could not accept. And I, like so many others in those days, felt that if the authorities would just listen, it would all come to an end. But, I didn't organize the sit-in. I only helped the students learn the layout of the building and the schedule of the university president. I left, because I did not want to be there when it happened."
Cassie spun around and glared at her. "You always leave when things are about to happen, don't you? You were nowhere to be found when my father was killed, too. Was it you who told Penseur when Daddy would be arriving in D.C.? He trusted you, Selena. Mother did, too. And so did I. Tell me, just whose side are you on, St. Joan?" She nearly spat out the name.
Selena felt her eyes narrow at the petite young woman silhouetted against the window, who held her arms straight down at her sides with her fists clenching and her eyes flashing. It was the same way Cassie had looked the day her mother was buried. The day she had turned on her father. Just as she is turning on me now, Selena thought, remembering the way Cassie had accused him of being selfish, not caring about her mother or her or anything but his "precious work." Cassie had known better then, and she knew better now.
As the young woman's words melted into the stillness between them, Selena shook her head. "Cassandra, I think you have already reasoned all of this out for yourself and know the answers you pretend to seek from me. If you didn't have faith in me ... If you didn't believe in your heart that I am and always have been on the same side as you, you wouldn't have come today. You know that it is I who led you to your father's note and the Freedom safe for guidance and that I, myself, am in danger. I have shared with you all that I know and have brought you here to give you as many answers as I can. I am sorry ... so sorry for all that you have suffered and for the fear that haunts you. But Querida, you have never had anything to fear from me and you never will."
Cassie stared at her for a moment, then looked back out the window. A moment passed, then two, before she spoke. "Why don't they harvest the corn?"
Selena smiled a little to herself. Cassie, like her father, was not one to drag things out. "I don't know," she lied.
Joshua's measured footsteps approached from the far end of the hall, and the women turned to see him stop at the kitchen door. "Is it safe to come in?"
"Of course," Selena replied. "I was just going to ask 'Godiva' what's happening 'out there'" She turned to Cassie as Joshua resumed his place at the table. "We've seen the news reports, of course, but we know there's more to the story than they are making public."
"You mean about Daddy?"
"Yes, Querida. Please."
Cassie left the window and sat down, hunching forward in her chair with her elbows on the table. Her voice was soft, her words slow as she recounted the details of her father's death, the investigation, and her own research.
Finally, when she had finished her tale, Joshua had a look of consternation on his face. When he spoke, he seemed far away, as if he'd stepped back in time. "You say that a Max Henshaw is investigating the case?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I knew someone by that name. A guard at Firethorne. Tall, lanky fella. Has a scar across the bridge of his nose."
"Yes, that's him. He told me he had worked there during college. Said it was a great place to study. In fact, when he saw the pictures you sent me, he's the one who told me all about Firethorne and J. Harold Otis." She paused, cocking her head.
"He saw the pictures I sent?"
"Yes."
"Joshua? What's wrong?" Selena couldn't keep the edge from her voice.
"Maybe nothin', maybe everything," he answered. "As I recall, he was a pretty sharp fella. Picked up on things real fast but didn't make a lot of waves. Just kinda puttin' in his time. As soon as he finished school, I 'member he got a job with the Sheriff in Tallahassee, then I kinda lost track of him." He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. "I guess it's just ... I git a little skittery knowin' that someone on the Washington D.C. police force knows so much about Firethorne. It's like, how can I put it? Police is loyal to police. They's always tryin' to 'catch their man,' so to speak, and the consequences be damned. Ya know what I mean? He's just too close to our situation for comfort. What if he decides to include what Cassie has told him in his report? If he does, I guaran-damn-teeya that we'll all end up on the short end."
Cassie stood and walked over to put her coffee cup in the sink, then turned to face the giant man at the table. "Joshua, I'm not a real trusting person. Selena can vouch for that." She paused and looked at Selena. "But Max is different. He's on my side. Has been ever since the burglary and even more since the Feds took over the investigation. At first, I thought it was just his professional pride, but now I know it is much more than that. He's as suspicious of this whole thing as I have been. Believe me when I tell you that he's no threat. In fact, he's about the best thing we've got going for us, because he has an inside track on what the government is up to."
Selena looked from Cassie to Joshua, waiting.
"I hope yer right, little lady. I reckon you know better 'n me. It's just that we're playin' this so close to the edge, it scares the pants off me to know that someone from aroun' here-someone in law enforcement knows so much. The government is ruthless, and if they get even an inklin' that we're onto them or that we're organizin' against them ... Well, I don't s'pose I need to tell you what could happen. They killed yer Daddy."
"Joshua, they already know that at least a few people know their secret. And I'd be surprised if they didn't suspect organized opposition." Selena said, somber.
"She's right, Joshua," Cassie said. "They killed Daddy to stop him from exposing them, but they also have warrants out for Selena's arrest. That can only mean they are quietly trying to locate and crush anyone my father was working with. The only thing they don't know yet-according to what I've learned from Max-is the identities of those besides Selena who are involved and where to find them."
The tinkling of a bell from across the house interrupted them.
"Aggie needs somethin'. I'll go tend to 'er," Joshua murmured.
"Selena, you believe me about Max, don't you?" Cassie asked after the big man had left. "I swear he's on our side. At least, my side."
The earnestness in Cassie's voice and eyes gave Selena pause. When Alan had been killed, Cassie had sworn never to allow herself to fall in love again, but clearly, there was more to her relationship with this Max than just a shared goal. And if the feeling was mutual, his involvement in this could be even more dangerous. She reached out and laid her hand atop Cassie's. "Yes, Querida. I do believe you, but there is so much at stake and a misstep-even if made with the best of intentions..." She paused. "Like, perhaps, him doing something in an effort to protect you-could be disastrous."
Cassie brushed her hair away from her face and leaned forward. "Selena, if there are any mistakes made, it won't be Max who makes them. I'd bet my life on it."
I hope you're right, Selena thought, looking down at the newspaper lying open on the table. An article about the Department of Homeland Security creating a special task force to crack down on "dissidents" stared up at her. Dios mio, I hope you're right.
Hamilton Bates didn't bother to acknowledge the Attorney General's secretary when he strode past her and into the conference room on the left. The four people at the long table turned at the sound of his entrance, and the Attorney General leaned back in her chair, scowling.
"You're late, Hamilton," she scolded, looking over the wire rims of her glasses as he took his seat at the foot of the table opposite her.
"Couldn't be helped, Georgeanne," he said flatly, nodding to the others. "I'm here now, so let's just get on with it."
The Director of the FBI, who was seated at the Attorney General's right, shuffled through the papers in front of himself on the table, then cleared his throat. "Like I was about to say, we've got a lead on Selena Cordon's whereabouts. She was cleared through customs in Miami three days ago and bought a bus ticket to Tallahassee."
"Three days ago? What's the rush?" Bates interrupted. "God, it's a good thing we have the best agents in the world, or it would be next year before we got any information."
"Thank you for that very helpful comment," responded the Director.
Bates made a mental note to have the sonuvabitch replaced when the new government became a reality.
"As I was saying, our agents in Tallahassee have been beating the bushes trying to find her, when we suddenly got a break. Yesterday, our agents were investigating a bank robbery and came across the name of Cassandra Hart logged into the bank's safe deposit area. Because we know that she and the Cordon woman have been close associates for years, we think they may have planned to rendezvous. We got a not-so-bad photo of Hart from the bank's surveillance system, and we've got the locals down there keeping an eye out for her-supposedly because she might, at the very least, be a material witness to the hold up."
Bates kept his face impassive. Cassandra was supposed to be vacationing in Gatlinburg. He'd arranged for the airline tickets himself. But, no. They had her signature on the log book at the bank. "Do you have a copy of the photo?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
The Director leafed through his papers, pulled one out, and slid it across the table. The picture was grainy, but there was no doubt it was his godchild. Putting it aside, Bates frowned. "Not a very clear likeness," he said. "I have known Cassandra since she was born, and it would be difficult even for me to identify her from this picture."
"Maybe you have a better one we could use," Georgeanne suggested, a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
"I might. I'll check into it. But, please, Director Logan, go on with your report."
The Director paused a moment, looking from the Attorney General to Hamilton Bates and back to the Attorney General, who nodded for him to continue. "Uh, yes. As I was saying..." He looked down at the typed report. "At this time, we have traced Miss Hart from the airport to a motel, but so far we've had no luck actually locating her. Apparently, she left the motel without notice, even though she had indicated a longer stay. Except for an as yet unconfirmed sighting in a small town about thirty miles from Tallahassee, we've hit a dead-end."
"Did Selena Cordon register at the motel as well?" CIA Director Clark interrupted. He had been appointed to his job through the influence of Hamilton Bates and seemed eager to impress his benefactor.
"No. Just the Hart woman." Logan pulled another sheet of paper from the stack. "Let's see. We have records of the calls made to her room, thanks to a very cooperative female college student who works the afternoon shift at the registration desk. There was one from D.C. and one from an 'unknown' location, presumably a digital cell phone."
"Who in D.C. did she talk to?" Again, it was Clark of the CIA.
"That cop, Henshaw, who we bumped from the Madison Hart case. But, that's not surprising."
"No? Why not? I thought you just said he was bumped..." Clark was on a roll.
"Simple. We found out that he has been working a drug case involving Philip Sinclair, the handyman's son, who confessed to killing Madison Hart. We expect to have someone talk to him, but we're certain he was just trying to get information from her for his own investigation. Seems he'd struck up a, uh, useful friendship with Cassandra Hart. No doubt, he's just plumbing the depths as far as they will take him."
Simmons, Director of the Secret Service, who had been studying the photo of Cassandra, smirked. "I wouldn't mind plumbing those depths myself."
Bates winced at the man's crudeness. He'd never liked the fat slob; had urged Georgeanne to appoint someone else to the job, but nothing could change her mind. Simmons had always been her most loyal henchman. Like Logan and the AG, Simmons was high on his list of those who would be eliminated. "So, where do we stand?" he asked, eager for the meeting to end. He needed some fresh air-and had a strong urge to wash his hands.
"Well, we've got the 'confession' from Sinclair, which gets the press off our backs in the Madison Hart case," Logan replied. "You wouldn't believe how diligent some of those reporters have been. Guess they take it sort of personally when one of their own gets hit. Made 'em sort of nervous."
"We want them to be nervous," interjected Clark. "Until we can get those bills passed-especially the one that gives Justice the power to, uh, oversee the media, we need them to feel a little unsure of themselves. Keeps them out of people's 'closets,' if you get my meaning."
Hamilton Bates couldn't help nodding along with the rest of them. He had little doubt that the weak-kneed Congress, which had buckled under the barrage of anti-gun sentiment, was sure to buckle again under the anti-media pressure from the National Organization for Responsible Media and the "Million Moms," who had joined their ranks. With the First Amendment curtailed, there'd be nothing left to stand in the way.
God. It had seemed so impossible. And, yet, it had all been so easy. So very, very easy. Thank heaven for human nature and the herding instinct. The memory of Madison Hart's book interrupted his gloating. If Cassandra had somehow found Selena Cordon, she would also have found out about the book. Maybe even found the book itself. He frowned at the thought of Madison reaching back from the grave to jeopardize everything.
"With Sinclair's arrest and 'confession'," Logan continued, "we can now put the rumors surrounding Hart's death to rest. And with Selena Cordon back in the United States and Cassandra Hart as the bait, it won't be long before we can put a stop to any further threat of exposure."
"What makes you think there aren't others out there? The Internet is full of conspiracy theorists who..." asked Clark, knitting his brow.
"Because I know ... knew ... Madison Hart," Bates interrupted. "He trusted no one except Selena Cordon. And his daughter. And that will prove to be the undoing of his efforts to derail us."
"What if he had already given the manuscript to a publisher?" asked Simmons, his jowls flapping. "Or arranged to post it to the Internet?"
"No. Madison Hart was a traditionalist and wouldn't trust the Internet. He relied on the prestige of established publishers to lend credibility to his work," Bates said, growing weary of this conversation-and these people.
Logan nodded. "He was on his way to New York when he was, uh, prevented from completing his mission. We believe that the manuscript was what the Hart woman went to the bank in Tallahassee to get. We learned that he had a safe deposit box there. Obviously, she retrieved it, and because of Madison Hart's paranoia, we feel certain it was the only copy in existence. So, once we have his daughter and his girlfriend, it's over. End of story."
"But what about that D.C. cop? I still don't like his involvement," Clark said, frowning.
"Not a problem. We're keeping close tabs on him. And if he should get in the way, well, we've got contingency plans to deal with him," Logan replied.
"Nonetheless, I'd like to have my people do some checking," Clark stated. "I mean, why would he know where Cassandra Hart was and how to reach her?"
Bates suppressed a smile at everyone's sudden silence. His man Clark was the only one, except himself, who'd caught the flaw in the FBI's report.
"No, Clark," Georgeanne said, ending any argument. "I don't want the CIA involved domestically yet. And how that cop knew is insignificant at this point. The Bureau is handling everything quite effectively. But don't worry. We'll call on you when the time comes. Meanwhile, just keep your muskets ready and your powder dry."
Clark leaned back and was silent.
"Just one thing," Bates said as he stood to leave. "I want your word," he looked hard at the Attorney General, "that no harm will come to Cassandra Hart. If some overzealous agent ... or marshal ... touches one hair on her head, I will take it very personally."
Georgeanne looked at him stone faced, and he turned away. Things were not going exactly according to plan, he thought. The Henshaw connection could pose a problem, and, if they caught up with Selena Cordon while Cassandra was with her, his godchild could be in real danger. Jack-booted thugs were fine when it came to controlling the masses, but they had no business with her. He had taken an oath to protect her, and that was one promise he intended to keep-if he could. For now, he needed these people. But he didn't-and wouldn't-trust any one of them when it came to Cassandra.
The limo was waiting by the curb when Bates strode briskly down the broad steps of the Justice Building. His chauffeur jumped out to open the car door for him, telling him that his office had called about fifteen minutes ago.
"What did they want?" he asked, but Busby just shrugged his huge shoulders. Annoyed, Bates picked up the cell phone, checked the security light to be sure his call wasn't being scanned, and dialed his secretary's direct line.
"Bates Enterprises," came the familiar voice.
"Martha. I understand you've been trying to reach me." He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Yes, sir. There's a Jonathon Sinclair waiting to see you. He says it's urgent."
"Tell him I don't have time to see him today. Tell him to make an appointment."
She lowered her voice a notch. "He seems a little agitated, Mr. Bates. And he smells of whiskey. I don't think he'll leave until he sees you."
"Call security. They'll..." He paused, reconsidering. Cassandra thought of Jonathon as part of her family. It was important to keep her confidence. "Ah, never mind, Martha. Tell him I'll be there shortly," he said, then hung up.
"Where to, boss?" Busby asked, starting the engine.
"The office."
As Busby maneuvered the car out onto the busy street, Bates' thoughts turned to Jonathon Sinclair. He was as loyal as an old dog. And just about as territorial. He'd be desperate about Philip. Wants me to help. Wonder if he ever found out that May Lee is Philip's natural mother? Doubt it. May Lee would never divulge the truth. And she and I are the only ones who know. I'll promise him that I'll look into the matter and arrange for an attorney. That should satisfy him-and help keep Cassandra's trust. Cassandra. Logan was getting too close to her-too close to everything.
He picked up the phone. "Martha, I want you to arrange a conference call with the major publishers in New York."
"Yes, sir. When?"
"As soon as possible." He hung up and dialed another number.
"Walter. It's Hamilton Bates."
"Yes, sir."
"I need you to get me as much information on Detective Max Henshaw as you can. He's that guy with the D.C. police who was working the Madison Hart investigation."
"No problem. They do background checks before they hire these guys, so there oughta be plenty of info available."
Info? Walter Spano was a good man, but he had an irritating habit of sounding like he'd just stepped out of a B-movie. "Good. I'll be in my office in a few minutes."
"Roger," Walter said, hanging up.
He gritted his teeth. Maybe he should start delegating these conversations to Martha.
Busby swerved around a bus loaded with teenaged tourists and pulled up to the curb. Bates climbed out quickly, not waiting for the chauffeur to open the door for him, and strode into the building. Martha was talking on the telephone when he walked through the door to his outer office, and Jonathon was leaning against the wall, staring out the window.
"Hello, Jonathon," he said, reaching out to shake the old man's hand. He recoiled mentally at the feel of the hard calluses and the sight of liver spots on the handyman's skin. "Please. Come into my office." He held the door open and motioned for his visitor to take a seat on the leather couch beside the far wall, then sat across from him on the matching easy chair. "Sorry I had to keep you waiting." Being polite but cool should help prevent any outlandish requests. "What brings you all the way up here?"
Jonathon fidgeted like a school boy in the principal's office and looked around at the plush furniture, the impressionist paintings on the wall, and the brass lamps that gleamed in the soft overhead light. "Nice office," he finally managed to say.
Bates smirked inwardly at the man's discomfiture. "Thank you. But I'm sure you didn't come to discuss my décor," he said, forcing a smile.
"No, no ... uh, I'm sorry to intrude like this, but..." He clasped his old baseball cap in his hands, wringing it shapeless. "My boy, uh, Philip, has been arrested for murdering Mr. Hart. And, Mr. Bates, he didn't do it! I been thinkin' and thinkin', and you're the only one I know who can help."
The pleading in his voice and his eyes was revolting, and Bates sat quietly for a moment, pretending to think. "Jonathon, as I understand it, Philip signed a full confession. As much as I'd like to help, I don't see how I can." He paused, assuming a pensive look. "Well, I suppose I could see about an attorney for him---"
"Already has one," Jonathon interrupted.
The news caught Bates off guard. Where would Jonathon get the money to hire an attorney? "You mean a public defender?"
"Nope." He pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of his plaid shirt and looked at it. "His name is Bernard Schligerman."
"Schligerman," echoed Bates. Schligerman was well respected-won most of his cases. "He's a good man. How'd you happen to find him?"
"May Lee says Max, uh, Detective Henshaw lined him up."
Henshaw again. The man's like a bad penny. "I see. Well, that's quite fortunate. But, Jonathon, if you already have a lawyer for Philip, I don't know why you feel you need my help."
Jonathon suddenly stopped wringing his baseball cap and sat up straight, looking Hamilton Bates directly in the eyes. "I know how powerful you are," he almost whispered. "I know that you can make things happen when nobody else can. And Mr. Bates, I know things about you. Madison Hart told me. Told me everything. And I've never told a soul. Not yet, anyway. To me, a promise made is a promise kept. But, Mr. Bates, I want my son released. Get the charges dropped. Philip could no more have killed Mr. Hart than you---" Jonathon stopped mid-sentence, an odd expression coming over his face.
Bates looked at him for a long moment, then stood and went to his desk, speaking over his shoulder as he pressed the button on the intercom. "Jonathon, I know that you're overwrought, and I understand. But, there is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to help. I'm sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to catch up on."
Martha was in the office before he had let go of the button. "Yes, sir?"
"Please show Mr. Sinclair out."
Jonathon's eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman, then back at Hamilton Bates. "Don't need nobody to show me nothin'," he snarled. "I know what I need, and I know how to get there." Turning, he brushed past Martha, but stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. "If you're as smart as everyone thinks you are, you'll get those charges dropped, Bates, 'cause you ain't heard the last from me. No sir, not by a long damn shot," he said through clenched teeth, then strode out, slamming the door.
Bernie Schligerman took the folder from his desk drawer and handed it across to Max, who opened it and skimmed past the usual arrest forms and mug shots to the carefully typed "confession."
"I, Philip Sinclair, do hereby freely admit that I am solely responsible for the death of Madison Hart. On the afternoon of July 30, I was parked at the Reagan National Airport awaiting the arrival of Madison Hart. I was aware of his schedule through my father, Jonathon Sinclair, caretaker of the Hart home, who had spoken to Mr. Hart earlier in the day.
"I never liked Madison Hart. He was always acting like he was better than me and my family. He ordered my father around like a slave and wouldn't let me associate with his daughter, because he thought she was too good for me.
"When I saw Mr. Hart come out of the building and step into the crosswalk, I sped forward and deliberately ran him over, then I drove away.
"Afterward, I gave my friend the car and asked him to drive it to Virginia for me, where, I now know, my friend was killed in an automobile accident."
"What a bunch of B.S.," Max muttered.
"My opinion exactly," Bernie said, rocking his considerable girth backward in his chair. "But it's going to be difficult to disprove the confession if the young man who really was responsible is dead."
Max shook his head and frowned at the black-and-white mug shot of Philip. "This whole thing stinks to high heaven, Bernie. The only thing I can figure is that the Feds needed a scapegoat to get the press off their backs. Reporters are like police-they lose their objectivity when one of their own is the victim of a crime. And, from what I've learned so far, there's one whale of a story behind Hart's death just waiting for the right person to uncover." He stopped and thought about Cassie, wishing he would hear from her, wondering what she had learned.
"Want to share what you know?" Bernie leaned forward, his rotund belly pressing against the edge of his desk.
"I don't actually know that much. There's just a lot of things that don't add up. What seems like a series of random events have too much in common to simply be coincidence. First, Hart is killed by a hit-run driver. The day of the memorial service, his home is burglarized. Well, not really his home. Just the study where he did much of his work. The room was trashed but nothing was stolen except computer disks. Old photos were torn up, files were scattered around like someone was looking for something in particular-and maybe trying to destroy specific items. The Feds suddenly step in and kick me off the case. Since when do they get involved in hit-run homicides? Or any homicide that doesn't involve a federal official?"
"Madison Hart was a very prominent man," Bernie said.
"True, but I used to work for the Bureau, ya know, and there's a strict hands-off policy when it comes to routine police work, unless it somehow involves the Federal government or national security. And what's really odd is that one name keeps popping up."
"Whose?"
Max hesitated. "I can't tell you that. Not yet. He's an extremely powerful man. But he was there during my interrogation of Hart's daughter, and until I was taken off the case, he kept calling my office for information. During our investigation, we found the name and phone number of this man's chauffeur on a piece of paper in Rei Takazawa's apartment." He thought a moment, remembering his encounter with Bates this morning. "Now Philip is arrested, coerced into making a confession, his natural mother is deported, and who delivers the deportation notice? The same person.
"I'm tellin' ya, Bernie. There's gotta be a reason that this guy keeps popping into the picture. The trouble is, I don't know what it is. The only real motive I have is that someone didn't want Madison Hart's story to reach the public. He'd been working on it secretly for quite awhile, and just as he's about to meet with some publishers, wham! He's mincemeat."
Bernie took a Hershey's kiss from the candy dish on his desk, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, looking out the window while he chewed. Max took one, too. It had been a long day, and he'd skipped lunch.
"See that spider out there?" Bernie asked, nodding toward the window.
Max followed his gaze to a large, black spider weaving a web in the corner of the windowsill outside.
"He weaves his web so carefully. Back and forth, round and round. Right now, it's almost invisible. We wouldn't even know it was there except that we can see the spider. After awhile, though, the web will become littered with insects and covered with offal, robbing it of its invisibility as well as its ability to trap its prey." He spun around and leaned forward, looking at Max. "This town is full of spiders, Max. Unfortunately, I've known a great many of them. But they almost always end up trapped in their own tangled webs."
Max was silent, thinking of Madison Hart, Philip, May Lee-and Cassie.
"Tell me, Max, if you can," Bernie said, an intensity in his baritone voice. "Is your mystery man Hamilton Bates?"
Max nearly choked on his third piece of candy, but he composed himself quickly. "What makes you ask?"
"A few minutes before you walked in here, he telephoned me. Said he has a 'personal interest' in Philip Sinclair's case and would like to meet with me. When I put him off because I have court the next three days, he was not happy."
Max took a deep breath. If you can see the spider, you can find the web-and destroy it. Bernie was a good friend. Never had any reason to question either his honesty or his integrity. But all he had were suspicions and the hope that Cassie would come through with the information he needed to put this puzzle together. "Can't say, Bernie," he answered at last.
Bernie emitted a long sigh and leaned back. "Okay, have it your way, Max. Now, what's the deal on Philip's mother?"
As he drove back to headquarters, Max thought about spiders and webs and the way every strand depended upon the others. More convinced than ever that there was far more to Hamilton Bates' interest in the Madison Hart situation than mere affection for Cassie, he reached into the glove compartment, took out his address book, and looked up Cassie's cell phone number. Everything hinged on what she was learning-if anything.
The clicking on the line seemed interminable as the system tried to locate her telephone. Finally, the familiar message informing him that the cell phone was out of the area met his ears. Disappointed, he started to put the phone away, changed his mind, and dialed Ed's office at the FBI.
"Hi, amigo. It's Max."
"Is it time for a beer?" Ed asked, a light tone in his voice.
"As a matter of fact, it's way past time. Can you shake loose for awhile this evening?"
Ed paused. Probably checking his calendar, Max thought. "Well, my boy. It just so happens this is your lucky day. I'm free after six."
"Great. How about meeting me at Tony's around seven?" When they had worked together, Tony's Place was their favorite watering hole.
"Tony's is closed. Didn't ya know?"
"No. When?"
"Oh, a couple of months now. Tony had a stroke and had to quit working. Sold the place to a Mexican, who turned it into a taco-to-go place."
"No kidding. Well, I can't say I'm in the mood for traveling tacos," Max replied.
Ed chuckled. "Tell you what. I've got some errands to run on your side of the tracks. How 'bout if I just come by your place? You supply the beer. I'll bring the pretzels."
As usual, Ed was early. He'd get to his funeral before he was even dead, Max thought, opening the door. True to his word, he carried a big bag of sourdough pretzels.
Ed looked at his watch. "Sorry. Guess I'm a little early." It was six-thirty. "But I was afraid you'd drink all the beer before I got here." He pumped Max's hand as he spoke.
"It's okay. I expected nothing less," Max replied, heading toward the small kitchen, where he had a cooler filled with ice and a six-pack of Coors. "Make yourself comfortable. I ordered us a pizza, too."
"Wow. Royal treatment. I oughta come over here more often."
"Why not? We used to have some pretty good times..."
Ed took the icy beer can from his friend, popped it open, and took a long swig. "Yeah, but whose got time for anything anymore? You just happened to get lucky today."
Max sat at the other end of the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Yeah. They don't call me 'lucky Max' for nothin'. Come to think of it, they don't call me 'lucky Max' at all."
Ed grinned at the familiar old line. "I don't know. Maybe you're luckier than you know. You did manage to get out of the Bureau before the rats took over the ship." He leaned his head back against the soft couch. "Man, it feels good to just sit 'n' sip. Ya know, I've been puttin' in twelve and fourteen hour days for the past two weeks."
"That so? How come? I thought the government had forbidden any overtime as a cost-cutting measure."
"Oh, you know how it is. We got these damn political conventions comin' up-woolly mammoths on the fourteenth, jackasses a couple of weeks later. My whole unit has been assigned background investigations on the delegates-on top of all our other work."
"You oughta have most of that on computer..." Max said, draining his beer can and going to the kitchen for a couple of fresh ones.
"Oughta, but don't. 'Member that cute little virus the hacker from Canada unleashed on the world last month? Wiped out half of our files, believe it or not," he replied as Max walked back into the living room.
"Man, I didn't know they could get into your files. What happened to all those backup security systems?" Max opened the beer for Ed and handed it to him.
"Thanks. Can't tell you how good this tastes after being out in that hot sun," he said, taking a long drink. "Be glad when the cooler weather gets here."
"What about all those backup systems?" Max prodded.
"Bottom line? They don't work. The experts are all back at the drawing board trying to think up more effective ones. But what about you? You still hung up on that Hart case? Bet you were surprised when they arrested that Sinclair kid for killin' him."
Max thought a minute before replying. "Yeah, guess you could say that. Still don't believe he did it, though."
"Aw, man. He confessed."
"Yeah. I know. But I kinda got to know him, uh, through my narcotics investigation? And, frankly, he's just not the type."
"I thought we learned in Criminology 101 that there is no 'type.'" Ed shoved a big pretzel into his mouth.
Max let that one pass, relishing the taste of the icy beer as he let his thoughts wander. "Anyhow, to answer your question," he said at last, "I'm still interested in the Hart case, but, no, I'm not really working on it. How 'bout you? You got any more information about that Selena Cordon woman?"
"Nope. As a matter of fact, when I got to the office this morning, they took me off that. Damndest thing. One minute, they tell me it's top priority, next they tell me just to concentrate on these friggin' background checks. Can't say I was sorry. That damn thing was more trouble than it was worth. You know me. I don't like workin' on anything that brings me into close proximity with the Director or the AG. I just want to keep my head down and stay out of their sights. Especially the ones in charge now. I'll be glad when this Administration goes back to the boonies. 'Course, there's no guarantee the next one'll be any better. One thing is certain, though, it can't be any worse."
"Hope you're right," Max answered as the doorbell rang.
"Pizza!" Ed exclaimed. "All this and heaven, too," he added, looking at the beer he held in his hand.
Max laughed and opened the door. But it wasn't the pizza. It was his partner, Ricky Sims.
"Ricky? What's up?" Max asked.
Sims nodded from the doorway at Ed, then looked back at Max. "Sorry to interrupt, Max, but I thought I'd better let you know right away."
"Know what?" Max didn't like the look on Ricky's face.
"It's the Sinclair kid. They found him about half-an-hour ago. Dead. Looks like suicide. He had his shirt tied around his neck and was hanging from the shower head."
Ed jumped to his feet. "Damnation. Who found 'im?"
Sims raised his eyebrows in Max's direction.
"It's okay, Ricky. He's a friend of mine from the Bureau."
Sims nodded. "One of the other inmates-a trusty-found 'im. Called the guard right away, but it was too late."
"Has the family been notified?" Max asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Not yet. They're trying to locate his father now."
Max turned to Ed. "Sorry. Gonna have to postpone our pizza party until another time..."
"No problem," he answered, walking to the door. "Give me a call."
Max nodded and watched Ed follow Ricky to the end of the hall and disappear around the corner.
Hamilton Bates hung up the telephone and turned toward the man on the striped couch across the living room. "It's done," he said, pouring himself a scotch from the etched glass decanter on the coffee table.
"Good." His companion sipped the martini the butler had prepared perfectly with just a touch of vermouth. "One less tongue to wag."
Bates swished the scotch around in his glass, listening to the ice bumping into its sides, and thought a long time. "Is it really, Mr. President?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at the man whose red hair accented his ruddy complexion. "Good, I mean? With every ... 'accident' ... comes more risk. Or hadn't you thought of that?"
The President shook his head. "Risk is something we have to live with, Hamilton," he replied. "The life of one person-even a hundred persons-is nothing compared to what we are bringing to billions of others. Besides, you said your contact could be trusted completely."
Hamilton Bates took a sip of scotch and thought about Busby. He'd been a small time hoodlum running numbers in Brooklyn when they met. One of those odd coincidences that unexpectedly fit perfectly into the overall scheme. Leonard, the chauffeur he'd employed for years, had passed away just a few days before. Walter Spano had been a cop in New York once upon a time and had met Busby during a racketeering investigation. Busby had been loyal to his boss, refusing to testify against him, and had even succeeded in preventing anyone else from testifying. To Spano, loyalty was everything. When Leonard died, Spano contacted Busby and the rest was history. "My man can be trusted. What worries me is whether his man can be."
"Sinclair's 'suicide' is hardly enough of an event to warrant anything other than an internal review of jail procedure," the President replied. He placed his empty glass on the table beside him. "Those things happen all the time. It won't even make the Washington Times, much less the Post. Besides, we have more important fish to fry. I didn't shake the Secret Service goons just to rehash the elimination of a doper."
Bates nodded and sat up a little straighter. "Okay. Here's the situation. I've arranged for you to speak at Independence Hall to leaders of the major news organization about the importance of media responsibility. Include praise for the media's recent restraint in their programming. Emphasize your need for their support of the new Presidential Media Oversight Board---"
"You mean the Presidential M.O.B.?" The President chortled.
Bates frowned as he continued. "You need to thank them for helping to eliminate the threat posed to America's children by pushing for the confiscation of privately owned firearms. Explain that the battle is only half-won, because as long as children see violence and immorality on television, in the movies, and read about it in newspapers and books, they will not be freed of the negative influences that can-and do-ruin so many lives. Be sure to mention that, although your administration is nearing its end, you will never abandon your quest to ensure the public morality and the security of future generations of Americans."
The President wiped the martini residue from the glass and sucked it off his finger. "I wouldn't mind having another one."
Bates pressed the button for the butler and wondered how the world survived under such flawed leaders. He waited until the butler came and left again before continuing his instructions. "Mr. President, this is one of the most important speeches you will give. With it, you lay the foundation for the final phase of our ... effort."
"What about Congress? They'll never go along with this."
"Don't be absurd. They're all desperate to keep their seats-and their power. With the press on our side..." He paused, imagining the twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week drumbeat of child and family psychologists decrying the impact of violence in the media. He could almost hear the incessant chatter of talking heads belittling opponents of the new responsible media. "Congress will cave in just like it always has. And once you sign the Executive Order, there's not a whole lot they can do about it other than whine into the ears of their 'radical' sympathizers."
The President took a long drink of the martini and grinned. "P.T. Barnum was right. A sucker is born every minute."
"Well, don't give nature too much credit. Nature didn't raise taxes so high that parents would have to work longer and harder. Nature didn't reform American education. And it wasn't nature that increased pressure on traditional American values or compelled people to embrace alternative attitudes, my friend."
The President's red-haired head bobbed up and down in agreement as he toyed with the olive in his drink. "Imagine. What we thought was next to impossible is now virtually assured. With public sympathy at an all time high after the supposed attempt by the 'militia' to assassinate me and the Vice President's endorsement of a third term for me, the game is all but won. Add China's threat to attack Taiwan and set off World War III into the mix, and voila! Fait accompli." He sucked the olive off the end of the silver toothpick and chewed it enthusiastically.
Hamilton Bates leaned back against the soft velvet of his easy chair and raised his glass in a toast. "To P. T. Barnum," he said, smiling. And Penseur.
After his drunken guest had weaved his way out the door and was on his way back to his gilded cage, Bates reached for the file Spano had given him on Max Henshaw, studying it for the second time. Who could have known that some obscure guard at Firethorne would end up involved in the investigation of Madison Hart's death? One thing is certain, though-he's another fly in the ointment we can't tolerate.
He thought of Madison Hart and Hank Charles. They hadn't been able to see the inherent limitations ... and dangers ... in the Bill of Rights. Both had been ... removed. Jonathon Sinclair hinted that he knows about us, but it was probably just the ravings of a drunken father trying to put pressure on me. Me. What a fool. Selena would be handled soon, along with whomever she might have found to help her. May Lee would be back in China. You never can trust the household help completely. They tend to overhear things. And with Philip dead, she has no great incentive to fight deportation. Cassandra is a different problem, but if she knows-and by now, she probably does-I'll find a way to ... neutralize any threat she may pose.
He laid the file on the table beside him and reached for the telephone, but his hand froze in mid-air as he turned to see the reason for the sudden commotion in the foyer.
Max parked in front of the small concrete block house and climbed from the car. As he closed the door, he saw May Lee step onto the darkened porch. Squaring his shoulders against the news he was about to impart, he walked up the stairs and took her by the hands. "Let's sit down," he suggested, leading her to the old, wicker rocking chairs on the right.
"What is it, Detective Henshaw?" Her voice was soft, her dark eyes mere shadows against her skin.
"Is your husband at home?" He hadn't seen his car.
"No. He is working late tonight."
"Have you told him about Philip being your son?" Max had hoped her husband would be able to help her deal with the news.
"No. I could not. My husband is very proud. He wouldn't understand."
"Is there anyone else here?"
"No. Only me. Please, Detective. Whatever you have come here for, just tell me..." Her voice trailed off into the fog that hung over the yard.
Max cleared his throat. "May Lee," he began, watching her as closely as he could in the dim light spilling through the window. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."
"I can't appeal my deportation," she guessed.
He shook his head. "It isn't that. I'm afraid it is much worse-and I wanted you to hear it from a friend-from me, first."
She sat forward, listening.
"I just learned that Philip has killed himself," he said, bracing for her reaction, but none came. She just seemed to begin shrinking into herself. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, reaching out to touch her thin shoulder, his big hand covering it almost entirely.
She looked at him as if he were not there, blinked, then blinked again, and finally let out a long, deep breath that smelled of chocolate.
Max imagined her sitting in front of the television watching a game show, her feet propped on a hassock after a long day's work, nibbling on candy while she waited for him to arrive. She couldn't have known from his brief telephone call that he was about to bring her the worst news of her life. Remembering her reaction a few days ago when she'd learned that Philip's car and a dead Asian man were found in a lake, he was stunned by her sudden stoicism.
"May Lee? Did you hear what I said?" He knew she had, but her silence was more unnerving than any show of emotion could have been.
She nodded. "He was born of my foolishness," she whispered, "and he has now died because of his own."
Max stood and walked to the edge of the porch, looking out over the small yard that was surrounded by houses identical to this one. Life had been hard for May Lee, but she'd made the best of it. He wondered what would become of her now.
"Max?"
It was the only time she had called him by his given name. He turned toward her. "Yes, May Lee."
"What happened?"
"Apparently he had been complaining to the man in the next bunk that he couldn't bear spending the rest of his life in a prison. He said he could never stand being cooped up inside for very long, and after just two days in jail, he was already going crazy. He was crying and mumbling something about it all being a big lie. Then he went into the showers and that was the last anyone saw of him until they found him hanging from the shower head."
"Yes," she responded as if from very far away. "But, I mean, what happened?"
Max felt confused. "I don't understand," he finally said.
She folded her hands into one another and began rocking slowly. "I mean, about the deportation order."
He went back to stand in front of her. She looked up at him solemnly, rocking faster now.
"It can't be appealed. The only hope would have been if you were to remain here as a material witness in Philip's trial. Now that he's..."
"Dead." She finished the sentence for him, a hard edge around her voice. "So they win after all," she added, a deep sigh escaping her lips.
"What do you mean, May Lee?"
She stopped rocking and stood up, her back straight, her head held high. "I have already told you all that I dare, Detective. Now, if you'll excuse me..." She walked to the front door. "I have to pack." Her face was unreadable as she looked up at him, thanked him for coming, then left him to stand alone in the increasing fog.
The cell phone rang as Max turned the car around in front of May Lee's house. It was Sims.
"Hi, Max. It's me. We've found Philip Sinclair's father."
"Good. Have you told him?"
There was a long pause, and Sims took a deep breath. "Didn't need to. It turns out he'd gone to the jail to visit his son, and some stupid guard at the front desk told him."
Max gave a short whistle at the news. "Oh, man. How's he doin'?"
"Not so good, Max. In fact, not good at all."
"Where is he?"
"You're not gonna like this, pal, but he's broken into Hamilton Bates' house and is holding him and the staff at gun point."
Swell. "What's he want?"
"Says he can prove his boy was innocent. Won't come out until he talks to you. Says you're the only one he trusts."
"Dammit, Ricky. That's not even in our jurisdiction. Can't some of those hostage experts at the Bureau handle it?"
"He's actin' crazy, Max. Says he's gonna blow everyone away if he doesn't get to talk to you. And soon." Sims gave him the address.
"I'm on my way," Max said, pulling the blue light from the floor of his car and turning it on as he placed it on the dashboard. "Good God. What more can happen in one day?" he muttered, pulling onto the highway and heading toward Bethesda.
The broad lawn of Bates' mansion was littered with police cars and emergency vehicles of every description-fourteen marked units from Bethesda P.D., two unmarked units with Federal license tags, four ambulances standing by, and what looked like five personal vehicles-when Max pulled up and climbed from his car. He shielded his eyes from the sweeping blue and red lights that cast eerie circles across the lawn and echoed against the fog. He spotted Sims loping over to greet him.
"Hi, Ricky. Goddam, it looks like a friggin' law enforcement convention out here. Good night for bank robbers, huh?"
Sims nodded. "Man, am I glad to see you. Sinclair has already fired off two shots, and he's been rantin' and ravin' like a lunatic. Somethin' about Bates killin' his son an' about some kind of evil plot Bates is hatchin' ... Everybody here is really on edge. The FBI has given their sniper the green light, but he can't get a clear shot. Max, that's Hamilton Bates in there. If anything happens, heads are gonna roll."
"Has anyone been hurt?" Max asked, falling into step beside him.
"No, not yet. Says he fired just so we'd know that he means business," Sims replied and, approaching a man in a dark suit, stopped and introduced Max to Agent Adams of the FBI. They didn't bother to shake hands.
"Find out what's goin' on, will ya?" Adams handed Max the cell phone. And the responsibility.
Max nodded and stood away from the car where Jonathon would be able to see him clearly. "Jonathon," he said into the phone. "It's Max Henshaw."
Jonathon's face appeared at the window momentarily then disappeared again.
A moment passed with Max still standing in the open-vulnerable, tense, waiting for an answer.
"Henshaw." Jonathon's voice sounded hoarse over the cell phone. "I gotta talk to you."
"Jonathon. This ain't the way, man," he said, eager to coax him out. "If ya wanted to talk to me, you shoulda just called me."
"Naw. Wouldna worked. You'd have thought I was crazy. I had to prove it to you-to everyone. An' I need this sumbitch Bates to make that happen."
"Jonathon, what do you want to tell me? Just put down your weapon and come on out. I promise to listen to you."
"Yeah, sure. I'd be stupid to do that. No, sir. You come on in. I promise I won't shoot ya. There's somethin' here ya gotta see. Then you'll believe me, and it won't be me, but Bates you'll be arrestin'."
Max looked at Adams and Sims. Adams raised his eyebrows. Sims shrugged. He looked back up at the house and saw Jonathon's head reappear briefly at the window. God, if he keeps that up, he's gonna get himself killed. Hasn't he ever heard of snipers? He glanced around at the dozens of police cars and thought of Cassie's affection for the old handyman. If I'm the only one who can help him, then so be it, he thought. "Jonathon. Are you still there?"
"I'm here."
"Will you guarantee the safety of everyone in the house if I come in?"
He didn't answer immediately, but finally agreed. "Yeah, sure. It ain't me that's hurt anyone. Why should I start now? Come on in."
Max handed the phone back to Adams, took the holstered pistol the agent held out to him and secured it in place at the middle of his back, checking to make sure it was hidden by his shirttail. Then, with a deep breath and his hands up, he started across the broad lawn toward the ornate door behind which an armed-and apparently drunk-Jonathon awaited.
He opened the door slowly, called out to Jonathon, and crossed the threshold into the dimly lit foyer.
"Close the door behind you," came Jonathon's voice from the room on the left, "and come in here."
Max did as he was told, keeping his hands above his head, unwilling to give a nervous Jonathon reason to shoot, but as he neared the wide, arched doorway, he heard a shout, followed by a gunshot and loud crash. Yanking the pistol from his holster but keeping it hidden behind his back, he peered around the corner. Bates was standing in the far corner, the butler beside him. On the floor to the right, Busby was sitting atop Jonathon, his beefy fingers wrapped around the old man's neck.
"Get up!" Max ordered, aiming his weapon, but the chauffeur didn't budge from the man writhing beneath his bulk. "I said, get up!"
Seeing Max's pistol, Busby released his grip slowly and stood, edging backwards.
Max inched toward Jonathon, his eyes and pistol still trained on the chauffeur. "Jonathon," he said his voice tense. "You okay?"
"Look out!" the butler shouted.
Startled, Max shifted his eyes toward Jonathon, saw him pointing his pistol at Hamilton Bates, and without thinking, fired. The bullet struck the handyman in the heart.
The old man turned his pale eyes up at Max, and, mouthing the word "why," let the 9 mm. pistol fall from his grip. It thudded against the floor.
The butler ran to the front door, shouting for an ambulance as Max knelt beside Jonathon. There was no pulse. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. Somewhere in the background he heard footsteps, hollering, and, from nowhere, felt a pair of hands pull him to his feet. Stricken, he looked into his partner's face, then turned to see Hamilton Bates coming toward him, Busby and the butler not far behind.
"That was fast thinking, Detective," Bates said, reaching to shake Max's hand.
The memory of a fragile glass globe made Max's scalp crawl as he looked down at the long hand with the white scars on its tapered fingers. Scowling, he pushed Bates' hand away and strode past him to the door and out into the oppressive night air. When he reached the car, he slumped onto the seat and looked up at Sims, who had followed close behind.
"Ricky?" he said, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I think I just shot the wrong man."
Cassie awoke to the sound of muffled voices filtering toward her from somewhere down the hall and looked at the clock by the bed. It was almost midnight. Her muscles ached. She'd sat at the computer for hours reviewing the DVD's Joshua had stolen. Rousing herself, she put on her robe and walked barefoot from the bedroom where her father had once slept and worked. Light spilled into the long hallway from the front room. Curious, she padded noiselessly toward the light and the voices. As she drew closer, she heard Joshua talking about her. She stopped to listen.
"No, she's not too young. In fact, she seems to have the same kind o' grit Moses did. But we'll keep copies of everything, just in case."
Cassie stepped into the living room. "Just in case what?" she interrupted, looking first at Joshua, then at Selena, and, one by one, the others gathered there. All but Joshua wore gloves. She had left hers in the bedroom.
Selena was the first to recover from the surprise of Cassie's entrance and walked over to put her arm around her waist. "Querida, I'm so sorry we awakened you. I know how exhausted you are..." She paused. "But since you're up, please join us." After brief introductions all around, there were seven people in the room, eight now that Cassie was there, Selena led her to the couch and sat beside her.
The thin, almost skeletal, woman sitting on a chair in the corner, who'd been introduced as Cricket, spoke up. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, well..." She looked around at the others. "How do we know she can be trusted? I mean, it's one thing to have her help get the word out, but I'm not so sure she oughta know us."
"Cricket's right. Cluster members aren't supposed to be known by outsiders," interrupted a balding, baby-faced man near the side window.
Their words brought an instant response from Selena. "In the first place, Godiva is not an 'outsider.' In the second place, she is as devoted to this project as her father was and will never do anything to jeopardize it." She looked at Cassie, seeking confirmation. Cassie just concentrated on putting on the gloves Joshua had tossed across to her.
"Cat got your tongue, girlie?" asked the bespectacled man beside Cricket.
Cassie raised her eyes from her hands and looked straight across the room at Four-Eyes. "No. I'm just still waiting for the answer to my question."
"Yep. Reckon Godiva deserves an answer," Joshua said, his deep voice soft and level. "So, let me fill you in. Earlier tonight, whilst you were in yer room reviewing the stuff I gave ya, I hacked into the FBI's computer. What I found out was a little, uh, disturbin'. In fact, that's why we're meetin' tonight."
Cassie leaned forward, hanging onto the sharecropper-turned-hacker's every word. "And?"
"Remember that cop I talked to in Quincy? Well, someone questioned why yer car was parked at the airport all day, and that cop remembered you. Well, what with one thing leadin' to another, it looks like the FBI has narrowed their search for St. Joan to this area and think that you've hooked up with her. They have orders not to harm you, but those don't extend to St. Joan. Or anyone else." He stopped, letting his words sink in. "And, since I was seen with you, it won't be long before they're on my doorstep."
"But I heard you say, or rather imply, that I am in danger, too," Cassie said.
"Well, we're hoping that you aren't," Selena said. "But, well, Joshua, you go on."
"There was some mention that your 'protector,' as they phrased it, might have to yield to the, uh, 'greater good,' and if that meant goin' against his demands, well, so be it."
Cassie stood and walked across to the front window, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. Somewhere in the distance an owl whoo'ed into the darkness. My protector. Uncle Hamilton maybe? She shook her head. Trust no one ... Her thoughts vanished at the sight of headlights approaching from the distance. Dozens of them. "It looks like you've got some late-comers," she said, pointing out the window.
Joshua leaped from his chair and looked outside. "Counter action one," he ordered, striding toward his wife's bedroom.
A split second later, Cassie found herself being pulled by Selena into the bedroom, where she grabbed the computer, the satchel, and her suitcase while Selena rearranged the sheets and bedspread. Within moments, they were out the kitchen door and fleeing through the cornfield between the house and woods. Behind her, the air was filled with the sound of motors, shouts, and then ... nothing.
Coarse leaves grabbed at Cassie's face, her arms, her legs. Her bare toes sank into the soft earth, and the smell of withering corn filled her nostrils as she struggled to follow Selena. The small computer, suitcase, and satchel grew heavier with every step. For a moment, she thought she'd lost her way and stopped, listening for the swoosh of Selena's progress through the cornstalks.
"I'm right here, Cassie," Selena whispered in the darkness, as if sensing her confusion. "Just follow the row that you're on. I'm just a few steps in front of you."
Cassie took a deep breath and obeyed. Perspiration seeped from her forehead, stinging her eyes. Mosquitos buzzed around her ears and nose. She longed to set her burdens down and wipe her face, but whatever had happened back at the farmhouse urged her onward. As she trudged ahead, her mind sifted through what had just occurred and their well-orchestrated retreat. Joshua had gone to his wife's room with the stocky, brown-haired woman following close behind. The others had spread out through the house-Cricket and the baby-faced man to the kitchen, the bespectacled man and the tall, broad-shouldered black man to the dining room. By the time she and Selena made it to the kitchen and out the back door, it appeared that everyone had left except Joshua, who was walking out onto the front porch, closing the door behind himself.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her bare feet changed. No longer was she walking on bare earth but on pine needles and leaves. The cornstalks stopped cloying at her, and there was a sense of openness as the smell of pine trees filled the air that now stirred freely across her skin. She felt Selena's hand on her arm.
"Just a little farther, Querida. Then we can rest."
"Okay," Cassie managed, her voice hoarse.
True to her promise, Selena led Cassie about forty paces deeper into the woods and stopped in a small clearing studded by large tree stumps. The moon cast just enough light to allow Cassie to see three shadowy figures pulling something from what looked like a pile of branches. Cricket was one of them. Upon seeing the two women approach, she walked over and handed a canteen to Selena. "I reckon y'all need some o' this," she murmured.
Selena smiled and nodded, her white teeth visible even in the dimness. Cassie watched her take several short sips, more aware than ever of her own thirst and the oppressive heat that enveloped them. When the canteen was finally passed to her, she gulped the lukewarm water, savoring the feel of it sliding down her throat.
"Not too much, girlie," Cricket said, taking the canteen from her and screwing the cap back on. "We can't know how long we'll be out here or whether we'll have to move on."
Cassie relinquished it without enthusiasm, picked up her belongings, and picked her way to the nearest big tree stump, eager to rest at last. As she pulled the hot gloves from her hands, a soft crackling noise off to the right drew her attention to the men across the clearing. One of them was doing something to a small ... radio. The guy with the glasses was trying to send a message.
"Sentry Jericho to any cluster. Code alpha, bravo, alpha, alpha. We have condition orange. Repeat. Condition orange. Over..." A burst of static was the only reply. He tried again, and then a third time, adjusting the controls with each attempt. Still there was no response. He stood a moment, wiping his glasses with his shirttail, then stooped again as static sliced through the air, followed by a woman's voice.
"Alamo to Sentry Jericho. Charlie, bravo, alpha, bravo. Repeat message. Over."
Four-eyes raised the mike quickly to his mouth. "Roger, Alamo. This is Sentry Jericho. We are in condition orange. Repeat. We have condition orange. Over."
"Understood, Jericho. No others have reported the same. Repeat. So far, your condition appears to be isolated. Alamo standing by. Over."
Cassie watched Four-eyes stand, wipe his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and turn to speak to the baby-faced man beside him. A moment later, Selena and Cricket were at her side.
"What's this all about, Sel ... St. Joan?" she asked, looking from Selena to Cricket and back again.
"Apparently, the Feds were closer than we realized. We thought we had at least until tomorrow."
Cassie's mind raced. The Feds don't play games. She looked up into Selena's dark eyes. "What about Joshua? And his wife?" she asked, then remembered, adding, "and the brown-haired lady?" She paused, realizing that someone else was missing. "And where's the black guy?"
"We won't know until someone lets us know," Selena answered, "but we've planned for this carefully and have practiced many times. We clear out, everyone taking anything that could implicate Joshua as part of our effort. We have kept a close inventory and are always ready to move it. Joshua stays behind. He is, after all, expected to be there. It is his home. Lourdes, eh, the brown-haired woman, pretends to be nursing Joshua's wife, and Joshua goes outside to 'see what all the fuss' is about. Daniel, the black man, is a trained commando. He stays behind, too, as our lookout and first line of defense. If all goes well, the agents will be caught off guard by Joshua's friendliness, will take one look at Aggie-you saw all the gadgets and gizmos the doctor has her hooked up to-and think they've made a mistake."
Cassie thought a moment. It sounded too simple not to work. "But what about your cars? When they see them parked at the house, it'll be a dead giveaway," she asked Cricket.
"There is only one car. We all rode with Lourdes."
While Cassie digested what she was told, Selena and Cricket moved away, each to a different tree stump as a thick blanket of silence fell over the clearing.
Daniel hunkered down between the limbs of the large live oak that grew about fifty yards from the side of the house. The AR-15 assault rifle was strapped across his chest. Shouldered and ready to fire was the scoped Ruger 10/22-equipped with a homemade silencer and thirty-round magazine of sixty grain super sub-sonic "brain scrambler" sniper bullets. All the lights were on inside-according to plan-allowing him an almost clear view of what went on, especially in the bedroom where Aggie and Lourdes stood guard over their precious cache. It had taken years to amass the guns and ammunition, hand grenades, tear gas, and, most precious of all, the two shoulder-mounted rocket launchers and three cases of rockets. Daniel reached cautiously around to check the razor sharp Commando knife he had sheathed on his belt at his back, making sure he hadn't lost it in his hasty climb up the tree. It was there. His last line of defense.
So far, all had gone fairly smooth. The others escaped into the cornfield just moments before the Feds surrounded the house. Joshua had played his part perfectly, but the Feds-all dolled up in full assault gear, right down to the wide goggles and Kevlar gloves-behaved true to form. They'd shown no warrant and didn't bother to identify themselves. Those procedures had disappeared with the raid and kidnap of that Cuban kid from his uncle's home in Miami. Daniel grimaced at the sight of Joshua still pinned against the house by three of them, a rifle barrel held to his cheek by a fourth one.
Plans were fine, but Daniel trusted only himself. He had survived in Afghanistan against the ruthless Al Queda, because he expected just one thing-the unexpected. So far, the Feds had done exactly what they always did-surround the house, blocking any exit through doors or windows, while a good fifteen or twenty of them stormed through the doors.
He'd had to force his finger away from the trigger when five of "America's finest" swarmed into Aggie's room, shoving little Lourdes into the corner away from Aggie, whom she'd been trying to protect. One of them had started toward Aggie, but, thankfully, had been pushed back by another, who gestured toward the slings and cables that kept Aggie's spine in position. They'd ransacked every other room in the house, near as he could see, even the refrigerator-slinging food everywhere for no good reason. But Aggie's bed-and the floor beneath it-had been spared. So far.
Daniel held his breath. A big man had entered the bedroom and was interrogating Aggie. Lourdes, still cornered, was talking and gesturing toward the bedridden woman, but stopped suddenly when one of the officers stuck a rifle in her face. The 9 mm. Beretta in Daniel's belt dug into his stomach, but he ignored the pain and stayed motionless, hoping he wouldn't have to use any of his weapons. There was no way he could match their firepower, and he was in no hurry to die. Still, if they got too close, he'd have to fire. The cache had to be protected-at any cost.
He squinted down the barrel of his rifle at an officer who was rummaging around under Aggie's mattress. Probably hopes to find a gun. They'd need nothing else to send the two women and Joshua off to prison for ten years. Would they send Aggie to jail? Probably. If she had a gun, she'd be a "danger to society" even though she was already the prisoner of her own body. Bastards. A blood-curdling scream reached out through the open window as the officer tried to lift the mattress beneath Aggie, and Daniel felt the trigger against his finger. Cold, hard, deadly. But another officer shoved the mattress back down and pushed his comrade away. So, at least, one of them is halfway human, he thought, letting his breath out but not relaxing his grip.
A small female marshal entered the room. From the reaction of the others, it was clear she was in charge. Daniel watched a lengthy exchange between her and the big man who'd been interrogating Aggie, then she gestured for Lourdes to be allowed back to Aggie's side. Leaving only one man behind, she led the others from the room.
Movement on the porch drew Daniel's attention from the scene in the bedroom. Joshua was moving toward the front door, followed by two of the men who'd held him pinned against the wall. The other two moved down the steps toward the vehicles. It was a good sign. Their excuse for being there was St. Joan, and she was not there. And if Godiva was also on their list, they hadn't found her either. Strike two. Daniel almost allowed himself to smile.
The woman in charge appeared in the kitchen, issuing orders of some kind, and within moments, the officers moved outside to the yard. Oh, God. Don't let them start searching out here. Daniel's prayer was answered as he watched them mill around aimlessly for a moment then make their way toward the front of the house and the vans and SUV's that had brought them. He sat statue-like, afraid to breathe, while two of them passed close beneath him.
"Wild goose chase," one of them said, sounding bored.
"Yeah. Well, the one thing you can count on in this job is screw-ups," the other replied.
A voice from the front yard barked for everyone to "step it up," and the two men double-timed it toward the waiting vehicles.
Daniel waited until they had all rumbled out of sight, and Joshua appeared in the bedroom window to give him the all clear signal before abandoning his hiding place. Placing the sling of the rifle across his chest, he adjusted its weight against his back, leaving his hands free to climb down, but suddenly froze as a lone figure moved around the back corner of the house. They've left one here. No. There'll be two of them. Daniel waited, not daring to move, when the shadowy figure moved away from the house toward the tree. His scalp prickled. Twenty yards away. Ten. Ten feet.
Daniel jumped. He felt the man's body crumple beneath him, heard the breath escape his lungs, and before the man could react, grabbed his forehead and chin, yanking his head backward and around. There was no mistaking the sharp cracking noise nor the sudden limpness that followed.
With a quick look around, Daniel stood and raced toward the wall of the house to hide in its shadows. Every nerve in his body tingled. His senses strained to hear, to see, to smell the presence of the second man he knew was somewhere close by. Wishing that Joshua would turn off some of the lights that bled from the windows into the yard, he edged along the wall toward the back of the house. Nearing the kitchen, he hesitated. Light poured from the back porch into the yard. He dropped to the ground, thanking God for the unenclosed crawl space under the house, and removed the rifles from his back and chest, careful not to make a sound. Placing them behind the brick support column, he took the Beretta from his belt and shoved it into his hip pocket, then crawled beneath the house and bellied his way toward the far side.
Joshua would be coming out to check on him, wondering why he hadn't come inside yet. Man. That's all I'd need. We'd need, he corrected himself. He had to find the other man before that happened. The smell of thick boot polish brought Daniel to a halt. You can always count on those polished boots. He sniffed the air and squinted through the darkness. It was somewhere off to his right. Not very far.
Inching forward at an angle, Daniel was sure the smell was growing stronger but still couldn't see the source. As he moved along the ground bit by little bit, stopping to test the air every few seconds, the scent grew stronger. A couple of yards from the far wall, where light from the dining room window spilled out onto the grass, Daniel stopped dead. The back of a tall, black boot topped by loose fatigue pants was silhouetted against the dim light. He's leaning his other foot against the side of the house.
A thought formed in his mind, and he moved forward as fast as silence would allow. He wasn't the only trained soldier in this struggle and respecting the enemy was key to survival. Less than ten inches away, he reached for his knife, felt its weight in his hand, and took a deep breath. With all his force, he struck, slicing through the thick boot and Achilles tendon in one blow. His enemy crumpled to the ground, and Daniel reached out as swift as a snake, grabbed the man's hair, jerked his head upward, and slit his throat.
The man struggled to sit up. He turned toward Daniel's hiding place. Aimed his weapon. The gash in his neck spewed blood down the front of his shirt, onto his pants, his arms, his hands. He wobbled and fell backward. The rifle fell to the ground. His arms flailed the air-a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. He shuddered and was still.
Daniel rolled over and lay back on the hard earth, aware of the coursing of his own blood through his veins, the tingling of every nerve in his body, his sheer aliveness. There was no other feeling like it in the world. It's what had kept him in the Army for ten years. And it was why he'd mustered out. There was no satisfaction in collecting garbage in some nothing country. As the adrenalin filtered from his bloodstream, he crawled from under the house and stood to look down at the lifeless man at his feet, then picked up the rare AR-30 lying in the grass. It was one of the lightest, most accurate automatic weapons yet manufactured and would be a welcome addition to their arsenal.
At the sound of heavy footsteps behind him, Daniel spun around, rifle at the ready. It was Joshua. A dark bruise was forming on his fat right cheek from the rifle barrel the Feds had pressed against it.
"What's goin' on?" Joshua asked, staring wide-eyed at the still form lying on the ground.
"They left a couple of 'em here," he said, almost in a whisper. "The other one is over there." He gestured toward the far side of the house. "Have Lourdes go tell St. Joan and the others it's safe to come back, but they need to hurry. We're gonna have t' clear outta here for good. It won't be long before these guys'll be missed. They're sure to have a set time to check in with their C.O." He handed the AR-30 to Joshua, who nodded and hurried toward the front porch, carrying the assault rifle over his shoulder like a soldier in a parade.
Daniel watched him disappear around the corner, then reached down and grabbed the dead man's legs, dragging him toward the cornfield.
August 8
-
The silvery moon was settling low over the water when Cassie and Selena took their belongings from the back of Lourdes' station wagon, bid her Godspeed, and started toward the narrow dock, where a dark-haired, brown-skinned man in dungarees and stained white T-shirt waited. The yellow glow from a light attached to a tall piling lit their way, and a boat about thirty feet long quivered in the water behind him. The name "Esperanza" was painted across its stern, beneath it, "Apalachicola, Florida."
"Hola, Carlos," Selena said, handing him her bags. "Esta es mi amiga, Godiva," she added, pointing toward Cassie.
"Mucho gusto," the tall man replied, nodding in Cassie's direction as he helped Selena down the makeshift ramp into the boat.
Cassie, who knew little Spanish other than what Selena had taught her, just nodded and gave him her belongings, then stepped down onto the deck.
Selena had explained on the way here that Carlos was an old friend from Cuba, whose family had helped her return to the United States after her brief exile. They had crossed the Florida Straits together in his family's small boat. It had been a nightmare. They'd been shot at by the Cuban "Navy," which consisted of fishing yachts converted to patrol boats. They had lost two of their fellow travelers overboard and nearly capsized in a torrential thunderstorm. Her parents had taken Carlos and his family into their home for nearly a year, helped them find work, and taught them English in return for their having brought Selena safely home. Now, he made his living as a commercial fisherman and charter boat captain on the waters of the Gulf of Mexico-like many others who lived in the small, historic town of Apalachicola.
Tension was tight in her neck and shoulders, and Cassie sank gratefully onto the port side chair, rubbing her forehead to stave off a headache. The salt air was warm, and the smell of fish that clung to the deck of Esperanza filled Cassie's nostrils. She would be glad when they got going and the breeze carried the odor away.
While Carlos stowed their belongings in the cabin, Cassie thought of her father's love of fishing. He'd caught a blue marlin once during a trip to Pensacola and never tired of talking about it to anyone willing to listen. Cassie had heard the story so often, she could tell it herself. Maybe she'd share it with Carlos. Maybe Selena already had.
Selena was sitting in the mate's chair when Carlos emerged from the cabin, took his place at the helm, and started the motor, which roared to life amid a cloud of thick diesel fumes that threatened to turn Cassie's stomach. She tried not to breathe as he backed the boat into the thick black smoke, then gulped the fresh air that blew into her face when they started forward. She heard Carlos chuckle in her direction and realized she was not the first to react this way.
The sea was smooth, and Esperanza sliced through it like scissors through silk. The moon cast a rippling white path across the water in the distance, and Cassie found herself wondering whether Max was looking at this same moon. She looked at her watch. Fat chance. No one in his right mind would be up at this hour, and from all I've seen, Max is definitely well-grounded in his right mind. She smiled a little in spite of herself. A few weeks ago, she was running around D.C. in her Mercedes complaining about her boss and wishing Congress would take their recess so things would settle down. She hadn't even known Max existed. If she had, she wouldn't have cared. Now, he was in her thoughts almost as much as the priceless cargo hidden in her suitcase.
Selena's voice interrupted her thoughts. "It has been quite a night, Querida. Are you okay?" she asked, sitting down on the opposite chair.
"Yeah to both," Cassie replied. "Selena? What does 'Esperanza' mean?"
"Hope."
Cassie nodded. "That's about all we have left. The question is, now what?"
"Carlos will take us to Tampa. He says it will take us most of the day to get there, longer if the weather turns bad." She sounded tired, discouraged even.
"I mean, after we get there."
Selena sighed and looked up at the stars. "You will go home, try to find a publisher for your father's book, and do everything you can to expose the conspiracy before the November elections. I-well-I'll just fade into the background again and pray."
"Where will you go?"
"Somewhere. Wherever. There are many of us, you know. Almost as many as the stars you see above you. They will hide me, just as they will take care of Joshua, Aggie, and the others. But it is not we, but you, who is important, Cassie. Only you can stand in Madison's stead and speak with his authority. And when you do, we will rally behind you."
"Selena?"
"Yes, Querida."
"I'm scared. What if the Feds catch me? What if no one believes me? What if...?"
Selena turned toward her. "Of course, you are frightened, Cassie. We all are. Your father was so terrified he could hardly sleep the night before he returned to Washington. The night before..."
Cassie heard Selena's voice break and decided she had to ask. "Selena, I can't help wondering if, well, if you and Daddy were---"
"Lovers? Does it matter?"
"I don't know. Maybe not. But, Mother was so certain that there was nothing other than friendship between you. I don't want to believe she was wrong. But I think I have a right to know the truth."
Selena's throaty laugh surprised Cassie, made her wince. "What's so funny?" She sounded like a petulant child even to herself.
"Oh, Querida," Selena said, catching her breath. "Your father was so in love with your mother, I couldn't have pried him away from her even if I had wanted to." She hesitated, then continued. "But in all honesty, I admired your father greatly. He was a wonderful, talented, even funny man, who knew all the right things to say and all the right things to do. And he was terribly ... eh ... empty after your mother passed away. He needed someone, and he turned to me. So, I guess in our own way, we were lovers, but never in love with one another."
"Lovers but not lovers. Now that makes a hell of a lot of sense," Cassie snapped.
Selena reached across the narrow space between their chairs and put her hand on Cassie's. "Think about it this way. Your father and I were lovers of the same things. We also loved one another very deeply. But ours was never a physical relationship. We were content in one another's company. We understood each other. We respected each other. It was nothing like what you felt for Alan. Nor, I suspect, what you have begun to feel toward your Max Henshaw."
It was Cassie's turn to look up at the stars, but they were beginning to fade in the slowly emerging dawn. Max and Alan. Alan had been so handsome with his blonde hair and straight nose, his blue-green eyes and full lips that never stopped smiling ... She shook her head against the memory, turning her thoughts to Max, who hardly seemed to smile at all. When he did, it was special. Something to remember. And he wasn't really handsome at all. His dark eyes were unremarkable, except when he became deadly serious, and his chestnut hair was just sort of ... there. Of course, he could be called good looking-in a rugged sort of way. But, no. It wasn't Max's looks that she thought about when she thought of him. It was the way he treated her, the way he just sort of knew what to do and then did it. He made her feel safe-and, she suddenly realized, wanted.
"Selena? How do you keep from feeling afraid?" she asked, wondering if losing Daddy had made Selena feel less certain, less safe.
"I don't. I am always frightened. I know that if they catch me, they will railroad me, trump up charges of espionage, and imprison me. Maybe even execute me. But the prospect of Penseur-of J. Harold Otis and Hamilton Bates and all the rest of them-succeeding is even more frightening. Imagine a life without liberty, Cassie. Where everything we say, do, even think is controlled by someone who neither knows us nor cares to know us. We have seen that kind of government. My parents and I ... Carlos," she nodded in the captain's direction, "and hundreds of thousands of others fled Cuba for that very reason. You just can't imagine what it is like to live like that, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
Cassie had never heard Selena more passionate, and she cursed her own cowardice. After all, she had her father's name and reputation to lean on, and, not least of all, she had irrefutable evidence that the conspiracy was not only real, but very close to reshaping the world in the image of those who would play God. The memory of her father's voice as he sang "The Impossible Dream" echoed in her mind and filled her with a sense of rightness that crowded out the fear that had been building in her since they'd fled from Joshua's house.
Selena had taken her hand away and fallen silent, no doubt lost in her own thoughts. Cassie leaned deeper into the chair and felt the tension leave her body as the motor churned through the water and the cloudless sky turned from gray to gold in advance of the rising sun.
Carlos glanced back over his shoulder at the two women behind him. The young one, Godiva, looked as though she was sleeping, but Selena appeared not only awake but alert to everything around her. It was a habit formed early by children in Cuba, especially those who'd lived during Castro's early years, and it was a habit that served them well.
He thought about the call from Selena at a little past three o'clock this morning. Despite his concern about making the long trip to Tampa on such short notice, he couldn't say no to her plea for help. In the short time between her call and her arrival with her friend at the dock, he'd had just enough time to plot the course, gather food, and load his equipment. Fortunately, he'd topped off the fuel tank earlier, so they should be able to make it all the way without stopping, and the marine weather forecast had reported calm seas with light, variable winds. There was a slight chance of showers near Cedar Key, but, hopefully, he'd be able to steer around them. When he turned to face forward again and checked his compass heading, Selena's voice broke into his thoughts.
"Carlos?"
He looked over his shoulder to see her making her way toward him and motioned for her to sit in the mate's seat. "Sí, Selena?"
"Let's speak English, okay? I don't want Godiva to feel that we are hiding anything," she suggested. He nodded, and she continued, "I want to thank you again for helping us. You know I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't necessary."
The lines around her mouth deepened in a frown, and he remembered how beautiful she had been as a young woman. "It is okay, Selena. What threatens you threatens us all. But can't you tell me what happened? I think it is important for me to know."
"Perhaps, Carlos, perhaps," she replied, sighing. "But I do not want to endanger you anymore than I already have."
"Selena. You are like my sister."
She looked across the narrow space between them and was silent a long time. Finally, she shrugged and related the events at the farmhouse.
When she finished, he gave a low whistle and shook his head. "And Alamo said it was an isolated incident?"
"Yes. For that, at least, we can be thankful. But, as you can see, Godiva and I are in great danger if we are caught. She must be able to finish her mission."
Carlos wondered what Godiva's mission was, but no cluster knew exactly what any of the others were doing. It was too hazardous. When the time came, they would each do their own part, and it would all work together. He wished that it would happen soon. He lived in fear of being found out and imprisoned. Or executed. "How long have they had warrants out for your arrest?"
"I'm not certain. At least since Moses was killed. They're using his death as an excuse. According to what Joshua learned from their files, they're saying that I was involved in planning his death."
Carlos shook his head again. "Jesus, Selena. Trying to hide from the Feds is like trying to hide from God. Or Satan."
"That is why Godiva and I must separate as soon as possible."
"Where will you go?" he asked, reaching into the cooler behind him and taking out a Coke. He offered her one, but she shook her head.
"I'm not sure. Perhaps to Sentry Biscayne. Perhaps to the Caribbean. I'll just have to see what comes my way." She hesitated a moment, staring at the blue waters of the Gulf sliding swiftly past.
"I wish I could go with you. Wherever you end up." It was Cassie, who had stepped up behind them unnoticed. Carlos and Selena turned abruptly at the interruption.
"You look tired," Selena murmured, reaching out to brush the hair away from Cassie's forehead.
"Yes, señorita. Would you like to go below and sleep? The beds are very comfortable," Carlos said.
"Yes, I would. Very much. How about you, Selena? No telling when either of us will be able to sleep peacefully again," Cassie suggested and led the way down the steps into the small cabin.
May Lee stepped from her front porch and walked across the lawn to greet Max as he drove into the front yard. The circles under her eyes were almost as black as the simple dress she wore, and her hands trembled when she climbed into the car and pulled the door closed. She had called him just as he was leaving the Chief's office, where he learned he was being suspended from duty until Internal Affairs completed their investigation of his shooting of Jonathon. Despite the pain that was inevitable in helping May Lee claim Philip's body, he welcomed any diversion from his own problems.
"I called the morgue," he said as he backed the car out onto the street. "They will have Philip's body ready for you to claim."
"What about Jonathon? He has no relatives..." she asked, her voice soft.
"I know. Under the circumstances, I can't do anything about him personally, but I'll ask my partner to take care of him later. Don't worry. I won't let him be treated as anything less than the good man he was." He paused, remembering the betrayed look on the old man's face while he lay dying in Bates' dining room. It was a memory that wasn't likely to fade anytime soon. "Are you planning to take Philip back to China with you or bury him here?" he asked.
"I cannot take him to China. They will not allow that, and since I will..." She stopped, and he looked over to see her raise a lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes. The stoicism of last night had disappeared like the fog. "Sorry, Max," she continued, "since I will not be here to see him laid to rest, I think it would be best just to have him cremated. Then, maybe you could scatter his ashes for me on his mother's grave. She was a fine woman, you know, and loved my son dearly."
"Perhaps that is what I should arrange for Jonathon as well."
"That would be good..." Her voice faded, and she retreated into the privacy of her own thoughts.
Max wondered how she would react to seeing Philip's body. The morgue was as cold and forbidding as the death it housed, and the bodies that lay within were, for the most part, scheduled for autopsies. He remembered Cassie's face-the anger that had blazed in her eyes and flushed into her cheeks-when he'd advised her that her father would face the medical examiner's knife. It had not been the best way to begin a relationship.
He parked the car and led May Lee through the lobby to the elevator that would carry them down for one last look at her son. As the doors closed and they descended, he stole a glance at the frail woman standing by the opposite wall. He wished it didn't have to be this way. The sight of a hanged man was not pretty. It would leave a lasting memory so ugly that she'd always have difficulty reaching beyond it to remember other, better images of him.
When they stepped from the elevator, she hesitated a moment, looking around at the white concrete walls as if orienting herself, then started down the short hall that had only one destination. Seeing her almost lose her balance, Max reached out to steady her, then, with his hand on her elbow, guided her the rest of the way.
At the end of the corridor was a glass door with the word "Morgue" painted in large black letters. He rang the buzzer beside it, feeling May Lee's trembling grow more pronounced as he held her arm and waited. At last, a middle-aged woman in a surgical cap and gown opened the door.
"We're here to claim the body of Philip Sinclair," Max explained. "This is Philip's mother. I am a friend of the family."
The woman studied them both for a brief moment, then closed the door and disappeared inside. She returned within moments to direct them to the large plate glass window at the back of the anteroom, then disappeared again behind the inner door. May Lee followed Max as if she wore leaden shoes, then stood before the window, her labored breathing audible. The curtains parted slowly, revealing Philip's corpse inch-by-inch, until the full impact of his violent, choking death could be seen.
May Lee whimpered and sank against Max but seemed unable to take her eyes off the bloated, purplish face engorged with dead blood and the bulging eyes that stared unblinking at the stark white ceiling. Max held both of her arms while she absorbed the sight of the son she'd given up so he would have a better life. At last, she turned away, burying her face against Max's blue shirt, and he nodded to the woman behind the window that they had seen enough.
As the curtains closed, he led May Lee to a wooden bench against the wall and sat beside her, rocking her in his arms until her breathing became more regular. At last, she looked up at him, her eyes wide with questions she couldn't begin to ask nor he to answer.
The sound of a door closing and footsteps echoing across the tile floor drew his attention toward the woman in the surgical uniform who approached. She looked neither kind nor unkind as she sat across from them with the clipboard on her lap.
"I believe you indicated that the body is that of your son, Philip Sinclair?" she asked, pen poised above paper.
May Lee tilted her head slightly at the woman's question, then looked at Max. He answered in her behalf. "Yes. That is correct."
"There will, of course, have to be an autopsy to ascertain the exact cause of death. But afterward, we can release the body to you or to your agent for disposal."
Max wanted to slap her. Disposal? Bitch. "Yes. We understand that. We have the name and phone number of the funeral home that you should contact to handle Philip's arrangements," he replied, trying to keep his voice even, while May Lee opened her straw purse and handed the woman a small piece of paper.
"Can you tell us when the autopsy is scheduled?" Max asked. He intended to make sure May Lee's wishes were honored.
The woman looked down at her notes. "Two o'clock this afternoon, which means the remains will be available for pick-up by tomorrow morning. Preliminary results should be available to the police by tomorrow afternoon." She stood and looked at May Lee, then reached down and patted her on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she said, then turned and walked back inside the morgue.
May Lee sat up a little straighter and looked at Max. "Don't be too hard on her, Max. She lives among the dead."
He nodded, embarrassed that she had so easily read his mind, amazed at her compassion even in the face of her own tragedy.
Carlos stood and stretched, keeping one hand on the helm, as he looked over his left shoulder to the eastern horizon. He tensed at the sight of a gray boat heading toward them. From the way it sped across the two-foot waves, he had little doubt who it was. Cursing under his breath, he reached for the cell phone in the storage compartment at the entrance to the cabin. It pays to plan ahead, he thought, watching the boat grow rapidly larger as it approached.
The boat was less than a hundred yards away when he put the phone away and woke Selena and Cassie. "It's the Coast Guard," he said softly. "Get the bandanna from that black bag and wrap it around your hair. See that straw hat? Godiva, you can wear that. And if you have sunglasses, keep them handy."
Selena and Cassie obeyed wordlessly, and Carlos closed the cabin door. Disguises were fine, but not being seen at all was even better, he thought, as the boat circled behind and hailed him on the marine radio.
"Coast Guard vessel to Esperanza. Over."
"Esperanza. Go ahead."
"Slow your engine and get ready to catch our lines. We're coming alongside."
Carlos did as directed, then stood by the starboard gunwale while the sleek boat eased closer. "What's the problem, Officer?" he asked, catching the lines and securing them to the cleats on the side.
"Routine inspection," replied the young, crew-cut sailor. "You're a long way from home, aren't ya?"
"Yeah. Gotta get my stabilizers worked on in Ft. Myers."
The young man nodded and pulled the two boats close together. "Yeah, they've got the best in the business down---" He was interrupted by the loud crackle of his radio and turned to listen.
"Coast Guard Vessel 1629, this is United States Coast Guard, Yankeetown. Over," came a woman's voice through the static.
"Go ahead, Yankeetown," replied the helmsman, holding the mike close to his mouth.
"A small vessel is reported to be taking on water thirty miles northwest off Cedar Key. Women and children aboard. Please respond."
"We're on our way, Yankeetown. Out."
"Untie those lines for us, will ya?" barked the officer who'd been about to board Esperanza, his eyes intense.
"Sure thing," Carlos replied, tossing the ropes across the widening space between the two boats. "Hope you get there in time."
"Yeah. So do we," the officer answered as the motors roared to life. "Y'all have a safe trip now, hear?"
Carlos nodded and watched as they turned and sped away behind him, then opened the cabin door. "It's okay. They're gone," he said.
Cassie took off the old straw hat. "What happened?"
"Nothing much, little lady," he replied. "Let's just say that when the hounds are after you, it helps to throw them a rabbit."
Walter Spano sat down heavily on the couch and looked across the living room at his boss. "It all turned out fine, Hamilton," he said. "In fact, it couldn't have been better if we planned it ourselves."
Hamilton Bates stared at him coldly for a long moment. "It could have turned out quite differently, though, Walter. I told you that Jonathon Sinclair had threatened me, yet you did nothing to prevent what could easily have been my death. As I recall, you are my Chief of Security..." He let his sentence go unfinished.
"Yes, sir. But, no one could have foreseen what occurred. I had him checked out, and, to all appearances, he was just a toothless old dog. Besides, he had essentially vanished from sight from the time he confronted you in the office until he forced his way in here last night." He paused and sat up a little straighter. "And, like I said, it solves the Henshaw problem."
Henshaw deserves a medal, Bates thought. Instead, he's about to lose his career. And the ability to stick his nose where it doesn't belong. He nodded. "Yes, Walter, there is a positive side. But," he paused, remembering the scene from last night, "I think you need to have a little talk with Busby, set him up with a, ah, refresher course. Jonathon should never have been able to get past him. And, considering that there are a lot of malcontents out there, I wouldn't want a repeat of last night's events."
"Roger. I'll see to it right away," Walter replied and, standing, left the room.
Roger. Bates frowned and studied the rare Ming vase on the mantelpiece across the room, listening to Spano's footsteps recede and fade away. Why must the future inevitably end up depending on knaves? he wondered, shaking his head.
Max walked May Lee to her front door, wishing there was something he could say or do to soothe her. But what could ease the pain of losing a son and being forced to return to a land she no longer considered home? As he held the door for her, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and went inside without a word. He shook his head and walked back to his car, pausing a moment to look around at the impoverished neighborhood. Compared to what awaited her in China, these small houses and postage-stamp yards would seem like mansions. Finally, he climbed into the car and backed out into the street.
Glancing back once more, he saw May Lee run out onto the porch and frantically wave a piece of paper at him. He rolled his window down and stopped the car. "What is it?"
"Just a minute, Max," she called, hurrying across the yard to him. "I had a message from Miss Cassie on my machine. She said she'll be flying into Richmond tomorrow and for me to have Jonathon pick her up at the airport. What am I going to do? She didn't leave a number where we could reach her."
"Did she leave the flight information?"
"Yes." She handed the paper to him.
He looked at it a moment, picturing the petite, dark haired woman whose entry into his world had changed it so dramatically. Suddenly, he was glad he wouldn't have to report to work tomorrow. "Don't worry, May Lee. I'll get her."
The lines around the woman's eyes smoothed a little, and she nodded. "Thank you, Max. That would be very kind of you." She started back toward the house, then turned around. "I will always remember your kindness to me-and to Philip," she said. "And I will pray for you."
"I will pray for you, too, May Lee," he answered, but she had already started up the path away from him.
August 9
-
Max was waiting by the gate when Cassie emerged from the gangway. Seeing him was like awakening from a bad dream, and she had to fight the urge to throw her arms around him. She smiled and handed him the computer she'd lugged around for days. "What a nice surprise. I thought Jonathon would be here. Have you been waiting long?"
"Seems like a lifetime," he answered, locking eyes with her. "But, no, not really," he added after a moment, taking her by the elbow and guiding her toward the baggage claim. "Just about half an hour. How was your flight?"
"It was okay," she sighed, a little disconcerted by the depth of emotion she'd seen in his eyes. "We were late getting out of Tampa, but everything else went smooth enough."
"Tampa? First you fly to Richmond instead of D.C., and now you say you went all the way to Tampa instead of just catching a flight out of Tallahassee. Aren't you taking a lot of detours?"
"You can't imagine how many. But I'll tell you about it later." She pointed to the suitcase on the conveyor belt. "That's mine there."
Max picked it up and groaned. "Great goodness, woman. What d'ya have in here? Bricks?"
"You'll see. Just as soon as we're somewhere safe."
"And where would that be?" he asked as they threaded their way through the crowd to the outer doors.
She didn't answer until they were outside. The slanting rays of the mid-afternoon sun were blinding, and she raised her hand to shield her eyes. The sight of Max's familiar blue Ford Taurus a short distance away was reassuring-as was the feel of him close beside her as they crossed the parking lot. "I was thinking that I'd like to get a motel room-somewhere out of the way."
He wiggled his eyebrows up and down in a poor Groucho Marx imitation. "Should I plead for my reputation?"
Cassie blushed. "Well, uh, I thought, you know, separate rooms?"
Max grinned. "What a relief. I was beginning to fear for my virtue," he said as they reached his car.
She smiled back at him.
"I know a nice little place not too far from here," he added, depositing her suitcase and computer into the trunk. "It's clean, the beds are comfortable, and the restaurant serves home style food."
"Sounds perfect," she replied, allowing him to help her into the car.
He walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat. As he started the engine and guided the car out onto the highway, Cassie leaned back and closed her eyes. This was the safest she'd felt in what seemed like a lifetime, and she hoped Selena and the others were out of harm's way, too. She felt a pang of guilt for bringing the Feds down on them. She and Selena had been able to just disappear. The rest of them lived in that area. Could they just retreat back into the wallpaper of their everyday lives? Maybe, but not Joshua. It had happened at his house. She imagined the scene when the Feds returned to find the house deserted and their men dead. They'd dust for fingerprints and vacuum for other evidence. She doubted they'd find any fingerprints-except Joshua's and Aggie's. And Lourdes'. And mine. She suddenly remembered taking off her gloves in the bedroom while working at the computer. The only question was how long it would take to identify them and follow up. The government had records of everything, everyone.
She thought back to the meeting the cluster had held just before Lourdes drove her and Selena to Apalachicola. Joshua was still concerned about Max's involvement, but she'd convinced all of them that he could be trusted. Besides, as a detective, he was in a position to be of real help-if he would. And she was going to need a lot of help. Selena had been worried about her. Clearly, Cassie was now in the government's sights, too, and once she began approaching publishers, it would be hard to keep the information under wraps until the time was right. And publication would bring the full power and force of Penseur's operatives down on her. On me alone, she thought, wishing she hadn't had to leave her pistol with Carlos. She opened her eyes to look at the man beside her. He looked troubled. "Why the frown?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. "Was I frowning? I'm sorry. Guess I've just got a lot on my mind. I'll tell you all about it when we get there."
He turned onto a narrow dirt road that led through the woods to a lake with several cabins along the shoreline to the right. There was a small marina near the dock and a single story motel and restaurant at the end of the road that circled halfway around the lake to the left. "Patterson's Fishing Village," Cassie read aloud when they passed the big white sign with the black lettering, then added almost wistfully, "It looks so peaceful." The farmhouse in Florida had looked peaceful, too.
Max nodded. "Cabin or motel?" he asked, stopping the car in front of the marina.
She looked across at the motel, then at the cabins to the right. "A cabin would be more comfortable. How many bedrooms do they have?"
"Two," he replied, getting out of the car. She started to follow, but he told her to stay put. He'd be right back.
A middle-aged couple emerged just after Max went inside. Holding hands and smiling, they reminded Cassie of the way her mother and father had acted toward one another. How she envied them that closeness, their knowledge that they could count on each other. She remembered Alan and the love they had shared. She'd thought it would last a lifetime. It had. His. Not hers. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door opening.
"We've got the cabin at the far end," Max said, setting a grocery bag on the seat between them before he climbed back into the car.
Cassie unlocked the cabin door and went inside. Max followed close behind carrying the suitcase and grocery bag. Cozy was the only way to describe it. A wood stove in the corner of the living room stood ready to ward off the chill of the coming winter. A plaid overstuffed couch and easy chair, separated by a small maple end table and tall brown ginger jar lamp, sat across from the wood stove. The large front window faced the lake; two smaller side windows overlooked the woods a short distance away.
Max set the grocery bag on the white Formica kitchen counter, then carried Cassie's suitcase into the bedroom to the right of the small hallway, while she set her computer on the round maple kitchen table and explored the cabinets and drawers.
"We've got dishes, pans, even a can opener," she announced when Max emerged from the bedroom.
"All the comforts of home," he replied and, rummaging around in the grocery bag, withdrew a T-Shirt and pair of khaki trousers. "That marina is a regular shopping mall," he grinned, flourishing the new clothes like trophies.
She bit her lower lip. "Oh, Max. I didn't even think about your not being prepared to stay over."
"Are you kidding? 'Prepared' is my middle name. Why, I even have a toothbrush, shaving cream, and a razor in here. Not to mention the 'unmentionables' that I dare not take from this bag in the presence of a lady." He did his Groucho Marx imitation again, and she laughed. It felt good. Very good.
While Max smuggled his "unmentionables" and new clothes into the bedroom at the left, Cassie unloaded the groceries. Instant coffee. Good. Cream, sugar, milk, and breakfast cereal. Even some Li'l Debbie Snack Cakes. Good thinking. You never know when your sweet tooth is going to act up. With her, it was usually in the middle of the night.
She was boiling water for coffee when Max came back into the room. "Aha! A woman who can boil water. Smells delicious." He walked to the stove to make a big show of sniffing the steam.
"I have lots of talents," she replied, feigning arrogance.
"I'm sure," he answered, turning toward her. A more serious look crossed his face then disappeared as he turned his attention to spooning coffee into the mugs. "Want sugar? Cream?" he asked, stirring the hot water into the coffee.
"A little of both," she said over her shoulder, going to the couch across the room. Sinking into it gratefully, she curled her legs up and leaned back.
"You look tired," Max said, handing a cup to her before sitting in the chair to her right.
"I am." Except for the short sleep she'd had at the farmhouse before all hell broke loose and her cat-nap on the boat, she hadn't slept in more than thirty-six hours. She felt Max's eyes on her and turned to look at him. The serious look had returned to his face. This time it remained. She uncurled her legs and sat up straighter. "You said in the car that you have a lot on your mind. Want to share it with me?"
"Maybe it ought to wait until you've had a good night's sleep."
"If it's that bad, I'd just as soon get it over with," she responded, a sense of foreboding creeping into her mind.
He set his coffee cup on the lamp table and went into his bedroom, returning a moment later with yesterday's newspaper. "Here. Look at this..." He handed her the local section of the Washington Post, then picked up his coffee and sat beside her on the couch.
Cassie's eyes widened at the sight of four familiar faces beneath the headline across the top of the page.
-
"THREAT ON MILLIONAIRE'S LIFE FOILED"
-
On either side of the photos of Hamilton Bates, Max, Jonathon, and Philip were two smaller headlines. The more prominent one on the left announced, "Handyman killed, Hamilton Bates unharmed." The one to the right, beside Max's image, read, "Cop suspended in shooting."
Stunned, Cassie scanned the articles, then looked up. "Oh, Max! How can this be? Jonathon was such a wonderful man." She paused and took a long breath against the memory of the tall, wiry handyman who had seemed able to fix anything. Her bike. Her favorite doll. Even some of her attitudes. She bit her lip. He hadn't been able to fix the most important thing in his life-Philip. But why did he attack Uncle Hamilton? She caught her breath. Jonathon knew! He'd told Max that Daddy had confided in him, but why had he kept it a secret? Promises, she thought, shaking her head. Jonathon never broke a promise-no matter how misguided. The frown on Max's face interrupted her thoughts. "Why would they suspend you? You'd think they'd give you the Medal of Honor for saving the life of Hamilton Bates."
"It's routine," he replied, shrugging. "Anytime a civilian is shot, the officer is suspended while Internal Affairs investigates the circumstances."
She re-read the paragraph describing Jonathon as "a long time employee of the late Madison Hart, whose recent death occurred at the hands of the employee's son." Something about seeing her father's name associated with the attempt on Uncle Hamilton's life bothered Cassie almost as much as what had happened at Hamilton Bates' house.
"Max? Why would Philip say he killed my father?" she asked, not looking up from the mug shot of the boy who'd been almost like her brother. "He didn't anymore kill my father than I did." She shook her head, imagining the agony that had driven Philip to hang himself and how May Lee ... Oh, my God. May Lee. She stood up suddenly and began to pace. "Max, I need to find a telephone."
"You can use my cell."
"No. They keep records of every call. There must be a phone at the marina. Can I borrow your car?"
"Who do you have to call?" he asked, reaching into his pocket for the keys.
"May Lee. She must be beside herself and feeling so alone," Cassie answered, holding out her hand.
Max left the keys in his pocket and stood up. "No, Cassie. You can't," he said, walking toward her.
She felt her eyes flash at him. What do you mean I 'can't?'" she snapped.
"She's not there."
"Not there? Don't be absurd. Oh, you mean at Daddy's house. So, I'll call her at home. I know the num..." She paused when he reached out and took hold of her arms.
"Cassie. May Lee is not at your father's. She's not at home. She's gone."
Sweet Jesus. "She's dead, too...?" Her voice sounded shrill, even to herself.
"No, no, no." Max shook his head. "She's been deported." He led her back to the couch.
Cassie swallowed hard against the panic that had risen in her throat. May Lee was alive. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as Max's words took shape. "Deported," she murmured, then blinked, and looked at him. "May Lee's been deported?"
He nodded, his dark eyes fixed on her. "Yes. She had until midnight yesterday to leave the United States."
"Why? She's done nothing wrong."
"They said it was because she no longer had a sponsor-your father-and was, therefore, no longer a legal alien."
"I could have been her sponsor. If only she could've waited until I got back."
"Yeah, but they were in one hell of a hurry. Normally, that kind of action takes weeks. They also cited Philip's arrest. Said she was 'associating with a felon.'"
Cassie leaned her head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. "I feel like I'm being wrapped in a cocoon," she murmured. "Bit by little bit, everyone I can count on is being taken from me." Her voice, like her body, trembled.
He took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her to him. "I know," he whispered, "but, Cassie, you're not alone. I'm here to help you ... if you'll let me."
Max lay in bed, acutely aware of Cassie sleeping just across the hallway. Her door was slightly open-like her heart, he hoped, and he could hear her snoring softly. Restless, he got up and tiptoed through the living room to the front porch. A light fog hovered above the lake and across the cabins, blurring their silhouettes. Sitting on the top step, he leaned against the post and considered all that had happened, all that was about to happen. His thoughts, his ability to foresee their next move were as obscure as his fogged-in surroundings, but despite the uncertainty, he knew that he and Cassie had to act-and fast.
She had shown him the photos and Madison Hart's notes Selena had given her, old man Otis' journal, the news clippings, DVD, and the manuscript that could change the course of history. She'd told him of the terrifying invasion by the Feds at the farmhouse. Her description of the round-faced giant, Joshua, rang a bell but Max was sure that hadn't been his name. None of the others had sounded in the least familiar, even though he'd grown up in that area. Of course, he'd left a long time ago.
He feared for Cassie. And for himself. There was no longer any doubt that Hamilton Bates was behind all that had happened. But he was a powerful man, rich and influential, and he and his pals would let nothing stand in their way. How could one young woman and a suspended cop possibly hope to fight them? Much less, stop them?
There was no relying on scattered groups like Joshua's to be of any real help. Sure, they could, if need be, verify the proof Cassie's father had obtained. Unfortunately, they had all been party to the killing of two Federal officers, so their own veracity would come under sharp scrutiny by a media reluctant to publicize anything negative about this Administration. The one thing Cassie did have going for her was her father's name. If she could just get his book published, that might carry enough weight in itself to slow, if not stop, the progress of Penseur. Still, it was a tall order.
He stood up and stared out through the fog at the motel lights across the way. There are still good men out there, he thought, and if Cassie can shine even a little light on the truth, maybe, just maybe, it'll be enough.
He walked back inside, past the room where Cassie slept silently now, and lay back across his bed. It was a long drive to New York, and he had to get some sleep. But sleep was slow in coming and was filled with dreams of spiders.
August 10
-
Hamilton Bates hesitated, uncertain whether he was pleased or not to receive the call from Sherman and Solomon Publishing. He'd hoped this day wouldn't come, but knowing Cassandra as he did, he'd never really doubted that it would. Taking a deep breath, he punched the button and picked up the telephone. "Good afternoon, Anne."
"Hello, Hamilton. I have some news for you." Her voice was deep-for a woman's-and sultry.
"Yes."
"You told us to let you know if Cassandra Hart approached us about her father's book. Well, she just left my office."
"Did she bring the manuscript?"
"No. She said she's 'feeling out the market.' She's no fool, Hamilton. She knows the power of her father's reputation and won't reveal the manuscript until she gets the terms she wants."
"Which are?"
"That the book will be published under the same terms as we published Linchpin. Also, that she will maintain editorial control and have a major say in marketing strategy."
"I see." He drew triangles on the white legal pad in front of him. "Surely she told you what the book is about."
"Yes. And, frankly, it sounds pretty far-fetched. When she first told me, I thought it must be fiction. She denied it."
He smiled a little. "What did she tell you?"
"That her father had uncovered some sort of conspiracy. Let me see exactly..." She paused, obviously checking her notes. "Ah, yes. A tightly-knit organization of international elites is on the verge of assuming control of governments, resources, and economies worldwide, but it all hinges on the outcome of the Presidential election. She says her father's book exposes not only the plan, but also the names of the people involved."
"That does sound far-fetched. It's hard to believe Madison Hart would be involved in anything like that." He stopped doodling and leaned back, looking out the window at the gathering clouds. "Of course, I had noticed he seemed to be losing his objectivity over the past several years. What did you tell her, Anne?"
"Well, naturally, I assured her that we have the greatest respect for her father's work, but that we have already committed our resources for the year to other books."
"And what did she say?" He started drawing triangles again.
"Well, she seemed quite disappointed and pressed me pretty hard. She could tell I was somewhat skeptical about the story, even though she claims to have physical proof, as well as witnesses, that the story is factual."
He sat up straighter. "What proof?"
"Diaries, photos, videos."
J. Harold's missing journal. He was silent a long moment. "Did you turn her down flat?"
"Yes. She told me it was essential that the book be on the shelves before November. I, of course, told her it would be impossible for any publishing house in the world to edit, proof, print, and market a book in such a short time."
"She grew up in the literary world, Anne. Do you think she believed you?"
"I'm not sure, Hamilton. She seems pretty determined and insists that it will be a real blockbuster for whoever gets the rights to it. What with Madison's recent death and all the publicity, I'm not certain she's wrong."
"So you think she'll keep trying."
"No doubt. Of course, everyone in New York is aware of your interest in this situation, although no one is exactly sure why..." She let the unspoken question hang between them.
"It's quite simple, really. Madison was a good friend and colleague for whom I had the greatest respect, but when his wife died, he changed. Of course, I wasn't aware until now what he had been working on, but from what little he told me, I couldn't help fearing that he was, ah, about to make a fool of himself. It's my hope to prevent his daughter from accidentally making my fears a reality."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
He thought a moment. "Yes. As a matter of fact, there is. Did she leave a number where she can be reached?"
"Yes. She insisted on it. 'In case I came to my senses.' Oh, yes. Here it is."
He jotted down the phone number beneath the row of triangles on the tablet. "Good." He paused a moment. "On second thought, Anne, it might be best if Cassandra doesn't know of my, ah, interest at this time. Perhaps you could telephone her. Tell her that you felt bad about being unable to meet her needs and that you telephoned one of the smaller houses to see if they might have an opening in their production schedule. Then have her call Halcyon."
"The house that was just sold to that British conglomerate?"
"Yes. I've known the CEO for years."
"I guess I'd better call them first," she suggested, "so they won't be surprised when Cassandra calls."
"No. That won't be necessary. I'll handle that. Just give me about ten minutes before you call her. If you don't hear back from me, you can assume it is safe to proceed. If Cassandra gives you any problem, call me back."
"Will do, Hamilton."
He held the receiver in his hand a moment after she hung up, then placed it in its cradle and pressed the button on the intercom. "Martha. Get me David Kingman."
She buzzed him back within moments. "They say he's out of town, Mr. Bates. Do you want to talk to his assistant, Jennifer Miles?"
"Fine, fine. She'll have to do," he answered, irritated, and picked up the telephone.
"Good afternoon, Jennifer," he said, calming his tone.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bates. I'm sorry Mr. Kingman isn't available, but I'll try to help." She sounded very young. Or maybe he was just feeling old.
"Are you familiar with the name 'Madison Hart'?"
"Sure. I was very sorry to learn of his death."
"Yes. Well, his daughter spoke to Sherman and Solomon today about her father's last manuscript. They couldn't handle it, so she will be contacting you. I want you to treat her with the greatest courtesy. Tell her that Halcyon House has an opening on its calendar and you can get his book on the market quickly. Tell her that you are eager to work with her."
The young woman hesitated. He could almost hear her resentment at the special treatment he was demanding for Cassandra.
"But, Mr. Bates. I'm not sure---"
"Jennifer. This is not a request. This is an important book by a very famous author. As a member of the Board, I don't want this to, ah, slip into the hands of another house." He wished these young people would learn how the game worked.
"Yes, sir. I understand. Shall I contact you after I speak with her?" She didn't sound quite so self-important now.
"Yes. Also, tell her you'll need the manuscript, as well as any and all documentation, immediately in order to meet her deadline."
"What's the deadline?"
"October. Oh, and by the way, don't tell Miss Hart that I have spoken to you. Just tell her that Anne at Sherman and Solomon called to recommend that you take a look at the manuscript. Miss Hart is, ah, rather proud and would be, ah, offended if she knew that I had been of assistance."
"Yes, sir. Anne at Sherman and Solomon. I'll take care of it."
Bates hung up the phone and looked at the clock. He was supposed to be at a fund-raiser in two hours. More than enough time to wrap up a few more loose ends, he thought, picking up the red pen on his desk and turning his attention to the final draft of the President's speech.
Aware of the annoyed glances she was receiving from other diners in the hotel restaurant, Cassie reached into her purse and took out the loudly ringing cell phone. "Maybe one of those publishers has had second thoughts," she said to Max, who continued eating as she answered it. "Yes. This is Cassandra Hart." She paused. "Who did you say this is? I'm sorry, can you speak up a little? It's kind of noisy here." She paused again. "Oh, yes, Anne. Have you changed your mind?" She looked at Max, silently mouthing the words "Sherman and Solomon." He stopped chewing to listen.
"Oh, you have? Wonderful. Hold on a moment while I get something to write with."
Max handed her his pen and pocket notebook.
"Okay. What's the phone number?" She wrote it down.
"Yes. I'll call them right now. And thank you very much." Cassie hung up and smiled at Max.
"What's wonderful?" he asked.
"That was the woman from Sherman and Solomon. Said she found a publisher who's interested and can meet my schedule."
"Which one?"
She looked at her notes. "Halcyon House. I'm supposed to call them right away."
"Now? It's six o'clock. Who works this late?" he asked, checking his watch.
"This is New York, Max," she said as if that explained everything.
"Right. How could I forget?" he responded, but she was already headed for the relative quiet of the hotel lobby.
Max had finished his dinner and was paying the bill by the time Cassie returned.
"What's happening?" he asked when she sat down.
"You're not going to believe this," she answered, taking a bite of her Caesar salad. "They're willing to publish Daddy's book sight unseen, just on the strength of his name."
He cocked his head. "Isn't that a little odd?"
"Well, yes, I guess so. But they're a small house trying to make a big name for themselves. They don't have any well known authors on their list, and they think publishing a book by Madison Hart will make them practically a household word."
He studied her face for a moment, not wanting to say anything negative, but he had a long habit of questioning anything that seemed too good to be true. "So what happens now?" he asked, deciding not to voice his skepticism.
She took another bite of salad before answering. "They want to see me first thing in the morning. And, of course, they want me to bring the manuscript and documentation with me. She told me that if they're to get it published before November, they have to start to work on it immediately."
"If they're so sold on your father's name and reputation, why do they need to see the documentation? Especially since they haven't even read the manuscript yet." His sixth sense was really beginning to gnaw at him.
Cassie sighed and leaned forward. "Because November is only a couple of months away," she said, speaking slowly as if trying to explain something to a child. "They'll have to have several people working on it at once. Normally, it would go through the reading, editing, proofing, and legal processes one at a time. That usually takes months, and this book can't wait that long."
Max just nodded. She knew more about this business than he did, but he wished there was some way to check up on this Halcyon House. If only he could call Ricky Sims. Or Sheila. But the Department was completely off limits while he was suspended.
Cassie wiped her lips and set the napkin beside her plate, then looked across at him. "Want to go sightseeing?" she asked, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"If you want to. But I'm not sure New York has much to offer besides crowds and panhandlers." He stood and helped her from her chair, an outdated courtesy he never failed to practice.
"Bet you never stood at the top of the Empire State Building at night," she said, leading the way toward the lobby.
"Nope. Not at night," he admitted.
"Well, since tonight I'm on top of the world, I can't imagine a more perfect place to be," she said as they walked through the revolving doors to hail a cab.
The Attorney General pulled Hamilton Bates aside as soon as he walked into the large ballroom crowded with bejeweled women and men in finely tailored tuxedos.
"We need to talk," she said, looking like one of the wicked stepsisters in her bright pink evening gown.
"Can't it wait, Georgeanne?" he asked, spying the CEO of Omega standing alone across the room.
"No, Hamilton. It cannot."
Grimacing, he followed her to the sunroom at the left and closed the door behind them. "What is it?" he asked, irritated by her demand. Irritated by her very existence.
"Two Federal marshals were killed at a small farmhouse in Florida three days ago."
"So? Surely you didn't drag me in here in front of all those people just to tell me a couple of your goons died."
She narrowed her already small eyes behind her Coke bottle glasses and frowned. "They didn't 'die,' Hamilton. They were killed by someone who knew what they were doing. And they found Cassandra Hart's fingerprints at the scene."
He looked at her for a long moment, then walked to the nearest chair, composing his thoughts as he sat down. The Attorney General followed, sitting on the green cushioned chair across from him. She reminded him of a pink frog on a lily pad.
"Just exactly where is this farmhouse and what else did they find?"
"It's about thirty miles from Firethorne." She looked like she was trying not to smirk. "It's owned by the handyman who has worked for J. Harold Otis for some years. He goes by the name of Junior."
Hamilton thought back over his many visits to the plantation near Chattahoochee but couldn't recall having ever seen-or even heard of-a handyman working there. But then, handymen were not high on his list of priorities. "Why would Cassandra have been there?" he wondered aloud.
Georgeanne smirked openly now. "They've also found evidence that Madison Hart and Selena Cordon frequented the place. It seems your little Cassandra has been consorting with the enemy."
He didn't tell her that he had already located Cassandra nor that he was in the process of loading the dice against Madison Hart's book. "What 'evidence,' Georgeanne?" He made himself sound bored.
"As I said, fingerprints. And soon enough, DNA. Oh, they did a good job of trying to wipe them all away, but like so many amateurs, they always forget something. Did you ever notice how revealing garbage can be?"
He wasn't surprised to learn that her people were garbage experts. Nor that she was proud of it. "Yes. I'm sure it is. So, what's the bottom line, Georgeanne? There are some people in the other room I need to see."
She sat back against the green cushion and smiled in a way that she probably thought was sweet. It came across as more of a grimace. "Well, knowing your interest in Cassandra Hart's welfare, I felt I should let you know that a warrant has been issued for her arrest."
That did it. He stood abruptly and walked across to her. "You are not, I repeat not to proceed with this," he said, his voice low, menacing. "Cassandra Hart is my affair. I will see to it that she can do no harm. You get that warrant canceled and call your people off. Do you understand?" He jabbed his finger at her with each word.
Georgeanne stood up to look him straight in the eye. In high heels, she was as tall as he. "Of course I understand, Hamilton," she said in an even voice, "and you can count on me to do what I must." With that, she turned and walked out.
He stared at the door she had closed between them. Arresting Cassandra could jeopardize everything. If she resisted, they'd have an excuse to kill her, and the media would be on it like a band of jackals. If she went to court, she'd have a very public forum and, again, the media would be all over the story. He looked at his watch. The Vice President should be arriving soon. He'd have a talk with her. Maybe he couldn't stop Georgeanne from playing the fool, but with the Vice President's help, he could limit the damage.
Cassie looked out from the Empire State Building at the New York skyline and swept her arm in a wide arc. "Max, this is what it's all about. You know, I've been almost everywhere in the world, traveling with my parents when Daddy went from one assignment to another, and there's no place like the United States."
He followed her gaze across the lighted streets and buildings, brightly colored marquees, the lights high atop skyscrapers. "I've never seen you so happy," he murmured, turning toward her. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you happy."
"You came along at a bad time in my life, that's all," she answered, looking up at him. "There have been happy times for me. Lots of them. It's just that, lately, they've been few and far between. With any luck, maybe this will just be the first of many more."
She didn't look just happy. She looked radiant. He reached out and caressed her cheek tentatively, fearful she would turn away. She didn't. "You're beautiful, Cassandra Hart," he whispered. "Seeing you like this makes me want to take you in my arms and keep you safe forever-so you'll never stop smiling the way you are now."
Cassie took hold of his hand and pressed it more firmly to her cheek. "I wish you could, Max. I don't want to be sad-or lonely-anymore, but I've seen too much to ever believe in forever again."
"Maybe forever is what you make of it," he replied, putting his arm around her narrow waist, his hand resting along the curve of her hip. "When I lost my wife and daughter..." He paused a moment, remembering. "I ached so bad. I saw myself feeling that way for the rest of my life, and forever seemed an awful long time. But, being with you here, tonight, well, forever doesn't seem long enough."
"Maybe," she sighed, leaning closer to him. "And maybe, once Daddy's book is really underway and I've fulfilled my promise, forever won't seem so frightening to me, either. Especially if you're there along the way."
She turned her face upward, and he brushed his lips against hers. "I'll be there, Cassie. Count on it."
It was midnight when Max returned to his room, but he wasn't tired. They'd had coffee at Starbucks-strong coffee-and, unlike Cassie, who seemed immune to the caffeine, it had left him wide awake. He took off his shoes and lay back across the bed, thinking. The last thing he wanted was to mess up Cassie's publishing deal, but questions about it nagged at him. He had told her he wanted to protect her, and he'd meant it. It wouldn't hurt just to do a little checking, he decided, and standing, he walked to the small desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed Sheila.
She answered on the fifth ring. Her voice sounded husky. He'd awakened her. "Hi, Sheil. It's Max," he said. "Sorry to wake you."
She cleared her throat. "That's okay. You know you can call me anytime. I've been waiting for you to finally come to your senses." Her implication was clear, but he wasn't even tempted.
"Sorry, Sheil. It's not that. I need your help, and I can't call you at the office until the investigation is finished."
"Oh, darn. And here I thought..." She paused, giggled, then grew serious. "Okay, Detective. What d'ya need? You name it, I can get it."
"Remember that information you got me about Hamilton Bates?"
"Mm hmm. That was quite a file."
"I need you to go back and check to see if he has any connection to Halcyon Publishing House."
"Okay. But can I finish my beauty sleep first? I wouldn't want to disillusion any of my admirers."
He smiled. Sheila was terrific. She just wasn't the woman for him. "Sure. Look. I'm in New York, and I'll probably be in and out of my hotel room tomorrow. Call me as soon as you have the information. If I'm not here, leave a message. Got something to write with?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
He gave her his number, thanked her, and hung up. Feeling better now that he was taking some action, he called room service and ordered a Coors draft and a roast beef sub, then turned on the television. The National League game in San Francisco appeared on the screen, and the Braves were winning five to nothing at the bottom of the seventh. "What a perfect ending to an almost perfect day," he said aloud, smiling to himself as he sat down on the almost-comfortable chair to wait for room service.
August 11
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Jennifer Miles pushed her auburn hair away from her forehead, picked up the telephone and dialed. She didn't know why this bothered her so much. Power players were always asking for special favors, and Hamilton Bates was no different. She wished her boss were here to run interference. He wasn't, so she was in command of Halcyon. Maybe it was just that she didn't like being told what to do. After all, Halcyon had hired her away from Gemstone at a substantial salary increase, because in just three years, she had helped bring that house out of near-bankruptcy to being one of the most successful small publishers in America. Well, I don't have to like it. I just have to do it, she told herself.
"Jennifer Miles at Halcyon to speak to Mr. Bates," she said to the woman who answered. She sighed when she was put on hold.
"Good morning, Jennifer. Have you seen Miss Hart?" His voice was almost too smooth.
"Yes, sir. She left just about ten minutes ago."
"And?"
"She signed the contract and gave me the disk script."
"What about the documentation?"
She hesitated. He had indicated that he had wanted the book published, so why was he worried about the documentation? "She said she didn't have it with her, so I agreed to go ahead and begin without it. After all, Madison Hart is, uh, was well known for the thoroughness of his research."
There was a moment of silence from the other end. When he spoke again, his voice had acquired a distinct edge. "When is she going to give it to you?"
"She said she'd need a few days. Why?"
He hesitated again. "Did she happen to say where she is keeping it?"
"No. And I didn't ask. After all, one of the most important aspects of a publisher's relationship to a writer is mutual trust and respect---"
"Jennifer," he interrupted, "You forget yourself." He stopped, and, when he spoke again, his voice had regained its earlier smoothness. "Did she leave a number where she can be reached?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good. I want you to contact her immediately, tell her you've been looking over the book, and that, ah, because of the nature of the story, you're going to need the documentation right away. Tell her you can arrange to have it picked up, then call me back."
My, my. Don't you have your shorts in a wad. "Yes, Mr. Bates. I'll call you back as soon as I talk to her."
She hung up without saying goodbye and immediately slid the disk into the computer on her desk. Before she made any more calls to anyone, she wanted to know just exactly what had fallen into her lap.
Max and Cassie returned from Halcyon a little before noon, having stopped on the way for a late breakfast. He left her to pack for the trip home and went back to his own room. The red light on the telephone was on, and he dialed the room's voice mail. Sheila had called. "No connection found between subject and Halcyon through December of last year. I'll keep looking. You can reach me after seven tonight."
"Dammit," he muttered as he hung up. It had been all he could do to convince Cassie that it wouldn't hurt to wait a few days to hand over the proof, and now he'd have to wait at least until tonight to find out if there were any grounds for his suspicions.
Taking the small canvas bag he'd bought when they arrived in New York, he shoved his toiletries and wrinkled clothes into it, remembering the strange look on the desk clerk's face when they'd checked in yesterday. No wonder, he thought. Most people come to the Big Apple with at least two or three suitcases. All I had was this little carry-along and a plastic bag with Wal-Mart emblazoned on it. He checked his image in the mirror, smoothed his hair away from his forehead, looked around to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything, then walked out into the hallway toward Cassie's room.
"All set?" he asked when she opened the door. Her suitcase and computer were lying on the rose-colored bedspread.
"Guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Shall we call a bell man?"
"Nah. If you carry the computer, I can handle the rest," he answered, hefting her suitcase from the bed.
"You'd think I'd be happy to go home," she said as they walked to the elevator. "But, truth be told, if it wasn't for the fact that the last place they're likely to look for me is right under their noses, I'd never go back there again."
He looked into her eyes and vowed to himself that no harm would come to her as long as he drew breath. When the elevator doors had closed behind them, he set their luggage on the floor and put his arms around her.
"Everything will be okay, Cassie," he murmured into her soft hair, adding a silent prayer that he was right as they began their descent.
Hamilton Bates looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of his office. It had been two hours since he'd spoken to that twit, Jennifer. Why hadn't she called back? He wondered if, perhaps, he'd overplayed his hand, aroused her curiosity. It was more likely, however, that she was simply trying to flex her muscles a little. If so, he'd make sure she found out what really heavy lifting was. He picked up the phone and punched in her number, waiting impatiently to be put through.
"Jennifer. It's Hamilton Bates." He heard her catch her breath. "I've been waiting for your call."
"Um, yes, Mr. Bates. I ... I'm sorry..." she said, sounding like her mind was elsewhere. "I, uh, didn't call you because I haven't reached Miss Hart yet."
He let her words hang in the air.
"Uh, Mr. Bates? Are you still there?"
"Yes." He knew he sounded frosty. He intended to.
"I, um, I'll try her again and call you right back. Whether I reach her or not..."
"That won't be necessary, Jennifer. I believe I may have erred by sending Miss Hart to you. I'll have a runner pick up the disk script from you this afternoon. As for Miss Hart, I expect you to obtain that documentation as soon as possible and have it sent by courier directly to me."
"But, Mr. Bates, what ... I mean, we've got a signed contract with her."
"I didn't say Halcyon was a bad choice. I merely stated that you were. Please have the disk ready to be picked up," he said, hanging up before she could reply.
Jennifer placed the phone back in its cradle and turned back to the words staring at her from the computer screen. She had only begun to scratch the surface, but if what she was reading was true, it was obvious why Bates was so interested in it. She wondered what Mr. Kingman would think when he returned. Would he just go along with Hamilton Bates? Or would he, like her, think that this might be the most important work of Madison Hart's career? If Cassandra Hart had the documentation she claimed to have, Hamilton Bates would be toast. Without a second thought, she backed up the manuscript onto the hard drive. Bates might be able to force her to turn over the original, but he couldn't prevent her from keeping a copy of her own.
It was shortly after nightfall when Max and Cassie pulled up in front of the deserted house where she had grown up, and the dark windows sent a wave of emptiness through her.
"You okay?" Max asked, handing her the flashlight.
"Yeah. I guess. It just takes some getting used to."
He leaned across and kissed her lightly. "I'll get the suitcase from the trunk. You go on inside."
She opened the door and climbed out, paused a moment to look up at the waning moon, then walked up the steps and unlocked the door. The echo of Max's footsteps on the porch followed her inside, dispelling her sense of aloneness as she switched on the foyer lights.
"What now?" he asked, setting the suitcase at the foot of the stairs.
"There's something very important I need to show you. Just in case things don't..." She hesitated, searching for the right way to put it, "go quite the way we hope." She turned the lights on as she led the way to the second floor and down to the end of the hall.
"I'm right behind you," he replied.
At the door to the attic, she stopped. "Remember when I told you that I have the perfect hiding place for the documentation?"
"Mm hmm. I think so. Wasn't that right after we got off the Interstate?" he answered, an impish grin on his face.
"I didn't mean for you to try to remember when I told you," she said, punching him softly.
"I know. I just couldn't resist." He rubbed his arm where she'd hit him, pretending to be in pain.
She opened the attic door and led the way up. "Max, I'm going to show you something that no one has ever known about except my parents, me, and maybe, Jonathon." She hesitated a moment. "And Selena. I've been thinking and thinking about what you said this morning. You know, about the importance of keeping the proof safe until we can be certain that it won't fall into the wrong hands? Well, I've decided you are absolutely right. So, well, here goes." She turned on the overhead light, took the charm bracelet from her pocket, and went to kneel by the far wall.
Max followed close behind her and watched as she pushed against a pine knot to expose a small hole in the paneling, found something on the bracelet and inserted it into the hole. When she pulled the panel open, he was stunned. Even his trained eyes had not detected the fake wall that concealed the large gun safe.
She looked up at him. "Daddy called it 'Freedom,'" she said, then turned her attention to the combination lock, entered the numbers deftly, and, with a sharp tug, swung the door open.
It was the finest collection of weapons he had seen in a private home in years-since the anti-gunners had succeeded in annulling the Second Amendment. "Freedom?" he asked, stepping forward to examine the well-cared for rifles, shotguns, pistols, and semi-automatic weapons.
"Yes," she said, turning toward him. "Did you ever read his book, Linchpin?"
"Yeah. Back in those days, it was required reading for law enforcement students." He picked up the M-1 and studied it closely.
"Then you may remember that my father believed the Second Amendment was what ensured all of our other rights. So, his code name for the safe was 'Freedom.' He built this hiding place when he saw the growing power of the anti-gun lobby. 'It's just a matter of time,' he told me, 'until they register everyone's firearms and then come to confiscate them.' He refused to register his. He believed the new laws were unconstitutional and that the day might come when the people would have to, as he put it, 'resist the coming tyranny.'"
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Max said. He wiped his fingerprints from the M-1 with his handkerchief and returned the weapon reverently to the safe.
"And if it did?"
He looked at her a long moment. "I'd do what I have to."
She sat down atop a big black steamer trunk and was quiet a long time. At last, she looked up. "Max? Do you think May Lee is okay?"
"Yeah, I'm sure she'll be fine. And, when all of this is over, maybe you can arrange to bring her back ... home."
She fell silent again, studying the charm bracelet in her hand, then, without a word, she handed it to him.
"Yours?" he asked.
"My mother's. It was her most cherished possession. Daddy hid the key to Freedom on it. No one would ever expect to find it there, would they?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Never," he answered, studying the various charms that glinted in the harsh overhead light. "They're not likely to find the gun safe, either."
"Call it 'Freedom,' Max."
"Okay. Freedom."
"Do you know why I've shown all of this to you?" She stood, her voice resuming its former strength. She didn't wait for his answer. "It's because this is where I'm going to put all the documents that prove Penseur exists and who they are and what they're doing. This way, if anything should happen to me, I won't be the only one who knows where they are hidden."
He nodded and placed the charm bracelet back into her hand. "I'll get the suitcase," he said, leaving her alone amid the scattered remnants and memories of bygone years.
It had been another long, tedious day of doing background investigations, and Ed was eager to get home. He had only one more stop to make before he could put the Bureau behind him for a few blessed hours. It wasn't really necessary that he see Max tonight. He could just call him in the morning. But it was on the way, and, well, he felt it was important to give his old friend a heads-up.
Max was wearing just an undershirt and jeans when he opened the door. "Ed? Hey, buddy. Here to claim that pizza I promised you?" He seemed to be in an unusually good mood.
"Nope. Not tonight, amigo. I've got a hot meal and a warm woman waitin' at home. I just stopped by to give you some information." He was sorry to see the smile disappear from his friend's face.
"Come on in."
Ed sat down on the couch, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees. Max continued to stand. He knows I've got something bad to tell him, he thought, wishing he didn't have to be the one to pass the information along.
"What is it? May as well just spit it out."
Ed took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "There's a Federal warrant out for the arrest of Cassandra Hart."
Max blinked like he'd had cold water thrown on him. "What for?"
"She's a suspect in the murder of two Federal Agents as well as an armed bank robbery in Florida. Two bank employees died, and a third was shot and is in serious condition," Ed replied, watching as Max slumped onto the couch beside him. From his friend's reaction, he knew his instincts had been right. Max was personally involved with Cassandra Hart. He shook his head slightly. He had hoped it wasn't so. Max was in enough jeopardy for shooting the handyman. In some people's eyes, his involvement with the Hart woman could influence the results of the Internal Affairs investigation for the worse.
"How'd you find out?" Max finally asked.
"It showed up on my computer. There's an APB out for her and the seven other people who were at the scene."
"That means they don't know where she is."
"Yeah. But they're keepin' a watch on her apartment ... and her father's house, of course." He knew he was stepping over the line by giving out this kind of information. But hell. Something stunk about this whole Hart situation.
Max stood abruptly. "Sure you don't want a beer?"
"No, thanks. Like I said, I gotta get home." He started toward the door. "But I thought you'd want to know."
"Yeah. Thanks," Max said, opening the door for him.
"Stay in touch, amigo."
Max nodded and shut the door between them.
"Man, I hate this job," Ed muttered. The day I've got my twenty years in, that's gonna be it for me. I'll be outta there so fast, they won't even see me leave. He trudged down the stairs and out into the night, hoping he'd done the right thing.
Max stood motionless, staring at the door Ed had exited, his mind racing. He'd had a funny feeling about leaving Cassie alone. Of course, she'd insisted on driving herself back to her apartment. And she'd been right. Her car had been at her father's house, and she needed it if she was going to be able to get around freely. Freely. How casually we use that word. The question was whether she'd been spotted. There hadn't been anyone at her father's house. Obviously, they weren't maintaining round-the-clock surveillance. Maybe she'd made it home safely. He could call her just to be certain. But, if they were looking for her, they'd have her phone tapped. No. He'd have to go over there.
He blinked, realizing that he hadn't moved since Ed left. "What the hell am I standin' around for? God, please don't let me be too late," he muttered, grabbing his shirt and wallet as he rushed out.
Turning the corner slowly, Max scoured the dark street. He hadn't been to her apartment before and had some difficulty even finding the right street, much less the right address. He cursed the time it had taken him to get here and the darkness that hid the numbers on the brownstone buildings. A car pulled away from the curb, and he decided to park and walk. It would be faster and easier to see addresses on foot. Turning into the empty spot, he shut off the engine, climbed out, and made his way along the sidewalk.
Within moments, he spotted Cassie's car by the curb and turned up the walk toward the building. Shining his Sure-fire miniature flashlight on the door, he saw the numbers he'd been searching for and pressed the buzzer. Once. Twice. Cassie answered on the third try, her voice sounding tinny over the intercom.
"Hi, Cassie. It's me, Max. Can I come up?"
"Sure. I'm on the right at the top of the stairs," she replied, buzzing him into the foyer.
Max took the stairs two at a time, his shoes thudding loudly on the bare wood. She was standing in the doorway wearing a white terrycloth robe, her hair wrapped up in a blue towel. She smiled when he reached the landing.
"Hi. This is a nice surprise," she said, motioning him inside. "I was just getting ready to make myself a sandwich. Want one?"
He said nothing for a moment as he surveyed her apartment. It was larger than he'd expected. Most brownstones offered either efficiencies or a single bedroom. He strode across to pull the blinds shut, then went back to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Cassie, you've gotta get dressed."
"Why?" Her blue eyes opened wide.
"I'll tell you while you dress. But you need to hurry."
She disappeared into her bedroom, and Max stood just outside the partially open door, telling her what Ed had said. When she emerged, her hair was combed but still wet and she wore no makeup. She'd never looked more vulnerable.
"Well, now you get to see the real me," she said, trying to smile, and picked up her purse from the dining table. The charm bracelet dangled from her wrist.
Max led her into the hallway, waiting as she locked the door, then, after checking to see if anyone was in the foyer below, led her downstairs.
"Stand back a moment," he said, pushing her out of sight behind him as he opened the front door a few inches and peered outside. The street was quiet. The sidewalks were empty. "Come on." He took her by the arm and guided her out into the night.
"My car is just down the street," he said, still holding her arm to urge her forward.
"Why not take mine? It's right here."
"No. Too risky. They'd catch you in no time. Better to take mine and then switch to a rental later."
His car was just a few yards away when Max saw a door open across the street. A large woman emerged, her silhouette dark against the light in the doorway, and she moved quickly toward the curb. At the sound of heavy footsteps approaching rapidly from behind, Max took a deep breath and spoke to Cassie in his command voice, loud enough to be audible to those he knew were closing in on them.
"You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you choose to give up these rights, everything you say can and will be---"
"Hold it!" a baritone voice barked.
Max spun around to face a short, square-built man standing with his feet planted apart on the sidewalk just a couple of steps away. A taller, slimmer man moved around to Max's left, his hand inside the jacket of his dark, ill-fitting suit. The woman who had emerged from the building crossed the street. She crouched behind a car parked by the curb, pistol drawn and aimed.
"What's this all about?" Max challenged.
The short, squat man ignored him, directing his words to Cassie as he held his badge and a folded piece of paper out toward her. "Agent Slade. FBI. Cassandra Hart, we have a warrant for your arrest."
He reached to grab her by the arm, but Max blocked his hand. "I'm a police officer," he said. "And this is my collar."
"Let's see some I.D.," ordered the taller man, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket.
Max took his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, thankful that they hadn't taken his badge when he was suspended. It glinted in the glow from the street lamp, and the short fellow, Slade, reached to take it, studying the photo identification.
"Maximilian Henshaw. Investigator," he read aloud. "Aren't you the one they suspended a couple of days ago?" He leaned closer to get a better look at Max. "Yeah. You're the one. I saw your picture in the paper."
"Yeah, that was me. But that's all been cleared up," he lied. "You'll probably read all about it on the bottom of the last page of tomorrow's Post."
Slade took one last look at Max's I.D., then handed the wallet back to him. "Yeah, well, I'll be sure to look for it," he said. "But, this still isn't your collar. This is a Federal warrant, Detective, and we're Federal Agents. Now let go of the woman and step aside."
Max hesitated. He'd promised to protect her. Forever. From the corner of his eye, he saw the female agent still crouched behind the hood of the car.
Suddenly, Cassie's hand slid into his back pocket, and Max felt something heavy drop into it. He looked at her, but she just took his hand from her arm and stepped away.
"Looks like they've got all the cards, Detective. But don't feel too bad. No matter what people say I did, I know I didn't, and it'll be egg on their faces instead of yours." She smirked, but it didn't look genuine-to him. Then, turning toward the woman agent who emerged from behind the car, Cassie held her arms straight out from her sides. "I suppose you're the one who's supposed to frisk me," she said, her voice flat.
The agents closed ranks around her, edging Max out of the way.
Cassie looked through the car window at Max standing alone on the sidewalk, his mouth drawn into a tight line, left hand in his pocket where she'd slipped the bracelet. Had it only been last night that they were standing "on top of the world" together? She remembered the feel of his arms around her, so strong, so gentle, so safe.
The woman agent-Thompkins, she'd said her name was-sat beside her in the back seat, the two men in front. The taller man drove. As they turned the corner, Max disappeared from view, and Cassie sat back in the seat, squinching into the corner as far away from Thompkins as she could.
"D'ya believe that guy?" asked the driver, steering the car toward the highway. "Tryin' to beat us out on this one?"
Thompkins chortled.
Slade snickered. "Yeah. What a jerk."
Cassie wanted to tell them that jerk just might hold their future in his hands. She contented herself instead with watching the lights of the passing cars.
"You're lucky, little girlie," Thompkins said. Her breath smelled of stale garlic and Listerine. "Instead of being in their crummy jail, you're gonna be living like a queen." She paused, chortling again. "And so will I, because I'm in charge of 'protecting' you."
Cassie turned away from the window to look at the woman beside her. She looked ghostlike in the glare of the passing headlights. "What do you mean?"
"The daughter of Madison Hart gets special treatment." She patted Cassie's cheek none too softly as she answered.
"If not to jail, then where are we going?" Cassie asked, noticing that they had turned toward Arlington.
"Why, to the palace of course," Thompkins replied, smirking, and the two men in front laughed.
Wrapped in thought, Max took his time driving home, acutely aware of the heavy charm bracelet in his pocket. He hadn't called Sheila. He needed to talk to Ed. He had to protect Cassie. She'd looked so tiny and helpless as they took her away. Damn. He'd see if Bernie would represent her-at least at the arraignment.
When he turned onto the Beltway, he remembered the last time he'd talked with Bernie. "Spiders are only successful until their webs become littered with their prey and their own offal." Madison Hart. Dead. Philip's friend, Rei Takazawa. Dead twice over. The bank president in Tallahassee, who'd helped Cassie, was dead, too, just like Philip and Jonathon. May Lee deported, and now Cassie in custody. That's an awful lot of offal, Max thought, a vague idea tickling the edge of his mind. Maybe I've become so personally involved, I've overlooked something important about the case itself.
He maneuvered past a small traffic jam. That's what this trail is like, he thought. Everything so tangled, seemingly so unrelated, yet there is a common thread. The problem is in proving it. If I could prove that they're all related to Bates-and the conspiracy-it would support Madison Hart's book and help to vindicate Cassie.
As he exited the Beltway, his mind sorted through the evidence they'd gathered. "There is very little that men do which doesn't leave some kind of a mark behind," his professor had told the class. But what about when there's so many marks that it all becomes a jumble? Max considered what he'd learned on the job these past ten years. Something always stands out. It's the something that bothers you when you find it. The something that may not even fit. He thought about the autopsy report stating that the Takazawa kid had been shot after he'd already drowned. That was the out of place piece. The one fact that had haunted him since he'd first learned of it.
He pulled into his apartment parking lot, climbed out, and, locking the car, strode toward the front door. Hopefully, Sheila would still be awake. If not, it wouldn't be the first time he'd roused her from her "beauty sleep."
Unlike many of his generation who were uncomfortable with computers, Hamilton Bates had mastered more than the fine art of e-mail. It had been just past six o'clock when Busby returned from the airport with the package from Halcyon, and Bates took it directly into his study, leaving instructions with his butler not to disturb him. According to the tiny digital clock at the bottom of the computer screen, he'd been at this for nearly four hours, but it seemed far less, despite the growing ache in his back and tiring eyes. Madison Hart's distinctive writing style held even an adversary's attention.
A soft knock on the door broke his concentration, and he turned to find the butler peering into the room. "Sorry, Mr. Bates. But there is a call for you. It's a Mr. David Kingman. He says it's quite important."
He almost told him to have David call back in the morning, but thought better of it and reached past the computer to pick up the phone. "Hello, Dave. I thought you were out of town."
"I am, but I talked with my assistant a little while ago and felt it was important to speak with you. Sorry for the late hour."
"I would think your assistant would have gone home hours ago."
"She did. That's where she called me from. It's about the Madison Hart book. I understand you suggested his daughter bring it to Halcyon and that you wanted us to meet her every demand?"
"Yes. That's correct." Bates' words were measured as he thought about the damning book he'd been reading.
"Well, I'm a little confused. Naturally, Madison Hart's final work is an almost certain bestseller, so Halcyon would be interested even without your endorsement. But, Jennifer says you told her to ship the disk script back to you, and frankly, I'm puzzled, to say the least."
He watched the screen saver meander across the darkened monitor as he listened. "There is no reason to be confused, David," he answered after a short pause. "I didn't actually tell Miss Miles that I wanted the book published. What I did tell her was that she should sign an exclusive contract with Cassandra, get the disk script and all of the documentation she claims to have, and as soon as that was accomplished, to let me know."
It was David's turn to hesitate, and Bates could almost see the man's small eyes blinking rapidly in thought. "Now I'm really confused, Hamilton," he responded at last.
He took a deep breath before explaining. "You see, David, it's kind of a personal matter. I am godfather to Cassandra Hart and have a great fondness for her-just as I had for her parents. After Madison lost his wife, he changed. The change, of course, was apparent only to those of us who knew him well. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a vague idea of what he was writing about and, frankly, it sounded very, ah, fantastic. Cassandra is determined to have this book published, but I can't bear the thought of her good intentions ruining the reputation of a writer as gifted as her father was."
"So you wanted to see it first? Along with the documentation?"
"Certainly. It was, ah, is extremely important to me to ascertain whether the publication of this book will harm a young woman I care deeply about. After all, she has a whole career ahead of her. Until now, her father's name has helped her to succeed. The opposite could be true if this book is what I fear it may turn out to be."
"That makes sense," the other man responded after a moment's pause. "Okay. Let me see what I can do about getting the documents for you. I understand you don't want Miss Hart to be aware of your involvement?"
"That's correct."
"Well, I'll be returning day after tomorrow. So, if I can't handle this situation for you by phone, I'll take care of it personally when I'm back in the States."
"Excellent. Have a good trip. I'll look forward to hearing from you soon," Bates replied, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
The message light on Max's telephone was blinking when he entered the apartment. He punched in his code and heard the Chief's secretary telling him the boss wanted to see him first thing in the morning. No explanation. Just be there. He hung up and called Sheila.
She answered almost before the phone rang. "Oh, hello," she said, assuming an oddly professional tone at the sound of his voice.
"Something wrong, Sheil?"
"No, it's just that, well, this is kind of a bad time to talk. I'm not alone."
"Oh, sorry. You mean I've got a rival for your affection?"
"No. I mean, yes. I mean-it's not that kind of a visitor." She sounded tense.
"Well, then, maybe you can call me tomorrow. I just wanted to find out if you'd been able to establish that connection. And if you know what the Chief wants to see me about." Max suddenly felt ill-at-ease.
"No to both. And as for tomorrow, I don't believe that will be possible. I'm sorry, but I've got to go." She hung up in his ear.
Max frowned as he put the phone down. Talk about out of character. I wonder who she's with that could make her so ... nervous. "Well, looks like she's out of the picture. At least for now," he muttered. Still, he needed answers and needed them soon. He glanced at the clock on the stove. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Ed would have been asleep for hours. He shrugged and picked up the phone. His old friend wouldn't be happy, but he'd cooperate.
Jennifer Miles sat halfway up in bed, her elbow resting on the pillow, and turned to her husband. She let the neckline of her nylon gown slip to expose part of her breast, but he didn't seem to notice. Since he'd lost his job at the brokerage, he noticed hardly anything. She was beginning to wonder if she cared.
"Tommy, I need to talk to you about something."
He turned toward her, his short dark hair matted against his head. "What's the matter?"
"Remember when I told you yesterday about being coerced into contracting for a book by Madison Hart?"
"Yeah."
She pushed her hair away from her eyes. "I got the disk script this morning, and when I called Hamilton Bates to let him know I had it, he got real pushy about getting the documents that go along with it. When I told him we didn't have them yet, he did a one-eighty and insisted that I send the disk script to him, implying that he didn't want the book published."
"So what?" Tommy sounded bored. "Maybe he changed his mind."
"No. I'm sure that's not it. I mean, it was like, well, like all he really wanted in the first place were the disk and the background documents. He got really nasty about it. And about me."
He sighed deeply and looked at the ceiling. "Jen, you probably got on your high horse again. You can be pretty offensive when you do that, you know. And you just can't talk like that to Bates. The guy is used to having people jump at the snap of his fingers."
It was her turn to sigh. He was missing the point. As usual. "I'm not upset about his attitude, Tommy. It's just that I don't like being used. That woman, the author's daughter, trusted me to see that her father's final book gets published."
He looked over at her, his brown eyes dull. "Well, I hope you cooperated with Bates. We can't afford for you to lose your job, ya know. I've got all those legal fees to pay, and this apartment isn't exactly cheap."
She turned away and sat up on the edge of the bed, irritated. That's all he ever talks about these days. Bills, bills, bills. You'd think he'd be thrilled that, instead of prison, all he has is attorney fees. "Well, I did send it back to him. But I made a copy of it first."
"Why, for pete's sake?" Now he sounded annoyed.
She turned and looked at him. "Because I wanted to know what had this dude so damn puckered up. If I'm going to be someone's pawn, at least I have the right to know why."
"Shit, Jen. Why can't you just leave well enough alone? You've got a good job, a great future..."
"I know, I know. But I'm not going to lose my job. I talked with Mr. Kingman this evening about it, and he seemed surprised that Mr. Bates wanted the disk script. He sounded real supportive, in fact. When he gets back, I'll show the book to him." She paused, wondering if she should tell her husband the rest. If she did, he'd understand why she felt so troubled. "Maybe I shouldn't have copied it. Maybe I'd be better off not knowing what's in that book. But I did and I do, and now I feel it's my responsibility to follow through on getting it published."
"Why?"
"Because it's important." She shook her head ever so slightly. "The future of this country-of the world-might depend on getting this book to the public."
He frowned. "Right, Jen. Right. You make it sound like you've just discovered the missing Dead Sea Scrolls."
"Not me, Tommy. Madison Hart," she said, deciding not to say anything more. He wouldn't believe her anyway. No one would, unless Cassandra Hart forked over the documentation.
Ed answered the telephone on the first ring, surprised to hear Max's voice. "Buenas noches, amigo," he said. "What keeps you up so late?"
"I wish it was a good night," Max replied. "I thought I'd find you sound asleep and mad as a hornet for my calling at this hour."
"Well, I do have a bee in my bonnet. Will that qualify?" He smiled into the phone.
Max remained serious. "That'll do fine. Listen. I really need your help. They've got Cassandra Hart."
Ed was unhappy but not surprised as he listened to Max describe the evening's events. "Your interest in her has progressed way beyond just professional, hasn't it?"
"Yep. Way beyond," Max confessed.
"Well, I hope you're not makin' a mistake." Ed paused a moment before going on. "So what is it you need?"
"Ya know how sometimes you're workin' a case, an' somethin' keeps niggling at you?"
"Yeah. In fact, that's why I'm sittin' here at my computer instead of nestling next to my sweet wife."
"Well, I've been thinkin' about that kid, Rei Takazawa, who was found dead in Philip Sinclair's car in Virginia. I don't think the Bureau paid much attention to that."
"Go ahead. I'm listenin'."
"According to the autopsy report, he was shot after he drowned. It bothered me at the time, but it didn't really register until a little while ago."
Ed was quiet a moment. "You're thinkin' about that murder in New York a few years back, aren't you." It wasn't a question. He had been assigned to the New York office for one miserable year and had been investigating a numbers racket. Their main witness, a twenty-year-old kid who'd decided to spill his guts in return for probation, had been found drowned in his bathtub and then shot through the eye after he was dead.
"Yep. As I recall, it was the same situation."
"Yeah. I remember it only too well," Ed answered. "I almost lost my job over that one, since I was in charge of protecting him."
"Can you remember-or find out-if there was a guy named Busby related in any way to..."
"Busby! Yeah. A real punk. Loyal to the gills, though. Refused to talk to us about the racket they were runnin' even though we had him dead to rights. Or would have if Simple Simon hadn't been rubbed out."
"Simple Simon?"
"Yeah, that was the code name for our main witness."
"Oh. Cute," Max responded. "Wasn't there a note left on the body?"
"Uh huh. It had a sketch of a skull and crossbones on it. Afterward, every witness we'd lined up either disappeared or lost his voice, and the investigation withered on the vine. As dead as Simple Simon." Ed paused, remembering. "How come you're askin' about Busby?"
"Because we found his name on a note in Takazawa's apartment. I'm tryin' to find out if there's a link between the murder of your, uh, Simple Simon, and the murder of Rei Takazawa."
"How's that gonna help your Miss Hart?" Ed changed the floppy disks in his computer.
There was a pause. "I'd rather not say just yet. First, I need to make sure I'm on solid ground."
"Hold on a second." He pulled up the information from the New York investigation. He always kept a copy of his files to work on at home, even though the Bureau frowned upon agents working at unsecured computers. "Takazawa. Yeah. Here it is. Naoyuki Takazawa, twenty-two years old, bag man for the numbers ring," he read aloud.
"You've got the information in front of you?" Max sounded surprised.
"Of course. You know me," he said, reading the file for the first time in a long while. "He was one of the first we tried to flip. Let's see ... Okay. Here we go. He was involved in a gang, um, they called themselves Poison and their insignia was a skull-and-crossbones. Bad bunch. According to this, he moved to New York City from D.C. about a year before Simple Simon 'bought the farm.' His father was dead, mother worked as a domestic in Bethesda, had a younger brother and an older sister. Let's see. Yep. Rei. That's the brother's name, all right."
"Can you associate him with a Busby? Try the D.C. files, narcotics."
Ed clicked over to the Bureau's computer network, which had access to all law enforcement records worldwide. "Okay," he finally said, scrolling down the index to the B's. He could almost hear Max holding his breath. "Bingo, ol' buddy. Bing-go. You ain't gonna believe this, ol' pal. You just ain't gon---"
"Try me," Max interrupted. "If it's in the D.C. files, I'll believe it."
"Ernest Busby. Arrested for felony possession of cocaine a month ago, fined $5000 and let go. Now ain't this interestin'?"
"What?" Max sounded like he was about to climb the walls.
"His fine was paid by none other than Hamilton Bates. Man, he's got friends in high places."
"See what else you can find out about him." His voice grew softer, like he was turning something over in his mind.
"Ernest Busby. Six feet, seven inches tall, two hundred and forty pounds, black hair, brown eyes, tattoo of, ho-o-o boy, get this! Tattoo of skull and crossbones on left biceps. According to this, he was born in Wichita, moved to Brooklyn with his father and mother when he was four. Mother and father both deceased. No record of any siblings."
Max whistled long and low. "That's him, Ed. One and the same."
"You've met him?" It was Ed's turn to be surprised.
"Yep. Might say I kinda ran into him the other day. Outside of Madison Hart's home. He's Hamilton Bates' chauffeur. And Philip told me that it was a guy named Ernie who borrowed his car the day Hart was killed. Said he has a tattoo just like that." He paused. "Just like Rei Takazawa's brother."
"Wait a minute. I've got somethin' else you might be interested in knowin'. Remember me tellin' you that I've been workin' background investigations for the political conventions?"
"Yeah."
"Hamilton Bates is a delegate, and I just started workin' on him today. I've been checking up on his bodyguard, since he'll be in and out of the Convention Hall. A guy named Spano. Walter Spano. Former cop in New York. Worked the same numbers investigation I was workin' on. Was in charge of finding Simple Simon's killer. Never did. He was hired by Bates to take charge of security for Bates Enterprises right after that investigation fizzled. Took 'early retirement,' or so the record shows. That's what I was workin' on when you called. Something about this Spano stunk then, and something about him stinks now."
"Anything in particular?"
"Nothing I've been able to wrap my hands around yet, but I've been sittin' here for the past two hours tryin' to find out more about him. Hang on a second. Let me switch back over to the records I was searchin'." Ed clicked over to the New York Police records. "Okay. I'm in," he murmured, just to let Max know he hadn't forgotten him. "Spano. Born in Brooklyn, son of James D. Spano and Marie ... hel-lo. Spano's mother's maiden name was..."
"Don't tell me. Busby?"
"You got it. Marie Elaine Busby Spano."
"Can you check on her?"
"Sure. It might take a minute, though."
"I've got nothin' but time right now, amigo," Max responded.
It took several minutes to locate Spano's mother in the master records file, then another few to bring up her individual portfolio. "Born in Wichita," Ed read aloud into the phone. "Oldest of two children, younger brother named William. Let's see what we can find out about William." He clicked over to the Kansas public records. "Here it is. William Busby, married Corrine Adams, one child, a son, Ernest James Busby."
"That's it, then." Max let out a long breath.
Ed lost himself in thought, then finally broke the silence. "I've given you a boatload of poop, Max," he said, his voice somber. "How about letting me in on what you know."
"There's evil afoot in the land, Ed," he replied, then paused. "And time is running out." He paused again.
"What do you mean?" Ed felt the hair on his arms stand up.
"I'll have to show you. If I just tell you, you'd never believe me."
Ed ran his tongue over his teeth-a habit his wife hated. "Well, how about now? I can't sleep anyway."
"Okay. Meet me at Madison Hart's house in an hour."
"I'll be there," he said, frowning deeply.
The Attorney General smiled as she hung up the telephone, imagining Hamilton Bates' reaction when she told him the news. Maybe, she thought, looking at her wristwatch, I won't tell him. I'll just let him read about it in the morning papers. I could always say it was so late when the call came in that I didn't want to disturb him. After all, eleven-thirty at night is pretty late for an old geezer like him.
She stood and walked across the room, taking her large leather purse from the coat rack beside the door, then paused, realizing that she wanted to be the one to tell him. Going back, she set the purse on the edge of the desk and punched in the number from memory. As usual, the butler answered.
"Ask Mr. Bates to come to the phone. Tell him the Attorney General is calling."
As she waited to hear the familiar haughty voice on the other end of the line, she hummed some half-remembered tune, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the dark wooden desktop.
"Yes, Georgeanne." He sounded irritated. "What is so urgent that you felt the need to call at this hour?"
"Sorry, Hamilton. I just thought you'd want to know that Operation Rapunzel has been successful. The princess is in the tower." His sharp intake of breath pleased her even more than she had expected. She savored the feeling.
"Excellent. And I trust everything went smoothly?"
The enthusiasm in his voice erased her smirk. "Uh, yes. Apparently it went off without a hitch."
"Good. Very good. In that case, we can proceed. Keep me informed of any developments."
She grimaced as he broke the connection. The man had given every indication that he was opposed to this action. Now he sounded like he'd both endorsed the arrest of Cassandra Hart and personally planned the whole thing. "Oh, well," she sighed. Let it go. It's been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be even longer-if all goes according to plan. She stood, picked up her purse, and turned off the lights behind her as she walked out the door.
August 12
-
Cassie opened her eyes and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as Thompkins entered the bedroom for the umpteenth time since they'd arrived here. This time she carried a package and a breakfast tray and set them on the small table near the window.
"Time to get up, Sweet Thing," Thompkins said, her eyes betraying her antagonism. "Gotta see the judge in a little while."
"Like this?" Cassie asked, looking at the rumpled clothes she'd slept in. Or, rather, not slept in, since they'd awakened her every fifteen or twenty minutes throughout the night-purportedly "to make sure she was okay."
Thompkins turned to leave. "There's clean clothes in the package. But you'd better hurry it up."
"I'm not going anywhere until I speak to my attorney," she said firmly, but Thompkins just walked out of the room and locked the door.
"Well, that was effective," Cassie muttered, crossing the room to the meager breakfast awaiting her. A basket of assorted small muffins rested on the tray between a mug of coffee and a small glass of orange juice. "A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine," she said aloud as she stirred cream and sugar into the coffee. "Something tells me this may be the first of many days without sunshine, orange juice or no."
She sipped the hot coffee gratefully and stared out the large plate glass window at the yellow and gray streaked sky that announced the imminent arrival of the sun and her first day as a prisoner of the state. She grimaced, remembering being hustled through the service entrance of the posh hotel by her three captors and locked in the bedroom of the suite on the tenth floor. They hadn't even given her anything to eat. So much for being treated like a queen.
She looked down at the streets below, which were nearly devoid of traffic except for some garbage trucks. A couple of police cars were parked across the street, the officers who drove them, looking like tiny GI Joe figures from this height, leaned against the hoods. Cassie tried to think of some way to get their attention, to try to get them to help her, but the windows were sealed shut.
She shook her head. "Quit dreaming," she said aloud. "You're in a mighty deep hole and had better start figuring a real way out." They have to let me have an attorney, but they haven't even let me make a phone call. Do they think that I'll accept just any public defender they choose for me? Maybe Max will be in court. Maybe he has lined up a lawyer. Maybe. She looked around the large, well decorated bedroom. There was no television. No telephone. And no one who even knows where I am.
She drank the coffee, took a couple of swallows of the juice and a bite of a blueberry muffin then went into the bathroom to get cleaned up. She needed to look as much like the famous Madison Hart's daughter as possible if she was to gain the judge's sympathy. And the press's. That's where the power lies, she thought, brushing her teeth with the bland baking soda toothpaste her captors had provided. They always have a reporter in court. Even for First Appearances. She rinsed her mouth and turned on the shower, testing the temperature of the water before climbing in. Of course, it's usually just a cub reporter, but a reporter is a reporter. The hot water felt good against her skin, and she scrubbed herself almost raw with the pungent soap-as if trying to wash away the corruption that seemed to be accumulating around her.
Thompkins was waiting by the bedroom door, her arms folded across her chest, when Cassie came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel that hardly covered her.
"Uh, Agent Thompkins, I'd like a little privacy if you don't mind," Cassie said, pausing in front of the closet where she'd hung the wrinkled clothes they'd bought her. She hoped they'd fit.
"Sorry, princess. I mind," Thompkins replied, smirking.
Cassie took the clothes from the hangers with one hand while trying to hold the small towel around herself with the other. "Fine. Hope you enjoy the view," she retorted and retreated to the bathroom.
Thompkins was gone when she emerged fully dressed, and the door between the bedroom and the rest of the suite was open. As Cassie slipped her shoes on, Agent Slade appeared and walked toward her.
"Come on, Miss Hart," he said and, grasping her upper arm, forced her into the living area.
"So that's what all the commotion was about," she said at the sight of the camera and closed circuit television. They were arranged in such a way as to conceal any hint of her whereabouts.
The agent didn't reply as he guided her to the far corner of the room to stand in front of a blank wall beneath the hot spotlights and face the camera.
Her mind raced. Why was she being denied a personal appearance in court? Would Max be at the courthouse, expecting to see her? Why hadn't she been allowed to call an attorney? Somehow, she'd have to find a way to disclose her location, to force them to respect her Constitutional rights.
"Don't look so worried, dearie," Thompkins said, entering the room from the kitchenette. "It'll spoil your television debut."
The cameraman, who followed from the kitchen with a can of Mountain Dew in his hand, chuckled. "That's right. I haven't worked since the wee hours of the morning just to make you look bad," he said, settling himself on the stool behind the camera. "When I say 'Go,' be sure to smile pretty."
Max was sitting in the back row when the prisoners began filing into the courtroom from the side door, shuffling awkwardly against the chains that bound their feet and hands. Checking his watch, he fidgeted and looked around the room. Where was Bernie? He'd promised he'd be here. Maybe he'd already spoken with her. Maybe he was in chambers talking to the judge. One of the large double doors behind him opened, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his friend's familiar bulk ambling toward him. He shook Bernie's hand and slid over to make room on the hard wooden bench.
"Where's Miss Hart?" Bernie asked, looking toward the twenty or so prisoners seated in the jury box.
Max followed his gaze. Some of them joked a little with the person next to them. Most stared solemnly straight ahead or down at their feet. One white youth looked like he was about to be sick. But Cassie was not among them. "I don't know. They have to bring her here. And it has to be today." He stood, stepping past Bernie, and walked to the front of the gallery area, signaling to the bailiff, who came over and shook his hand.
"Well, hey there, Detective. What brings you here?" He'd been a street cop and had signed on as bailiff after he retired from the P.D.
"Hi, Charlie. A friend of mine is supposed to have her First Appearance this morning, but I don't see her. Are there any more prisoners waiting outside?"
"Nope. This is all of 'em. Since when are you friends with criminals?"
"I'm not. This young lady was picked up by the Feds on a phony rap."
"So what else is new? They gotta at least look like they're enforcing the law," Charlie said, making a face. "Want me to check the roster? What's her name?"
Max told him and waited by the wooden railing, while the bailiff went to the table at the front of the room to look at the list of names, shuffled through several other pieces of paper and spoke to the clerk, who checked her computer listing.
"She's not on the list," Charlie said when he returned. "But, things are so screwed up these days, that don't mean too awful much. If she was brought in late last night, it could be she'll be in the afternoon batch. And with the Feds, they might not even..." He paused as the door at the back of the room opened. "Is that her?"
Max turned to see a thin blonde woman whose deep wrinkles were accented by the heavy makeup she wore. Bernie raised his eyebrows at Max, who shook his head.
Charlie shrugged. "Well, maybe she'll be one of those who appear via closed circuit. The Feds do that a lot, especially if it's a high profile case or they're concerned about security. Sorry, Detective. Wish I could help." The elderly bailiff ambled back to the front of the courtroom to announce the judge's entrance.
Max was more than a little concerned and disappointed. He'd wanted Cassie to see him there, to know he was with her all the way and working in her behalf. He hadn't considered the possibility she might not show up in person, even though he had known it was just an arraignment where the government would state the charges, she would offer her plea, the judge would rule on whether to allow bail and that would be it. Not like a trial, where she had the right to face her accusers. He shook his head a little. The Chief would be furious at him for postponing their appointment, and all for what?
"All rise," commanded the bailiff. "This court is now in session. The Honorable Camille Johansen presiding."
Bernie nudged him in the ribs as the judge entered the courtroom, and Max stood up, watching the diminutive Judge Johansen climb the two steps up to the platform and take her place behind the wide oak desk. Rapping her gavel once, she looked out across the people gathered in the room as if sizing up each of them individually, her thick wire-rimmed glasses flashing as they caught the fluorescent lights overhead. She was relatively new to the bench, and Max wasn't familiar with her history. He hoped she wasn't one of those "hang 'em high and let 'em fry" types.
An hour, then two passed with gray-clothed prisoners shuffling to the bar, entering their pleas, and being escorted from the courtroom by armed officers. As the number of prisoners dwindled, so did the audience, until finally, he, Bernie, and a young red-haired man with a "Press" badge clipped to his shirt pocket were the only spectators left.
The prosecutor, who had been appointed just a month before when her predecessor committed suicide over some sex scandal, stood and asked permission to approach the bench. "Your Honor. We have a case that was only handed over at the beginning of court this morning," she said in a monotone as she handed a file to the judge, then returned to stand by the long table at the left of the courtroom. Rumor had it that she had her eye on the mayor's job. Her track-record, since being in office, showed that she hoped to get there by going for the jugular in every case she prosecuted.
An almost eerie silence filled the courtroom while the judge sifted through the information in the folder, frowning now and again at certain portions. At last, she handed one of the papers to the bailiff and sat back against her tall leather chair, instructing him to activate the camera and nodding for the prosecutor to proceed.
Max felt his throat go dry as the television flickered on, then off, then finally on again to reveal a black-and-white image of Cassie. She had dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hair clung to her forehead. He gritted his teeth. It was an old game. Don't let the suspect sleep. Keep them uncomfortable and waiting for a long time. In her case, it was obvious they hadn't missed a trick.
When the courtroom appeared on the screen and she heard her name, Cassie stood up straighter and pushed her hair back from her forehead, aware of how she must look after sitting under the hot lights for more than two hours.
"I am Cassandra Rose Hart," she responded when she heard her name.
"Please state your legal address for the record," the bailiff said, and Cassie did so.
She could see the bailiff sitting by a microphone at a desk near the judge's bench. He looked more like he should be dandling his grandchildren on his knee than running a courtroom.
Another voice came over the television as a thirty-something woman in a dark, tailored suit stepped into camera range. "Your Honor, Cassandra Rose Hart has been charged with two counts of conspiracy to commit murder against a Federal officer, two counts of obstruction of justice, two counts of interfering with a Federal Marshall in the performance of duty, and one count each of espionage, conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States of America, and flight to avoid prosecution."
"Cassandra Rose Hart, you have heard the charges against you. How do you plead?" the judge asked.
Before Cassie could answer, an unfamiliar voice interrupted, and an aging, heavy-set man stepped forward into view.
"If Your Honor please," he said, and Cassie watched wide-eyed as the man stepped up to the lectern between the defense and prosecution tables. "My name is Bernard Schligerman. I am a practicing attorney, licensed in the District of Columbia, Virginia, Maryland, New York, California, and Pennsylvania. I am here to offer myself to act as counsel for Miss Hart."
Cassie almost smiled, remembering Max telling her about his friend, Bernie. So he'd come through. In any other circumstance, she would have danced. As it was, she contented herself with trying to look dignified. And innocent.
"Have you spoken with Miss Hart?" the judge asked, appearing startled at the sudden interruption by the attorney.
"No, Your Honor. I haven't."
"Miss Hart? Have you engaged an attorney to represent you?"
Cassie started to answer, when suddenly the television crackled and went dark.
Max almost leaped from his seat as the closed circuit monitor went blank, but Bernie turned and gave him a sharp look, warning him to stay calm.
"Looks like we've got a technical glitch," the bailiff said, walking over to check the connections on the television.
"Can you fix it?" Judge Johansen asked after a few minutes of watching him adjust knobs and connections.
Charlie stood back and turned to face her. "I don't think so, Your Honor. We'll have to call a technician."
The judge looked at her watch. "Well, it's close to lunch time. Get the technician in here and see what can be done. Meanwhile, this court is in recess until two o'clock this afternoon." She stood and left the courtroom, not waiting for anyone to stand.
Thompkins took Cassie into the bedroom as Slade picked up the telephone and began dialing. When she'd left, locking the door behind her, Cassie lay back across the bed and put the back of her hand across her eyes, taking a deep breath against the fatigue and frustration that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to keep her composure. Whether the interruption in the proceedings was just a technical problem or, as she suspected, a deliberate act by the agents who held her, sooner or later they had to resume the proceedings. When they did, she wouldn't wait for the formalities. She'd immediately state that she was retaining Bernard Schligerman and insist upon seeing him in person before proceeding further. No matter whose side any of them were on, they had to keep up appearances. At least for now.
The young redhead from the press approached Max and Bernie. "Excuse me," he began. "My name is John Emanuel. I'm a reporter for Channel Six?"
They turned toward him without speaking.
"Uh, I was wondering, uh..." He looked back and forth at the two taller men. "Could I get some background information from you about this last case? The Cassandra Hart case? It looks like it could be quite a story."
Max's face grew almost as red as the young man's hair, but Bernie nudged him with his elbow, cautioning him not to alienate the media.
"What exactly would you like to know?" Bernie asked, adopting his most cordial smile. "We can't, of course, talk very much about a pending case."
The reporter smiled back, looking grateful. "Well, she's being charged with a whole lotta biggies. Murder..." He looked at his notes. "Espionage. Conspiracy to overthrow the government. Why are you willing to represent her?"
Bernie sat down on the nearest bench and draped his arm across the back. "Because Miss Hart is innocent, of course."
"How do you know? What does she say?"
"Unfortunately, Mr., uh, Emanuel, was it?" Bernie began, hesitating until the reporter nodded. "I have not had the opportunity to speak with Miss Hart. No one has. Not since she was taken into custody."
"But you're her attorney, aren't you? I thought it was the law ... that people have to be allowed legal counsel?"
"It is," Max interjected. "Or, at least, it's supposed to be. These days, though, well, the government seems to take lots of liberties with the Constitution."
John Emanuel looked up at Max and seemed to study his face. "Well, I suppose if there's something in the national interest---"
Bernie interrupted. "Mr. Emanuel, it has been my experience that things are not always what they seem. For example, when you see these prisoners come in here, shackled and outfitted in jail clothing, it is difficult to see them as anything but criminals. Yet, just imagine yourself, let's say you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a crime occurred. Let's further suppose that the perpetrator fits your general description, uh, five feet, nine inches tall, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, red hair? So the police get an artist to make a sketch of the perpetrator, and to make matters worse, he has the same general facial features as you. The sketch is published. A neighbor ... or maybe a competitor ... fingers you. You know you are innocent. The police don't know for sure, but all the evidence points to your guilt. Yet, despite the shackles and prison garb you'd be wearing in the courtroom, which make you look like the average thug, you would still be innocent."
The reporter listened intently to the hypothetical situation. "Okay. I can accept that. So just because Miss Hart is in custody doesn't mean a thing. That brings up the next question. Who is she? Why do the authorities believe she is guilty? How can you be so sure that she isn't, especially since you haven't even spoken with her?"
Max spoke up again. "Cassandra Hart is a journalist, just like you. She's the daughter of the recently deceased Madison Hart. I assume you've heard of him?"
John Emanuel stopped taking notes and looked up wide-eyed. "The Madison Hart? Wow. This may be just the break I've been waiting for."
Max clenched his teeth and turned away.
"It very well could be, young man," Bernie said, his tone almost encouraging. "Depending, of course, on how you handle it."
"How did Madison Hart's daughter get involved in a conspiracy?"
Bernie shook his head. "No, no, Mr. Emanuel. There you go again. Assuming guilt. If I'm not mistaken, it is your job to report the facts and let your readers decide whom to believe."
Emanuel blushed a little. "Yes, sir. Of course. Sorry. Uh, so what are the facts?"
"As near as I can tell, Miss Hart was-as I described in my hypothetical situation about you-merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, like many famous people, the Harts have enemies. Enemies who might stop at nothing to harm them."
The reporter nodded and pursed his lips like he was trying to look wise. It didn't work. Bernie had to suppress a smile.
"Tell you what, Mr. Emanuel. Once things get sorted out, maybe we can get you an exclusive interview with Miss Hart. Depending, of course, on how you write the story about her today."
"Terrific! You can count on me. Is there anything specific you can give me to include in my report for the evening news?"
Bernie picked his words carefully. "Well, I can't tell you what to write. But I can tell you that Miss Hart was deeply grieved by her father's death and that she has been attempting to follow up on a story he was writing when he was killed. She was not booked into the jail after her arrest and, apparently, is being detained at some undisclosed location. To the best of our knowledge, she was arrested on strictly circumstantial evidence, and there may be political undertones to the situation." He cleared his throat before continuing. "That's about all I can say right now, but, hopefully, they will get the closed circuit connection cleared up, and then we will be in a position to learn a little more."
The reporter's pager sounded, and, apologizing, he left to find a pay phone.
"Why'd you tell him all that?" Max asked.
"Because, my friend, if you handle them right, the press is the best friend an innocent woman can have," he said and, looking at his watch, added, "Max, I know you're pretty uptight about all this, but we're not accomplishing anything here right now. How about grabbing a bite to eat?"
Max looked at his own watch. "Aw, dammit. I was supposed to see the Chief at eleven-thirty. That only gives me twenty minutes to get across town. I'll just meet you back here at two."
Bernie waved him along, then ambled slowly out of the courtroom toward the elevator. His favorite Italian restaurant was only a short distance away. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
The police station was awash in activity when Max passed the officer at the duty desk and headed for the elevator at the far end. He was already fifteen minutes later than he'd promised to be, and the Chief was not a patient man. Stepping off the elevator, he almost bumped into his old nemesis, Barney Smith, the wanna-be detective who just couldn't make the grade. Surprisingly, ol' Barney was all smiles.
"Whoa, there, Henshaw," the paunchy cop said, stepping aside with surprising agility to avoid colliding with Max. "You keep shootin' around like that, you're gonna end up hurtin' yourself."
Max grunted and brushed past him. The door to the Chief's office was just closing, as if someone had just gone through it. He wondered if Barney had been in there. Maybe he was finally getting the promotion he'd hankered after for so long, he thought, but he forgot about Barney when he saw the look on the secretary's face. She didn't even bother to speak, just waved him on in.
"It's about time," the Chief said, turning from the two men standing at the side of his desk. "We've been waiting since..."
"Sorry, Chief. I left word with Andrea that I'd be tied up in court..." He stopped mid-sentence, aware of the thick tension hovering in the office. "Anyhow, I got here as quick as I could."
"Max, this here's Detective Marshall," the Chief said, indicating the African-American officer, who was built like a tackle for the Green Bay Packers, "and this is Detective Chou. They're from Internal Affairs Division and are here to deliver their final report. Please sit down."
Max nodded at each of the detectives as they were introduced, then took the chair to the left. The IAD officers sat side-by-side in the remaining two chairs in front of the Chief's desk.
Detective Chou took the lead, reading a prepared statement. "Detective Henshaw, our Division has done an extensive investigation into the shooting death of Jonathon Sinclair, including interviews of your fellow officers, persons who witnessed the shooting, and an investigation of your activities-both professional and personal. Despite our desire to completely absolve you of any wrongdoing, we have come to the conclusion that this shooting was, at best, not in keeping with Department policy and, at worst, appears that it might have been premeditated murder. Because, however, of your prior record of excellence and the fact that you may possibly have saved lives, you are being given the benefit of the doubt. As a result, unless other evidence comes to light, you will not be charged with a crime but are simply being permanently relieved of duty as a Washington, D.C. police officer."
"The hell you say," Max growled, leaping from his chair. "Not in keeping with policy? What policy did I violate? And what is this 'premeditated' crap all about? You think I planned that whole scene? You guys must have shit for brains."
The other two detectives had leaped from their chairs at the same time Max did and looked ready to jump him at the slightest move.
"Settle down, Max," the Chief interjected, authority dripping from his voice. "And you, too," he added, squinting in the direction of the IAD officers, but like boxers sizing each other up, no one moved.
"Sit down. All of you," the Chief commanded, and, as if a spell had been broken, the three obeyed-slowly.
"Allow me to answer your questions, Mister Henshaw," the African-American named Marshall said, his dark eyes narrowed to a squint beneath thick eyebrows. "Department policy specifically states that officers must clearly identify themselves when encountering a possible criminal situation or entering a residence on official business. According to the reports, you did neither. Further, it clearly dictates that a weapon can only be drawn and fired for the express purpose of self-defense or in defense of another's life after warning the target that you will shoot. Witnesses state that you drew your weapon before you entered the room where the hostages were being held and fired it without prior warning to the victim."
Max slumped against the chair and shook his head. "Get real, will ya? My presence was specifically requested by the hostage team in response to Sinclair's demand that I be there. Everyone knew I was a police officer, and I was expected in that house. As to the rest, that's a lot of B.S. I drew my weapon, because I heard a shot. Upon entering the dining room, I found Bates' chauffeur had Sinclair pinned on the floor and was choking him. I ordered him to stop, and when he saw my pistol, he let go and got up. I thought the situation was under control until the butler shouted a warning. I saw Sinclair aiming his weapon at Hamilton Bates, and I shot Sinclair. End of story."
"Yes, Mr. Henshaw. We're well aware of your testimony. Unfortunately, yours differs from that of the other people who were present, all of whom agree that you drew your weapon without prior provocation and fired without warning. Unlike your version, the deceased did not have a gun in his hand but was merely reaching toward it when you shot him." He paused, looking down at his notes. "Also, because we have learned that you have had numerous prior contacts with the victim, as well as with his close associate, Cassandra Hart, who is currently under arrest for numerous crimes, there is a strong shadow of suspicion that you may have purposefully interjected yourself into the hostage situation in order to have the opportunity to, uh, eliminate Mr. Sinclair. If we could clearly establish a motive, we'd be taking to you in jail instead of just dismissing you."
Max couldn't believe his ears. My God. How could they get things so twisted? "Chief," he said, looking straight into the man's eyes, "don't you have anything to say to this wad of bullshit? You know me, for pete's sake."
"Sorry, Max. If I could stand behind you, I would. But IAD has the final say in these things, and if you look at it from their point of view, they have a pretty compelling case. If I were you, I'd just hand in my badge and thank my lucky stars that nothing else is going to come of the whole mess."
"Sure, Boss. Sure," Max replied, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he stood up. "Here. It's all yours." He threw the gold badge-and his career-on the desk and turned away, hearing it clatter to the floor as he walked out the door.
Ed straightened his necktie and followed the secretary into the Senator's office. The powerful leader of the Select Committee on Government Reform stood and reached across the broad, paper-littered desk to shake hands, then invited Ed to sit down.
"Hi, Ed. It's good to see you. Done any fishing lately?"
During the Senator's first term, Ed had been assigned to help acquaint him with the area. It had turned out that the only acquainting the Senator wanted was with the best fishing spots. Ed smiled and shook his head. "No, sir. Been too busy. How about you?"
The Senator shook his head. His thick, white hair emphasized his olive complexion. "Same here. Maybe one of these days, you and I can slip away one afternoon and thin out the fish population a little."
"Yes, sir. That'd be nice. I'll look forward to it."
The Senator leaned back and let a not-uncomfortable silence fall between them, which he finally broke himself. "You told my secretary that you'd come across some information of great urgency?"
Ed fidgeted just a little. He'd hardly slept a wink, wondering what to do with the startling information Max showed him late last night. Even now, more than twelve hours later, his skin still crawled at the memory. "Yes, sir," he finally said. "I didn't know who else to turn to. It, uh ... you're going to find this hard to believe. So did I. At first. But then I saw the documentation and couldn't pretend it was anything but real." Normally, he'd have gone straight to the Director or the Attorney General, but they were both in it up to their necks.
The Senator leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. "Ed, I know you to be a man of great personal, as well as professional, character. If you are concerned about something, please just tell me about it. No matter how fantastic you may think it will seem to me."
Ed wiped his hands on his trouser legs and related what he had learned, slowly at first, then more confidently when the Senator began taking notes. "I knew I had to bring this conspiracy to light, and, since you are the only powerful person I know who is not involved, I decided you were the one to trust with this information," he finished.
The Senator leaned back in his chair, a somber expression on his face. "These allegations are extremely serious, Ed. And disturbing."
"Yes, sir. I am fully aware of that."
"You say you saw the documentation? Videos, computer disks, handwritten notes, and the like?"
"Yes, sir. From what I saw, Madison Hart was a very thorough researcher and documented literally everything."
"I realize, from what you say, that it is essential to guard these documents carefully. However, without them, it will be almost impossible for me-for anyone-to prove the veracity of these allegations. Can you get them for me?"
"All of them, sir?"
"Yes. All of them."
"I don't know. My friend was reluctant to show them even to me."
"Would he honor a subpoena for them?"
Ed hesitated, thinking of Max's fear for Cassandra Hart's safety. "Yes, sir. I believe he might. At least, if I am the one who serves it," he finally replied, and the Senator pressed the intercom, summoning his secretary to join them.
Bernie was already in the courtroom when Max walked in and gestured toward the technicians working on the television system. Bernie shrugged and made a face.
"I see your red-haired news hound hasn't shown up yet," Max said, sliding onto the bench.
"Yeah. He's probably busy writing his 'scoop.' How'd your meeting with the Chief go?"
"I'm off the force." His tone was flat as he recounted what had occurred.
"If you want to fight it, I'll be glad to help."
"Nah. Thanks anyhow. They've got everything tied up neat and pretty. It would be nearly impossible to disprove their 'witnesses' and assumptions. Maybe, if Cassie can get off, it might be worth a second glance. But as long as she's under suspicion, I am guilty by association-if nothin' else."
"Well, you've got my number if you change your mind," Bernie said, forcing a smile.
Max stood and walked to the front of the courtroom, spoke a few minutes with the technicians, then returned to Bernie's side. "They say the problem is at the other end of the system, and, because that part is in the FBI's hands, they can't do anything to repair it. They don't even know where the transmission site is, so they couldn't fix it if they wanted to." He paused. "Jesus Christ. What a balled up mess."
The bailiff announced the judge's entrance, and, after everyone had resumed their seat, Bernie stood and requested permission to address the court. Judge Johansen invited him to step forward, and he went to the microphone at the lectern.
"Your Honor, will the court be in a position to hear from the suspect Cassandra Hart this afternoon?" he asked.
The judge looked at the bailiff, who looked to the technicians. One of them stopped packing up his tools long enough to explain what they'd already told Max. The judge, frowning deeply at the news, answered for the record that no, Miss Hart would not be able to be heard.
"Then, if your Honor please," Bernie said, emphasizing each word. "As a friend of the court, I am hereby requesting that an order be issued instructing the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is holding Miss Hart in custody, to produce her before this court in person without further delay. There is a serious Constitutional question involved here, inasmuch as Miss Hart is entitled to the due process of law and an attorney to represent her. Regardless of the reason Miss Hart is being required to appear via television, it is clear that she is being denied her rights and is, for all practical purposes, being held hostage by technology."
"Your point is well taken, Counselor," Judge Johansen responded. "However, recent court rulings have mandated that the safety of society at large takes precedence over an individual's Constitutional rights. Therefore, considering the gravity of the charges against Miss Hart, I have no choice but to deny your request. If you wish to file a formal brief disputing my ruling with the Appeals Court, please feel free to do so. Meanwhile," she nodded toward the new batch of prisoners assembled in the jury box, "there are many others waiting to enter their plea. Bailiff, please call the next case."
Ed was waiting in the parking lot outside of Max's apartment building when he returned home. Honking his horn, he climbed out of the car and hurried to where Max waited by the front door.
"Hey, Ed," Max said, leading the way into the building. "What's up?"
Ed followed him up the stairs. "I've got something to talk to you about," he answered, "but let's wait until we're inside your place."
Moments later, Max was taking a cold beer from the refrigerator for himself. Ed had declined to have one. He was still on duty.
"So," Max said, sitting across the room from him on the recliner. "I guess you heard what happened to me."
Ed had started to reach for the subpoena in his briefcase, but paused, curious. "What do you mean?"
"About my bein' kicked off the force." Max took a long swallow of the beer. He didn't seem to be enjoying it.
"Naw. You're kiddin'..." Ed began, but, from the look on his friend's face, he knew that this was not a joke. "On what grounds? Shooting of Jonathon Sinclair was not only justified, it was necessary."
"Yeah, but those crazy bastards have it all twisted around," Max said and went on to explain in a nutshell what they'd told him. When he finished, he took another long drink of the beer. "You know what's really a bitch about this whole thing? Well, I'll tell ya." His voice was husky. "Now that I've been busted from the force, I can't help Cassie. All of my contacts, except you, amigo, have suddenly dried up. I have no resources left to find out where they're keepin' her or to prove that Bates is behind not only the murders, but the plot against the United States. And she doesn't even know I can't help her. How d'ya like them tortillas?"
Ed was silent a long moment, thinking about what his friend said and watching him finish the beer. He let him get another cold one from the 'fridge before telling him that there might yet be a way to help Cassandra Hart-and the people of the United States.
"You're mighty quiet," Max said, popping the top off the beer can as he sat down again.
"Well, I may just have some good news for you."
"Man, I could sure use some. What is it?" His words were beginning to slur a bit.
"I've found someone to help us to publicly expose the conspiracy."
Max sat up straighter, more alert. "Who?"
Ed told him about his meeting with the Senator, and Max seemed pleased until he got to the part about needing all the documentation.
"Dammit, Ed," Max almost shouted. "You know I can't let anyone have those. Cassie, her father, his friggin' book all hinge on keeping the evidence safe."
"Max, I know the Senator. He's pure-D straight. Remember the hearings on the President's land-grab deal? He was the one who insisted that Congress pass a law returning control to the state. And what about the Administration's attempt to federalize all law enforcement? Without him, the Administration would have succeeded. Man, you gotta trust me on this. There's much more at stake here than Cassandra Hart or her father's book. By the time that book makes it to the shelves, it'll be too little, too late."
Max paced the floor while his friend spoke, and Ed knew he'd hit him where he lived.
"What's more," he continued, "once this becomes public knowledge, the whole case against Cassandra will be thrown out, exposed for what it is-a blatant attempt to silence the star witness. You'll probably even get your job back-with medals to boot."
Max sank onto the kitchen chair, running his hands through his thick hair. "I don't know, Ed. I promised. Cassie would---"
"Agree. Especially when she finds out the Senator issued a subpoena."
Max looked at him dumbly. "A subpoena?"
"Yes." He took the papers from his briefcase. "I won't serve them unless you agree, Max. But, I'm tellin' ya, amigo, the future of the people of the United States-the people of the world, for crissake-is in your hands. With those documents, we can expose the whole goddamn bunch of them and their plot. Once everyone knows, Cassie's father won't have died for nothing, and the guilty will be brought to justice." He held the subpoena out toward Max.
"You're sure you can trust this Senator?"
"As sure as I trust you."
Max stood and paced back and forth across the room, his face a picture of pain and indecision. At last, he turned to Ed and reached for the subpoena with trembling hands. "Consider it served, ol' pal. Consider it served."
Ed felt like he was placing a live hand grenade on the Senator's desk rather than a small box. He noticed that the Senator, whose eyes narrowed at the sight of it so close to him, seemed to regard the box with equal gravity. Max had expressed his misgivings again and again about allowing this vital information to be removed from his-and Cassandra's-control, and Ed hoped, as he watched the Senator cut the seal with his penknife, that this had been the right decision. So much and so many-though they didn't know it yet-depended upon it.
Silence echoed from every corner of the large office as the Senator moved the DVD aside and withdrew the large packet of news articles that chronicled the actions of the United Nations Commission on World Governance. Ed watched as the Senator, who was accustomed to skimming through large volumes of material to get to the meat, perused the headlines, stopping now and again to study an article in depth, the frown on his face deepening as he read. Setting the articles aside, he glanced across at Ed, then removed the journal and skimmed its contents. With a subtle shake of his head, he put everything back into the box and closed it.
"Is this everything?" His eyes bored into Ed's. "I have to know."
"Yes, sir. To the best of my knowledge, it is." He felt perspiration gathering on his upper lip. "It's everything my friend showed me. And I believe that he wants your help bad enough to make sure you have all the information you need to stop this thing before it goes any farther."
The Senator's intercom buzzed. He shrugged apologetically and pressed the button to hear his secretary say the call he'd been waiting for was on the line. He stood and reached across the desk to shake Ed's hand. "Thank you, Ed. On its surface, this appears to substantiate what you told me earlier." He paused and looked at his watch. As if on cue, Ed looked at his own. It was right at six-thirty. "I have a committee meeting in about an hour. I'll take a closer look at this as soon as I can. Meanwhile, rest assured that this information will be shared only with the most privileged few."
Cassie rolled over and looked at the clock on the night table. "11:01." The last time she'd looked, it was 10:42. God, will I ever get to sleep? she wondered. If only she had something to read to get her mind off of herself for a little while. She could hear the television in the other room, louder now that it was growing late. Or, maybe, they had turned it up on purpose, just to keep her awake. She climbed from the bed and tiptoed to the door where she could hear better and recognized the voice of Tom McGuire, news anchor for Channel Six. Crouching, she pressed her ear against the door. There were no other voices, no other sounds. Either she was alone or her wardens had fallen asleep. The familiarity of McGuire's voice was somehow comforting, and she strained to hear him.
"At her weekly press briefing this afternoon, the Attorney General confirmed earlier reports filed by News Channel Six reporter John Emanuel that Cassandra Hart, daughter of deceased Pulitzer Prize winning author Madison Hart, was arrested outside of her home last night in connection with an ongoing investigation of a conspiracy against the Federal Government. Hart faces charges of conspiracy to commit murder, obstruction of justice, interfering with a law enforcement officer in the performance of duty, as well as espionage, conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States of America, and flight to avoid prosecution.
"Close acquaintances state that Hart has been deeply distraught since her father's untimely demise. According to one, who spoke on condition of anonymity, Hart has been angry at the Federal Government for what she believes is the mishandling of the investigation into her father's death and has even threatened on numerous occasions to 'expose the government's complicity' in the death of Madison Hart.
"In a related development, local Detective Maximilian Henshaw, a known associate of Cassandra Hart, has been fired from the Washington D.C. police force for failure to follow Department policy in the shooting death a few days ago of Jonathon Sinclair, also an associate of Cassandra Hart. Police sources state that, although no criminal intent has yet been associated with Henshaw's killing of Sinclair, a 'cloud of suspicion' surrounds the incident and charges could yet be filed against the detective if further information is developed.
"Stay tuned for more news, weather, and sports following the commercial break."
This can't be happening, Cassie thought. Not here. Not in America. She leaned her forehead against the cool door and wept-for her father, for Max, for herself, and most of all, for everyone who still believed that the press was free.
The soft knocking on the bedroom door sounded like a drum beat in the deep stillness, and Hamilton Bates awoke with a start.
"Sir? It's fifteen minutes before midnight," the elderly butler said, opening the door just enough to peer inside. "Would you care for some coffee?"
"Yes. Thank you. I'll be down directly. Have Busby bring the car around." He turned on the Tiffany lamp by the bed and stood up, acutely aware of the stiffness in his aging joints as he walked across to the closet where the dark blue suit, white shirt, and silver-and-navy striped necktie he'd chosen for tonight awaited him. Excellent, he thought, double checking his selection before dressing. Perfect for the cameras. Dignified. Somber. But not severe.
The smell of coffee filled the living room when Bates entered and turned on the television to C-Span's live broadcast of the President's speech to the media at Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence and Constitution of the United States had been signed. He smiled. What a perfect setting for a speech on restraint and responsibility in the media-and announcing the implementation of the President's Media Oversight Board.
The camera panned the crowd, and he recognized members of virtually every network and news organization in America offering the President a standing ovation. Obviously, the speech had gone quite well. He sat down on the couch and poured himself a cup of coffee. Leaning back, he took a sip and felt as content as a well-fed cat when he heard the explosion and watched the image on the screen shudder and go black.
"Wake up, bitch!" Thompkins said, storming into the room and turning on the bright overhead light.
Cassie looked up from where she'd dozed off in the chair by the window. "What---" Her question was interrupted by the pain of Thompkins grabbing her by the hair and pulling her to her feet.
"You and your cronies have done it now. Goddamn you all! Come on out here, you ... traitor. You may as well see your handiwork," she snarled and, letting go of Cassie's hair, shoved her into the living area with such force that she fell to the floor just a few feet from the television.
"What in God's name is going on?" Cassie cried, looking over her shoulder at the rampaging woman.
"See for yourself, perp," Thompkins ordered, grabbing Cassie's hair again and forcing her to look at the television screen.
Cassie gasped. The Vice President was being administered the Oath of Office in the center of the split screen, with live pictures of a blazing Statue of Liberty and Capitol Building on one side, and ambulances, paramedics, and firefighters scrambling in the streets on the other as a voice explained events.
"At exactly midnight, Eastern Daylight Time, a large bomb exploded at Independence Hall in Philadelphia, where the President had just finished giving a speech to representatives of the media. The President and all present were killed. Simultaneous blasts occurred at the Statue of Liberty and the Capitol ... Uh, just a moment. We are receiving reports of other bombs going off ... Yes ... yes ... Oh, my God. Ladies and gentlemen, we have just learned that bombs have exploded at the St. Louis Archway, known as The Gateway to the West, and bombs have damaged Mount Rushmore and ... oh, no! Another explosion, this one aboard the charter jet carrying the Conservative presidential and vice presidential nominees, has been reported. Initial reports state that the plane had just taken off from Los Angeles International Airport and that there are no survivors.
"Excuse me? Yes. Okay. "Whenever she's ready. Okay. We take you live to the Attorney General, who is speaking outside of her home in Bethesda..."
Max awoke to the sound of sirens screaming past and looked out the window to see tongues of fire stretching high against the horizon in the direction of the Capitol, illuminating tall clouds of thick black smoke. Rushing to the living room, he switched on the television and frowned at the sight of the Attorney General, surrounded by split-screen images of pandemonium.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the news broadcaster, "we turn now to a live news briefing by the Attorney General of the United States."
The tall, gangly woman stepped up to the microphone amid a cacophony of voices. She raised her hand, gesturing for silence, and when the din subsided, began reading from a prepared text.
"Thank you all for coming. I will make a brief statement and will try to take as many of your questions as time allows. As I'm sure you are aware, I am quite busy at the moment, but I felt it was important to share as much information as we can with you ... and the American people."
Max's mind reeled as she told of the assassinations of the President, the Conservative Party nominees, and bombs exploding at selected historical sites throughout the nation.
"At the very moment the bombs were exploding, the FBI received an e-mail from a well-organized, well-armed, and widespread organization that we have been investigating for some time. The group claims responsibility for the bombings and is demanding the resignations of every member of this Administration, the leaders of Congress, and all nine Supreme Court Justices. They further state that, unless these demands are met within twenty-four hours, they will unleash even greater ... and more deadly ... destruction."
A file photo of the assassinated President appeared in the upper right hand corner of the screen, juxtaposed against a video clip of the Vice President standing before the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, her hand on the Bible.
Oh, my God, Max thought. It's happening. He raced across the room to the telephone and dialed Ed's number, afraid he wouldn't be home, praying that he would.
Ed held his badge and identification to the open window, was waved through the cordon around the Capitol complex by a D.C. police officer, and maneuvered the car past the emergency vehicles scattered in the streets and on the grass. The Senate Office Building was just ahead, but as he drew closer, the crush of activity forced him to park and walk the rest of the way. Screams and shouts filled the air, punctuated by the softer, more terrible sounds of grief, and he steeled himself against being drawn into the horror. He had one mission and one mission only. He couldn't allow anything to distract him.
A Capitol police officer stood at the front of the building and stepped forward as he approached. "Sorry, sir. This is off limits."
The man looked middle-aged and way past his prime. No doubt he'd much rather be at home in bed. Ed showed him his badge. "I'm here on official business on behalf of the ranking member of the Senate Select Committee on Government Reform."
The officer cocked his head, his brow furrowed. "Uh, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're a little late..." He let his sentence dangle in the air.
Ed looked at him a long moment. "What do you mean?"
He gestured toward the Capitol Building. "That committee was in special session when the bomb blew. There's nothin' left of that part of the building except ashes and shards. Sorry."
"Yes, uh, I know. That is exactly why I was dispatched here. There are some vitally important papers..." He was interrupted by the crackle of the officer's shoulder-mounted radio.
The officer held up his hand to Ed and spoke into the radio. "Ten-nine? Where? Uh..." He looked at Ed, shrugged, and motioned for him to go inside as he spoke into the radio again. "Ten-four. I'll be ten-fifty-one."
Ed practically sprinted up the stairs, afraid to use the elevator. Afraid of other bombs. Afraid that if, somehow, someone decided to stop him, the elevator would be too slow. He was starving for breath when he reached the top floor. A sharp pain knifed through his left side, but he went straight to the office on the right, jimmied the door open, and entered, grateful for the battery-powered emergency lights.
The cardboard box was not on the Senator's cluttered desk. Ed went to the closet at the left of the room, easily unlocked it with his credit card, and opened the door. The box, which he had marked with his badge number, was in the corner on the top shelf. "Thank God, it's still here," he said aloud, but as he took it down, he could tell without looking that it was empty. "Shit," he grumbled, searching the rest of the boxes and envelopes on the shelves in hopes that the Senator had merely transferred the documentation to another container. No such luck.
He envisioned the Senator carrying the evidence with him to the Committee meeting, and kaboom! No Senator, no documents, no nothing to stand between Penseur and power. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn and double damn." Wait a minute. He wouldn't have taken them with him. He knew their importance.
He strode to the file cabinet, pried it open, and riffled through the drawers. "C'mon, come on," he muttered, frustrated by the clumsiness of his fingers. But they weren't there. He closed the last drawer and looked around the room.
Maybe there was a safe somewhere. He checked behind the pictures on the walls, behind the books on the shelves. It was an old building. If a safe had been added, it would be obvious, he thought, but he came up empty again.
The desk. Of course. Ed crossed the room in two strides and sat in the large chair. He jimmied the top-drawer open, releasing the locks on the other drawers, and looked through each in turn. Nothing. Nothing. And more nothing.
A piece of paper, half-hidden on the floor under the desk, caught his eye. Picking it up and reading it, his heart dropped into his stomach. "6:00 p.m., Hamilton Bates returned your call. I told him you were with the Agent and to call back in about thirty minutes."
Ed remembered looking at his watch just before leaving the Senator's office. It had been right at six-thirty. And the Senator was about to take a phone call. No. The Senator was one of the finest men he'd ever known. He wouldn't betray his country. Bates must have called him about something else. But if so, where the hell are the documents?
Cassie glanced over her shoulder at the short, squat agent on the couch. Until he had spoken, she wasn't even aware of his presence.
"I had nothing to do with any of this," she responded to his charge. "In fact, I---" She stopped. No point in trying to talk to these goons, she thought, turning her attention back to the television screen as the new President of the United States, sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office, began to address the nation. On the President's right were the Senate Majority Leader and Chief Justice. To her left stood the Speaker of the House, the Attorney General, and Uncle Hamilton-wearing the same suit and tie he had worn to Daddy's memorial service.
The new President seemed surprisingly calm, even serene, Cassie thought, noticing that she looked like she had just stepped out of the beauty parlor. Hardly the demeanor or appearance of someone who had been awakened to find herself suddenly thrust into the Presidency in the middle of a crisis.
"My fellow citizens," the President began, focusing her eyes on the camera. "Tonight we are faced with a grave threat to our government, our country, and our people. A well-organized militant group has assassinated the President of the United States ... " She paused, as if remembering something. "My predecessor. The Conservative Party nominees for president and vice president, fine and loyal Americans, have also been assassinated, and many of our most cherished national monuments have been destroyed. This group now threatens even graver action if we fail to meet their demands." She paused a moment, for effect.
And probably for a long look at the teleprompter, Cassie thought.
"But we will not surrender to their demands. As a people, we have never shrunk from any challenge nor fled from any threat, either from within our borders or from without. But the threat this group poses is real and must be dealt with swiftly and forcefully.
"Therefore, after conferring with the Congress, my staff, the United Nations Security Council, and prominent leaders of the media," she nodded to each of those around her in turn, "I am declaring a National State of Emergency and the imposition of Martial Law throughout the United States and all her territories. Sadly, this means that the Constitution is immediately suspended and elections postponed until such time as our enemies are defeated, the security of our nation restored, and the safety of our citizenry assured.
"I am certain that you, my fellow citizens, will be as grateful as I to learn that, in view of the fact that most of our own armed forces are stationed in other areas of the world, the member countries of the United Nations have agreed to deploy their militaries to assist us in our struggle. Fortunately, Russian, Chinese, British, French, and German forces are already on United States soil as part of the international training exercises, and, even as I speak, are mustering to defend our streets, our homes, and our institutions.
"Thank you, each and every one of you, for your prayers and cooperation in this time of great national turmoil. God bless you all, and God bless America."
Cassie watched the newly installed President lower her head as if in prayer. The camera panned away to the American flag in the corner, and the news anchor's face appeared on the screen to interpret the President's remarks.
Daddy was wrong, Cassie thought. We all were. It hadn't been about the elections at all. Nor would it have been, now that I think about it. Elections are too unpredictable. Penseur would have left nothing to chance. And didn't. She shook her head. Martial law will give the President absolute control. With just a stroke of the pen, she can turn the United States government into a puppet of the United Nations. Congress will be powerless. The press will be muzzled. Dissent won't be allowed. And foreign soldiers won't hesitate to enforce whatever measures are enacted. Welcome to the Fourth Reich.
"Well, girlie, looks like your goose is really cooked now," Thompkins sniped. "And, I for one, am proud to have had a part in bringin' a traitor to justice. You'll be lucky if you just get life in prison. Personally, I'd vote for a slow-and very public-execution."
Cassie looked over her shoulder at the two agents sitting side-by-side on the couch. The Queen of Hearts and the Cheshire Cat-willing followers of the Mad Hatter. She narrowed her eyes at them, then turned away, thinking about the media. They would be furious about the bombings and stand in support of the new Administration, but those who still believed in the independence and true mission of the press would be even more furious and turn on the Administration like a pack of wolves if they ever learned the truth. Which they would if her father's book ever reached the public. And the documents were revealed.
If. The biggest word in the English language. Penseur was terrified of being exposed. It wasn't only Daddy they'd feared. They had framed and murdered Philip, who could have led the authorities to Daddy's real murderers. Killed Philip's friend, too. May Lee was forced back to Hong Kong, where she could pose no threat. Jonathon, Hank Charles ... She wondered how many others had been sacrificed on their altar of "peace." And whether she was next in line. Maybe. But not without a fight.
She stood and turned toward the agents across the room. "Well, you just may get your wish," she said, keeping her voice even. "But even the condemned are allowed to sleep." She strode into the bedroom and shut the door, surprised that they didn't move to stop her.
Thompkins looked across at her partner. "Gettin' uppity, isn't she?"
He nodded. "Why don't you go and have a little chat with her? Bring her back down to earth."
"I will in a little while. It'll have more effect if I interrupt her beauty sleep. Look." She gestured toward the television at the live coverage of a Russian convoy crossing the George Washington Bridge from New Jersey.
Slade whistled softly. "Good Lord. That thing stretches for miles. Must be thousands of soldiers in those trucks."
Thompkins smirked. "Pity the poor fools who thought they could mess with our government."
August 13
-
The city's silence was almost palpable as Ed pulled up to the curb and rolled down the car window. Never before had he seen a city so completely shut down. Enjoy it while it lasts, he told himself, remembering the massive mobilization following the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon back when Bush was President. Soldiers were already massing in the major cities, and it wouldn't be long before they'd be here, too.
He thought about the anger Americans had felt against the Muslim terrorists. That was nothing compared to what they'd feel toward the home-grown variety once the shock wore off. They'd be even more outraged if they ever learned that members of their own government were responsible for tonight's carnage.
He looked at the tall hotel at the end of the street and shook his head. If this didn't work, Cassandra Hart wouldn't have a prayer. He'd seen martial law before. In Panama. Soldiers had filled the streets. He'd been one of them. Now he was on the other side. He took a deep breath against the fear that clutched at his insides. By morning, America would be a police state. There'd be wholesale arrests and convictions of anyone who even dared to question the government. He grimaced. It wasn't too late to turn back. All he had to do was start the car and head home. To his wife. To his career. Nope. Not to his career. Word was bound to get out about his visit to the Senator. He sighed. No. If he was going to go down, he might as well make it worthwhile.
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. "Hola, amigo." It was Max. "All set?"
"I suppose." He took the folded paper from above the visor and climbed from the car, closing the door quietly behind himself. It had been easy getting the duty form. They were standard for every case. It hadn't been much more difficult to find the Hart woman's location or the names of the agents holding her. The FBI kept meticulous records. Passing off the forged documents on experienced agents might not be so easy. "Let's just hope it works," he said.
"It will. It has to." Determination filled Max's voice.
Ed wasn't so sure. Determination alone wouldn't be enough. So much could go wrong. After tonight's bombings, the nation was on high alert, and the agents holding Cassandra Hart would be no different. He knew the training. The mentality. He could only hope that Thompkins and Slade would be tired of being holed up in the hotel and ready to relinquish their prize to anyone willing to take over. "Let's go," he said. "Might as well get it over with."
Cassie locked the bathroom door and examined the jagged end of the wooden rod she'd broken from the bottom of the trousers hanger. Thompkins would be checking on her any minute. She'd convince her she was sick, trick her into dropping her defenses. If it worked, the next time she came in to check up on her would-hopefully-be the last.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror on the inside of the door, pretended it was Thompkins, and shoved the rod toward it. Thompkins was taller than her. She'd never reach her eyes. Maybe she'd aim for her throat. The eyes were a more effective target, though. A blind and terrified adversary wouldn't fight back. And she'd only get one chance at Thompkins-and her gun. She figured she'd have about two seconds to grab the pistol, flip off the safety, turn and aim before Slade appeared in the doorway.
"What're you doing in there?" Thompkins shouted, pounding on the door.
"Leave me alone. I'm sick." She moaned and squatted in front of the toilet, laying the rod next to the far side of its base.
"What's the matter with you? Swallow too much pride?"
Cassie made retching sounds and watched the doorknob jiggle as Thompkins tried to come in.
"Open this door. Now."
Cassie checked to be sure the rod was hidden. "Just a minute. I'm coming." She flushed the toilet and rubbed her cheeks to make herself look feverish, then opened the door and stepped out. "What do you want? Can't you even let me be sick in private?"
Thompkins looked her up and down and shook her head. "Quit whining. You can be sick all you want, just don't lock that door again."
Cassie opened her eyes wide and made herself belch. "Uh, oh..."
Thompkins blanched and shoved her back into the bathroom, closing the door between them.
As the elevator ascended, Ed thought about the bellhop who had nodded toward them when they crossed the otherwise deserted lobby. The television had been on, and he'd been watching the news. Would he remember seeing them? How observant was he? Traumatic events like tonight's usually left people in a daze. But not always. Sometimes it heightened their awareness.
"Think he'll be able to identify us?" Max had read his thoughts.
"Maybe. Not much we can do about it either way. Once we step off this elevator, won't be any turnin' back."
Max nodded, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
The doors whispered open, and Ed followed Max down the long, carpeted hallway to the far end. Squaring his shoulders, he stood motionless for a long moment, gathering his thoughts while Max positioned himself around the corner, pistol drawn. He'd done this a thousand times before. This may be a ruse, but his approach would be no different than when he'd done it legally. He took a deep breath. Relax. Smile a little. He took his I.D. from his pocket and knocked. "FBI," he called loudly .
His knock was met by silence. He knocked again. This time, the door opened just enough to reveal a short, squarely-built man, gun at the ready. Across the room stood a big, muscular woman. Her gun, too, was drawn. There was no sign of Cassandra Hart.
"Agent Slade?" he asked, holding up his identification card and badge. "Agent Lopez. I've been assigned to relieve you."
Slade narrowed his eyes as he studied the I.D., then nodded and stepped aside, opening the door all the way. "It's about time," he said, a sour note in his voice.
Thompkins holstered her weapon and came forward. "Let's see the order."
He handed her the paper. "Hey, these digs aren't so bad," he said, looking around. "Beats what's goin' on out there."
"Yeah?" The woman suddenly lost interest in the forged document. "What d'ya mean?"
"Haven't you been watching the news? All hell's bustin' loose, and the Director is calling up every available agent."
"Yeah? Then how come they're sending you here?" she asked.
"They need field agents. They're assigning desk jockeys like me to handle routine duty like this."
"Well, I guess Harry can leave," she said, frowning. "We're guarding a woman, ya know, and I can't leave her alone with just a male agent."
Ed shook his head. "My partner is on her way. Called me a little while ago. Says she's stuck behind a convoy of soldiers. Ought to be here any minute. You'll probably pass her on your way out."
"What's her name? Maybe I know her."
"It's right there," Ed said, taking the paper from her hand and pointing to the name he'd typed in, "Richmond. Virginia Richmond."
"Sounds familiar," Slade interjected. He'd remained silent until now.
"Yeah." Thompkins nodded, knitting her brow. "What's she look like?"
"Oh, I'd guess her about fortyish, short brown hair, brown eyes, a little on the chunky side..." He slipped the paper into his pocket while he spoke.
Thompkins looked thoughtful. "That could be almost anyone. She's not a field agent?"
"Nope. Works in the Director's office. That's probably where you've met her."
"No way, Lopez." Slade shook his head. "That's one place I stay away from. Out of sight, out of mind-that's my motto."
Thompkins' eyes flickered toward her partner, then back at Ed. Her eagerness to be in the thick of the action was obvious. "Well, if you're sure she's on her way. I mean, if we're needed elsewhere, and I won't get in any trouble for leaving..."
"You'll be in trouble if you don't leave. Don't worry. Richmond will be along any minute." Ed looked around the room again. "Where's the perp?"
"In the bedroom," Thompkins answered, nodding toward the closed door at the back of the room as she reached into her pocket. "Here's the key. She's locked up tight and isn't feeling good, so you shouldn't have any trouble. Once Agent Richmond gets here, tell her to, uh, 'check' on her every thirty minutes or so. Don't want her to get too comfortable, if you get my point."
Ed forced a grin. "Got it," he said, following them to the door. "If you pass Richmond, tell her to get a move on."
He watched until the elevator doors closed behind them, then whistled softly.
Max emerged from his hiding place and slipped into the room. "Any problem?"
"Nope. In fact, if those two are any example of the kind of agents they're hiring these days, it's a wonder the FBI isn't in even worse shape than it is." Ed handed him the key and gestured toward the bedroom. "She's in there," he said, then walked across the room to the telephone, picked up the receiver and laid it on the desk.
Cassie squatted on the bathroom floor, visualizing every move, every nuance. She had Thompkins figured out-knew she was the type who liked to torment cats and pull the wings off butterflies. When she came in, she'd order Cassie to stand up. When she didn't obey, she'd try to force her. While her right hand was pulling her up, Cassie would lunge. With any luck, she'd shove the rod all the way through the bitch's throat to her brain.
Thompkins kept her gun holstered at her back. Cassie visualized herself grabbing it, stepping out of the bathroom, and aiming. When Slade appeared at the doorway, he'd be dead meat. She hoped.
At the sound of soft rapping on the door, she bowed her head over the toilet and held the rod out of sight in her right hand. Her heart pounded. It's got to work. She took a deep breath and clenched her teeth as the latch clicked and the door opened.
She rolled her eyes to the side and saw a man's black shoes against the tile. Shit. It was Slade. Oh, well. It's now or nev---
"Cassie...?"
"Oh, my God. Max!"
"Are you okay?" he asked, lifting her to her feet.
The sound of his voice, the feel of his strong arms around her was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. She buried her head against his chest. "Yes. Fine. How did---"
Ed interrupted from the other room. "We've gotta clear out of here."
"Right. C'mon, Honey," Max said, his voice husky as he eased from her embrace and guided her toward the front door, where Ed was taking one last look out into the hallway.
"All clear?" Max asked.
"Yep. You go on ahead. I'll be right behind you," Ed answered, pausing to lock the door as Max led Cassie around the corner to the stairwell.
While the elevator descended, Thompkins turned to her companion and pursed her lips. "I don't know, Harry. Maybe I shouldn't have left until the other agent showed up. Regulations are pretty strict."
"You worry too much, Cynthia," he replied. "In the first place, at times like this regulations are always relaxed. In the second place, who gives a crap about the Hart woman? She's bound for prison-and maybe execution-no matter whose custody she's in. And, as for me, I'd a whole lot rather be where the action is than stuck in that friggin' hotel room."
She sighed. He made sense. Still, she'd feel better if she had been relieved of duty by a female.
When the doors opened to the lobby, Thompkins looked around. Nobody was there but the desk clerk and a bellhop. "Just a minute, Harry," she said as he started toward the front doors. "Maybe one of these guys saw Agent Richmond. She could've gone up on another elevator while we were coming down."
The bellhop looked up from his seat in front of the television at her approach. He seemed annoyed by the interruption.
"How long have you been here?" she asked, flashing her identification at him. He barely glanced at it.
"Pretty much all night." He yawned.
"Has a woman come in here in the last little while? Short brown hair, fortyish, kind of chunky..."
He shook his head. "Nope. Ain't seen a soul since midnight." He paused a moment, then added, "Except those two guys who came in a little while ago. Why? You expectin' some kind o' trouble?"
Thompkins stared at him. "Two guys?" She paused, thinking. "Was one of them fairly tall, black hair, kind of heavy-set ... wearing a brown suit, no tie?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Are you sure the two men were together?" Slade asked, stepping closer.
"Oh, yeah. Not much doubt about that. I noticed 'em 'cause you don't usually see men come in without a woman at this time of night ... especially on a night like this."
Thompkins looked at her partner, whose face had lost its color. "We've been had," she snarled, but he had already started for the elevator.
Max stopped and looked through the window of the heavy steel door at the foot of the steps. The exit to the parking garage was just a few feet away, and there was no one in sight. He heard Ed's footsteps on the landing above and wished he'd hurry. Maybe he should just get Cassie out of here and wait for Ed outside. In the darkness. Where they had a better chance of escape.
When Ed stepped up beside him, Max motioned him to be still. A woman's reflection appeared in the plate glass window overlooking the parking garage. Damn. Thompkins. He crouched in the corner, signaling his companions to follow suit. Why was she still here? And where was her partner? He remembered the bellhop, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Trapped. An idea formed in his mind. It could work. Signaling with his hands, he explained it to Ed, who gave him the thumbs-up.
Thompkins stopped in front of the door, turning to peer through the window to the stairwell, just as Max and Ed leaped to their feet and slammed their bodies against the push bar, propelling the door open. It crashed against her, and she crumpled to the green carpet. She struggled to stand, but Ed smashed his pistol against her skull. With a whimper, she fell back to her knees and collapsed.
Cassie stooped down, pressing her fingers against the woman's carotid artery, then looked up, wide-eyed. "She's dead."
"You two go ahead," Ed whispered. "I'll catch you later. Gotta keep Slade from sounding the alarm."
Cassie stood and put her hand on Max's arm when he refused to leave Ed. "He's right, Max. We've got to get to Freedom. We may never have another chance."
He looked away, a lump in his throat. "The documents aren't there."
"Not there? Then..."
"We think Bates has them." He looked back at her. Her blue eyes flashed. Her lips were set in a grim line.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "We'll still need weapons ... and some other things. The clusters will already be gathering..."
"She's right," Ed said, breathing hard as he dragged Thompkins' body into the stairwell. "Get going!"
Max frowned, looked at Cassie, and back at Ed, then nodded slightly. "Adios, amigo," he murmured.
Slade stepped back from the door and rubbed his knuckles. If anyone was in that room, they should have heard him knock. 'Course, the guy could be in the bathroom. Or having a good time with the girl before his partner arrived. If Thompkins hadn't been hanging around, he'd have been tempted to give it a try himself. He took a deep breath and started to knock again, louder, but stopped. The last thing he needed was to wake up the whole friggin' floor and have a bunch of curious civilians watching every move he made. Or didn't make.
He shook his head, remembering his initial panic at the thought of being snookered by that agent. If he was an agent. What did he say his name was? Something Spanish. Italian, maybe. He shook his head again, remembering the badge and ID the guy had shown him. And the orders he'd shown Thompkins. Yeah. He was for real. So, why am I up here making an ass of myself? Because some half-asleep bellman saw two men walk through the lobby? Big deal. Still, if the guy wasn't on the up-and-up and I don't check it out, it'll be one more black mark on my record and "see ya later, Harry."
He thought about the universal key card in his wallet. It would open any door in the hotel. But, he might lose more than his career if he barged in and one of them happened to be a little too quick on the trigger.
He looked over his shoulder at the telephone on the shelf near the elevators and thought a moment. Yeah. If I call the room and they answer, everything will be cool. If not, I'll go in. He walked across to it, read the instructions on the telephone for room to room dialing, and picked up the receiver. With a deep breath and a brief prayer to the Almighty that this would be the end of it, he punched in the number. The line was busy.
He smiled. Good. Very good. A busy signal didn't prove the agent and girl were still in the room, but it was a reasonable assumption. He put the phone back in its cradle and reached across to press the "Down" button on the wall. "CYA," he said aloud. Cover your ass. Best career advice I ever received.
The lobby was deserted when Slade stepped from the elevator. No bellman. No desk clerk. Worst of all, no Thompkins. Where the hell had she gone? He strode across to the desk and banged on the service bell. A moment later, the clerk's bald head appeared from behind the office door.
"Yes, sir?"
"You seen my partner?" No need to describe her. She was one unforgettable looking broad.
The clerk yawned and pointed toward the hallway that led to the service area and parking garage. "The last time I saw her, she was over there."
Slade nodded and turned away. She'd probably decided to check the garage for some sign of the girl and her accomplices. With any luck, she wouldn't find any. And this is my lucky day, he thought as he started toward the door.
Ed peered around the corner of the broad concrete column, thankful for the deep shadows that concealed him, and watched Slade emerge from the hotel. Judging from his casual demeanor, he'd figured the guy right. Career man. No harm, no foul, no follow up. But, once Thompkins' body was found, he'd be worse than a horny teenager looking for a date.
He ducked back behind the column and pressed his back against it. The steel fire extinguisher he held at his side was beginning to feel heavy. He wished he could just set it down and disappear into the night. During almost fifteen years with the Bureau, he'd never killed anyone. Now he was about to do it twice in one night. He swallowed hard. It couldn't be helped. Slade was the only one left who could identify him. And set the dogs on Cassie and Max.
The hollow echo of his target's footsteps approached, and Ed closed his hands more tightly around the cumbersome fire extinguisher. He'd only get one chance. If he didn't do it right ... well, Slade was a lot tougher than Thompkins. He felt the holstered .357 at his side. It would be so much more efficient, but gunfire wasn't likely to be ignored by the security guard dozing in the glass booth fifty yards away at the entrance.
The footsteps slowed and stopped. What's he stopping for? Venga, venga. C'mon, c'mon. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted toward him, and the footsteps began again. Closer. He raised the fire extinguisher slowly, clutching it with both hands like a baseball bat over his right shoulder, and waited. Slade passed within inches, took a step, stopped and began to turn just as Ed swung the heavy red canister. The sound of metal against skull filled Ed's ears. He stepped back, away from the gushing blood.
Slade staggered, tried to right himself, and looked up as he fell backward to the pavement. His eyes met Ed's. "Why ... " The rest of the question was lost in the rattle of his last breath.
Ed set the fire extinguisher down quietly, removed his gloves, and stood looking down at the dead agent for a long moment. "For America, Agent Slade," he whispered. "For freedom."
Joshua turned the computer off and looked at his wrist watch. Dread filled him. It had been nearly two hours since the explosions rocked the nation and martial law was declared. The call to action had come within moments, but he'd had to time his response carefully. Too soon, not enough people would have turned to the Internet. Too late, the government would eliminate that source of communication. He hoped he'd hit it right. Was pretty sure he had. Pretty sure.
He hitched up his pants and walked out onto the small porch. The waning moon cast soft shadows in the broad clearing and glittered against the rippling waters of the Apalachee Bay in the distance. Humidity cloyed at him. Perspiration soaked his shirt and trickled from his armpits as he watched the lights of a shrimp boat flickering against the horizon. "Wish that's where we were," he murmured, gesturing toward it. "Far away from the cares of this night. Of this world."
Aggie walked across to stand beside him. "I know. But we can't be and shouldn't be. We're right where God wants us. Doin' His work."
He reached out and put his arm across her narrow shoulders. She was right, but it didn't matter. What he'd just done could backfire. Not just on him, but on Aggie and all of them if they traced it back to him soon enough. And trace it, they would. He prayed that Godiva was safe. They'd need her to step forward. He sighed, thankful he'd kept a copy of the manuscript and other evidence.
"Did it go through okay?"
"Hope so," he answered. "There was a little problem uploadin' the DVD, but I think I got the bugs worked out. All the rest seemed to go through like clockwork."
She put her arm around his waist. "Then we've done everything we can. The rest is in God's hands."
Joshua looked down at her. She'd been through so much for the cause. For him. He pulled her a little closer and allowed himself to smile. "Yeah. And, now that the battle's been joined, you don't have t' pretend to be sick no more."
She smiled back. "See? Don't I always say there's a silver linin' to every cloud?"
"You do, Miss Aggie. You do fer a fact," he answered, taking her by the hand. "Wanta go for one last walk on the beach before the others get here to help us pack up?"
"Ya got a date," she answered and followed him down the rickety steps past the faded, hand-lettered "Promise Land Ministry" sign in the front yard.
-
Cassie stood in the wings, peering out into the semidarkness of the vast auditorium, and smiled at the sight of Max and Selena sitting side by side in the front row. They had hit it off from the moment they met. She closed her eyes. You would have liked him, too, Daddy. He's so much like you. Strong. Steady. And so warm-once you get to know him.
The glittering engagement ring on her finger caught her eye, and she felt her chest grow tight. In a few months, she would be married. But Mother wouldn't be there to help her dress or offer advice-or "cry for happy," as she used to say. Thanks to cancer detected too late. Daddy wouldn't be there to walk her down the aisle and place her hand in Max's. Thanks to Hamilton Bates. Some godfather. May he rot in prison-along with the rest of his cronies. She was glad Max had decided against rejoining the police department. As an FBI agent, he'd be in a much better position to make sure Penseur and its operatives would never again pose a threat.
The murmur of the audience subsided as the voice of the master of ceremonies reverberated through the microphone, interrupting Cassie's thoughts.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to Columbia University on this beautiful April morning for this momentous occasion. Never before in the history of this award has the recipient so influenced the future of our nation and, indeed, that of the world. Because of the courage, professionalism, and commitment of this year's honoree, the United States of America is once again a nation governed by 'We, the People' and guided by a Constitution that guarantees the rights of all her citizens. For this reason, the Committee has chosen to break with tradition and present this year's award in a public forum.
"It is now my distinct pleasure to announce that the jury has unanimously chosen to award this year's Pulitzer Prize for Literature to the late Madison Hart for his documentary book, In the Name of Peace. Here to accept in his behalf is his daughter, Cassandra Rose Hart."
Cassie paused a moment to compose herself as she listened to the applause echoing against the walls. Rumor had it that her father was also in line for this year's Nobel Prize, but to Daddy, there was no greater honor than this. Her head high, her heart full, she stepped from the wings and crossed the broad stage to accept the MC's congratulations and the check she was donating to America's First Freedom Foundation.
As the MC stepped back, Cassie turned toward the throng assembled to honor her father. Joshua should have been here. He was the hero who had turned the tide of public opinion by uploading duplicates of Daddy's manuscript and the documents to the Internet. But he had declined her invitation, preferring to remain anonymous, ready for the next time, the next threat he was sure would come.
At last, the applause subsided, and Cassie stepped up to the microphone. She had never felt so humble-nor so proud-as she began to speak.
"On behalf of my father, I want to thank the jury for this prestigious award. I also offer my heartfelt gratitude to those among you whose dedication to a free and independent press has helped to further the cause for which my father gave his life. I believe that a very special thank you is owed to my father's friend, who risked everything to bring the truth to light via the Internet following the 'Midnight Bombings.' I also want to thank Jennifer Miles of Halcyon House, whose publication of my father's book and supporting documentation in more than thirty languages has made it available to people throughout the world.
"My father was not only a strong believer in concise reporting but also in brief speeches, and as his representative here today, I will be true to his principles..."
Cassie paused as many in the crowd chuckled, no doubt recalling Madison Hart's distaste for long-winded speakers. As the noise died down, she looked at Max, who winked at her. Public speaking was not her strong suit, but this was going well.
"Let me simply say that those who attempted to create peace by placing all power in the hands of government had it backward. As my father once said, 'without liberty, there can be no peace,' and in the United States, we recently discovered what it is like to be without our most cherished freedoms. We saw despotism and tyranny rear their heads in our most hallowed halls and the blood of patriots shed on our streets.
"Today, as we again assemble freely, practice journalism unfettered, have the right to keep and bear arms, the right to a fair and speedy trial by jury, and the sanctity of our homes is restored, we appreciate as never before the importance of our Constitution and its cornerstone-the Bill of Rights. Nothing is so cherished as that which is lost, and I doubt that any among us will so easily surrender our freedoms again.
"Thank you again for honoring my father, Madison Hart, with this prestigious award and for your presence here today. God bless the United States of America and those whose courage has made this day possible."
Meet the Author:
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Kathleen McCabe Lamarche is an award-winning author and journalist with close ties to law enforcement and a keen interest in politics, whose articles have appeared in numerous newspapers and magazines. She owns a successful private security company serving large hunting plantations in Florida and Georgia, and she recently graduated Magna cum Laude from Florida State University with a degree in Creative Writing. Married to her high school sweetheart, Kathleen has two grown children, two dogs, two young grandsons, and a love for shooting sports, fishing, and, most of all, writing. She is a resident of Tallahassee, Florida but spends as much time as possible at her "fish camp" at Shell Point on the Gulf, where she does most of her writing.
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Kathleen's debut novel, THE PLOT, received first place in the Suspense/Thriller category of the Authorlink 2002 New Authors Awards.
Visit www.echelonpress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

