She planned to forget about the Big Take and the poem and the wolf in her fold. If Zoltan called, Rebekah would tell her again she wouldn’t be going back.
4
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
THURSDAY, NOON
OCTOBER 29
Rebekah parked her silver Beemer on a side street, pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and stepped into the bright October sunlight. She gave the hood a quick pat. She loved her Beemer, her twenty-eighth birthday present from her husband. She sighed. She had to hurry or she’d be late to her daughter-in-law’s whoop-de-do planning luncheon. Celeste wouldn’t like that at all. But her meeting with her client, Mr. Herriot, had taken longer than expected. The news she’d had to give him hadn’t made him at all happy. She didn’t blame him. Mr. Herriot had even heard of Carlos Bizet, and when she’d pointed out the details that were his trademarks, he couldn’t argue with her. He’d even grudgingly thanked her, after he’d calmed down. Delivering bad news was never her idea of fun. She’d much rather be toasting the client with champagne. Well, now she’d taken on the best of clients, Mrs. Venus Rasmussen, a venerable icon of Washington, D.C., society, and still the active CEO of Rasmussen Industries. She’d hired Rebekah to authenticate a group of six paintings she wanted to purchase for the newly remodeled executive reception area in her headquarters. Better to hire Rebekah up front than to buy the paintings and find out she’d been had, Mrs. Rasmussen had told Rebekah.
Rebekah forced herself to slow down, to breathe in deeply, to reboot. She wasn’t all that late, and no one would care anyway if she missed the soup course. So why not enjoy the perfect fall day, feel the cool breeze stirring the fallen leaves in nearby yards? She decided to relish her block-long walk to Celeste’s house in this quiet, elegant neighborhood in Chevy Chase. When she’d driven by Tucker and Celeste’s house a few minutes earlier, she’d seen the big circular driveway bulging with the cars of all Celeste’s cronies and heaven knew who else, and continued on to park next to a nice shaded curb a block away.
She’d told Rich that Celeste had only invited her to this planning luncheon because she didn’t see a way out of it. The last thing Celeste wanted was for Rebekah to complain to her husband. Rebekah knew Celeste would just as soon see her on the next transport pad to Timbuktu, considered her only a trophy wife of a rich man suffering a midlife crisis. Rebekah wouldn’t be surprised to learn Celeste offered that opinion to anyone willing to listen, and that most people Celeste knew would listen happily.
Her husband had patted her cheek, told her to suck it up because Celeste was important to him. Of course, he meant her family—with their huge donations, the power they wielded was important to keeping his seat in Congress for another term. “She also has an excellent cook, so you’ll eat well. As for all the other people there, they’ll be pleasant and, of course, talk about you behind your back when you’re out of hearing. At least it’s for a good cause.” He’d tapped his hand over his heart. She still didn’t want to go, but obligation was the engine that ran most everyone’s life, particularly if you were a politician’s wife. You were gracious even when you wanted to punch the mouth trying to manipulate you.
Even though Celeste was holding the planning luncheon at her own home, she wanted the main event, a huge formal charity function, to be held at her father-in-law’s magnificent house in Kalorama Heights. Rebekah had wondered aloud to Rich why Celeste wouldn’t want to hold the charity function in her own lovely old Georgian house on Hempstead Road.
“Because,” Rich had told her patiently, “Celeste considers me a power in Congress, thus a draw to the big spenders.” And he’d rolled his eyes and grinned.
One of her husband’s best qualities was that he never took himself too seriously. She’d said, “I wonder how it makes Tucker feel to know he’s not important enough or his house grand enough to host this shindig?”
“Were I my son, I would be royally pissed.” He’d shrugged. “It’s not my problem. If Tuck doesn’t like it, it’s up to him to stop it.”
Her thoughts went back again to the events of last night, her memories of Zoltan tumbling into her brain. In the bright sunlight on this crisp October day, what had happened now seemed preposterous, unbelievable. When Rich had met her at the door last night, he had drawn her in and kissed her deeply. She’d settled willingly against him, breathed in his seductive Armani scent. Had he worn the same scent for his first wife? She felt ashamed and hugged him tighter.
“So tell me, my beauty, about this Zoltan. Did you find out what your grandfather wanted to talk to you about?”
She heard no mocking in his voice, no barely hidden sneer, even though she knew he didn’t believe the dead had a working voice any more than she did. But he knew her grandmother believed and Rebekah was curious, so he encouraged her to go if she wished. She raised her face. “Grandfather called me Pumpkin again—through Zoltan. But of course he didn’t really because he’s dead, so how did she know? She invited me to come back, but I’m not going. All of it was really absurd.” She paused a moment. “She’s a charlatan. I didn’t even wait to find out what she hoped to gain from it all.” She shook her head. She felt the beginnings of a headache.
“So John, your grandfather, didn’t speak to you, he spoke to you through her? Did you recognize his voice?”
“Not really. He wanted to talk about a story he’d told me as a child.”
“A story? Oh sure, you told me several of them he’d entertained you with when you were young. But one particular story?”
She nodded. “Actually, one I never told you, a secret story, only between us, only for me.” Her head began to pound. She drew a deep breath, held his dear face between her two hands, and smiled up at him. “I’m not going back.”
Bless Rich, he’d only patted her face and led her into his study. He knew she loved this large room, all dark wood, rich burgundy leather sofas and chairs, and built-in bookshelves that reached the ceiling.
Her husband had sat beside her on the soft leather sofa, lightly stroked his hand over her cheek. “Tell me, was Zoltan at all convincing?”
“Well, she’s remarkably talented and has all the bells and whistles, like dimming lights, fire leaping up in the fireplace, that sort of thing.” She sighed. “Rich, I really want to forget it.”
He took her hands between his, kissed her fingers. “Let it stay between you and the Departed, at least for now.” He grinned as he spoke. Again, there was no judgment, no sarcasm in his voice.
Rebekah tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into her husband. “Enough about mediums. Tell me about your day.”
“I arranged a meeting with Jacqueline tomorrow, and I know she’ll want my support about her most recent skirmish with the president over his tax-cut proposal. Trust me, most everyone is afraid she could blow up the party’s re-election chances if she oversteps.” He sighed, sat back, and sipped his brandy.
“If she persists, smile at her and tell her the last thing she wants is to lose her own position as Speaker of the House.”
He laughed and kissed her forehead next to where her headache still brewed.
That’s not important right now. Put it away. Focus on Celeste and this blasted lunch, maybe practice a sincere smile.
Rebekah looked to the left, then to the right. Except for her Beemer, Hempstead Road was practically empty of cars this time of day. Well, it was never jammed with traffic any time of day, actually. She was about to step off the curb when she heard a car engine coming up from her left, closing fast, terrifyingly fast. She whirled about as a white SUV screeched to a stop beside her. A big man dressed in black, wearing a mask, a hoodie pulled over his head, jumped out and grabbed her. Rebekah screamed and kicked up at his groin, but he turned in time and her knee struck him hard on his thigh. He cursed, jerked her arm up high behind her, and raised a syringe.
5
Rebekah fought back, kicking and hitting whatever part of him she could reach. She felt him rip the sleeve of her bl
azer as he twisted her arm back, but she was too flooded with adrenaline for the pain to overwhelm her. He was cursing her, telling her to stop or he’d break her arm. When she knew her arm was about to snap, he was suddenly jerked away from her, spun around, and someone struck his neck with a fist. He went down hard, struggling to breathe, his hands clawing at his throat. A big man in a black leather jacket dropped beside her attacker. He was still choking, thrashing on the ground, trying to get away. His hoodie fell back behind his mask, and she could see he was bald—not naturally, he shaved his head. She could see the sheen of dark stubble. A second man, also in a mask and hoodie, jumped out of the SUV, a gun in his hand. Her rescuer jerked around, but he wasn’t fast enough. The second man struck him in the head with the gun. He went down on his knees, dazed. The second man hauled his partner to his feet and shoved him into the open back of the SUV. He jumped in the driver’s seat, and the SUV roared off, tires screeching. Her rescuer pulled a gun from a clip at his waist, fell onto his stomach, and fired off six fast shots. She saw the left rear tire explode, but the SUV kept going.
An older woman yelled out from a neighboring yard, clutching a hose still gushing water in her hand, “I called 911! The police are coming!”
Her savior started to rise, then stayed on his knees. He looked up at her. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. Please don’t move.” Savich quickly pulled out his cell and punched in Detective Ben Raven’s number. “Ben? Got a problem here.” Savich told him exactly what had happened, how he’d shot out the back tire on the SUV, and gave him the address on Hempstead and a description of the two men. “They’ll probably abandon it fast, a Ford Expedition, white, a year old, maybe. The license plate was muddied over. Yes, we’ll be here. Thank you, Ben.”
“Agent Savich, are you okay? He really hit you hard.”
Savich nodded. “Yes. And you?”
“I’m alive, can’t ask for more than that. The woman over in that yard clutching that hose like it’s her lifeline, she called 911.” She gave him a manic, adrenaline-fueled laugh.
He touched his fingers to the back of his head. “Give me a moment to unscramble my brain. I should have been faster.”
“I think you’re awesome, the way you hit that man in the neck—I’ve never seen anyone do that. And you shot out that back tire.” Rebekah realized she was losing it and took a deep breath. Yes, she had to breathe and calm down. She said, “Okay, hold still. Let me look at your head.”
Savich felt her fingers lightly touch behind his left temple. He smelled her perfume, a light rose scent, not unlike Sherlock’s. “There’s a bump and a bruise, but no bleeding. You might have a concussion, though. We should call an ambulance.”
“No, I’m fine.”
Men, did they always want to be invincible? She helped him to his feet and winced because she’d used the arm the bald man had nearly broken. But the pain wasn’t important, and her arm worked. After a moment, he seemed steady on his feet. Rebekah realized she came only to his nose, and she was tall. He was well-built, wearing a black leather jacket over a white shirt and black wool pants. Kit would declare him seriously hot. Actually, Rebekah would agree with her. He was dark, eyes and hair, and he looked tough. His eyes were clear, and that was a relief. Rebekah stuck out her hand. “My name’s Rebekah Manvers, Agent Savich. Thank you for saving me. If not for you, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“You’re welcome. I wish I had them in cuffs, but at least you’re not in that SUV with them.”
Savich saw she was very pretty, but her face was still too pale. She was a bit younger than Sherlock, her hair a beautiful dark mahogany, like his desk at home. She had light gray eyes, a shade he’d never seen before. Her hair had come loose to straggle around her face. Both of them probably looked like they’d gone twelve rounds. He smiled at her. “I’m glad I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” He shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Manvers.”
Savich still couldn’t believe he’d actually come across a kidnapping on the street. What were the odds? He’d been on his way to Ambassador Natalie Black’s house a half mile away for lunch to celebrate the upcoming wedding between Agent Davis Sullivan, one of his agents in the CAU, and Black’s daughter, Perry. He’d been less than a block away when he’d seen the SUV swerve off a side street onto Hempstead.
“How’s your arm?”
Rebekah stuck out her right arm, flexed her hand. “It’s still sore, but I don’t think anything’s broken. He ripped off my sleeve so he could shoot me up with a syringe. Look, there it is. It flew out of his hand when you hit him.”
Savich leaned down and picked up the syringe. He pulled a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket and slipped it inside. “We’ll find out what he was going to give you.” He felt a moment of dizziness, then it passed. He ignored the low throbbing where the gun had struck him on the head. It could be worse—he could be dead. “They wore masks, but was there anything about them familiar to you, Ms. Manvers?”
She shook her head, then she gave him a grin. “Agent Savich, you saved my life. Please call me Rebekah. Let me say it again, you were awesome. Thank you.”
Savich liked the sound of that. “You never gave up, you kept fighting. Well done.”
An older gent appeared at Savich’s elbow, a cane in one hand, a long leash attached to a bulldog in the other. The bulldog didn’t bark, merely stared up at Savich, his tongue lolling.
“Name’s Luther Frye. I was watching Mongo piddle against that maple tree when those goons roared to a stop, jumped out of that SUV, and grabbed this pretty little girl. Bad business, but what you did, boy, it was a job well done. And you,” he said to Rebekah, grinning to show a mouth sporting a full complement of shining false teeth, “you’ve got an excellent set of lungs for sure. Nice and loud, sort of like my late wife.”
Savich introduced himself to Mr. Frye, who dropped Mongo’s leash and shook his hand.
“Figures you’re a lawman. You shot that rear tire right out. You want me to stick around, talk to the police? I hear them coming.”
Savich settled for the old man’s phone number, typed it into his cell.
Mr. Frye saluted him and walked slowly away, Mongo trotting beside him, carrying his leash in his mouth.
Rebekah realized she’d started shaking. She tried to calm herself, swallowed to get spit in her mouth. “I don’t understand any of this. Why me? Who were they?”
“We’ll figure it out. Come sit in my car, and we’ll both get ourselves together. I hear the sirens getting closer.”
His car was a gorgeous fire-engine-red Porsche.
A woman’s voice called out from down the street, “Rebekah, is that you? Charles came out after we all heard gunshots to see what was going on, and he said he recognized you. What happened?”
Rebekah drew in a deep breath and said to Savich, “That’s my daughter-in-law, Celeste. Believe me, we do not need her here. I had a lunch date at her house, just up the block.” She said with a sigh, “Charles is her butler and a very nice man.” She called out, “Celeste, I’m all right. Someone tried to kidnap me, but it’s all over and I’m fine. I don’t suppose I’m up for having lunch with you now, though. I’ll call you later, fill you in. Please, don’t bother Rich. I’ll talk to him myself. And Celeste, give your guests my apologies.”
Celeste stopped in her tracks, still half a block away. She looked uncertain. “If you’re sure, darling. But someone tried to kidnap you? That’s crazy. I mean who would do something like that in this neighborhood? I don’t understand.”
“It’s all right, Celeste. Please go back to your luncheon.”
She wondered for a moment what exactly Celeste would tell everyone. She watched her daughter-in-law slowly turn and retrace her steps, a half dozen people coming from the house to meet her. She sent one last furtive look back at Rebekah. She looked excited. Rebekah couldn’t imagine anyone would be bored at the luncheon now, not with this delicious news. She said to Savich, “Sorry, b
ut what happened will be all over Washington within an hour.”
A Metro cop car pulled up, and two officers, one of whom Savich knew, asked them questions until Ben pulled his new silver Chevy Malibu in behind Savich’s Porsche. Detective Ben Raven ushered both Savich and Rebekah to his car, and they went over everything once again.
Ben Raven said finally, “Seems obvious to me it must have to do with your being Congressman Manvers’s wife. Your husband’s also quite rich, right?”
Rebekah was feeling the aftermath, recognized it for what it was—her adrenaline taking a nosedive. Fatigue rolled over her like a tsunami. She felt scared, too, more than she had during the attack. She was thinking about it now, not only reacting. She knew the man in the hoodie would have injected her with whatever was in the syringe. Probably not to kill her, but they’d have taken her. Where? What would they have done to her? Ransomed her? She didn’t want to talk anymore, didn’t want to think about it. It was too scary. All she wanted to do was curl up into the fetal position and keep Agent Savich very close.
Deadlock Page 3
