Whispers and Lies

by Diane Pershing

  Will breathed a mental sigh of relief. Her little revelation had made him tense up—although he’d masked his reaction from Lou, he was pretty sure. A tattoo of the first letter of his name. Wow. This was totally unexpected, the fact that she’d had such a crush on him all those years ago. Wouldn’t it be awful if she still felt the same way now? It would be bad news if he had just made love with a woman who had cared about him, deeply, for nearly twenty years, because then the great sex they’d just had would mean way too much to her. Way, way too much.

  But, whew, he’d been a high school crush, nothing more. Hell, he’d had a few of those himself. Like Kathy-Ann, and Mindy Taylor, and a few others he could think of off the top of his head. Nothing more than that. Over years ago, of course. Yeah, Lou wouldn’t fall into a trap like that. She was too smart to be carrying a twenty-year-old torch.

  He kissed the tattoo, murmuring, “I’m honored to be permanently embossed on your body, my lady.” He moved his mouth up and took one of her nipples in his mouth. “And now let me show you how very honored I am.”

  She was roused from sleep when Will got out of bed. Throwing her bent arm over her eyes to block out the early morning sun streaming in the window, she managed to say, “Are you going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Got to get back to the house, get my things.” He dressed as he spoke, pulling on his tux pants and shirt.

  “What time’s your plane?”

  “In a couple of hours. I need to get a move on.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Barely awake, Lou felt the pull of more much-needed sleep calling to her. She closed her eyes again, but felt Will’s hands stroking her cheeks as he kissed her forehead, then her nose. “You okay?”

  Feeling like a cat, she stretched her arms over her head, wiggled a little and smiled contentedly. “More than okay.” She opened her eyes. “Oh, by the way, thank you, Will.”

  “For what?”

  “For making me see that I’ve been treating myself like a second-class citizen for too many years,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve given me a new way of looking at myself, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this whole weekend with you.”

  “Hey, I’m pretty grateful myself.” He sat down on the bed, stroked her cheek, looked almost wistful. “You are special, Lou, so special.”

  Thoroughly satisfied with her entire life, she stretched again, murmuring, “Yup. I agree. Extremely special, that’s me.” She flung back the covers and stumbled out of bed.

  “Why don’t you stay in bed?”

  “Gotta walk Mr. Hyde.”

  “Oh.”

  He waited until she threw on a pair of sweats and loafers, then hooked the dog up to a leash. Together they left her house and descended the stairs.

  At the foot of them, he turned to face her. “So, now I guess it really is goodbye.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re clear. This was all there was.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re both okay.”

  She looked up at him, cocked her head to one side. “What is it, Will? Are you worried that I’m going to come after you and demand more?”

  He seemed to think about it before giving her a rueful grin. “No, I’m worried that I’m going to come after you and want more.”

  Her heart surged, but she kept her voice steady. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Trust me, Lou. It is. A very bad thing.”

  She could tell he honestly believed it. And she had no weapons against a belief that strong, none at all. “Not to worry.”

  “All right, then.” He leaned over, kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Bye. I’ll call you when I have news.”

  “Good.” She watched him walk down the street to where his car was parked, watched him get in and drive away, waving to him as he did.

  She’d done well, she thought. Kept her end of the bargain, never letting Will know how much he’d meant to her long after high school had ended. Never letting him see that part of her wished she’d never invited him home, because now she knew what she would be missing in the future.

  But there had been a moment there, when he’d seemed sad to part from her. That was something, wasn’t it?

  Do not go there, into the realm of hope and fantasy.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, she told her inner voice. Then, insides churning with equal parts joy and sorrow and hope and just about every female emotion under the sun, she urged Mr. Hyde to do his business, so she could get back to bed.

  Chapter 8

  The minute Will got back to D.C., he got busy. He sent out inquiries about the documents Lou had found in the attic. He called a contact in the State Department for help with tracking down the passport. This sort of info was classified and not available to the general public. After trying all of Linc’s numbers again, he put in a call to Linc’s brother, the senator, and requested an appointment to interview him in his Capitol Hill office.

  DeWitt resisted, saying he’d already made it clear he wouldn’t cooperate with Will about the article. Will, hoping he’d get the senator to change his mind eventually, told him that anything DeWitt told him would be off the record and used for deep background only. Only then did the senator agree to see him. They set it up for the following morning, Tuesday.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Will answered telephone calls, typed in some random notes he’d made about his article, picked up a few groceries, stopped off at the dry cleaner’s to drop off his tux and pick up his laundry, went for a five-mile run. By early evening, Will was seated on his living room couch, thumbing through some of the magazines he had subscriptions for—news and entertainment, financial and scientific. A good reporter needed to be well-rounded, to keep current on everything to do with modern life, from the latest teen heartthrob to the latest breakthrough in gene splicing.

  Barbara called and suggested she come over, but he put her off, saying he’d call her by the end of the week. As he set the phone down, he realized he didn’t want to call her then, didn’t want to see her ever again. Without thinking, Will picked up the phone again. Lou. He would call Lou, tell her he was hard at work tracking down information for her, find out how she was doing.

  And then he put the phone down again. No. Bad idea. They’d said goodbye. They’d been grown-ups about it. He’d been clear with her; there was no chance of anything going forward between them, so he needed to follow the rules they’d set for each other. From now on, his only connection to Lou would be in helping her with her family mystery. At some point, if his suspicions were true, and when he had all the facts, he’d gently break it to her about her parentage. But that would be the extent of their involvement. Had to be that way. Had to be.

  See? he scolded himself. It was happening already, the thing he’d vowed to avoid. That sense of closeness, that yearning, part of him actually flirting with letting the thing with Lou develop, see where it led. But he already knew the ending. Any infatuation with Lou would eventually fade, to be replaced by the next House investigation, the next war, the next project that took Will over, that spirited him away from any personal life.

  His mother and dad had started their lives together committed and in love, but soon enough, the old man had become both an absentee father and husband. Time and again, Will had seen the disappointment on his mother’s face at yet one more phone call announcing they should eat without him, leave on their vacation without him, live their lives without him.

  No, he thought. Don’t even begin a journey that had only unhappiness at its end. Not with Lou, not with anyone, ever.

  Even so, he nearly picked up the phone again. Instead, muttering a mild curse, he jumped off the couch, left his apartment and wandered out to find a drink and some dinner.

  Alone.

  There were three office buildings for members of the Senate and their staffs. As Jackson DeWitt had considerable tenure and personal power, his office was in the most prestigious of the three,
the Russell Building, which had the shortest walk/subway ride from the Capitol, making it easier to get to the Senate floor quickly for a vote.

  The senator’s outer lobby was filled with all things Florida. On the walls were a huge map of the state and an enlarged picture of Cape Canaveral, banners from various state sports teams, pro and collegiate, an aerial view of Disney World, another of the Everglades. On the coffee table were that day’s major Florida newspapers, along with copies of the New York Times, Washington Post and Roll Call. A candy jar and a large bowl of Florida oranges sat on side tables.

  After Will had been there for about fifteen minutes, the perfectly groomed, middle-aged woman at the reception desk motioned him toward the door to the senator’s inner sanctum. Will hesitated briefly before entering, making sure he’d gathered his thoughts and knew his purpose before he went in. As of this morning, there was still no word from Lincoln. Nearly a week now since they’d met in the bar, and the only source he hadn’t talked to yet was this man, the winner in the family.

  He knocked briefly, walked in and found himself in a huge office with a window that looked right at the Capitol Dome. There were the usual power furnishings—an enormous mahogany desk and a big red leather desk chair, two facing smaller armchairs, and a couch and a coffee table off to one side. The walls were covered with photos of the senator with various presidents, prime ministers and other luminaries. There was also an autographed photo of him with legendary Dolphins quarterback Dan Marino.

  The senator was seated behind his desk and was, as always, dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit, snowy white shirt and subdued tie. His full head of silver hair was combed back off a high, patrician forehead, and his handsome face was lightly tanned. At the moment, he bore a small smile of welcome. “Hi, Will,” he said, not rising from his chair.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Senator.”

  Bert Schmidt, the senator’s aide, was seated on one of the two visitors’ chairs. The man looked like the classic backroom, old-time pol. Overweight, thinning gray hair, bulbous red nose, nondescript face. Rumpled suit, unpressed shirt. A large belly fighting to break free of his shirt buttons. He even had an unlit cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. And, as always, he smelled of bay rum aftershave, which he used liberally and which filled even the senator’s spacious office.

  While Will had met the senator several times, he didn’t know Schmidt that well, but he got the distinct impression the other man didn’t care for him. Which made sense. As an investigative reporter, Will was the natural enemy of anyone in the spotlight and those loyal to them.

  “Bert,” Will said.

  “Will.” The other man nodded.

  “I only have a few minutes, so grab a chair, Will,” the senator said, “and tell me what I can do for you.”

  As Will sat down on the chair next to Schmidt, he said, “First, I’m wondering if you’ve seen or been in contact with Lincoln?”

  He shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen him for over a month, I think, but that’s not unusual. Linc has a history of disappearing for weeks on end.”

  Will took out his reporter’s notebook and a pen, saying, “Do you know the names of any of Lincoln’s past mistresses or of any illegitimate children?”

  He’d meant to catch the senator off guard, and he had. The older man looked pained at the question, a deep frown creasing his patrician forehead. Then he shook his head. “We’re off the record, right, Will?”

  “I gave my word.”

  “Well, off the record or on, Linc never shared that kind of thing with me—he knew I’d disapprove—so if they exist, I’m not aware of them.”

  “I see.”

  “However,” he added, “nothing would surprise me. My brother and I have lived very different lives. He’s unable to settle down and I’ve been settled down for years, as you know.”

  The senator and his wife, unable to have children of their own, had adopted five orphans of varying ethnic heritage. Their mixed family had been featured in magazines all across the nation, examples of the senator’s strong support for both family values and racial equality.

  “Do the names Janice McAndrews or Rita Conlon ring a bell?” Will asked.

  Again the senator shrugged and said, “No. Should they?”

  “I think your brother has a connection to them.”

  “Then you need to talk to him about it, don’t you?”

  “He’s not returning my phone calls.”

  DeWitt shook his head again, saying, with an expression that was part disdain and part sadness, “I have no control over Linc. But, Will, do you really need any more dirt on my brother? Hell, by now the son of a bitch could take up a whole tell-all bestseller.”

  Will smiled. He really liked the senator—all the reporters did. It was unusual to cover someone so plainspoken and who had so much personal integrity that he was constantly risking the wrath of his party by disagreeing with its policies. The “Southern John McCain,” they’d dubbed him. The party bigwigs tolerated him only because his Florida constituents adored him and kept electing him to office.

  “I’m trying to be as thorough and as balanced as I can for my article,” he told the older man. “That means I can’t afford to leave even one stone unturned.”

  DeWitt’s mouth curled sardonically. “And you can’t be concerned with hurt feelings, and you’re honor-bound to tell the truth, which is all that’s important to the great American public, and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I know all about reporters and their code. Which many of them break, and often.”

  Will refused to be drawn into a conversation that might distract and detract from his purpose for being there. “Whatever others do, sir, doesn’t concern me. I try to present the truth as best I can.”

  The other man heaved a large sigh and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

  “One more question, sir?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why do you think your brother and you turned out so differently?”

  Will knew the facts, of course: Lincoln DeWitt was two years Jackson’s junior and the bane of his existence. It was the good son/bad son scenario all over again. The brothers had been born into poverty. Lincoln had spent time in jail for drugs, had a lurid marital history and had party-hearty-ed enough for any five lifetimes. Jackson had put himself through college, served in the military with honors—he was a decorated war hero—and had continued serving his country as an esteemed, independent, tell-it-like-it-is Washington insider.

  Steepling his fingers, DeWitt pondered a picture on his desk for a few moments before answering. “A lot of it had to do with what happened during the war in Vietnam. We were both there, you know, both saw a lot of horrors. We reacted differently, and I’m not sure why. I came back determined to serve my country as best I could. Linc, on the other hand, was a changed man—for the worse—and hasn’t been the same since. Something died in him over there. I know that he appears, is outwardly…cheerful, I guess is the best word to use. But I don’t think he is inside, not really.”

  This assessment showed admirable sensitivity toward his brother on the senator’s part, but Will was aware that he would have been a hard act to follow for his younger brother, even earlier than Vietnam.

  “Is he suicidal?”

  DeWitt’s eyes opened wide. He’d been caught off guard again. “God, I sincerely hope not.” He looked at his watch, then stood. “That’s all the time I can spare today, Will. Thanks for coming by.”

  He was being dismissed. “I’d like to talk to you again as I get closer to finishing the article, run some of what I’ve found out by you, get your comments.”

  “On the record?”

  “Yes. I’d think you’d want to make sure I get my facts straight.”

  DeWitt smiled grimly. “Nothing personal, Will, but I doubt it’ll happen.”

  Not surprised, Will nodded and walked out the door, aware that the silent Schmidt and the voluble DeWitt were staring at his back as he left. And aware that either there
really was nothing the senator could tell him, or there was a lot he could, but chose not to.

  There was a mystery surrounding Lincoln’s past, and a mystery concerning his present location. Will felt that thrum of excitement coursing through his veins. A story, a good one, he was pretty sure, was just waiting to be told.

  And he was just the man to make sure it was.

  Lou stared into the empty fireplace, reluctant to take the last sip of her evening martini. For the first time in a long time, she thought about pouring herself a second, but had the sense to realize that one drink, okay, but to drink two, alone, was inviting trouble.

  It was just that she didn’t know what else to do with her mind.

  She’d been walking around for the past two days in a kind of dream state; she couldn’t stop reenacting the night with Will. Pictures would pop into her head like a weird pornographic photo album; she’d shudder, then go into a trance. Several times each day, both Monday and today, her staff had to snap their fingers in front of her eyes, or cough with purpose, to get her to pay attention, to abandon her mental fog. With an apology, she would shake her head to unscramble her brains and then get on with her next appointment.

  With her animals, of course, she concentrated fully. It was the in-between times—the shifts to a new exam room, the studying of a chart, the lunch break—when she would go off to some fine, lovely place of warm, sensual haze that existed within her cranium.

  Last night, too, she’d sat here sipping her drink, vaguely wondering why she was staring at the fireplace when it was summertime and there were no logs in there, nothing whatever but a grate and a screen that needed mending. And in the back of her mind, she’d fantasized about the phone ringing. It would be Will, calling to report news, or to say he missed her and couldn’t stop thinking about her, the way she couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though they’d both promised each other not to.