debilitating and designed to break down his spirit. It had done its job well.
Bruno was dressed in a drab gray jumpsuit and had many days’ growth of beard on his face, for what sane jailer would provide a prisoner with a razor? Bathing was done by towel and bucket that appeared and disappeared while he was asleep; erratically timed meals were passed through a slot in the door. He’d never seen his captors and had no idea where he might be or how he’d gotten here. When he’d tried to talk to the unseen presence providing the food through the slot, he got no reply and had finally given up.
His food, he’d discovered, was often drugged and would send him into deep sleep or provoke occasional hallucinations. Yet if he didn’t eat, he’d perish, so he ate. He was never allowed to leave his cell, and his exercise was restricted to ten paces across and ten paces back. He did push-ups and sit-ups on the cold floor to keep his strength. He had no idea if he was under surveillance, and it little mattered if he was. He’d contemplated early on some method of escape but had concluded escape was impossible. And to think it had all started with Mildred Martin, or rather an impersonator, in that funeral home. For the hundredth time he silently cursed himself for not following Michelle Maxwell’s advice. And then, being the egomaniac he was, he cursed Maxwell for not being more forceful, for not insisting on accompanying him into that room.
How long he’d been here he didn’t know. They’d taken all his personal belongings including his watch while he was unconscious. Why he’d been kidnapped he couldn’t fathom. Whether it had to do with his candidacy or his former career as a prosecutor he didn’t know. It had never occurred to him that it might be neither. He’d harbored hopes early on for a quick rescue, but he could no longer realistically keep that belief. The people who’d taken him clearly knew what they were doing. He’d fallen back on the slender hope of a miracle, and yet as the hours and days passed, that hope had begun to dim. He thought of his wife and children and his presidential campaign and was resigned that his life might end here, his body perhaps never found. He remained puzzled, though, about why they were keeping him alive.
He rolled over on his stomach, unable to face even the meager light anymore.
The person who sat in another cell at the end of the corridor had been here far longer than John Bruno. The despair in the eyes and the slouch in the body signaled there was no hope left. Eat, sit, sleep, and probably die at some point. That was the bleak future. The person shivered and wrapped a blanket closer around.
In another part of the large underground space a man was engaged in some interesting activities. In contrast to the despair of the prisoners, his energy level and hopes were very high indeed.
Round after round was fired into a human silhouette that hung on a target a good hundred feet away in the soundproofed room. Every shot was placed in the kill zone. He was certainly a marksman of enviable skill.
The man pressed a button, and the target flew down the motorized line toward him. He put up a fresh target and hit a button, and it flew to the farthest point available on the shooting range. He loaded a fresh magazine in his pistol, put on his eye and ear protectors, took aim and fired off fourteen rounds in less than twenty-five seconds. When the target was brought back this time, he finally smiled. Not one shot had gone astray—“throwing a round” in law enforcement parlance. He put his weapon away and left the shooting range.
The next room he entered was smaller than the shooting room and very different in configuration. Floor-to-ceiling shelves housed all manner of detonators, wiring for explosives, and other equipment used by those intent on blowing up something as efficiently and effectively as possible. In the center of the room was a large worktable, where he sat and began massaging wires, transistors, timers, detonators and C-4 plastic explosives into multiple devices designed for massive destruction. He brought to this task the same attention to detail that had been present at the shooting range.
He hummed while he worked.
An hour later he went to yet another room that was set up completely unlike the first two. To the observer who could see only the interior of this space and not the ones housing guns, explosives and human chattel, there was nothing sinister or malign here. It was an artist’s studio that lacked nothing for the creation of art in practically any medium, except for natural light. That was impossible in a place so many meters below ground. Yet the artificial light here was acceptable.
Neatly hanging on one wall were shelves holding heavy coats and boots, special helmets, thick gloves, red bubble lights, axes, oxygen tanks and other like equipment. The gear wouldn’t be needed for a while yet, but it was good to be prepared. Rushing now could mean disaster. Patience was required. And yet he looked forward to the moment when it would all come together, when he could finally say that success was his. Yes, patience.
He settled himself down at a worktable and for the next two hours labored with deep concentration, painting, cutting, erecting and fine-tuning a series of works that would never grace the inside of a museum or, for that matter, any personal collection. Yet they were as important to him as the most distinguished masterpieces of any era. In a very substantial way all this work was his masterpiece, and like many of the old masters’ works, it had been years in the making.
He continued his labors, counting down to the time when his greatest achievement would finally be complete.
CHAPTER
24
MICHELLE WAS ON HER LAPTOP, surfing through the Secret Service’s database and finding some interesting items. She was focused and absorbed, and yet when her cell phone rang, she sprang off the bed and grabbed it. The screen flashed “Caller ID Block,” but she answered it anyway, hoping it was King. It was. His initial words were very welcome.
“Where do you want to meet?” she asked in answer to his query.
“Where are you staying?”
“At a quaint little B and B about four miles from you off Route 29.”
“The Winchester?” he asked.
“That’s it.”
“Nice place. Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am now.”
“There’s an inn called the Sage Gentleman about a mile from where you are.”
“I passed it on the way here. Looks very clubby.”
“It is. I’ll meet you for lunch. Twelve-thirty?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. And, Sean, I appreciate your calling me.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve heard what I have to say.”
They met on the broad porch that encircled the old Victorian-style home. King was dressed in a sport coat, green turtleneck and beige slacks, Maxwell in a long pleated black skirt and white sweater. The stylish dress boots she was wearing brought her up to within an inch of King’s height. Her dark hair fell across her shoulders, and she had even put on a bit of makeup, something she normally didn’t do. Secret Service work did not lend itself to fashion pleasantries. However, because your protectee often attended formal events with well-dressed, wealthy people, an agent’s wardrobe and grooming habits had to be up to the task, which wasn’t always easy. Thus an old agency adage was: Dress like a million bucks on a blue-collar paycheck.
King pointed at the dark blue Toyota Land Cruiser with roof racks in the parking lot.
“Is that yours?”
She nodded. “I’m into active sports on my time off, and that thing can go anywhere and carry anything I need.”
“You’re a Secret Service agent. When do you have any time off?”
They sat at a table in the rear of the restaurant. The place wasn’t too full, and they were enjoying about as much privacy as one could in a public place.
When the waiter came and asked if they were ready to order, Michelle immediately said, “Yes, sir.”
King smiled at this but said nothing until the waiter departed.
“It took me years to get over that.”
“Over what?” she asked.
“Calling everyone ‘sir.’ From waiters to presid
ents.”
She shrugged. “I guess I never realized I was doing it.”
“Why would you—it’s ingrained. With a lot of other things.” He looked pensive. “One thing about you has been puzzling me.”
A tiny smile crept across her features. “Just one? I’m disappointed.”
“Why did a supersmart superjock like yourself go into law enforcement? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just seems like you’d have other opportunities.”
“It was a genetic thing, I guess. My father, brothers, uncles, male cousins are all cops. My dad’s the police chief in Nashville. I wanted to be the first girl in my family to do it. I did a year’s stint as a police officer in Tennessee and then decided to break the family mold and applied to the Service. I was accepted and the rest is history.”
After the waiter brought their food, Michelle dug into hers while King quietly worked on his wine.
“I take it you’ve been here before,” she said between bites.
King nodded as he finished off his glass of Bordeaux and started eating. “I bring clients, friends, other lawyers here. This area has quite a few places as good as if not better than this one. They’re well hidden in the nooks and crannies hereabouts.”
“Are you a trial lawyer?”
“No. Wills, trusts, business deals.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It pays the light bill. It’s not the most exciting job in the world, but you can’t beat the views.”
“It is pretty here. I can understand why you’d relocate to a place like this.”
“It has its attractions and limitations. Here, sometimes you fall under the delusion that you’re insulated from the stress and tribulations of the rest of the world.”
“But they tend to follow you, don’t they?”
“Second, you believe you can actually forget your past and start life anew.”
“But you have.”
“Had. Past tense.”
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “So why did you want to see me?”
He held up his empty glass of wine. “How about joining me? You’re not on duty.”
She hesitated and then nodded.
A minute later they had their drinks, and after they finished their meal King suggested they move to the small lounge situated off the dining area. There they sank into old leather chairs and breathed in the aromas of old cigar and pipe smoke augmented by the odors of ancient, leather-bound books on the worm-eaten walnut shelves that stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the walls. They had the room to themselves, and King held the glass up to the light coming in through the window and then sniffed it before taking a sip.
“Good stuff,” said Michelle after she took a mouthful.
“Give it ten more years, and you’ll never know you were drinking the same wine.”
“I know nothing about it other than screw top or cork.”
“Eight years ago I was the same way. Actually beer was more my specialty. And it fit my wallet better too.”
“So about the time you left the Service you switched from beer to wine?”
“Lots of changes took place in my life about then. A friend of mine was a closet sommelier, and he taught me all I know. We took a methodical approach, working through French wines and then Italian and even nudged around California whites, though he was quite the snob about that. For him, reds were where it was at.”
“Hmmm, I wonder if you’re the only wine connoisseur who’s killed people? I mean they just don’t seem to go together, do they?”
He lowered his glass and looked at her with an amused expression. “What, does a love of wine seem prissy to you? Do you know how much blood has been spilled over wine?”
“Do you mean while drinking it or talking about it?”
“Does it matter? Dead is dead, isn’t it?”
“You would know that better than I do.”
“If you think it’s a simple matter of notching your gun after you do the deed, it’s not.”
“I never thought that. More like notching your soul?”
He put down his glass. “How about an information exchange?”
“I’m game, within reason.”
“Quid pro quo. Relatively equal value.”
“Judged by whom?”
“I’ll make it easy. I’ll go first.”
Michelle sat back. “I’m curious. Why?”
“I guess we can put it down to the fact that you’re as unwilling a participant in your nightmare as I was eight years ago in mine.”
“Yes. You called us blood brothers.”
“Joan Dillinger was at the hotel that night.”
“In your room?”
King shook his head. “Your turn.”
Michelle thought about this for a few moments. “Okay, I talked to one of the maids who was working at the hotel when Ritter was killed. Her name is Loretta Baldwin.” King looked puzzled when she said this. “Loretta says she cleaned your room that morning. And she found a pair of black lace panties on the ceiling light fixture.” She paused and then added with a perfectly straight face, “I’m assuming they weren’t yours. You don’t seem like the lace type.”
“No. And black’s not really my color in underwear.”
“Weren’t you married during that time?”
“Separated. My wife had an annoying habit of sleeping with other men when I was out of town, which was basically all the time. I think they even started bringing their own pajamas and toothbrushes. I was feeling really out of the loop.”
“It’s good you can joke about it now.”
“If you had asked me eight years ago, I wouldn’t have been so glib. Time doesn’t really heal, it just makes you not give a crap.”
“So you had, what, a fling with Joan Dillinger?”
“It actually seemed a little more than that back then. Stupid when you think about it. Joan’s not that sort of woman.”
Michelle leaned forward. “About the elevator—”
King interrupted. “Your turn again. I’m getting tired of reminding you.”
Michelle sighed and sat back. “Okay, Dillinger’s not at the Service anymore.”
“Doesn’t count. I already know that. What else?”
“Loretta Baldwin told me she hid in the supply closet down the hall from the room where Ritter died.”
King looked interested. “Why?”
“She was scared to death and took off running. Everyone else was doing the same thing.”
“Not everyone,” King said dryly. “I stayed pretty much in the same place.”
“Now, about the elevator.”
“Why do you care about that?” he asked sharply.
“Because it seemed to captivate you! So much so that you didn’t even know there was an assassin standing in front of you until he fired.”
“I just zoned out.”
“I don’t think so. I heard the noise on the tape. And it sounded like an elevator car arriving. And I’m thinking that when those doors opened, whatever or whoever you saw grabbed your attention and didn’t let it go until Ramsey fired.” She paused and then added, “And since that elevator bank was locked off by the Secret Service, I’m guessing that it was a Secret Service agent who was on there, because who else could have done it without being stopped? And I’m betting that agent was Joan Dillinger. And I’m also betting that for some reason you’re covering for her. Would you care to tell me that I’m wrong about all that?”
“Even if what you say is true, it doesn’t matter. It was my screwup and Ritter died because of it. No excuses are good enough. You ought to know that by now.”
“But if you were purposefully distracted, that’s a different story.”
“I wasn’t.”
“How do you know that? Why else would someone have been on that elevator at the precise moment Ramsey chose to fire?” She answered her own question. “Because he knew that elevator car was going to come down, and he knew the person on it would be able to distrac
t you, giving him the chance to kill Ritter, that’s why. He was waiting for the elevator to come before he fired.”
She sat back, her look not one so much of triumph, but of defiance, like she’d shown on TV during the press conference King had seen.
“That isn’t possible. Just trust me. Call it the worst timing in the world, that’s all.”
“I’m sure you won’t be too surprised if I don’t take your word for it.”
He sat there in silence, for so long, in fact, that Michelle finally rose. “Look, thanks for lunch and the wine lesson. But you can’t tell me a smart guy like you doesn’t look in the mirror every morning and wonder,
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