She strained against the rope that bound her wrists behind her back. The knots were professionally tied. The more she struggled, the harder the binds cut her flesh.
She levered herself to her feet and hobbled over to the stove. She wanted to moan in pain, but clenched her teeth. Tears welled in her eyes and ran over her cheeks, God, it hurt!
She turned her back to the stove and pressed back against the dials. Her fingers, with only inches of movement available, turned the knob to the right on the front burner. Let it light. Please let it light.
She heard a soft puff as escaping gas around the burner eye was ignited by the pilot light. She bent forward until her hands were over the edge of the stove. She inched her hands back over the lit burner. She felt the heat of the burning gas as she guided her hand over the flame.
She had to pull back as fire seared her skin. She pushed her wrists back again, trying to hold the rope binding her hands, over the flame. The stench of burning flesh assailed her nostrils. The pain made her nearly faint. She kept her wrists over the burning eye until the rope parted and she fell forward in a dead faint.
Cory parked the car thirty feet from the house and opened the door. He had started to walk around the front of the car and go toward the door when he saw her.
A shower of glass preceded her body as she dove through the large window on the rear sun porch. She stumbled and fell to her knees by the side of the house.
Tiny flecks of red speckled her bare shoulders and arms, where minute shards of glass had cut. There were long, ugly red welts on her legs and thighs. Her hands and wrists seemed to be incongruously covered with what he at first thought were red gloves. He realized with horror that her hands were bleeding profusely. Lengths of charred rope dangled from her wrist.
She recovered her balance and faced him. Her mouth contorted in pain. “Run! They’re here!”
Cory dove behind the car as the first two shots reverberated over the quiet beach. He saw Ginny spin and fall. Two more shots sputtered into the sand near his face.
The two men were at opposite ends of the long living-room window. Their pistol barrels protruded through broken panes of glass as they crouched near the floor, with their weapons braced on the sill. If they had not been distracted by Ginny’s yell … if he had been a few feet closer … if they had not shot at her first …
Cory couldn’t see Ginny. She lay in the grass by the side of the house, removed from view by a small hillock. They had shot her. Another death in the bizarre conspiracy.
Cory slid into the car without showing his head above the dashboard. He turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. The car jumped ahead and careened across the small yard, toward the long front window.
Their firing increased in rapidity as the car lurched toward the front of the house. Their bullets shattered the windshield, blew a tire, and smashed harmlessly into the engine block and fire wall.
He was able to accelerate the car to forty in the brief space. The car hit the house slightly to the right of the long window and crushed Sergeant Pierce.
The front half of the vehicle sliced through the light construction of the cottage. Its front wheels protruded midway through the living room. The body of the police sergeant was fatally pinned beneath the undercarriage. Wilton James staggered in aimless circles in the undemolished portion of the room. He held both hands against his face where splinters of wood had pierced his cheek.
Cory found the detective’s gun on the floor, checked the cylinders to see that a bullet remained, and walked toward the groaning man.
“Don’t, Cory.”
He turned to see her standing outside, near the rear of the car. Her hands clutched her side, where the shot that had knocked her down had creased her ribs.
He stepped through the wreckage and went to her. His arms went around her, and she whimpered against his shoulder. Her cries were the short, curt mews of an injured animal. He examined her body.
Burn welts creased her thighs and legs. Her right eye was swollen and rapidly turning black from the fall when she was shot. The bullet that grazed her side left a furrowed crease the length of her ribs.
“My God, Ginny! What did they do to you?”
“We must leave. Now, please. Let’s just leave.”
He turned from her and walked over to where Wilton James sat on the floor. The detective’s hands were pressed to his face. Blood oozed between his fingers. A long splinter of wood pierced his cheek and still protruded between thumb and forefinger.
Cory stood over the wounded men and thumbed back the hammer of the revolver.
The detective’s moans stopped. “Is that you, Williams?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t, Cory.” Her hand gently pushed the gun aside. She was right. He couldn’t fire. There had been too much. Too many had died. He turned away from the wounded detective.
They would take the detective’s car. He tore out the phone line and gently helped Ginny to lie across the car’s rear seat.
Wilton James staggered from the house. “You’re making a mistake, Williams. You shouldn’t let me live, because I swear, so help me God, that I will kill you.”
Cory put the car in gear and turned down the drive, toward Main Street.
CHAPTER 17
Ginny moaned and tossed feverishly on the narrow bed. He sat on the opposite twin bed and placed a damp washcloth on her forehead. She was warm, too warm. He touch-judged her fever at between 102 and 104 degrees. She needed medical attention.
He had covered her burns and bruises with salve purchased from a drugstore. The treatment seemed to provide little relief, but it might stop infection.
He would watch her through the night. If the fever rose past its present spike, he would bathe her with alcohol. He would do whatever he could.
It had taken an inordinate length of time to get from the Connecticut shore to Springfield, Massachusetts. Once again he had felt the necessity to keep to back roads. It would not have taken Wilton James long to notify the authorities. Every police officer in five states would be on the lookout for the stolen car.
Tomorrow, assuming Ginny was better, he would have to get rid of James’s car and purchase a cheap second-hand model with their short supply of money.
He turned back to Ginny and replaced the washcloth with a fresh damp one.
President Orville Crescatt fingered the yellow legal pad containing his speech notes and leaned back in the Brumby rocker. When he sat in the rocking chair he often thought of Jack Kennedy. It was an unhealthy musing that might eventually lead him to sleep in Lincoln’s bed. He shook his head and looked out the window, over the White House lawn.
Tomorrow at dawn he would board the helicopter that would be idling at the rear of the house and fly to Air Force One for the trip to Chicago.
Chicago had to be a good speech. He bent back to his notes. The Midwest was the heartland. It had been his political base. Yes, Chicago was a very important speech.
He had chosen his political trail carefully. Personal money had never been a problem. His grandfather’s homesteaded acres had increased tenfold with his father’s Depression additions. Now rich Nebraska farms under long-term lease provided an adequate and stable income.
He had obtained his doctorate in political science, and while still in his twenties had run for the state house of representatives. At thirty-two he began the first of three terms in Congress, then back to his native state for a gubernatorial term before he ran for the U.S. Senate. He had nurtured and built his political base carefully until it melded into a combination of La Follette populism and Midwestern conservatism. He had purposely waited until the beginning of his second presidential term before announcing his “Crusade.”
The Crusade hadn’t sat well with his original constituency, and God only knew it didn’t sit well with Congress.
He placed his notes on a table and picked up a copy of the Constitu
tion of the United States. He read the order of impeachment:
“… Conviction of Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.”
They would have a hell of a time on the high erimes, he thought, but there was a gathering storm of treason baiters.
He knew he was right just as he knew the acrimonious and bitter fight it would take to prevail; but fight he would. The Crusade was not only an ideological belief he felt deeply, but he was firmly convinced that it was a necessity for world survival.
He must prevail.
The phone booth was by the side of the motel. Its interior light had long ago been smashed by vandals. A nearby street lamp cast enough illumination for Cory to dial.
“Operator, please connect me with the White House.”
“In Washington, D.C.?”
“Yes, Operator.” He briefly wondered what other White Houses there were.
There was a series of clicks before the operator’s computerlike voice returned. “The number and area code of the White House is 202—456—1414. Please make a note of the number and deposit two dollars and fifteen cents.”
Cory deposited the money.
“White House.” The switchboard voice was crisp and efficient.
“Let me speak to the President, please.”
“One moment, please.”
Another delay then a brisk male voice. “Ron Sawyer here. Can I help you?”
“President Crescatt, please.”
“Who is calling.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Can I have your name and number for a call back, sir?”
“It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Your name and number, please.”
Cory hung up. It was a damn fool thing even to have attempted. He walked back to the motel room and was halfway there when he broke into raucous laughter. The call had been an impulsive gesture done without forethought. It was obviously ludicrous. The President undoubtedly received a dozen crank calls a day. He imagined that the man named Sawyer was a Secret Service agent. The chances of making direct contact with the President were nil.
If he wasn’t wanted by the authorities, he could have called Senator Forrest. The Senator was an old friend of his father’s and had visited the house many times when Cory was younger. Out of nostalgia, the Senator might have arranged a short interview with Crescatt. That was impossible now. Cory was wanted by every police authority in the country.
There had to be a way.
He unlocked the motel-room door and entered its dim interior. He had left the bathroom light on, and it cast a single bright swatch across the center of the floor. He bent over Ginny. She had fallen into a deep sleep. Her breathing was regular, and when he put his hand on her forehead he felt a slightly cooler flush.
The fever had broken, and she was resting well. He felt relieved, switched on the television, and pulled the room’s single easy chair close to it. He turned the sound down and flipped the dial to catch a newscast to see if there was any mention of them.
An image swam into focus.
“This is station WKOC, Boston, and the show is State of the State. This is a weekly interview program concerned with participants in the week’s news. Our guest this evening is Elizabeth Crescatt, known to all who follow the First Family as Liz.”
The picture dissolved to a closeup of an attractive young woman whom Cory judged to be in her early twenties. She smiled into the camera. It was a warm and impish smile. Her deep blue eyes seemed to twinkle. Long blond hair was brushed to a sheen, down her back. She was the epitome of a corn-fed Midwestern girl. She appeared to be the kind of girl who was always a cheerleader at Big Ten football games.
Cory reached for the dial and was about to switch channels when their eyes seemed to meet. Liz Crescatt looked directly into the camera until the shot dissolved to a long shot of three newsmen at a long table in front of the President’s daughter.
“Tell us, Miss Crescatt, why did you choose to attend college in Boston instead of your native state?” The reporter’s Boston accent was obvious, as was the condescending smirk to the otherwise innocuous question.
Liz Crescatt smiled. “Well, I guess I just like Harvard men … Tufts men … BU and BC men, and …” Her features abruptly switched to a serious cast. “Commonwealth University, which I attend, has one of the most prestigious schools of foreign affairs in the country. Since my interests lie in that area, my choice was almost mandatory.”
The camera switched to the second interrogator. “Do you agree with your father’s so-called ‘Crusade,’ Miss Crescatt?”
“Of course I do.” Her reply was snapped at the newsman. “I wish eventually to raise children. I wish, someday, to hold the children of my children. If we do not have a working accommodation with the rest of the world, we are doomed.”
“But is it not true that members of your father’s party disagree violently with him?”
“And there are members of the opposition who back my father. This is not a partisan question. It is a question of world survival.”
Though questioning continued, it quickly turned to gossip-column material.
Did she agree that premarital sex was not immoral?
She agreed.
That comment would make the news wires, while her staunch defense of her father’s Crusade would not.
Did she see her father often?
Not as much as she liked, but they would have dinner together in a few days, when he arrived in Boston for a speech at Faneuil Hall.
Cory did not hear the remainder of the interview although the television set remained on. A concept slowly formed. It might be his only chance.
At ten, Agent Ron Sawyer was relieved from telephone duty in the small office near the White House switchboard. He handed his shift log sheets to his replacement and shook his head.
“It’s the usual. A couple of nuts, three kids, and a drunk. I checked two that we should follow. A couple of calls were disconnected, and I couldn’t get a number or trace.”
The other agent nodded and took the list. He waved Ron out of the office.
Ron Sawyer looked like the football player he had been. A modest college career and a year with a semipro team had capped his days of far-from-glory playing. He had applied for and been accepted into the Secret Service after a hitch as a junior officer in Army CID.
He found the work both dull and exciting. The hours of waiting, forcing himself to be alert, were tempered with the knowledge that he was close to the center of power in the country.
He had received a depressing new assignment that morning. The “powers that be” had given him a tour on the kiddie patrol—a dull month of duty in Boston, guarding the President’s daughter.
Early tomorrow he would catch a shuttle flight to New York and then another to Boston. By five tomorrow he would be fully ensconced, in charge of the well-being and safety of an impetuous young woman.
It was two days before Ginny was fully awake and her eyes were clear without the haze of a high fever. She smiled up at Cory. “If I don’t get something to eat, I am going to start with your forearm and proceed up the rest of your body.”
“Give me ten minutes. There’s a diner up the road I can walk to.”
“I’ll give you five.”
It actually took Cory fourteen minutes to return with the takeout order. The styrofoam plates were piled high with scrambled eggs, ham, toasted English, and a side order of pancakes. Cups of steaming coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice completed the order.
Ginny attacked the food. She balanced a plate on her lap and ate ravenously, without speaking. He sat on the other bed and watched her with a bemused look.
“I think breakfast is the best buy in America today.”
“Uh huh,” she mumbled through a bite of pancake.
“How would you like to go to Boston?”
She looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “Is it safe?”
“Probably not. But I think I have a pl
an.”
She continued eating, more slowly now that her initial burst of appetite had been appeased. “Tell me about it.”
“As soon as you feel well enough, we’ll buy a car.”
“We seem to do a lot of that lately.”
“Then, while you follow me, I’ll take James’s car to the Hartford-Springfield airport and dump it in the long-term parking lot. It may not be discovered for a week or more. When it is, we can only hope that they think we hopped a plane for somewhere.”
“I’m with you on that. Then we drive to Boston?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“I have to meet with the President.”
“President of what?”
“The United States. He’s going to be in Boston in a few days.”
“Okay,” she said, and drew the word out. “We go to Boston, talk to the Prez, and then hop a boat to Brazil and live happily ever after. Nothing to it.” She swung her legs out of bed and grimaced as her thighs touched the side. “When do we begin this crazy plan?”
“As soon as you’re up to it.”
“That’s nuts, Cory. You know that? They’re not going to let you within a hundred yards of the President without shooting you dead.”
“I know. That’s why the approach has to be through an intermediary.”
“I’ll buy that. Like who?”
“What do you know about the President’s daughter?”
“Liz Crescatt?”
“Yes. Have you read about her at all?”
“Sure. Hasn’t everyone? At one time or another she’s been on the cover of most of the women’s magazines.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Hey, wait a minute. There’s method behind your madness. Liz Crescatt goes to school in the Boston area.”
“Now you see it. She attends Commonwealth University, in Beantown.”
“Okay. But isn’t the President’s family guarded night and day by the Secret Service just so people like you don’t get near them?”
“I’m sure they are, but it’s going to be easier to get to Liz than it would be her father. Tell me what you know about her.”
“Well, she’s young and pretty, and I guess you could call her impulsive. Evidently not flaky, but sort of filled with hijinks, like a lot of girls her age. She’s supposed to worship her father and agree with him, but she’s got a very modern viewpoint of the new morality and things like that. That’s what the gossip columns say, anyway.”
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