by Peg Herring
“You’d sue someone for telling the truth about you? That’s priceless.”
One of Buckram’s brows rose. “I bet Delacroix put you up to this. I gotta tell you, he’s a nut case. I call him Nutty Delacroix, because he makes stuff up.”
“We don’t deal with political rivals,” Robin said to dispel his suspicion. “Too subjective. What we did notice was that you were all for a veterans’ center six months ago. Then suddenly you were against it. How did that happen?”
“I’m friends with the head of Veterans’ Affairs. He told me we don’t need another center in Virginia.”
“Are you saying the Secretary of the VA doesn’t want this center? He said that to you directly?”
Buckram’s lip jutted. “In a private conversation.”
“Where? When?”
The man’s his head shook so hard the chair wobbled. “That doesn’t matter.”
“I want to know when you spoke to the head of Veterans’ Affairs.”
There was a pause. “In the capitol. We were waiting for an elevator.”
“Right after you both commented on the weather?”
“We had a really good talk. It wasn’t very long, but I grasp new information very easily. That’s when I changed my mind about the bill, because I listen and I decide with my brain. I have a very sharp mind.”
Is the guy delusional or has he just lied so often he can’t stop?
“Let’s talk about your problem with cocaine.”
His chin rose. “I don’t use drugs.”
She navigated to the video she’d taken earlier. “Then what’s going on here?”
Peering at the tiny screen, Buckram frowned. “That woman asked for a handout, and I gave her a few bucks.” He made an attempt at a pious expression. “I’m a Christian person. I believe in the Bible and the New Testament. Both of them.”
“One of our people is interviewing her right this minute.” If you can lie, Bubba, so can I.
“I don’t know what she’ll say. People tell lies about me all the time.”
Reaching into his pocket, Robin found the bag he’d purchased and held it in front of his nose. “You use cocaine, Senator. A lot of it.”
Buckram sniffed. “It’s hard, what I do. Sometimes I need help to get through the day, but I’m no druggie.”
“What would your constituents think about the ‘help’ you need to do your job?”
Buckram fought his way back to denial. “Nobody will believe you. People like me. They call me up all the time and they’re telling me I’m a good person. The voters know how much I—”
In an action so sudden it surprised even her, Robin tore a strip of duct tape from the roll with an abrupt rip and slapped it over Buckram’s mouth. “Stop spewing lies, Senator, and for once listen to the truth.”
Buckram’s eyes widened, and he roared behind his duct-tape gag. He half-rose from the chair, apparently ready to attack Robin, but Cam reached out a hand and set him back down. For a few seconds Buckram struggled to rise, but Cam held on. Looking into Buckram’s eyes, Robin realized he wasn’t trying to attack her. He was desperate to avoid facing the truth. Though he finally gave up his efforts to move away, he refused to look at Robin, staring at the floor while she read his crimes from the list Chris had compiled. It was a combination of suspicions, accusations, and hints gleaned from the media, public records, and documents covering official investigations into Buckram’s conduct. Not one item was provable in a court of law, but the list was impressive.
As Robin read, Buckram’s head drooped almost to his chest. For years he’d prevailed by bragging, boasting, and shouting down opponents. Forcing him to listen—though it took duct tape to do it— made him face what he had become. When she came to the last item, the email from Blume offering the bribe to vote against the veterans’ center, she saw a hint of shame in the senator’s eyes.
How long will it last? A lifetime of avoiding self-examination wasn’t likely to be cured in one evening. For the moment, Buckram accepted his guilt, so they had to move quickly. Robin explained the requirements for his release and their silence. “Delacroix’s bill will be sent from committee and given a chance,” she ordered. “You can vote your so-called conscience when the time comes, but don’t stand in the way of a fair hearing.”
He nodded numbly, and she went on. “You will not take bribes from now on, from Blume or anyone else. Live within your means, and get into drug rehab—anonymously if you like, but do it. We will be watching.” Taking Buckram’s phone from her pocket she finished, “Now about the fee you’re going to pay for our silence.”
***
Once the situation was clear to him, the senator called one of his employees and directed him to bring the payment to a nearby rest area. When a young Asian man dropped the bag of money in a trash can outside the men’s room, Robin had Buckram instruct him to get back into the car, turn it toward the exit, and wait. She retrieved the bag and checked to assure that the money was there. When she signaled, Cam let the senator go, and he hurried to the car and got in the passenger side.
As the senator and his man drove away, Robin became aware that Cam was standing behind her, very close. She looked down to find his hands extended around her like a personal force field.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m ready to catch you when you faint.”
Robin took stock: heart rate, okay; lungs, functioning. “Aside from a need to visit the rest room, I’m good.”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars.” Cameron counted it as they headed for the state line. “We did it!”
Robin checked the rearview mirror for the twentieth time. “Think he’ll do what we said?”
“He has to, or we’ll send the stuff to the newspapers. That was smart, telling him we’d be watching him.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” she admitted. “I guess people like Buckram need somebody like us standing over them in order to straighten up and act like decent human beings.”
Cam gave her a look. “Sounds like we might do this again.”
Robin sighed. “I think I like kidnapping bad guys.”
Chapter Ten
“You want me to pretend you’re living here?” Robin’s best friend spoke over measured chops as she cut up vegetables. Already soup stock bubbled on the stove, sending mouth-watering smells into the air.
Robin had arrived in Green Bay with a small bag of essentials and a plan to stay ahead of Wyman or anyone else who might have been looking for her. Now she had to decide how much to tell Shelly about what she’d done and what she intended to do. Involving her best friend in her crimes was wrong, so she figured the less Shelly knew, the better it would be for her if everything went sour.
“I want my mail to come here,” Robin told her. “If anyone asks, I’m doing real estate appraisals, so I have to travel a lot.”
“Why do you need to pretend to be in Green Bay when you aren’t?”
“Honestly, Shel, it’s better if you don’t know.”
Shelly folded her arms. “Does this have anything to do with the beautiful hunk who got off the plane with you and is now staying at the Holiday Inn?”
Robin gave the easy answer. “He’s part of it, yes.”
“I knew it!” Shelly gave her an enthusiastic hug. “Go wherever you need to, but I want a phone call every week. Whatever you and he are up to, someone needs to keep track of where you are.”
You won’t really know, Robin thought, but it’s nice that you care.
The rest of Robin’s visit was spent working out the details. Most of her things had been stored in the unit outside Cedar, but she’d left several boxes at the FedEx store. Once Shelly agreed to her proposal, Robin called and had them overnighted to Green Bay.
Having sworn off men after her divorce, Shelly now lived alone in a three-bedroom house. When the boxes arrived, Robin unpacked them in the guest room, taking what she would need for a couple of weeks on the road and leaving the rest to make it appear Shelly had a
roommate.
Next they drove to a mall where Robin bought two cell phones, a tablet, and a laptop computer. When she paid with cash, Shelly’s brows twitched, but she didn’t say anything. Robin was satisfied when she tried the phone and the ID came up green bay wisconsin.
That night she called her brother to tell him she was moving in with Shelly until she could figure things out. Chris asked the questions she’d expected, but overall he sounded relieved. Robin made a date for lunch, promising to tell him all about the move.
After three days, Robin Parsons split into two people. Imaginary Robin stayed on in Shelly’s guest room. Real Robin left Wisconsin, traveling as Lynn Taylor, landscape photographer. Ms. Taylor traveled with her husband Richard, who was a metal artist. They carried little with them in the secondhand blue RAV4 they’d purchased, planning to buy what they needed along the way.
Cam had enjoyed his first time alone in a hotel, and he told Robin all the wonders he’d experienced, like room service and “really nice ladies” who made his bed. When they merged onto 94 South he asked, “Where are we going?”
“Indianapolis,” Robin replied. “We’re going to find out who our next target is.”
Used to each other’s company, they didn’t talk much on the drive. Robin stopped at places Cam liked for meals, which meant fast food. He didn’t like waiting to be served, and he liked the fact that food came packaged separately. He couldn’t abide it when segments of a meal ran together on his plate. Robin missed the finer side of dining and disliked the monotonous offerings of such places, but she told herself she could visit sit-down restaurants by herself once they were settled somewhere.
As long as it isn’t in a holding cell while we await our trial.
Em had advised staying in small, privately owned motels in order to avoid national data bases. Some of them accepted cash in payment, which left even less of a trail. When they stopped at the Woods Motel west of Indy, however, their stay required a credit card. “Been burned a few times,” the owner said.
Cam carried their overnight bags down the slightly musty-smelling hallway. They’d taken one room, and Robin was relieved to see there were double beds. Though she’d become used to having her former neighbor close by, sharing a bed was beyond what she was willing to endure for the sake of their cover.
Cam didn’t seem concerned. “Is there Wi-Fi?”
“The sign said there was.”
Going to the ancient wooden desk, he set the new computer on it and opened the case. The laptop hummed as it booted, and Cam located the signal, logged in, and dropped into his techno-world. He’d quickly become bored with “shrink-wrapped games,” which offer limited options for competition, but Robin explained that his online identities might lead Thomas Wyman to them. Somewhat reluctantly, Cam had given up his impressive history of high-scoring games and begun creating new avatars and building different worlds.
As the laptop flickered and phaser fire sounded, Robin staked her claim to the bed on the far side of the room and began setting out her things. To support their cover story, she’d bought a Pentax camera, and she practiced with it a little, taking shots of the room and the view out their window, a barren field with a few abandoned lawn chairs for interest. In her only year of college, she’d taken a couple of classes in photography and one in computer graphics, so she possessed enough surface knowledge to make her “I’m an artist” lie believable.
Uploading the pictures, she examined them on the screen of her tablet. They weren’t great art, but she liked the angles she’d chosen, which emphasized the room’s smallness and the field’s wasted expanse. Maybe she’d take online courses and learn how to set up better shots.
Yeah, right. Between kidnappings and running from the cops, I’ll have lots of time for snapping pictures.
***
The next day Robin left Cam immersed in Lightning War and drove into Indianapolis to meet Chris. Spring was not as far along here as in Georgia and Virginia, so she wore a sweater under her light jacket for extra warmth. She and her brother had agreed to meet for lunch at an Irish pub near Monument Circle. Having downloaded a parking app before leaving the motel, she easily found the spot she’d reserved for the car and walked toward the State Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, a 284-foot limestone obelisk visible for some distance in downtown Indy. As she approached the street that encircled the monument, a carriage passed, the horses’ hooves clopping noisily on the pavement. Inside rode a young woman in a huge white dress, surrounded by attendants arrayed in shades of blue. Robin smiled as the bride waved enthusiastically to the people on the street who weren’t fortunate enough to be getting married on this cool but sunny spring day.
Marriage was a topic she didn’t often contemplate. Though Chris and Annika were happy, Shelly had found only heartache. Thoughts of marriage made Robin remember her mother, cowed by her husband’s ugly temper and tentative in everything she did. If that was what it took for a woman to have a husband, Robin thought she’d pass. If I ever find a prince, he’d better be a charming one. So far, no man she’d met qualified.
The pub was a block from the downtown circle. Entering, she saw Chris at a table to one side. “Hey, Sissy!” he called loudly enough to make everyone in the place turn to look at her. Robin shook her fist at her brother, bowed to the lunchtime crowd, and bumped her way through the customers to join him at the table.
First she asked about Annika and when she’d be finished with her deployment. Then they moved on to the subject of the dogs, who were more like children to the couple than pets. Chris went on for some time about their antics, and Robin laughed to hear him tell about the smaller dog, Bo, dominating the larger one, Terra, through sheer nerve.
When the conversation fell into a brief lull, she took a breath. Time to get down to business. “What are you working on now?”
He examined his hands. “A couple of things, actually.”
“Any interesting bad guys?”
Tilting his head to one side, he said, “Rumor says a certain senator has gone into rehab.”
“Huh,” she said blankly as the waiter set a basket of peanuts between them. “Must have hit rock bottom.”
“I got an interesting email from Jessica Quern, thanking me for my help.” Chris met her gaze. “Are you responsible for Buckram’s change of heart, Rob?”
She felt a thrill of pride. “Maybe.”
“What did you do?”
Expelling air out her nose, she tried to decide how much to tell. “Let’s just say I’ve found a way to apply pressure to people who misuse positions of trust.”
“People, as in more than one person?”
She held up two fingers. “Nobody’s been hurt. We—I give them a chance to straighten out their lives and incentive to do it.”
“Incentive.”
“That’s all you need to know, Chris. Anything more would put you in a bad position.”
“I see.” He’d never looked so serious. “What if I chose to be in that position?”
Their waiter returned, and Chris ordered the corned beef sandwich. Robin asked for a salad, and they each chose a different craft beer so they could exchange tastings. All the time she was thinking. Would her Jarhead brother agree with what she was doing, or would he demand she stop? Once the waiter left, she lowered her voice and said, “You’ve been working for two years to stop abuses in the system. You’ve had some success, but there are people you can’t get to. We—I mean, I can.”
Chris shook his head. “You’ve stumbled twice on the we/I thing, so I know you’re not working alone.”
“Okay. I have friends with similar goals. We work together.”
He lightened a question with a childhood rhyme. “Are your friends big and tough and hard to bluff?”
She thought about that. Cam was strong. Though not big, Em was certainly strong-minded. “One’s ex-FBI and the other is a martial arts expert.” Cam has to be learning something from all those video games.
Their beers arrived,
and they compared, deciding they liked Robin’s Rebel Red better than the Pale Ale Chris had chosen. Once that was established, she got back to the point. “We have a lawyer on call too.”
Chris took a drink. “If you’re messing with corrupt people, Rob, you’re asking for trouble.”
“We’re all willing to fight for this.” Possibly not able, but certainly willing.
“I’d like to help,” he said after a moment, “but I don’t suppose I can do much from this chair.”
She grinned, relieved to be past the stage where he’d try ordering her to give it up. “But you can, Chris. You’ve worked hard to develop sources, so you know who breaks the law and how they get away with it. Give us their names and information about what crimes you suspect them of, and we’ll go after them.”
The manager came by with the inevitable question: “Is everything tasting good?” Chris was thinking so hard he seemed unaware of the interruption, but Robin answered for both of them, and the man moved off.
“What do you say?” she prompted. “Do you have any cheaters on your radar?”
Chris chuckled grimly. “That list is endless. It’s not a war you’ll ever win.”
“So we strike where we can.” She leaned toward him. “I know you hated what Mark used to make us do. This could take away a little of the shame, a little of the guilt. I need to do it, and I think you do too.”
“You can’t go off like some comic book hero and fix the world, Rob. It could get you in trouble with the law for sure, and it might even get you killed.”
“Don’t you think we haven’t talked about it for hours and hours, Chris? We know what we’re doing, and we’re going to do it. The question is are we going to do it with or without you.”
He looked at her for a long time before he spoke again. “There’s this judge who abuses her position.”
Robin laid her hands on the cool, smooth table surface. “Tell me about it.”
“Her name is Beverly Comdon, she’s a canned vegetable heiress from Louisiana, and she’s creepy.”
