Flowerbed of State

by Dorothy St. James

  We’d driven out here together. And with the rush to prepare the White House grounds for the Easter Egg Roll, we were the only two people working at the greenhouse facilities today.

  I dashed around a storage shed and stumbled into the parking lot just in time to watch the nondescript white government van peel down the long asphalt drive.

  “Lorenzo!” I bent over and grabbed my knees. He’d stranded me in the middle of an unfamiliar D.C. suburb. Alone.

  Don’t panic. I had my cell phone. Once I’d finished with the planters, I could call a cab . . . only, I had no way to pay the fare because the bank had canceled my credit card. And I rarely carried much more than fifteen dollars in my purse.

  Practicing the deep breathing exercises my therapist all those years ago had taught me, I returned to the greenhouse to fetch my cell phone. I could call Alyssa or Gordon or—I pulled the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket with a phone number hastily scrawled across it—I could even call Special Agent Jack Turner. He had guns.

  Nothing to worry about. I looked around my workbench for my backpack, where I kept my cell phone. It wasn’t there. I went back to the door and retraced my steps from the moment Lorenzo and I first arrived. No backpack.

  I must have left it in the van. I’d done that before when I didn’t want to get it dirty.

  Still, no reason to panic. I could use the phone in the small office near the gate.

  The greenhouse fan high on the far wall shut down. The vents slammed shut with a loud clang. At the same time the lights in the grow lamps went dark.

  I picked up my pace just a bit. If worse came to worse, I could always walk over to the nearby aquatic gardens and ask for their assistance.

  Being stranded in the greenhouses was truly more of a hassle than a danger.

  But as Grandmother Faye likes to tell me, the Calhoun backbone of high-grade steel has gotten the family through some pretty tough times, but it’s also led us into heaps of trouble. Trouble such as finding myself stuck at the greenhouses with no phone and no ride home.

  Luckily, the National Park Service staff kept an extra key to the small red clapboard office underneath a large potted persimmon tree. I retrieved it and unlocked the door. As in the greenhouse, the power was off.

  I picked up the phone’s receiver in the shadowy woodpaneled office and listened for the dial tone.

  Nothing.

  Both the power and the phone lines were down?

  More curious than worried, I headed back outside and studied the overhead wires as if I could find the problem and fix it. I also liked to open the hood and stare at the engine whenever my car broke down. It made no sense to do it, but it seemed to make me feel better.

  As expected, I didn’t see any obvious loose electrical wires dangling from the poles. But the wind had been gusting around like an uptight harridan all day. There was bound to be some damage as a result.

  So I squinted up at the lines one more time, just to make sure.

  That’s when I spotted something moving between two of the greenhouses. Fear prickled at the back of my neck. I slowly backed away from the greenhouses until my backside bumped up against the office building’s metal door.

  A few seconds passed. And then I saw it—him—again. A man. He darted between the next two greenhouses closer to me.

  Oh.

  Lordy.

  I wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’D read enough mystery novels to know that women who venture into dark basements in search of murderers or wander into shady forests where dangerous beasts have been hunting rarely survive to see the next chapter. I didn’t want to be that character.

  So instead of confronting the man I’d seen running around the facility and explaining to him that this is restricted government property, I raced inside the facility’s office and locked the metal door behind me.

  I checked three times to make sure the lock’s bolt had driven firmly into the doorframe before I sank to the floor.

  A quick glance around the small office had me noticing things I’d never noticed before about the building. For example, each wall had at least two rather large windows. Anyone could peek in and see me with my back pressed against the door hugging my knees to my chest.

  If I was spotted, the man could easily break one of these large windows to get to me.

  Not caring how stupid I might have looked—the man wandering the grounds out there could be anyone from a member of the maintenance crew to a tourist who’d strayed from the nearby aquatic gardens—I crawled on my hands and knees across the floor.

  I barely had a chance to squeeze underneath the administrative desk in the middle of the room when someone jiggled and pulled on the doorknob. The sound of scraping metal clanked in my ears. When that stopped, the door shuddered and gonged as someone pounded on it.

  Holding myself very still while my heart hammered in my throat, I closed my eyes.

  He couldn’t get to me. He couldn’t even know for certain that I’d taken refuge inside the building. If he peeped in any of the windows, he’d now find an empty room.

  The pounding stopped.

  In the silence that followed, I blew out the breath I’d been holding.

  Hopefully someone would notice I was missing and come searching. And soon. My right hip started to throb. I shifted around in the small space under the desk in a fruitless effort to find a comfortable spot. The wait for rescue could take hours. Who knew, I might even have to stay tucked in this tight position long into the night.

  Richard would think I’d stood him up . . . again.

  Across the room someone had placed on top of a filing cabinet three very healthy potted plants—a spider plant, a mother-in-law’s tongue, and a small African violet with a bud that was on the verge of breaking. The plants had clearly received constant care and attention, especially the African violet, which took more work than the other two plants for it to thrive. Maybe the plant’s caretaker would return this afternoon and find me.

  But at the same time I didn’t want an innocent bystander to accidentally bump into a murderer. I’d much rather handle this on my own, even if it meant waiting all night for the man outside to give up and leave.

  After what felt like many, many tense hours listening for the movements of the man outside, but hearing nothing other than an occasional scraping sound, I heard the deep roar of an engine and the crunch of tires as a vehicle slowly drove over some loose gravel on the asphalt pavement. The brakes whined just a bit. And then the engine fell silent.

  A car door creaked as it opened and then was slammed shut. The shush-shush of footsteps grew fainter and fainter. A short time later, a metal greenhouse door clanged.

  My ears strained in the sudden stillness. Who was out there? Had the man darting between the greenhouses left? Or was he stalking the person who’d arrived in the car?

  I needed to warn whoever was out there. I popped out from under the desk. But before I could make it to the door, a shout of pain rippled through the silence.

  Dammit, I was too late. My shaky fingers struggled with the lock on the door. It finally popped open. The White House van was parked in front of the office as if it and Lorenzo had never left. My backpack sat on the seat exactly where I’d put it. I grabbed the bag and, as I took off toward the greenhouses, dug out my cell phone and dialed.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Uh . . . uh . . .” I skidded to a stop outside the greenhouse where Lorenzo and I had been working. Lorenzo’s body sprawled across the greenhouse’s threshold, his legs spread at an unnatural angle outside the building’s green transparent walls, and the rest of his body was inside the building.

  “Oh God, I need an ambulance.” I recited the greenhouse facility’s address and, at the dispatcher’s urging, repeated it.

  “An ambulance is on the way,” the 911 operator assured me. “What’s going on?”

  “My coworker, Lorenzo Parisi, is uncon
scious.” I stepped over him to get inside the greenhouse. “He’s bleeding from a head wound.”

  “Do you know what happened?” the operator asked, her voice concerned but comforting, like a friend’s.

  “No, I didn’t see what happened.”

  A four-foot landscaping timber lay on the ground beside him. “I think someone hit him. You’d better send the police,” I said, amazed at how calm I sounded, when I felt anything but. “The attacker may still be around.”

  The operator quickly relayed that information to the dispatcher.

  “Is your coworker breathing? Do you see his chest rising?”

  He was lying on his stomach, and I didn’t want to move him in case his neck or back had been injured. So I crouched down beside him and put my face near his mouth. A faint but steady breath brushed my ear. “Yes, he’s breathing.”

  The operator relayed that information to the dispatcher as well.

  “Someone’s coming.” I could hear movements around outside. “I need to set down the phone.”

  “Someone’s coming? You mean the police?”

  “No, I didn’t hear a siren. Lordy, I think he’s returning. I’m setting the phone on the ground.”

  “Wait. Don’t—” the operator said. But I didn’t have time to discuss this with her. I set the phone next to Lorenzo and picked up the landscaping timber. It was heavy and took both hands to carry it.

  If that bastard thought he could get the upper hand on me, he shouldn’t have left the landscaping timber behind. I stepped over Lorenzo, which wasn’t easy since he was lying lengthwise across the door’s threshold. My balance faltered when through the door’s green-tinted Plexiglas, which made everyone look distorted and fuzzy, I saw the figure of a man.

  With a battle yell, I tossed aside the door and swung the heavy landscaping timber.

  The wood connected with the man’s middle with a satisfying thunk. He stumbled back a step, teetered, and then landed on his backside.

  “Don’t move,” I warned, poised to hit him again.

  The man on the ground held up a hand. “Remind me to stop charging to your rescue,” he wheezed. “It’s too damn dangerous.”

  “Turner? How did you—” I dropped the timber.

  It landed on his foot.

  THE U.S. PARK SERVICE POLICE, D.C. POLICE, AND EMS all came screaming into the facility at just about the same time. I jogged over to the parking lot and directed them to where both Lorenzo and Turner had fallen.

  By the time I returned with a pair of EMTs following in my wake, Turner had managed to pull himself back to his feet. Hugging an arm to his ribs, he limped over to check on Lorenzo, who’d rolled himself over and was clutching his head and groaning.

  The pair of emergency medical technicians dressed in dark blue uniforms took charge, while I gave the police officers the details of what had happened. “I can’t imagine why someone would follow us here,” I told the officers. “I don’t see how it can be connected, but . . .” In truth, I didn’t want to connect this attack with Pauline’s murder, but what other choice did I have? “I’m pretty sure the man who came after me here is the same man who killed Pauline Bonde in Lafayette Square. It must be.”

  “I agree,” Turner said. He limped over and identified himself to the officers.

  None of the D.C. police officers looked happy about the revelation. One of them swore and then radioed for Detective Hernandez to be called to the scene.

  While the EMTs focused on Turner and Lorenzo, the officers fanned out and began a search of the area. They were joined by more officers. Police cars, marked and unmarked, seemed to keep coming, taking up every available space in the facility’s small parking lot and overflowing onto the median beside the greenhouse’s long driveway.

  It would only be a matter of time before news vans arrived packed with curious reporters and persistent cameramen.

  With so much activity going on, I felt like a housecat left out in a rainstorm. I didn’t know where to go.

  The EMTs had moved Lorenzo onto a stretcher. The front of his shirt was splotched with blood. His once crisply pressed trousers now had a rip in the leg and several dirt stains. And his dark brown hair, which stood straight up in several places, was matted with clotted blood.

  His olive skin tone had paled several shades and had a green tinge. His eyes were closed, but his brows furrowed as if he was lost in a cloud of pain.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I whispered to the EMT standing closest to me. I thought I’d lowered my voice enough that Lorenzo wouldn’t hear me. But in response to my question, Lorenzo’s eyes snapped open.

  “Of course I’m going to be okay.” His tone was sharp as ever, but there was no mistaking the raspy sound of pain in his voice. “Did they catch the guy who did this?”

  “No, they’re searching the area. Did you see him?”

  Lorenzo closed his eyes and turned his head away from me.

  “We’ve got the bleeding under control, but he’s going to need stitches and an MRI.” The EMT bent over Lorenzo and tightened a strap on the stretcher.

  “I want to come along. Do you mind if I ride in the ambulance?” I wanted to hear what Lorenzo had seen or heard. Together, we might be able to figure out who attacked us, if it was indeed the same guy. I started to follow behind the EMTs as they carefully wheeled the stretcher to the ambulance.

  “Wait.” Turner caught my arm. “You’re needed here.”

  “But I—”

  “Hernandez and Cooper are already on their way. They’ll want you to show them what happened. I’d like to hear what happened, too.”

  Staying behind while the ambulance rushed Lorenzo to the hospital didn’t seem right. I now understood why Gordon had acted so upset the other day. I was on the verge of turning into a leaky watering pot.

  I needed to let Gordon know what was going on. I found my phone on the ground where I’d dropped it. I dialed Gordon’s number and gently explained the situation.

  Gordon already knew. Ambrose had told him. How Ambrose knew, I had no clue. But Gordon assured me he was already heading over to the hospital to personally make sure Lorenzo received the best possible care.

  After hanging up, I dialed the number for Rosebrook, the antebellum Charleston home where my two aunts and grandmother lived. I wanted to assure them that I was safe . . . and to be honest, I wanted to hear their voices.

  Before I could type in the last number, Turner put his hand on my phone and snapped it closed.

  “You can make your phone calls later,” he said. “You need to tell me exactly what you did this morning, everyone you talked to, everyone who saw you. Even if it seems harmless, apparently you did something today to get this guy worked up enough to come after you.”

  “I resent that. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” Turner huffed and then grabbed his ribs. “Dammit, that hurt.” Breathing short shallow breaths, he continued more calmly. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “How did you get on the scene so quickly?” I demanded. “How did you know Lorenzo and I were in danger?”

  “The facility’s security system automatically sends an alert to the U.S. Park Police when there’s a disruption to the power. It’s a red flag that there’s a problem. Whenever something like that happens, they send an officer out to check on things.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “I already told you CAT would be keeping an eye on you.” His gaze hardened. “I wasn’t kidding.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could thank me.”

  “I’m not sure I’m happy to know that my every move is being watched.”

  “You don’t like being watched by the Secret Service, but you’re okay with being stalked by a killer?”

  I shrugged.

  “You could at least apologize for bruising my ribs.”

  “I am sorry for that and for dropping that board on you
r foot.”

  The second EMT returned. “Jack, those injuries need to be looked at. You need to go to the hospital.” He seemed to know Turner. I wondered how. “Your ribs need to be x-rayed. And your foot is probably sprained. It might even be broken.”

  “No. I’m not leaving.”

  “Be reasonable. There’s enough police here to protect her and then some.” The EMT gestured toward the parking lot filled with cop cars. “They don’t need you.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  The EMT sighed and thrust a clipboard at Turner. “Then sign this form.”

  Turner quickly scribbled his name at the bottom of the sheet and handed it back.

  “Is he a friend of yours?” I asked after the EMT stormed off.

  “No. He’s my younger brother.”

  “Really? You have a brother?”

  “What? You think I was hatched out of a pod?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I think so. You know, I am sorry for hitting you and dropping that board on your foot. Are you sure you don’t want to go with them? I could go, too.” I still wanted to hear Lorenzo’s version of what had happened.

  “This is nothing compared to the pepper spray.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment scorched my cheeks. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have acted—”

  “However wrongly, you thought you were protecting yourself,” Turner said rather tersely. He limped over to a bench in the shade and, wincing, started to sit.

  “Dammit, Jack, what the hell happened to you this time?” The silver-haired Special Agent in Charge Mike Thatch grumbled as he hurried toward us. I could tell by the fire in his eyes that there was going to be hell to pay.

  If Turner got his way, I was sure I’d be the one making those payments.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LIKE a good soldier, Turner shot up from the bench to stand straight and tall in front of his boss. He slowly lowered his hand from his ribs.

  “Nothing happened to me, sir,” I was surprised to hear him say. I’d expected him to present a blistering report of how I’d attacked him again.