Exclusive

by Sandra Brown

  “It’s the truth,” Howie averred. “I tried to pry some information out of her, but she said she didn’t want to elaborate until she had something concrete to back up her hunch.”

  “You’re her immediate supervisor, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you have no idea what story your reporter is pursuing?”

  Howie felt himself weakening, so he immediately turned defensive. “Well, you gotta understand my philosophy of personnel management, which is to let my subordinates take some initiative. When a reporter thinks he’s on to a hot story, I cut him some slack. But it’s understood that in exchange for my generosity, I expect a damn good piece in return.”

  Jenkins wasn’t impressed. He practically stepped on Howie’s last few words. “But Ms. Travis is away this week?”

  “That’s right. She left, let’s see, day before yesterday. Said she’d probably be out the rest of the week.”

  One of the agents asked, “Where’d she go?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  The agents exchanged a meaningful glance. Howie wished he knew what that meaning was.

  “Is the station covering her expenses?” This from Jenkins, whose perpetual scowl had deepened during the last few minutes.

  “Only if she produces a story.” He explained the deal he’d struck with Barrie. “I didn’t want her squandering company funds on a wild goose chase.” That ought to win him some points.

  “What about her politics?”

  Howie turned his head to the agent at the window. “Politics?”

  “Her political inclinations. Does she generally lean to the left or the right?”

  Howie thought for a moment. “I guess you’d say she’s liberal. You know, she’s always taking up for the underdog. Women, fags, foreigners, people like that. She voted for President Merritt.” He smiled all around at the unsmiling group. “The President sent her flowers recently. She got a kick over that.”

  No comment on that from either agent. The one in the chair asked, “Is Ms. Travis a member of any organizations? Any activist groups, religious sects, or cults?”

  “Yeah,” Howie said, nodding enthusiastically. “She’s a Methodist.”

  One of the agents rolled his eyes. The other said, “You wouldn’t call her a religious fanatic?”

  “No. She’s not opposed to letting fly with a four-letter word, or anything like that.”

  “Does she sympathize with any particular splinter group or radical organization?”

  “Not that I know of. But she’s participated in some protests.”

  “Against what?”

  “Banning books. Destroying the rain forest. Eating porpoises instead of tuna fish. Stuff like that.”

  “Nothing subversive?”

  “No.”

  “What about her personal life?”

  “She doesn’t talk about it much.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Nobody regular.”

  “Roommate?”

  “She lives alone.”

  “Close friends?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never heard her mention any. She’s one of those women who’s, you know, married to her career.”

  “What about her parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “Do you know their names? Where they lived?”

  “Sorry. They died before she started working here.”

  In his eagerness to appear important and be informative, Howie had almost forgotten that they were discussing Barrie and not a hardened criminal. He experienced a twinge of conscience. Barrie could be a pain in the butt, but he felt bad about discussing her so freely with feds.

  “Is she in trouble? Has she done something wrong?”

  “Just a routine check.” The seated agent came to his feet. “She’s called routinely to inquire after the First Lady’s health, showing what appears to be an inordinate amount of interest in Mrs. Merritt and her whereabouts.”

  Howie relaxed. “Oh, hell, she’s calling as a friend. They got pretty close when Barrie interviewed her.”

  The second agent said, “The White House tends to get suspicious when someone starts asking nosy questions about the President or members of his family.”

  The pair thanked Jenkins and Howie for their time and left.

  Howie didn’t make as clean a getaway. Jenkins’s glower was as good as shackles around his ankles. “Do you know something you’re not telling?” he demanded.

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s her hot story?”

  “Just like I told them, Mr. Jenkins, I swear to God I don’t know. But Barrie said it would make chicken feed of Watergate.”

  “So it is political?”

  “She didn’t say. Just that it was big.”

  Jenkins aimed an imperative index finger at him. “I won’t have some radical lunatic working at my TV station.”

  “Barrie’s not a lunatic, sir. She’s a good reporter. You told her so yourself in your memo.”

  “I never sent her any memo. What the fuck’re you talking about, Fripp?”

  * * *

  “George?”

  Vanessa wasn’t sure she’d made herself heard, but the doctor glanced down at her and smiled. “Glad to see you awake. How’re you feeling?”

  “Not good.” She was nauseated, and it was difficult to focus on his multiple, wavering images. She vaguely remembered a nasty scene. George had given her a shot to sedate her. It seemed like a very long time ago. “What’s wrong with me? Where’s David?”

  “The President and I agreed that you needed absolute bed rest, so we moved you here.” He patted her arm, but she probably wouldn’t have felt his touch if she hadn’t been looking at her hand, where an IV needle was dripping a clear solution into her veins.

  Motion on the other side of the bed drew her attention. A nurse was smiling down at her. “I’m Jayne Gaston,” she said. She was fifty-five or thereabouts, with a wide, pleasant face and short salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Mrs. Gaston’s been staying with you round the clock,” George said. “She’s taking excellent care of you, and so far you’ve been an ideal patient.”

  Vanessa was confused and disoriented. The room looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it before. “Why have I got an IV?”

  “To ensure that you don’t dehydrate,” the doctor explained. “You couldn’t keep down any liquids.”

  The nurse was taking her blood pressure.

  “Am I sick?” she asked, suddenly seized by panic. What weren’t they telling her? Had she been in an accident and lost a limb? Did she have terminal cancer? Had she been shot?

  Those frightening possibilities were instantly replaced by the terrifying reality—David had put her here.

  “Where’s David? I want to talk to him.”

  “The President is out on the West Coast today,” George told her, pleasant smile in place. “But I believe he’s returning tonight. Maybe you can talk to him later.”

  “Why do I need a nurse? Am I dying?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Merritt. Lie back,” George said, pressing her shoulder gently when she tried to sit up. He looked across at Jayne Gaston. “We’d better bring her down some more.”

  “But, Dr. Allan—”

  “Please, Mrs. Gaston.”

  “Certainly, Doctor.” She left the room.

  “Where’s my father?” Vanessa asked, her voice sounding distant and feeble even to her own ears. “I want to see Daddy. Call him. Tell him to come get me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Vanessa. Not without getting David’s approval first.”

  The nurse returned with a syringe. She gave Vanessa an injection in her thigh.

  “You’ll get better faster if you relax and let us take care of you,” George told her gently.

  “What’s wrong with me? Has the baby come yet?”

  Jayne Gaston looked across to Dr. Allan. “Poor thing. She thinks she’s still pregnant.” />
  George nodded grimly.

  “My baby,” Vanessa sobbed. “Have you got my baby?”

  “Let’s leave so she’ll rest now.”

  “No, please,” Vanessa rasped. “Don’t leave me. You all hate me. I know you do. What aren’t you telling me? My baby’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Dr. Allan signaled the nurse to follow him from the room. Mrs. Gaston quietly closed the door behind them.

  Vanessa struggled to remember something. It was important, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. She had to think, had to remember. There was something she should remember. What was it?

  Then a moan spiraled up from deep within her. She remembered the lifeless body she’d lifted from the crib. She heard echoes of her own screams, exactly as they’d reverberated down the hallways of the White House that night.

  “My baby,” she sobbed. “My baby. Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  Rather than debilitate her, the anguish galvanized her. She was unclear as to her goal, but she knew that she couldn’t lie here helplessly any longer. Unaware of the pain, she ripped off the tape securing the IV needle to the back of her hand. Once it was out of the way, she swallowed her nausea and pulled the small catheter from her vein.

  When she tried to sit up, she felt as if an anvil were on her chest, anchoring her to the bed. Calling upon every ounce of reserve strength she had, she finally willed herself into a sitting position. The room tilted. The trees she saw through the window appeared to be growing out of the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. She retched, but dryly.

  Her brain seemed incapable of telegraphing messages to her legs. It took her five minutes and an incredible amount of effort to drag them over the side of the bed. Then her feet dangled above the floor while she staved off nausea and incessant waves of dizziness. Eventually she worked up enough courage and stamina to slide down the edge of the mattress and place her feet on the floor.

  Her legs didn’t support her. She collapsed in a heap beside the bed, then lay there sobbing, breathing heavily, too weak to stand, too weak even to call out for help. She wished for death.

  No. She’d be damned if she would make it that easy for them.

  Determined, she inched along the floor like a crude life form, using a hand, a foot, a shoulder, a heel like a pseudopod, propelling her forward in minute increments.

  When she finally reached the door, she was bathed in sweat. Her hair and nightgown were plastered to her skin. She curled into the fetal position and rested, shivering now as her perspiration cooled.

  At last, she raised her head and looked up at the doorknob. It appeared as unreachable as the moon. She tried pounding on the door, but her hands made only weak slaps against it. So she pressed her palms against the cool wood and crawled up the door, straining the muscles of her arms and chest, until she could get one leg beneath her, then the other, until she was on her knees.

  Then she seized the doorknob with both hands and managed to turn it, at the same time slumping against the door. It burst open, and she fell out into the hallway, landing hard on her shoulder and sending rockets of pain down her arm.

  “Mrs. Merritt! Oh, my God! Dr. Allan!”

  Shouting voices. Running footsteps. Hands cupping her armpits, lifting her.

  Limp, spent, she swayed between two Secret Service agents as they carried her back to the bed.

  George Allan elbowed the agents aside. “Thanks, gentlemen.”

  “Should I call for an ambulance, Dr. Allan?” one of them asked.

  “That won’t be necessary.” He listened to her heart through a stethoscope. “Mrs. Gaston, will you get another IV line going, please?”

  The other agent asked if he should call the President or Mr. Martin. The doctor said he would make the call himself as soon as Mrs. Merritt was stabilized. The two agents withdrew.

  “Let’s put some restraints on her,” George told the nurse. “Arms and legs.”

  “Isn’t that excessive?”

  “We can’t risk her getting out of bed and falling again, Mrs. Gaston.”

  “I’d be happy to assist her if she wants to get up, Dr. Allan. In fact, it might do her good to get out of bed. I think she’s overly sedated.”

  “I appreciate your input,” George said, his tone belying his words, “but I know what’s best for my patient. Please follow my orders, which are also those of the President of the United States. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes, Dr. Allan.”

  Vanessa’s eyes were closed, but she had followed most of their conversation, although some of the words were difficult to assign meanings to. Why couldn’t she get up if she wanted?

  Where was David?

  Where was her father?

  Where was she?

  Hell, maybe.

  No, hell for sure.

  * * *

  “Where?”

  “Wyoming.”

  “Shit!”

  Having delivered his bad news to the President, Spence fell silent as he jogged along beside him. The verbal rampage that followed was colorful and then some. Merritt resorted to the language he’d learned from his father, who had worked in Biloxi’s shipyard.

  Merritt’s roots had been exposed during his first campaign for a congressional seat. By the time he ran for President, it was well known by the voting public that he hadn’t lived a life of wealth and privilege. His mother had worked as a cook for the public school system, but the dual-income family had rarely been solvent. They had never owned a home. David Merritt’s childhood had been spent in a rented unit in a second-rate trailer park.

  Rather than try to hide his humble beginnings, the campaign committee had touted him as the embodiment of the American dream. He was the twenty-first century’s Abraham Lincoln. He’d overcome incredible odds to hold the highest office in the world. Senator Armbruster’s tutelage had been of tremendous help, but it was Merritt’s own intelligence and determination that had brought him to Armbruster’s attention in the first place.

  What wasn’t publicized was the ignobility of young Merritt’s poverty. It wasn’t commonly known that both his parents had been alcoholics. He had been more or less responsible for himself long before his parents had conveniently drunk themselves to death. The one and only time he had allowed himself to become intoxicated was the day he buried his father. He got drunk to celebrate his freedom from two people he had disdained and despised for as long as he could remember.

  Spence glanced at the President now.

  As usual, his outburst hadn’t lasted long. He’d fallen silent except for his aerobic breathing. Spence had chosen this time to break the disturbing news because it was a matter of personal importance and required complete privacy. On the jogging path it was unlikely that they could be overheard even by the Secret Service agents who tagged along a few yards behind. They knew better than to get too close when the President was in conversation with Spence. Everything between them was strictly classified.

  “How do you know Barrie Travis went to Wyoming?” the President huffed.

  “She hasn’t been home in two days. Her dog’s boarded at a kennel.”

  “I didn’t ask if she was out of town,” Merritt snapped. “I asked how you know she went to Wyoming.”

  Spence didn’t let the dressing-down ruffle him. He considered temper a weakness, even in presidents—especially in presidents. “While you were in California, I talked to that bozo she works with.” He told Merritt about meeting Howie Fripp in a neighborhood bar. “The guy’s a moron. But even so, I don’t think he knows where Travis went, because he gave two FBI agents the same story yesterday morning at the TV station. They said his fear stunk. If he’d known something, he would have told.”

  “Was her house searched?”

  “Officially, no,” Spence said. “We have no warrant or viable reason to obtain one.”

  “What about unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, it was gone over by the best man in the business,” Spence reported with a cold grin. “It looked to h
im like she was trying to cover her tracks. He didn’t find a single note, or scrap of paper, or receipt, anything to indicate that she was leaving or why she was going. What he did find were several overdue books from the library, all relating to women’s psychological disorders and SIDS.”

  Merritt wiped his perspiring forehead. “She’s still on it.”

  “That’s my guess. We located her car in a parking lot at National Airport, then started going through the passenger logs of all flights out of there over the last several days. She didn’t travel under her own name, and there were no credit card charges on any of her accounts.”

  The President stopped running. Spence stopped, too. The Secret Service agents halted but kept their distance.

  “She’s being awfully paranoid,” Merritt said.

  “Right. When her name didn’t appear on any of the logs, we checked airline agents until we found the one who sold her the ticket. Travis was traveling under an alias and paid for her ticket to Jackson Hole with cash. The airline employee identified her from a picture.”

  “She went to see Gray.”

  “She went to see Gray.” Spence’s expression was as somber as the President’s. “At least that’s what we must assume.”

  Merritt stared into space, thinking it over. “He hates reporters. I don’t think he would talk to her.”

  “Are you willing to take that chance?”

  “Damn.” Merritt flicked a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose. “What if we’re too late? If she’s talked to Gray, if he’s told her anything—”

  “Then we have a potential problem,” Spence said.

  “Prior to an election year, we can’t afford even a ‘potential’ problem.”

  “I agree.” Spence locked gazes with Merritt. “I think we have to guarantee this reporter’s silence.”

  The President nodded, then resumed jogging. “Do whatever you deem necessary.”

  Spence fell into step with him. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Are you shittin’ me? The FBI?”

  “That’s what Howie said.” Barrie was watching herself in the mirror as she talked long distance to Daily from her motel room in Jackson Hole. Was it the poor lighting in the room or her increasing apprehension that made her look so pale?