by Sandra Brown
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Barrie smiled at Jayne Gaston’s son across the threshold of his home. “Hello, Mr. Gaston. Barrie Travis. Do you remember me?”
“All too well. What do you want?”
“I brought you this,” she said, holding out a potted blue hydrangea. “May I come in?”
He hesitated, deciding whether he would speak with her. Finally, he stepped aside. “For a few minutes.”
Ralph Gaston, Jr., was a mild-mannered man in his midthirties who had gone soft around the middle. He lived in a neat brick house in the middle of the block in a middle-class suburb of D.C. Barrie had located him through the telephone directory.
She was led through rooms that were clean but littered with toys. “My wife took the kids to the mall,” he explained as he stepped over a Playskool lawn mower.
“I’m sorry I missed them. I wanted to convey my condolences to them as well.”
She followed him onto a screened back porch, where it appeared he’d been watching an NCAA football game on a portable TV. He turned down the volume and took a sip of the beer on the end table. He did not offer her anything to drink. She took a seat in the aluminum lawn chair he indicated.
Barrie began by clarifying that anything they said was strictly off the record. “I’m not here as a reporter. It might actually make you feel better to know that I was fired from WVUE.”
“In fact it does make me feel better,” he said bluntly. “You got no less than you deserved, Ms. Travis. My mother was a lady. She had dignity, and rarely called attention to herself. You made a black comedy out of her death. After the media circus you created at the hospital, I find it difficult to be civil to you.”
“I don’t blame you. More than anything, I regret that your bereavement was made so public.”
“Are you trying to apologize?”
“Very much so.”
“Apology accepted.” He started to get up. “Now if you’ll excuse—”
“Your mother must have been enormously excited when Dr. Allan hired her,” Barrie said, forestalling him.
“What makes you say that?” His voice cracked like a whip, surprising her.
“Uh, well, because he placed so much trust in her.”
“Oh,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Yeah, she felt really fortunate to get such a good job. She said it was particularly gratifying to have such an important patient.”
Barrie’s journalistic instinct was sizzling like bacon in a hot skillet. What had she stumbled upon here? Her initial motive had been sincere: She had wished to apologize for her gaffe and its effect on the Gaston family.
But this meeting with Ralph Gaston was also part of her and Gray’s strategy to protect Vanessa. They could hardly report the President’s alleged crimes to the local police. They had nothing substantive to take to the Justice Department. They couldn’t assault the White House with guns blazing. Their attack had to be much more subtle.
Gray’s view, with which Barrie and Daily concurred, was that the administration must be destroyed from within. It must collapse upon itself like a dying star. The energy of Merritt’s presidency must, paradoxically, cause its own extinction.
Information was the only weapon available to them. They needed to know exactly what had happened in George Allan’s lake house. Barrie had volunteered to start with Jayne Gaston’s son. She hadn’t really expected to learn anything of monumental importance, but maybe she had underestimated the potential of this interview.
Ralph had used words like fortunate and gratifying to describe his mother’s feelings about her job as the First Lady’s private nurse, which implied that she had felt unworthy of the post. Why? Barrie wondered.
“Did your mother have a history of heart problems?”
“Only for the past couple of years,” Ralph said, somewhat defensively. “But she stayed on top of it. She got regular checkups, took her medication religiously. You couldn’t keep Mom down if you tried. She loved her work. She was an excellent nurse.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Dr. Allan raved about her. So did the President.”
“He sent flowers to the funeral.”
“Really? He sent me flowers once.” In another lifetime. Before she knew that he was a killer. “Had your mother suffered a previous heart attack?”
“It was mild,” he replied, resuming his defensive posture. “She recovered quickly. It never affected her work.”
“No one has questioned her skills or her performance, Mr. Gaston.”
He rubbed his hands over the tops of his thighs. Barrie recognized it as a nervous gesture. The middle-class suburbanite with the soft middle was no longer quite so mild-mannered. He said, “If Mom was good enough to attend the First Lady, she was good enough to attend anybody.”
“Precisely.”
“She was eminently qualified.”
“I’m sure she was. How did she like working for Dr. Allan?”
“What do you mean?”
Barrie flashed him an insider’s smile. “Just curious. You know how egotistical doctors can be. Some of them think they walk on water. I just wondered if that had been your mother’s experience with Dr. Allan.”
“She never said.”
Barrie knew immediately that he was lying. “I take it your mother was satisfied that the First Lady was getting the proper treatment for her illness?”
“Mrs. Merritt didn’t have an illness. She just needed a long rest.”
“Of course. That’s what I meant.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “you meant to imply that my mother would deliberately overlook it if a patient was receiving improper treatment.”
“I implied no such thing, Mr. Gaston. The President has gone on record praising your mother and Dr. Allan for the excellent care they provided Mrs. Merritt.”
“So what’s your point?”
What was her point? “It’s just a shame that for all his healing talent, Dr. Allan couldn’t save your mother’s life.”
“He said he did everything he could.”
“And you believe him?”
“Why wouldn’t I? He’s a great doctor and a decent man. He gave Mom a chance when no one else would.”
“A chance?”
“To work.” Suddenly he shot to his feet. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. My mother died only a few days ago. I’m still very upset.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
Barrie did not pressure him. She was coming away with much more than she had hoped to gain. Actually, she was leaving with more questions than answers and was eager to do some further investigating.
“It was awfully kind of you to see me.” At the front door, she clasped his hand warmly. She believed that, like the rest of the nation, he had been conned by the men in power. So, although he had been borderline rude to her, she felt only pity for him. “Please convey my sympathy to the rest of your family, and, again, I apologize for any heartache I contributed.”
* * *
Ralph Gaston, Jr., watched as Barrie Travis made her way down the sidewalk and got into a car parked at the curb. He waited until she had driven away before moving hastily to the telephone.
His call was answered on the second ring.
Ralph had spoken with a federal agent only twice in his life—the day before yesterday, when one had appeared at his mother’s wake, asking to speak with him alone, and now. Both times, his mouth had gone dry and his palms had grown wet.
“You told me to call if that reporter showed up. Well, she just left my house.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Yes, sir. I wanted to slam the door in her face, but I did as you told me and tried to act casual.”
“What did she want?”
“To apologize.” He recounted their conversation, then answered all the man’s questions with the crisp precision of a new recruit. “Mostly she asked leading questions about my mother’s medical history and the treatment Mrs. Merritt received from Dr. Allan.”<
br />
After a tense silence, the government man said, “You did well, Mr. Gaston. President Merritt will appreciate your assistance.”
Ralph swallowed a lump of pride. His orders had come directly from the Commander in Chief. He’d been told that Barrie Travis’s desire to malign the administration was fueled by an unnatural jealousy of the First Lady.
Barrie Travis was intensely antagonistic toward the White House, ergo she was an enemy of the nation. It was still undetermined how far her subversive tendencies would go, but after the incident in Shinlin they were operating on the side of caution. That’s why the President had asked to be notified immediately if she called on the Gaston family seeking information, which she then might use to further her destructive purposes.
“I’ll pass this information along to the President immediately,” Gaston was told. “You executed your duty well.”
“Thank you, sir. Glad to be of service. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Please notify me if she comes around again.”
“I don’t think she will,” Gaston said. “She’s been fired from the TV station. She wasn’t here today as a reporter, just as a person.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
* * *
Spence replaced the telephone and turned to the President. “That was Gaston. He still thinks he’s talking to an FBI agent. Guess who just paid him a courtesy call?”
“Dammit!”
When was this problem going to disappear? He had more important things to think about. He was on his way now to attend a meeting with the Joint Chiefs. Some disturbing Intelligence reports had been coming out of Libya. In a few weeks he’d receive the reconciliation bill on next year’s budget. The cuts worked out by both houses of Congress would evoke the ire of special interest groups, and it would fall to him to pacify them. At the crux of every decision, of course, was how it might affect the outcome of next year’s election.
These administrative matters required his concentration, but of necessity they were taking a back seat to this persistent problem. “She’s worse than a stubborn dose of the clap,” he grumbled. “She won’t go away.”
“She can. And so can Gray. We can pop them.”
“Too risky, Spence. They’ve made too much news lately.”
“But mostly with Clete. He’s gone on record lambasting them. If they met with a violent end, the senator would be the first to fall under suspicion.”
Merritt chewed on that. It was an appealing idea. One stone, two birds. Three, counting Clete. Spence’s surveillance team was keeping them informed of every move made by Gray and Barrie Travis and that old man they were shacked up with. Wiping them out in one fell swoop was tempting. It would be expedient and neat. It was an enticing proposal, but… Too dicey.
“No, Spence.”
“I’ve got people who could handle it. It would be so far removed from the White House that—”
Merritt held up his hand. “Bill Yancey is too much of a wild card,” he said of the attorney general. “I can’t chance it. Besides,” he added, “your idea is self-serving. You want a shot at Bondurant.”
“True. But it would also solve your problem.”
“I want to solve the problem, but we’ve got to play it smart. They can’t do too much harm as long as they don’t get to Vanessa.”
“Be reasonable, David. We can’t keep her prisoner inside the White House indefinitely.”
He looked at his aide. “No, we can’t. Not when her condition is worsening again.”
Their telepathy worked again to communicate Merritt’s message. Spence nodded his understanding and reached for the telephone. “I’ll call Dr. Allan to come immediately.”
Merritt took the receiver from him. “And have another heart attack victim on our hands? George assumes you’re dead. Better let me make this call.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Where the hell have you been?” Gray demanded as soon as Barrie came through the front door. “You were due back two hours ago.”
“I’ve been uncovering some very interesting information,” she said. “Relax. I’m okay. I had my tail for company all afternoon. He peeled off at the last corner. I’m starving.” She pitched her car keys to him. “Go get supper while I take a shower, then we’ll talk.”
An hour later, all three were clustered around the table in Daily’s kitchen, the remains of their carryout meal congealing in white pasteboard containers. The radio was blaring from the corner.
Barrie apologized for worrying them. “I didn’t call because I couldn’t have said anything significant. You’ll forgive me when I tell you what I found out.”
“From Ralph Gaston, Jr.?”
“Indirectly.” Keeping her voice well below the level of the radio, she described her meeting with the late nurse’s son. “What was strange, he kept insisting that his mother was an excellent nurse.”
“So?”
“So, nobody that I know of ever suggested otherwise. Why would he argue a point that hadn’t been raised? That struck me as odd, so after I left him I did some investigating, including a call to one of my sources in the criminal justice building, who fed her name into the NCIC. Voilà! An arrest record and an a.k.a. turned up.”
The two men quickly looked at each other, then back at Barrie. “For years following her marriage to Ralph Gaston, the nurse continued to use her maiden name professionally. Jayne Heisellman.”
“That rings a bell,” Daily said. “How come?”
“Because, a few years ago, a terminally ill patient died while in Heisellman’s care. Euthanasia was suspected. She adamantly denied the allegation, but the devout Roman Catholic family of the patient went to the D.A. and demanded an investigation. The grand jury no-billed her for lack of evidence. The patient’s death was ruled a consequence of pancreatic cancer and Heisellman was cleared of all suspicion.”
“I remember now,” Daily said.
“I should have,” Barrie replied with chagrin. “It was one of the first stories I covered for WVUE. I didn’t recognize her in the morgue. She had aged, and, well, the situation there wasn’t conducive to instant recollection.
“Even though she was cleared of any criminal activity, the accusation brought on enough stress to cause her a heart attack. This too was documented in the press. She recovered, and after six months was given the green light to return to work. But not so easily done.
“The investigation left an indelible blot on her previously flawless record. She had been forced to leave the health care facility where the incident had occurred, and even after switching to her married name she was turned down for job after job.”
“Let me guess,” Gray said. “Until she was hired by Dr. Allan.”
Barrie formed a pistol with her fingers and fired it at him. “Right on, sport.”
“They hired a nurse who had been suspected of mercy killing—”
“In the event that Vanessa died mercifully. Or, if she died by other means and the nurse intended to talk, she could conveniently succumb to a heart attack.”
“Which would’ve been feasible because of her history of cardiac complications.”
Their thoughts were so in tune that they could complete each other’s sentences. She finished by saying, “However it went down, they had an ideal scapegoat.”
“Good work,” Daily told her.
“Thanks,” she said, basking in his compliment.
“Do you think Dr. Allan killed the nurse and passed it off as another heart attack?” he asked.
Gray absently scratched his cheek. “Possibly, but I don’t think so. George is… I don’t know, weak. He doesn’t strike me as ruthless, as a man who could snuff someone in cold blood. He’s not like Spence. Or David.
“I think the heart attack caught them all off guard. At the hospital, the doctor didn’t act so much guilty as flustered.” Turning to Barrie, he asked, “What about Gaston? Is he a player?”
“No. His only concern was for his mother’s reputati
on.”
“So where does all this leave us?” Daily wanted to know.
“I haven’t the vaguest,” Barrie replied with deflating honesty.
After a few moments of silent reflection, Daily said, “Well, I’m beat. Besides, that damn thing’s driving me nuts.” He shot the radio a murderous glare.
“Just don’t let your frustration get the best of you again.”
Too late, Barrie realized her mistake. She’d spoken without thinking. Daily gave her a fulminating look, which Gray’s radarlike perception intercepted.
“What’s going on?”
Daily said defensively, “See here, Bondurant, this is my house, and I do in it what I like, when I like.”
Gray’s expression was growing darker by the second. “If something happened that I need to know about—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Barrie cut in. “Let’s not make a federal case of it. Daily got a little upset this morning. While you were out, a sedan kept driving past the house. He lost his temper, went out on the porch, and gave it the finger. That’s all there was to it.”
“Except that now they know we’ve marked them,” Gray said, his displeasure clear.
“Daily didn’t mean to—”
“I’ll thank you not to defend me,” Daily said curtly. Then he turned to Gray with as much defiance as he could muster. “Who are you to order me around in my own house?”
“This isn’t a pissing contest between us, Daily.” Gray’s voice was softer and kinder than Barrie would have expected. “Anything I advise you to do is for your own safety. And Barrie’s. I can’t impress upon you enough how dangerous these men are. They’re spoiling for a fight. Please don’t give them one. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
Daily looked like a child who’d been unfairly reprimanded. With a brief nod, he yielded to Gray’s expertise. “Hell,” he grumbled as he stood. “I’m going to bed.”
Barrie volunteered to clear the kitchen and bade him good night. Gray followed him from the room. Since their treasonous conversation for the night was concluded, she turned off the radio and blessed the silence. When the kitchen was tidy, she turned out the light and went into the living room.
