Exclusive

by Sandra Brown

  It was more of himself than he’d revealed before. Yet, something was noticeably absent from his soul-baring monologue. “You left out the part about Vanessa and the baby,” Barrie said. “You failed to mention that the love of your life was another man’s wife.”

  Tersely, he said, “Yeah. I left that part out.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Senator?”

  Clete addressed the speakerphone on his desk. “What is it, Carol?”

  “Gray Bondurant wishes to speak to you.”

  Clete rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “This is the third time he’s called in two days.”

  “I don’t care how many times he’s called, I’m not going to talk to him. What about Dr. Allan?”

  “I’m still trying to reach him, but I’m told he’s unavailable.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “The White House staff hasn’t been more specific than that, sir.”

  George Allan had called to inform him that Vanessa hadn’t responded well to the adjustment he’d made on her medication. He’d also hinted that she was drinking heavily again. The upshot of the conversation had been to tell the senator that he was placing her in a private hospital for observation. Until she was stabilized, it was best that she not have visitors. In fact, prohibition of visitors was hospital policy.

  It was goddamn Highpoint all over again. Vanessa had been shuttled off without so much as a goodbye to him, and she was unreachable. Allan had ended by saying he didn’t expect her to be confined for more than a few days.

  As chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, Clete had been buried in meetings over the reconciliation budget. His presence was mandatory, but he had difficulty concentrating on the country’s finances when worrying about his daughter. The doctor was dodging his calls. David hadn’t deigned even to call and speak with him personally. It was beginning to stink. To high heaven. And part of the stench was Clete’s own rising panic.

  “Do they know it’s me who’s calling?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then I wish to speak to the President immediately.”

  While she was putting the call through, Clete left his desk and moved to the large window. He’d had the same view for more than thirty years, but he never tired of it. The automobiles on Washington’s broad avenues changed. Clothing styles came and went. Seasons rotated. But the stalwart edifices of the United States government endured.

  The emotional surge he derived from gazing at them couldn’t be described as patriotism. It was more base than a love for his country. It was a passion for the power circulating within those buildings that gave him a rush of excitement not unlike an erection. He adhered to the adage that power was the strongest aphrodisiac. There was nothing to equal it. Nothing else even came close.

  Any man worth his salt struggled to attain power. Then, once he had it, he fought like hell to keep it. It was inevitable that someone younger than he would seize the power he now wielded in Washington. But not today, and not tomorrow. He would choose the time to pass the baton.

  And it wasn’t going to go to David Merritt.

  His secretary buzzed him again. “I’m sorry, Senator. The President’s calendar is completely full today, and tonight he’s scheduled to fly to Atlanta. He’s not due back until midafternoon tomorrow.”

  Clete mulled that over for several seconds. “Thanks, Carol. Keep trying to reach that quack Allan. And get rid of Bondurant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Returning to his desk, he placed his feet up on it and swiveled back and forth in his well-worn leather chair as he contemplated his next move. David had acted faster than Clete had expected. He had figured David would let the heat cool down before trying again to eliminate the only witness to his child-killing.

  Yes, Clete believed everything Bondurant and Barrie Travis had told him that night in the coffee shop. He’d taken whacks at Travis’s credibility, but what choice had she given him? He’d been forced to create a ruckus over her gaffe in the hospital, or risk looking like a damn fool himself. He’d railed at her, but his wrath had been directed to his treacherous son-in-law.

  Barrie Travis was a flake, but Bondurant wasn’t. Clete might have doubted their story had she been the only one telling it, but he didn’t doubt Bondurant. He’d never particularly liked the former Marine-cum-presidential aide. The man was taciturn to a fault. He wore his integrity on his sleeve. Clete mistrusted anybody that honest and straightforward.

  Clete had never known Bondurant to lie. He’d evaded questions about his affair with Vanessa, which could be construed as lying by omission, but Clete regarded his silence as a gallant attempt to protect Vanessa from scandal, not to shield himself.

  Knowing David’s personality as he did, knowing of the incident involving a young woman named Becky Sturgis, Clete had no doubt that David could smother a child he knew wasn’t his.

  Clete chastened himself for not suspecting it earlier. The son of a bitch had tricked both him and Vanessa into believing that he wanted children. For years, she had tried all the remedies for infertility. David had refused to seek medical advice. Now Clete knew why. The bastard was firing blanks and didn’t want anyone to know. Furthermore, he had subtly laid the blame of their childlessness on Vanessa, feeding her sense of inadequacy, which was a fundamental symptom of her illness.

  Of course, Clete’s conscience wasn’t entirely clear. He had to assume partial responsibility for the spousal abuse his daughter had suffered. Where had he been all those years? Why hadn’t he seen what was now so glaringly apparent? He’d been too busy putting David in the White House to see that David had cruelly rejected Vanessa’s love.

  As long as she did as she was told, didn’t cross him, and appeared to be everything she was supposed to be, David was content. He had a long-suffering, beautiful wife who tolerated his casual affairs. But when Vanessa turned the tables and became pregnant with another man’s child, David felt the death penalty was justified.

  Yes, Barrie Travis and Gray Bondurant were telling the truth. They had forced him to open his eyes to what he hadn’t wanted to see: David Merritt had put his daughter through hell; David Merritt had murdered his grandson; David Merritt had betrayed him; David Merritt must be destroyed.

  But slinging unsubstantiated accusations at him on the evening news wasn’t the way to go about it. Clete would have to defeat David surreptitiously, not by advertising that he was plotting against him. Anything other than a covert approach would result in failure.

  Bondurant might have a chance of succeeding and getting away with it, but not while he was in cahoots with a journalist, any journalist, but particularly Barrie Travis. Clete knew that he had to operate independent of them, and he had to act quickly because David apparently had.

  First, he had to find Vanessa. Second, he had to get her away from David. Third, he had to annihilate the bastard.

  There were obstacles. One of them was Clete’s own conflicting emotions. He felt his son-in-law’s betrayal like a stake through his heart, but he couldn’t afford to be sentimental about what might—and should—have been.

  He also had to be extremely careful. While exposing David, he couldn’t leave himself vulnerable to close scrutiny. Destroying an administration completely but cleanly would take deft maneuvering.

  The problem with maneuvering was that it required time, and that, Clete feared, was in short supply.

  * * *

  “Howie, isn’t it?”

  Howie nearly choked on his salted beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before extending it to the mustachioed man wearing a baseball cap over his ponytail. “Hey! I’d about given up on you coming back.”

  The man gave a thin, stiff smile. “I’ve been tied up.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you. Can I buy you a beer?”

  Although Howie was glad to see the return of the man he hoped to call friend, his invitation to a beer was issue
d halfheartedly. Tonight wasn’t convenient. He’d stopped in at the bar only for a quick drink, not to socialize. All day, he’d been as nervous as a whore in church, wondering when Bondurant would pop up, demanding to know what he’d been able to ferret out regarding the First Lady’s whereabouts. He had feared that either he or Barrie would show up at the WVUE studios.

  But seven o’clock had come, the hour when he relinquished his position to the overnight assignments editor, and there’d been no word from either Barrie or her menacing confederate. He’d tried tricking himself into thinking they’d forgotten about him, or had found what they wanted from some other source, but the attempted self-deception hadn’t worked. The longer the day stretched out, the more anxious he became.

  He doubted they would believe that he’d been unable to weasel anything from anyone at the White House, even though he’d tried his damnedest. Either everybody in town was lying, or nobody, but nobody, knew where Mrs. Merritt was hospitalized. That wasn’t what Barrie and Bondurant wanted to hear.

  So Howie had decided that even if he had to invent a medical facility, he would give Bondurant something. He figured the former Marine was as good as his word. If he didn’t produce, Bondurant would just as soon kill him as not.

  “Thanks, a beer sounds great.”

  “What?” Howie asked, jostled out of his grim musings.

  “A beer?” His newfound friend was regarding him with puzzlement.

  “Oh, sure, sure. It’s been a hard day,” Howie said, apologizing for his momentary lapse. “Be right back.”

  When he returned with the beer, the man, a real cool customer, was chalking up a pool cue. “Watch yourself tonight. I’ve been practicing.”

  His grin reminded Howie of a carnivore with shifty eyes and very small, pointed teeth. “Uh, actually, I don’t, uh, have time tonight.” The only thing more disturbing than the man’s smile was his frown. It quickly changed Howie’s mind. “Well, maybe one quick game.”

  “Great. It’ll give me a chance to salvage my pride.”

  Between shots, they made idle chitchat. Howie played poorly. He couldn’t concentrate for thinking about who or what would be waiting to ambush him when he got home. Or did Bondurant have him in his sights now? Was he watching from the Laundromat across the street?

  “… about your friend?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked about your co-worker. The broad. Say, you seem preoccupied. If you’ve got something better to do tonight—”

  “No, no,” Howie said hastily. “Sorry.”

  Snap out of it, you idiot, he admonished himself. What the hell was the matter with him? Here was a cool guy practically begging to be his buddy, and what was he doing? Behaving like an asshole, that’s what.

  It was all Barrie’s fault. It was always Barrie’s fault. Hers and now Bondurant’s. Who were they to be breaking into his apartment and pushing him around, anyway? They had no muscle. At least Barrie didn’t. And Bondurant had been run out of town ’cause he couldn’t keep out of the First Lady’s pants. Screw ’em. If they came around tonight with their veiled threats, he’d call the cops on them.

  Imbued with a new self-confidence, he hiked up his slipping waistband and took a swig of brew. “I canned her.”

  “No shit?”

  “I felt bad about it,” he said, his lips forming a moue of regret, “but she kept screwing up, gave me no choice.”

  “What else could you do, man?”

  “Right.” Howie sank his best shot of the evening. His friend hoisted his beer mug in a salute to his success. “I’m giving her a break, though.”

  “Oh?” The man lined up his next shot. The balls clacked solidly, but he failed to sink one. “Are you writing her a letter of recommendation?”

  “No, I’m helping her on some undercover work.”

  As Howie had hoped, the man’s eyebrows rose. He was impressed by the adventurous sound of that. “What kind of undercover work?”

  Stung by the humiliation he’d suffered from Bondurant, Howie was pleased to be flexing his muscles. So what if he stretched the truth a little? His buddy here would never know the difference. Besides, even best friends bullshitted each other. It was all part of the guy thing.

  “She’s working freelance now, still digging into that big story I told you about. When she ran up against a brick wall, who’d she come to for information? Yours truly.”

  “Information about what?”

  Howie winked. “White House insider stuff.”

  “And you got it for her?”

  “Don’t think it came easy,” Howie said, puffing out his chest. “It didn’t. I had to do some investigative work myself, tap in to my real hush-hush sources, but I found the creamy nougat center that Barrie’s after.”

  “Must have made her happy.”

  “She will be.”

  “You haven’t told her yet?” The man’s eyes brightened and the mustache lifted in a grin. He cuffed Howie on the shoulder. “Ah, I get it. You’re holding out until you get something from her in return, huh?”

  Howie chuckled. He had his new pal right where he wanted him, believing that he was a lady-killer, a man of the world, a force to be reckoned with, and nobody’s fool. “I’m seeing her later tonight. For what I’ve got to tell her, I think she’ll be willing to swap favors, don’t you?”

  * * *

  Tonight Barrie was driving a Volvo, stolen that afternoon from the parking lot of a medical complex. When she reached Howie’s building, she slowed to a crawl. “Where should I park?” she asked Gray.

  “Down the block. Stop and let me out here. I’ll go up first.”

  “Through the front door?”

  “Last night’s theatrics intimidated him, so I feel safe in making a more straightforward approach tonight.”

  “What if he couldn’t find out anything?”

  “I’ll know if he’s lying. See you up there,” he said, stepping onto the pavement and closing the door.

  “Be gentle,” she called, but he either didn’t hear her, or he chose to ignore her.

  * * *

  Howie’s courage was short-lived. Soon after he parted company with his new friend and left the bar, his anxiety returned. On the drive home, his palms became so slippery that he could barely keep them on the steering wheel.

  Bondurant was going to kick his ass if he didn’t have something useful to report. And if he made something up and Bondurant found out, which he would surely do within a matter of hours, he’d probably come back and kill him. Either way, Howie was screwed. Unless he begged Barrie for mercy. She’d been pretty harsh last night, but he didn’t think she could stand by and let Bondurant shoot him in cold blood.

  “No, she’d go into the other room so she wouldn’t lose her appetite,” he muttered as he parked in his designated spot at the rear of the building and took the stairs. With shaky hands he unlocked his door and swung it open. He hesitated, straining to hear the slightest sound. Finally, he stepped into his living room and closed the door behind him.

  He was fairly certain that he was alone in the apartment and that nobody had entered it since he’d left that morning. Even so, he scurried through the small rooms, moving quickly from lamp to wall switch, flooding the place with bright light. He looked through his bedroom window at the fire escape, having determined that his callers last night had used it to get into and out of his apartment. There was no one on the metal stairs zigzagging down the side of the building.

  He went to the kitchen. Nerves had turned the beer in his belly sour. He belched as he opened the refrigerator, looking for something to soak up the excess acid.

  “This is nuts,” he muttered around a mouthful of cold spaghetti of indeterminate age.

  He wasn’t a kid. He was a man. Yet he was creeping around his own home, scared of his own shadow. Ever since Barrie got this harebrained notion about the First Lady, Howie’s life hadn’t been worth shit. He’d had trouble at work, with Jenkins. Trouble in his leisure time, too. Ho
w could you cultivate a friendship when you were worried about a Marine recon making hash of your head? Now, the trouble had invaded his home.

  Well, he was mad as hell and he wasn’t going to take it anymore!

  As soon as Barrie arrived, he intended to—

  There was a knock on his door.

  Reflexively, his gut constricted.

  Then his bravery reasserted itself, and he strode belligerently to the door and yanked it open, prepared to give Barrie and Bondurant a piece of his mind. But only one guest had come to call, and he was smiling.

  “Hello, Howie. May I come in?”

  * * *

  Barrie stepped out of the Volvo and conscientiously locked the door behind her. As she walked briskly down the sidewalk, she smiled over the irony of protecting the stolen car against car theft. She glanced up at the third floor of the corner building. The shades were down, but lights were on in all the windows of Howie’s apartment. That was reassuring. If Gray was going to do something really ugly, he would do it in the dark, she thought.

  She went through the vestibule and started up the staircase. It had the musty smell of antiques stores. She tapped on the door of Howie’s apartment. And waited. No one came to answer. Pressing her ear close to the wood, she listened, but couldn’t hear any conversation coming from the other side. She turned the knob; the door was unlocked.

  “Howie? Gray?”

  She went in.

  The lights went out.

  The brightly lit rooms were suddenly plunged into penetrating darkness. The situation called for a scream, but she was too terrified to utter a sound. She felt the vibration of the floor as someone moved quickly toward her across the living room. Spinning around, she groped for the doorknob, found it, but before she could turn it, a hand closed over hers.

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  Recognizing Gray’s voice, she nearly collapsed with relief. She turned to him. “What’s going on?”