Exclusive

by Sandra Brown

  “Freeze! FBI!”

  The shout came out of the darkness behind them. Reflexively, they spun around. Four men were coming toward them at a run, handguns extended and aimed. Headlights flashed on. Two cars roared onto the parking lot and screeched to a halt only yards from them.

  “Hands on your head, Bondurant.”

  Apparently he saw the advisability of complying. One of the agents came forward, found the pistol in his waistband, and took it. Another agent seized Barrie’s satchel and patted her down. “I’m not armed.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Gray told her as he was being handcuffed and read his rights.

  Following his lead, Barrie submitted to the arrest without a struggle. The story she had to tell, along with the video, would surely absolve her and Gray of any crimes committed during the rescue of the First Lady. But telling it now would be a waste of breath. She would wait until Senator Armbruster and Vanessa herself could corroborate the allegation that the President had killed his son and had planned his wife’s death.

  Barrie was escorted to one of the cars, Gray to the other. The agent held the door for her and assisted her into the backseat.

  What she saw there, lying on the seat, filled her with such terror that she screamed and tried to back out of the open car door. “Gray!” But the agent had his hand on her back, pushing her inside.

  Through the car window, she saw Gray. He’d heard her scream, sensed her alarm, and was struggling with the agents who were trying to force him into the other car. But with his hands cuffed behind him, he couldn’t fight back. He was shoved into the backseat. Doors were slammed shut. With a squeal of tires, both cars sped away.

  Barrie sobbed as she gazed at the other passenger in the backseat of the gray sedan, who stared back at her with sightless eyes, an obscenely vacant expression on her face, matted wig askew. Dolly.

  * * *

  George Allan looked down at his two sleeping sons, their heads barely visible above the covers. His younger son, in the bottom bunk, was the rascal, the athlete, the destined-to-be heartbreaker. His charm would glide him easily through life.

  The older boy had inherited Amanda’s seriousness. Even in sleep, he seemed to be sorting through a problem. Of the two, he was the smarter, the overachiever. His intellect and self-discipline would guarantee his success in whatever field he chose. George hoped it would be medicine.

  He kissed each of them softly, then closed the door behind him as he tiptoed from their room. The door to the master bedroom suite was ajar. Amanda had left the nightlight on for him. No matter how bitter their quarrel, how estranged they felt, they shared the same bed every night. It was as though she left the light on so that he could always find his way back to her.

  He gazed at her sleeping face. Strands of silky dark hair painted stripes across her pillow. Her breathing was slow and even. She looked lovely. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, but he didn’t for fear of waking her.

  He backed out of the room, went down the hall to his office, and quietly closed the door. In desperate need of a drink, he poured himself one, carried it to his desk, and settled gratefully into the chair.

  It had been a long night. He had waited with David until they’d received word that Vanessa was safely with Clete in the hospital.

  George was very tired. He savored the drink, sipping it slowly, tracing the warmth it spread through his system. Its intoxicating properties were hampered by the sobering thoughts that haunted him—namely, what David had instructed him to do, as opposed to what he had done.

  He finished his drink and unlocked his lower desk drawer. It wasn’t a high-caliber gun, but when fired into the roof of one’s mouth, it was sufficient to do the job painlessly. He checked the chambers of the revolver and saw that each one was loaded; then snapped the cylinder back into place and laid the gun on his desk pad.

  Then he fished into his breast pocket and withdrew a small plastic bottle. The tamperproof seal was intact, and the lithium was still inside, not flowing lethally through Vanessa’s system as David believed.

  At the final showdown, George had defeated David by stopping short of cold-blooded murder. He hoped that Amanda would view this as a victory. Perhaps this swan song of defiance would make up for his years of weakness. She might even love him for it. At least a little.

  He set the vial on his desk pad, picked up the gun, and placed the barrel in his mouth.

  * * *

  During the long drive, Barrie tried to get news of Daily from the men who’d abducted her, but her screams, pleas, sobs, and threats didn’t budge them from their resolute silence. Gray was as much in the dark as she when they reached their destination, an office building in downtown D.C. They were hustled into the service elevator, then led to the office at the end of the hallway on the seventh floor.

  Because Gray was giving them a fight every step of the way, they pushed him inside first. His blasphemous exclamation didn’t bode well for what awaited Barrie.

  What she expected to see was Daily’s bruised, battered, and possibly bloody body. Instead, he was semireclining on a sofa, looking fatigued. She was so grateful to see him, she stumbled across the dimly lighted office and knelt beside the sofa, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Daily, are you all right?”

  “I am now,” he gasped. “Seeing that you’re okay and didn’t get yourself shot.”

  “They had Dolly in their car. I feared…”

  “They brought me a fresh tank of oxygen, so, for the time being, I’ll live. Never mind me. Did you get Mrs. Merritt out?”

  “We did. She’s in good hands now, although she looked very sick. We’re not sure whether she’ll survive.”

  With the assistance of the agent who was removing her handcuffs, Barrie came to her feet and turned to face their host. Angrily she thrust her wrists out in front of her to show him the red rings around them. “Was the rough stuff necessary, Bill?”

  Attorney General William Yancey looked abashed. “Hello, Barrie. Mr. Bondurant.”

  Gray looked incredulous. “You two know each other?”

  “Since college,” Yancey replied. “Barrie worked on the campus radio station as a reporter. I was president of the student political coalition. On slow days, she would come to me looking for a story.”

  “I still do sometimes. He’s my source over at Justice.”

  “He’s your source?”

  “I don’t impart anything confidential,” Yancey explained. “Mostly I just confirm or deny information she’s received elsewhere. I keep her from going astray, which is sometimes tough to do,” he added, glowering at her.

  “Bill, was this necessary?” Barrie repeated.

  “We had to make a formal arrest. You and Bondurant are wanted for kidnapping.” He glanced at Daily. “Mr. Welsh has confessed that he was an accomplice.”

  “Daily was instrumental, but it wasn’t a kidnapping. We rescued Vanessa Merritt.”

  “From what, from whom?”

  “From her husband.”

  Yancey looked gravely at Barrie, then at Gray. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “You don’t seem terribly surprised,” she remarked.

  “I’ve been getting some very strange phone calls lately. From Armbruster. From Merritt. It seems Mr. Bondurant’s reappearance in Washington has made everybody nervous. First I was urged to apprehend him, then I was urged not to. Turns out, Bondurant has been keeping company with, guess who, you. By the way,” he added dryly, “you gave my men quite an earful at Howie Fripp’s funeral. Imagine them recounting for me the one about the freeway blow job.”

  “The what?” Gray asked.

  “Long story,” Barrie mumbled. To Yancey she said, “I laid it on pretty thick because I wasn’t sure they were good guys.”

  “They were FBI agents.”

  “I know, but I thought they might be…” She looked at Gray with consternation, wondering how much she should reveal.

  From his position on the sofa, Daily relieved her
of the decision. “She thought they were working for Spencer Martin.”

  “Spencer Martin,” Yancey repeated thoughtfully. “Someone else had you under surveillance. My team intercepted them more than once. We wondered who it was.”

  “It was Spence,” Gray said tightly.

  Yancey turned to him. “And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

  “You’re supposed to be the chief law officer in the country. That means going after the bad guys.”

  “It also means protecting the rights of guys that people allege are bad. For whatever reason.”

  Sensing the hostility rising between them, Barrie quickly interceded. “Bill, once the facts become clear to you, I’m sure you’ll agree that Spencer Martin is a dangerous individual.”

  “I’m all ears. What are the facts, Barrie? Your name has been connected with the First Lady’s since your series on SIDS, and the First Lady has been mysteriously absent. Dalton Neely’s blather is an insult to my intelligence. Dr. George Allan strikes me as incompetent. The Secret Service is respectfully mute. We knew you were up to something tonight when you pulled that switch in the parking garage. We picked up the old man—”

  “Hey!” The interjection came from an insulted Daily.

  “—so he wouldn’t get hurt or killed by persons you tell me were working for Spencer Martin.” Opening his suit jacket, he placed his hands on his waist. “I want to know just what in hell is going on, and I’ve got to have the full story. That’s why you were brought here instead of being taken straight to jail and booked on felony charges.”

  “I appreciate your trust, Bill,” Barrie said. “But before I talk to you, shouldn’t I have a lawyer present?”

  “You may. If you want to go that route. Or you can simply level with me.”

  “Off the record?”

  “Off the record.”

  For years she’d known him to be a man of honor. More than once his integrity had gotten in her way of a good story. She’d been angry with him for withholding information from her when it was a matter of national security, but he’d never steered her wrong, either. She had no reason to mistrust him.

  “All right,” she said, “But there’s so much to tell, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Let’s start with Spencer Martin.”

  “How much do you know about him? He’s—”

  “Careful, Barrie.” Gray nodded toward Yancey. “He might be your former classmate, and maybe he’s proved to be a reliable and fair source, but before you spill your guts, remember who appointed him and who he works for.”

  Affronted, Yancey replied, “I remember who appointed me, Mr. Bondurant. But I work for the people of the United States, and I take my job and the responsibility that goes with it very seriously.

  “True, I owe my job to David Merritt, but I’m not immune to the stink emanating from the White House these days. As for Spencer Martin, I know about his personal army. He’s got informers and operatives planted in just about every department of the federal government, including, I’m ashamed to admit, those that fall under the auspices of the Department of Justice.

  “More dangerous than that, however, is the influence he wields over the President. I want to know why and to what extent Merritt relies on him. Frankly, Bondurant, I was afraid for Barrie to be spending so much time with you. That’s why I tipped her on your recent visit to the White House. I figured you were one of Martin’s facilitators.”

  “You figured wrong.”

  “Probably. You got out because of Mrs. Merritt, I think.”

  Gray nodded. “She’s also why I got dragged back in.”

  The attorney general looked steadily at Gray for several moments, then turned back to Barrie. “You started all this with that piece about SIDS, didn’t you?”

  “Actually, Vanessa Merritt started it by inviting me to coffee. It’s a long story, and by telling it I’ll be accusing the President of unspeakable crimes.”

  “That’s why you were brought here,” Yancey said. “No matter how long and involved the story is, no matter who’s implicated, I want to hear it all.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Shit! This whole thing is falling apart. Barrie and Gray haven’t been caught yet. Vanessa’s in the goddamn hospital. In the hospital! I was supposed to be receiving the horrible news that she’d died. Instead I get the happy news that she’s being treated at GWU hospital.”

  “Calm down, David.”

  He rounded on Spence, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “Don’t patronize me, Spence. If I’m fucked, then so are you. Remember that when you give me those smug platitudes of yours.”

  “I wasn’t being patronizing or smug. I’m as concerned as you. But losing our heads will only make the situation worse.”

  “I don’t think it could get any worse.”

  “Of course it could.”

  David slammed his fist into his opposite palm. “How could this happen?”

  “I don’t know. Everything at Tabor House went according to plan. My men swallowed their pride and let Bondurant overcome them. But how could we have known that Clete had a helicopter standing by only a few miles from there?”

  “Well, you should have known. That’s what I pay you for. And where the hell is George? He sneaked out and must have gone home. Call him there. Ask him if the doctors at the hospital will be able to undo what he’s done.”

  “I’ve called his house several times. The line’s been busy, and he hasn’t responded to my page.”

  “He’s Vanessa’s doctor of record. Maybe he’s been summoned to the hospital,” David said hopefully.

  “That’s highly unlikely, David. After this, Clete won’t let him within a mile of her.”

  “Christ! If this doesn’t work—”

  “We’ll think of something else,” Spence said smoothly. “What we mustn’t lose sight of is that Vanessa has become a threat to the administration. She, you, and I are the only ones who know what happened in the nursery that night. George must suspect, but there’s no way he can be sure. One way or another, we must guarantee Vanessa’s silence. Then no one will know.”

  “Except,” David said, thoughtfully regarding Spence, “me and you.”

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking when President Merritt arrived at the hospital to see his wife. Instead of his usual suit, he had chosen to wear casual clothes and a windbreaker, believing that the more disheveled he appeared, the more convincing his anxiety would be.

  Secret Service had appeared in advance of his arrival. The hospital was in a state of barely controlled chaos. The media was out in full force, vying for the latest news in the ongoing saga of the First Lady’s health. The President entered the hospital through the kitchen and, using an elevator reserved for staff, was escorted up to her room.

  When he went in, his father-in-law was standing at her bedside. “How is she, Clete?” he asked worriedly.

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Vanessa appeared to be sleeping, but when David lifted her hand, her eyes came open. He beamed a smile on her. “Hello, darling. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Hello, David. How good of you to come,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Mr. President, this is Dr. Murphy.”

  He absently acknowledged Clete’s introduction to the attending physician. “What’s the matter with my wife, Doctor?”

  “In my opinion, Mr. President, she was receiving an inappropriately high dosage of lithium, especially since it was combined with Haldol and other sedatives.”

  “I thought her blood levels were constantly being monitored.”

  The doctor shrugged. “Dr. Leopold has faxed me her chart from Tabor House. The levels recorded are what they should be, but they’re inconsistent with what our lab here has found to be the case.”

  “How could Dex Leopold’s staff make such an error?” No one ventured a guess. In fact there was an embarrassed silence coming from Dr. Murphy’s side of the patient’s
bed. “What’s her prognosis?” David asked briskly.

  “She’s toxic. I’ve got IVs flushing out her system. That will take several days. Then I’ll readjust the dosages of her medication to an effective but safe level. She shouldn’t be reduced to a zombie, as she was when she arrived.”

  “But she’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Thank God.” David squeezed Vanessa’s hand and pressed it to his lips, then bent down and kissed her softly. Her lips were no warmer and no more responsive than those of a mannequin.

  The doctor excused himself, leaving the three of them alone. Before Clete had an opportunity to launch an attack, David went on the offensive. “I’ll have Dex Leopold’s ass for this.”

  Clete said, “Before you get too involved with somebody else’s ass, I suggest you start thinking about covering your own.”

  David feigned surprise. “What do you mean?”

  There was a knock at the door. Spencer Martin walked in.

  Vanessa drew a quick breath, showing more animation than she had up to this point. Clete said, “Well, well. The bad penny has finally come around again.”

  Spence seemed impervious to the insult. He looked past Clete to speak to Vanessa. “I’m glad to hear that you’re on the mend.” Then to David, he said, “Dalton Neely is having a difficult time convincing the media that Mrs. Merritt’s prognosis is positive. I think you should address them yourself, sir, and assure the nation that the First Lady will soon be back in commission.”

  “That’s a good idea,” David agreed. “Clete, why don’t you come with me? Your presence there will underscore the good news.”

  Clete looked down at Vanessa. “Is that okay with you, sweetheart? Do you mind being left alone?”

  “I’m not alone any longer, Daddy,” she said softly.

  “You’re surely not.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. When he straightened, he swept his arm toward the door. “After you, Mr. President.”

  David didn’t like the senator’s complacency. Not at all. He liked even less the pure loathing with which his wife looked at him. Nevertheless, he told her goodbye, promised that he would return for another visit later in the day, and kissed her hand tenderly before releasing it.