Exclusive

by Sandra Brown

  * * *

  From the beginning, David Merritt had been a hands-on president, eager to press the flesh of the people who had elected him. His friendliness challenged the men sworn to protect him. Today was no exception.

  To the dismay of the Secret Service, the impromptu press conference was held on the ground floor of the hospital, with media and hospital personnel crowding against the nylon rope that provided a tenuous barricade.

  A harried Dalton Neely gratefully stood aside for the President, whose arrival had whipped the media into a frenzy. He was immediately bombarded with shouted questions. He held up his hands for quiet. When the clamor subsided, he announced that he and Senator Armbruster had just come from Mrs. Merritt’s room.

  “We’ve both spoken with her. She’s lucid, she’s doing well, and she’s in very good spirits. Senator Armbruster and I have every confidence in the care she’s receiving from this excellent staff of doctors, nurses, and medical technicians.”

  It was amazing to Clete that David could handle himself with such aplomb, no matter what the situation. Objectively, he could stand back and admire the president he’d cultivated almost singlehandedly. But he’d also created a monster. And, like in Mary Shelley’s classic story, it fell to the creator to destroy his creation.

  The President dodged a question about Dr. George Allan by saying that Dr. Allan was presently unavailable. To questions about Mrs. Merritt’s so-called kidnapping from Tabor House, he answered that he would have no comment until he’d been fully briefed on the incident. “Reports have been conflicting,” he said.

  Then he begged their understanding for the brevity of the press conference, thanked them profusely for their concern, and made his way toward the exit. Clete declined to answer the questions flung at him, but he did ask David for a lift to his house.

  David was nonplussed by the request, but he consented and informed the chauffeur that they would be making the unscheduled stop before returning to the White House.

  “Take another one,” Clete said brusquely to Spence when he tried to join them in the President’s limo.

  Spence looked to David for instruction. “Please, Spence,” he said. Clete could tell that Spence didn’t like it, but he went along to save face.

  “When did he resurface?” Clete asked as the motorcade filed out of the hospital parking lot.

  “When you made up that ridiculous story about a… what was it? A ‘delicate personal matter’?”

  “Something to that effect.” Clete chuckled. “Frankly, I regret that Bondurant didn’t kill the son of a bitch when he had a chance.”

  “Is that why you asked me for a ride? So you could once again give me your unsolicited negative opinion of my adviser?”

  “No. What I have to say is much more important than him.”

  “Out with it, Clete. You’ve been dropping juicy little hints that I’m on the brink of doom and only you can save me.”

  “Actually, that’s not too far off the mark, David. I’m the only thing standing between you and a shit hole so deep you’ll never find bottom.”

  David whistled. “That does sound serious.”

  “Mocking me, David? Try this on for size.” Clete cranked up his intimidating gaze to full throttle. “Vanessa’s baby wasn’t yours, so you killed it, and you’ve tried at least twice to kill her.”

  As Clete had known they would, the statements wiped the smile off David’s face. “If Vanessa told you that, she’s sicker even than we thought, and we both know she’s a fruitcake.”

  Clete controlled his temper, not wishing to give David even that much advantage. “I’m not going to waste a lot of time on this, David. For every accusation I make, you’ll have a dozen lying denials, explanations, or justifications. I know how you operate because I’m the one who taught you. So let’s make this easy on both of us. I can guarantee you something you want and need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My silence. And Vanessa’s.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Uncontested divorce.”

  David didn’t bat an eye. “You must be going senile, Clete.”

  “I promise you I’m not.”

  “You’ve suggested a quick, uncontested divorce from Vanessa?”

  “Not suggested. Mandated. Or else.”

  David Merritt’s derisive smile returned. “Or else what?”

  Clete reached for his briefcase and withdrew a sealed mailing envelope. “Or else I call up Bill Yancey and surrender this to him.”

  He passed the envelope to his son-in-law, who opened it and removed several color photographs. David dropped them as though they were live cobras.

  “Turns your stomach, doesn’t it? She bled like hell. But one thing Becky Sturgis did not do was die accidentally. She didn’t fall backward during a scuffle with you and hit her head on the corner of a table, as you told me that night. You beat her to death, David. As these photographs of her will attest.”

  David recovered his shock with remarkable ease. “This is a bluff, Clete. One unworthy of you. I’m not in the photographs. These could be the pictures of any corpse. For that matter, you could have beaten this girl to death yourself.”

  “I could have, but I didn’t. There’s more in that envelope than the pictures.” David shook it, and an audio cassette fell into his lap. “You killed her, David. You admitted as much in a tearful confession. Remember? If not, it’s all there on the tape.”

  Softly Clete added, “I record everything, David. I later erase what’s inconsequential, and keep anything that might someday prove useful. After I saw what you did to that poor defenseless girl and her baby, I decided to keep this particular tape.”

  It was gratifying to see beads of sweat forming on David’s forehead. He said, “You’d never use this, Clete, because you’re just as guilty as I am.”

  “I wouldn’t want to,” he conceded. “My life of public service would end in disgrace. Instead, I would much rather leave you to the devil, and live out the rest of my days revered as an effective statesman, with my daughter at my side. This nasty incident from your past,” he said, nodding down at the photographs, “can vanish, poof, like that. All you have to do is let Vanessa go without a hassle and without any undue explanations to the media.”

  “How do you propose I do that?”

  Clete shrugged. “The two of you have irreconcilable differences, period. The death of the child put a strain on the marriage. Millions of couples in America will empathize. The honesty with which you approach the divorce might even win you a few sympathy votes.”

  David clenched his jaw. “Do you think I’m an idiot? A divorce before an election year would be political suicide. The party probably wouldn’t even put me on the ticket.”

  “You don’t know that. Divorce isn’t a crime. However, double murder is, and there’s no statute of limitations.” He gave his son-in-law time to reflect on the ghastly repercussions should the Becky Sturgis story come to light. After a time, he said, “I’m offering you a generous deal, David. Even if I didn’t have a vested interest, I’d advise you to accept it.”

  “Those pictures don’t prove a goddamn thing, and neither does the tape.”

  “Doesn’t matter whether it’s proved,” Clete said blandly. “The mere hint of a scandal of this magnitude would eliminate your chance for a second term. In fact, you’d become a pariah. No matter what you tried to do, this would haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  David looked on the verge of imploding, but Clete knew he’d won this first round. He would win plenty more rounds before David was on the mat, pleading for mercy. This was the big granddaddy scandal, but there were others, a whole bagful of them. One by one, he would draw them out and expose them. There were enough to last for years, enough to last long after Clete Armbruster was moldering in his grave. But he would die happy, knowing that David Merritt would never know another minute’s peace.

  But for the time being, Clete was satisfied. It was enough for on
e morning.

  “You may keep those copies, David. I have others. By the way, in case you’re thinking of sending Spence or one of his thugs after me, my attorney also has copies of the photos and the tape. He’s been instructed to release them to the media in the event of my death by anything other than natural causes.”

  The chauffeur pulled the limo to a stop at the curb in front of the senator’s home. “Wait a minute,” David said, grabbing Clete’s arm as he was about to alight. “You’ve guaranteed your silence, but what about Barrie Travis and Gray Bondurant? Aren’t you in with them?”

  Clete bristled at the thought. “With the airhead journalist and the man who seduced my daughter? Hardly. Leave them to me.” He patted David on the knee. “Think over everything I said and get back to me. I’m sure you’ll come around to my way of thinking.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The attorney general stood at the window, his fists pressing against the small of his back, stretching. Barrie wished she knew what he was thinking. Did he believe her? During the telling of her story, he’d interrupted occasionally to ask her to clarify a point, but when she finished, he’d stood up and begun to pace the room, without giving any indication of whether he thought she was telling the truth.

  Gray had separated himself from them and was now watching the TV, on which the big news story of the day was being documented. He cursed beneath his breath when the President made his brief statement to the media at the hospital, but when a doctor reiterated that the First Lady would enjoy a full recovery, Gray couldn’t hide his profound relief.

  Naturally, Barrie shared it. But she wouldn’t be human if she hadn’t felt a twinge of jealousy.

  At some point during Barrie’s monologue, Daily had fallen asleep. She was glad he was able to rest. He looked completely done in.

  “What I don’t understand,” said the attorney general, turning to face the room, “is why Mrs. Merritt didn’t blow the whistle on him herself.”

  Barrie replied without a moment’s thought. “Fear. She was afraid of him, Bill. The day we met for coffee, she was about to jump out of her skin. I don’t think all her jitters could be attributed to her manic-depression. That’s when she first began to suspect that her days were numbered and that he would try something like this. Making that appointment with me was the first smoke signal she sent up.”

  Yancey looked over at Gray. “What about George Allan?”

  “He’s David’s puppet. He hasn’t got the balls to be anything else. David’s got him by the short and curlies. Mrs. Allan admitted as much to us.”

  “That’s right, Bill,” Barrie said. “I’m sure she would substantiate your case.”

  “Case?” he repeated, snorting. “I don’t have a case. I’ve got nothing except the word of two fugitives who are being sought for kidnapping.”

  “But you believe us,” she said. “I know you do, or you wouldn’t have brought us here in the first place.” She joined him at the window. “Is it so hard to believe that a chief executive is capable of murder? Look out there.” In the early morning sun, they could see the tip of the Washington Monument.

  “Monuments to presidents. Some were scoundrels, some were good and honorable men. Tall, short, warriors, statesmen. But their one common denominator, besides the office to which they were elected, is that they were human. History has exalted them, made them larger than life, in some instances elevated them to demigods, but they weren’t.

  “They were men, mortals with character flaws. They laughed, cried, got mad, got constipated. They had no immunity from pride or pain or heartache or…” She looked at Gray. “Or jealousy. David Merritt knew that his wife had cheated. She bore another man’s child. He couldn’t tolerate that. So he did something about it.”

  He’s done it before.

  The thought struck her so hard, she shuddered. The words were so clear, she thought someone had spoken out loud. “What?”

  Yancey looked at her. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Gray said, “You were saying that—”

  “Wait.” She held up her hand for quiet.

  The sudden revelation had so much impact it was almost biblical. Its power brought her to her knees. Literally. She sank to the floor.

  “Barrie.” Gray shoved Yancey aside and knelt down in front of her. He took her by the shoulders and looked worriedly into her eyes. “Barrie, what is it?” His voice seemed to come from a great distance, barely heard above the roaring inside her head.

  He’s done it before.

  Where had she heard those words? Or had she read them? Why had they popped into her head now? Why did they seem vitally important?

  Then, in a blinding moment of clarity, she remembered where she’d read them, and she knew the answers to those questions, and the back of her neck began to itch.

  “Barrie, are you all right?” Bill Yancey was crouched beside Gray, his concern evident.

  “Say something, dammit!” Gray said.

  “What’s happening?” Daily sat up and scratched his scruffy head. “What’s going on? What’s the matter with her?”

  Daily. God bless him, hadn’t he told her a thousand times that a good reporter dug deep, that there was always another layer to unfold, that you should never discount anything, no matter how seemingly unimportant and valueless?

  The best leads—the ones that made a story sensational, that elevated a so-so story into one that rocked the world—were the ones found in the most unlikely places, places you’d never think to look for them.

  It had been there all the time. All the damn time! Among the scraps of paper and notes that she’d taken from her desk at WVUE. She had checked out the lead, but only superficially. She hadn’t dug deep enough.

  She cautioned herself against getting too excited now. She could be wrong. This could still prove to be a blind alley, but gut instinct was telling her otherwise. In any case, she had to find out.

  Pushing the men aside, she surged to her feet. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I… I’d rather not say. Not until I know.”

  “You want to leave, but you don’t know where you’re going?”

  “Of course I know where I’m going,” she said impatiently. “I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. But I’ve got to go.”

  Bill Yancey said, “Barrie, I can’t let you walk out of here—”

  “Please, Bill. Send someone with me. A U.S. marshal. Let him handcuff me, I don’t care. Just, please, let me do this. It could bust this thing wide open.”

  “What could?”

  “That’s what I can’t say.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t want to look like a fool if I’m wrong!”

  A long silence followed her shout.

  Then: “Let her go.”

  It was Gray who’d spoken, and when Barrie turned to him with surprise, his eyes were on her, communicating a thousand things, not the least of which was absolute faith in her.

  In that instant, she knew she loved him. Dammit. She loved him very much.

  “Let her go,” he repeated, holding her stare. “She knows what she’s doing.”

  * * *

  “Could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you showed up with a letter of introduction from the attorney general.”

  Deputy Warden Foote Graham was as disarming as his name. He belied the bully stereotype portrayed in prison movies. He was mild-mannered, slender as a reed, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He was sensitive enough not to express any curiosity about the soiled nurse’s uniform she was wearing. She hadn’t taken time to change.

  Barrie thanked him for seeing her without an appointment. “I left Washington in such a hurry, there wasn’t time to notify you that I was coming.”

  Bill Yancey had greased the skids. After agreeing to the trip to Mississippi, he’d placed a private jet at her disposal. At the Jackson airport, there’d been a car and esco
rt waiting to drive her to the prison in Pearl. Foote Graham was in awe of his well-connected guest and had readily agreed to assist in any way he could.

  “I assume your interview with Charlene Walters is of an urgent nature?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Warden Graham. That’s confidential.”

  “I can’t figure it,” he said, shaking his head in bafflement. “But if you and Attorney General Yancey say it’s a matter of national security, who’m I to question it.”

  He ushered her through a door that was opened for them by a uniformed female guard. “She’s waiting for you,” the guard said. “And mad as a hornet to be pulled away from rec time.”

  The prisoner was drinking a can of Dr Pepper and did indeed look put out when Warden Graham and Barrie Travis approached her. Charlene Walters was a tiny woman, with a bony, concave chest and spindly arms and legs. Her white, overpermed hair formed a frizzy halo around her small head. Her snapping black eyes and the quick, abrupt manner in which she moved reminded Barrie of a sparrow.

  Giving Barrie a once-over, she snorted with disdain. “Well, it certainly took you long enough.”

  Barrie extended her right hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Walters.”

  Crazy Charlene shook hands with her, then addressed the warden condescendingly. “We got private things to discuss. Do you mind?”

  Although she had challenged his authority, Foote Graham smiled. “Of course not. I’ll make myself scarce.”

  He joined the female guard who was standing at a discreet distance. Barrie and Charlene took chairs on either side of a small table. “I understand I’m interrupting your recreation time. I apologize.”

  “You got any cigarettes?”

  Barrie dug into her satchel and produced the same pack she had offered to Vanessa Merritt a few weeks ago. Charlene shook one from the pack and placed it between her thin lips. Barrie lighted it for her, then asked if Charlene had any objections to her recording the interview.