Close Call

by Laura Disilverio

  18

  Paul

  Friday, August 4

  Congressman Montoya worked from his expansive Maryland home on Friday mornings, Paul had discovered during his weeks of surveillance, then spent a couple of hours in his constituency office in the early afternoon. Only rarely did he go to his Capitol office on Fridays.

  Usually father and son, who was somehow involved with the campaign, worked at the house together, with or without staffers from the office. Paul waited in his car down the road from the Montoya mansion, pleased that today there were no extra cars indicating staffers attending their boss at home. The wife had driven off earlier, so it was just father and son. There were neighbors in the area but not too close, not like in some communities where you could count the whiskers in your neighbor’s sink by looking out your window into his bathroom. Like that contract he’d done in Wisconsin in February—now that had been tricky, with the neighbors so close they could practically hear the target snoring.

  He brought his thoughts back to the mission at hand. Separating father and son was the only trick, because he didn’t want to take them both out. He prided himself on his precision and on limiting collateral damage. It shouldn’t be a problem catching the target alone, because the congressman was in the habit of taking a five-mile jog along the quiet lanes that bordered the Pax River when he didn’t go into DC.

  The medications the doc had given him were wearing off and his shoulder pulsed with pain. The bandages itched, and even with the car pulled halfway off the road in the shade of a large tree, the rising heat and humidity were making him sweat. He wondered how his pop was doing today. He’d checked in with Moira earlier, but his father was still sleeping. He couldn’t decide if he hoped his pop remembered shooting him or got the shooting mixed up with memories of his time on the force and whatever ’70s detective shows he had watched recently.

  Bullfrogs croaked from the river bank behind him and Paul tried to focus on the repetitive sound, let it help him find the zone. He scanned the road with his binoculars again, urging the congressman to appear. The weight of the Savage Arms Striker .22-250 he’d gotten from his safety deposit box was familiar and reassuring against the small of his back.

  A flash of movement up the road caught his attention. Bingo. Clad in a white T-shirt and navy shorts, the man was jogging straight at Paul, his strides long and loose. Paul shrank down below dashboard level, cursing the pain in his shoulder as he bumped it. He counted slowly to one hundred, giving Montoya time to get past him, then eased himself up to peer over the dash. Montoya was a quarter mile down the left fork, oblivious to his surroundings. Good.

  19

  Fidel

  Fidel Montoya picked up his pace. Damn but it felt good to stretch his legs, get away from paperwork and the goddamned phone. It never stopped ringing. He’d told his staff he didn’t need them at the house today, mostly because he planned to take a long—a very long—lunch with Gillian March, a soccer mom and campaign volunteer. He’d see she was rewarded properly for her door-to-door campaigning on his behalf. A smile slipped onto his face. He’d seen the heat in her eyes when they rested on him, the way her tongue licked her lips. She was always touching him, on the shoulder, the hand, even the thigh once. She was ripe for the picking, married ten years to a husband who traveled a lot. Montoya preferred married conquests—that way they had as much to lose as he did, or almost.

  Thinking about Gillian’s long, muscled thighs under her short denim skirts made him half tumescent. Shit, he was acting like a horny fifteen-year-old. He shifted himself and lengthened his stride again. A woodpecker’s rapid rat-a-tat-tat-tat sounded nearby, and a turkey gave his strangled gobble. As Montoya checked his watch, clocking his time, he heard the rumble of a car behind him and shifted onto the shoulder, soft from recent rains. His $140 running shoes sank into the mud and he cursed. Running through this muck would add several seconds to his time. No personal best today.

  A gentle berm rose to his right, sloping down fifty feet through trees and underbrush to the Pax River. A bright red cardinal flitted from tree to tree and sunlight sparkled on the muddy river where it dodged away from the trees’ shadows. The gurgle of the river and the pounding of his feet almost drowned out the sound of the approaching car. Step on it, buddy, Montoya thought, willing the car to move around him so he could edge back onto the solid macadam.

  The car’s engine growled and it suddenly sped past him, peppering him with mud. He jumped to the side, cursing. His right foot slipped in the mud just as the sound of a gunshot split the quiet morning air. Something whizzed past his shoulder. Instinctively, Montoya dove for the ground. He went over the berm, tumbling through the vines, ferns, and grasses that made up the undergrowth of a Maryland forest. Thorns and twigs clawed at the bare skin of his legs and arms as he folded them around his face to protect it. Jolting into a tree trunk knocked the breath out of him and he struggled to pull in air, listening for another shot or the car’s engine. Had the shot come from the car?

  Sydney Linn’s—Ellison’s—face popped into his head and he slid on his haunches toward the river, hearing again her story about a contract killer out to get him. Could this be … He thought he saw movement, a dark figure up at road level walking to the left, then to the right, starting down the hill at the point where he’d crashed into the woods. Stalking him. God, his imagination was working overtime. He almost called out, but stopped himself. There was something eerie in the quiet, something not right.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was parched with fear and he only succeeded in creating a lump in his throat. The river beckoned. Montoya had survived a long time in the political jungle by trusting his instincts. With as little noise as possible, he scuffed off his shoes and slipped into the river. The cool of the water—he’d thought it would be warmer on such a hot day—caught him unaware and he stifled a gasp as his pores retracted and every cut and abrasion stung. Taking a deep breath, he dove beneath the murky surface, stroking for the middle as the current carried him downstream.

  20

  Sydney

  When Sydney walked into the Winning Ways offices on Friday morning, she knew immediately it had been a bad idea. Putting on a tan suit and navy shell as if it were a normal morning had felt like a positive step, but her staff were treading warily, slanting sympathetic looks her way, offering condolences, reminding her with every glance and breath and sentence that Jason was dead. Responding to “I’m so sorrys” wore her out before she even got to her office. She nodded and thanked everyone and told them she’d let them know when Jason’s parents gave her details about the funeral. To solicitous inquiries of “How are you?” she said, “Coping,” and left it at that. Her hand shook as she twisted the knob on her office door. She didn’t even make it to the desk before her legs gave out. Sinking onto one of the green chairs, she wondered how long she had to stay before she could leave without looking like a total idiot.

  The door flew open without ceremony, and D’won marched in. “What the hell are you doing here, Syd?” he asked, his frown a blend of annoyance and concern. His slim figure was clad in a navy suit with a lavender shirt and deeper purple tie speckled with parrots. Was she imagining it, or did his hair have purple highlights today? “You should be at your mama’s house, letting her coddle you, not—”

  “You’ve met Connie. Coddling is not her strong suit.”

  Her attempt at humor fell flat and D’won ignored it. “Go. Home.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. That’s worse. I have to do something. I want to figure out who killed Jason, but I don’t even know where to start. I thought that here, that I could … ” She trailed off, not sure what she’d thought. She’d just known she couldn’t mope in the townhouse all day, sorting through Jason’s things, seeing reminders of him everywhere. And she hadn’t come up with a single idea for “summoning” Jason’s killer, as Reese had put it. She felt useless at home. Here, she had a purpo
se.

  D’won studied her for a moment, full lower lip thrust out, and then nodded sharply. “Okay then. If you’re going to be here, you can teach the Interviewing Class. It starts in ten minutes. Trust Uncle D’won. You’ll feel better if you get up off your butt and get into the classroom. We’ve got four new women—one of whom seems sharp—and a couple of retreads having another go at it. They’ll take your mind off … stuff.”

  “I don’t know … ” She twiddled a paper clip.

  “Just get your butt in the classroom. Muscle memory will take over from there.”

  She stood. D’won was right; teaching would help. She needed to get out of her head. “Have you considered a career as a radio psychologist?” She moved around him toward the door.

  “And leave all this?” D’won said, gesturing to the office and shaping his face into an expression that suggested it was as luxurious as Versailles. “Although maybe I could moonlight. I could be Dr. Laura and Frasier Crane rolled into one, only handsomer and without the broomstick up my butt. The black hip radio psychologist to the disaffected millennials and Gen Yers. I can’t call myself Dr. D’won, though—that sounds like a rap star. Dr. Do-good?”

  Sydney gave a gurgle of laughter and he looked enormously pleased with himself. They left her office and started toward the classroom. Halfway there, Topaz Johnson, the receptionist, came scurrying down the hall, a gauzy skirt fluttering around her ankles, kohl-circled eyes wide. “Sydney, the police are here. They want—”

  Before Sydney could process what Topaz was saying, a uniformed officer appeared, accompanied by Detective West. The hallway suddenly seemed crowded. Sydney searched West’s face, unable to read his expression. His brown eyes seemed shuttered, his lips drawn into a thin line. “We have a warrant for your arrest,” he said without preamble. “You have to come down to the station with us.”

  He was speaking Urdu as far as Sydney was concerned. “What?”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” D’won said, hands on his hips. Topaz nodded her agreement.

  The uniformed officer—Salazar, his nametag said—reached for the cuffs on his belt, but West shook his head. “Look, is there a back way out of here? I’d just as soon dodge the media, and I assume you would, too. They’re stacked up out front like vultures looking for fresh meat.”

  “This way.” Sydney had recovered herself. She didn’t know why West was arresting her, or why, given that he was hauling her off to the police station, he was helping her escape the media’s scrutiny, but she was grateful for the consideration. She caught her breath between a laugh and a sob as she realized she was more upset at the prospect of facing reporters than being arrested.

  West took her upper arm in a light grip and headed toward the stairway she’d indicated, Salazar trailing behind.

  “Call Hilary Trent,” she and West said in chorus to D’won.

  Their eyes met and Sydney gave him a tiny smile, bewildered yet grateful for what seemed like his concern for her. West’s fingers squeezed her upper arm tighter, not painfully, but almost as if he were trying to comfort her, and he gave D’won an address to pass on to Trent.

  “I’ll ring your mama, too,” D’won called after them. “I guess this means I’m teaching the interviewing class.” His voice said, some people will do anything to duck their responsibilities.

  21

  Paul

  Paul cursed under his breath. The sound of the rifle shot might have spurred a neighbor to summon the police; he couldn’t risk it. His chance was gone for now. He returned to the car, where he’d left the door ajar so as not to alert the target with the sound of a car door slamming. As he eased it closed, he slapped on a baseball cap to change his profile. He’d memorized three routes out of the area and now stepped on the accelerator, his shoulder burning like a pack of wolverines was chewing on it. Keeping to the speed limit, he traversed the maze of secondary streets leading to the highway, alert for the sound of a cop’s siren or unusual traffic.

  Breathing easier once he reached the state highway, which would take him to the parking lot where he would dump the hot car, he jabbed the radio on.

  An announcer was talking about Sydney Ellison: “ … arrested for the murder of Jason Nygaard. The detectives on the case are not revealing what evidence they may have, but we’re expecting a news conference within the hour.”

  At least something was going right today. It seemed his client knew what he was talking about. With any luck, the police would discount anything Ellison had told them about a strange phone call now that they’d found the murder weapon in her possession. Still, with her connections, she’d be back on the street where he could get to her pronto. Maybe a suicide scenario would work … she’d lost her lover, been arrested and humiliated. He replayed a couple of successful contracts in his mind—hits written off as suicides by the local police. He could do Ellison like he had that radio guy in Syracuse. What was his name? Bekins. Yeah.

  The radio station segued into a Jimi Hendrix number and Paul scanned the strip malls flashing past on either side, hoping to spot an acute care clinic. Maybe he could score some antibiotics with a tale about being exposed to his grandkid’s strep throat. He’d feed ’em a story about being here on business, his wife calling to say little Paulie had strep throat, his fears of infecting the people he was here to deal with. He’d wave cash in their faces, hope the doc would fork over some samples. They always had plenty of samples on hand at these clinics, didn’t they, from drug company reps pushing their products? He opened his mouth wide and examined his throat in the rear view mirror. It did look a bit red.

  22

  Fidel

  Fidel Montoya scrambled out of the river two miles downstream from where he’d gone in. Dark hair plastered to his skull, running shorts rendered almost transparent by the water, his first thought was to avoid being seen by a voter or, God forbid, a reporter until he could make himself more presentable. He patted the velcroed pocket of his shorts, knowing the only thing he’d find was his house key. No money, no wallet, no cell phone. Damn. He’d have to walk home, keeping to the woods, and hope no one spotted him. His fear of the assailant had diminished as the water chilled him, and now, as he trudged barefoot through the woods, he almost hoped he’d run into the bastard because he wanted to beat him to a pulp.

  His route paralleled the road and he ducked deeper into the woods whenever the sound of a motor warned him of a car’s approach. Twigs and thorns tore into his bare feet and his left leg throbbed from hip to ankle where he’d smacked it against the tree. His clothes steamed in the heat and sweat dripped from every pore, stinging the dozens of cuts and scrapes that scored his body. He judged he was about half a mile from his house when another car roared down the road, coming toward him. He jumped sideways into the underbrush, crouching, and knew from the instantaneous burning on his right foot and ankle that he’d landed in a patch of poison ivy. “Fuuck!” he bellowed as the car’s wake kicked up leaves and dust.

  From a copse of dogwood trees on the south end of his property, he surveyed the house, absently scratching his ankle. A man’s silhouette moved in the downstairs office. Jimmy. Thank God. He limped to the kitchen door and pulled it open. They needed to be more careful about locking up. He made a mental note to remind Jimmy and Katya. Beelining for the freezer, he dragged a bottle of Grey Goose from the icy depths. He slugged back one shot, then another, before setting the bottle on the counter. Shower, anti-itch ointment, band-aids for his cuts, and food, in that order. Then he’d figure out what to do about the man who’d tried to kill him.

  “Dad! What the hell?”

  Jimmy’s voice made him spin. His son’s face was a study in astonishment, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Montoya was conscious of a prickle of embarrassment at his appearance and covered it with outrage. “Someone just took a shot at me.”

  That statement made Jimmy’s face go blank. Irrit
ated with his son’s slowness, Montoya took him through it all, starting with Sydney Ellison’s visit to his office. While he was talking, Jimmy capped the vodka bottle and restored it to the freezer. The freezer belched cold air at them.

  “It was probably some redneck getting a jump on hunting season,” Jimmy said.

  Montoya flared his nostrils. “Nothing’s in season in August!”

  “A poacher, then.” Jimmy shrugged, obviously not impressed by Montoya’s brush with death.

  “Someone was stalking me. I saw him.”

  “You said you glimpsed someone. Coulda been a deer. There was a ten-point buck on the lawn this morning when I—”

  “It wasn’t a fucking deer!” Montoya stopped himself with an upraised hand and sucked in a deep breath. “I need a shower.” Leaving the kitchen, he headed down the hall.

  Jimmy called after him, obviously anxious to make amends, “If you think there’s something more to it, call Em’s dad. Let him run it to ground.”

  Montoya grunted and kept going.

  By the time he’d scoured away every molecule of river water, swallowed a Percocet left over from a root canal, and coated his shin, ankle, and foot with calamine, he knew what he wouldn’t do about the situation. He was damn sure not going to publicize it in any way, leave an opening for his opponent in Tuesday’s race. He could just see the headlines. Either the press would ridicule him and call his story a cheap attempt to generate publicity or some wit like Howard Stern or Rush would start a lottery betting on his chances of surviving until the general election. He couldn’t scare voters away faster if he said he had AIDS and fucked Rottweilers. The hell with that.