Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "I'm really fantasizing now," she said, leaning her head against the bars that made up one wall of the room. There was a large mirror, which she knew was a two-way glass. Evans could be sitting out there now, watching her talk to the cat! She glanced at the window; Familiar was gone. She was glad, but had never felt more alone.

  The only thing she could do was to begin to patch together the things she'd learned, the most notable of which was that her ex-husband and Evans were friends. The idea of Carter alive was almost too much to bear. But he was, and she'd have to deal with him. She could clearly see the link of Carter, Evans and Code One Orange. Rayburn had been caught innocently in the middle of it. By calling him, she'd condemned him to death!

  "Oh, Rayburn," she whispered, feeling desolation sweep over her. "I'm so sorry." She paced the small room, avoiding looking into the mirror. She didn't want to give Evans the satisfaction of seeing how upset she was.

  Thinking back over the day, she was struck by the possibility that Sam Nottingham had set her up. He'd sent her into the tunnels for a meeting with Breck in the Capitol. Had he known what waited for her in the darkness? After all, he'd first been rude, then had suddenly agreed to talk with her. And Nottingham had a Central American background. Code One Orange.

  "Damn!" she whispered. "I should have waited until I found Peter when I called from Nottingham's office." The hard truth was that no one really knew where she'd gone. No one would even have the faintest idea where to begin looking for her.

  Hysteria began to rise like a tidal wave. When she didn't talk with her parents at Christmas, they'd begin to worry. But by then it would be too late. Panic almost overwhelmed her. She gripped the bars and held on, forcing her mind to grow calm, her body to stop trembling. She was underestimating Peter. He was nobody's fool and he wouldn't give up. If she could figure it out, so could he. She went back to the window and tried to look at the outside world. She had no idea what time it was. The only thing to do was think.

  What role did Charles Breck play in all of this? Could he really be an innocent who'd happened to hire a psychopath to train a pet ape? What was his connection with Code One Orange? Was he a victim of Nottingham's schemes? She tried to evaluate the situation sensibly. She'd watched the interaction between Breck and Evans. Breck was acting head of the CIA, a tenuous position, at best. His background was in diplomacy rather than counterintelligence. During the meeting at the clinic, Evans had appeared rational. She'd talked with him and hadn't been frightened. He'd been in control of himself, even when Magdalena had attacked him.

  She felt her heart skip. And Magdalena had attacked him— and invited a physical assault. She wanted Evans to do something so that she could have him arrested. But he'd been too smart! He'd waited and gone to her home to hurt her.

  All the blood in her brain seemed to drop into Eleanor's stomach. She'd never felt such fear. She was locked up, a captive of a man who could kill her as easily as he tormented small, helpless animals. Her panic was once again augmented by the sound of low moaning. Somewhere in the clinic there was someone else in serious trouble.

  "Where are you?" she whispered, cocking her head for a response. "I'll try and help you, but don't be afraid." She tried to sound brave, but knew her nerve was weakening. When she discovered the moaning person, what atrocity would she find? Her imagination was running away with her, and she felt like curling into a corner and hiding.

  "Listen." She forced herself to talk reassuringly. "I'm going to get us out of here. I promise." Something about the sound of the moaning made her think that it came from a child, a young girl. "You aren't alone anymore. Whatever we have to do to get away, we will."

  There was the sound of an intercom clicking on. "Save it, Dr. Duncan. There's absolutely nowhere you can go and nothing you can do to save yourself or anyone else. Sleep tight, now."

  The lights were snapped off; she was alone with the soft whimpering of the child and the echo of Arnold Evans's hard voice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eleanor's new sofa was a muted blue and still covered in the thick plastic used for shipping. Peter noted the change in furniture as he stepped into her living room, and the emptiness. There was no sign that Eleanor had been home.

  "I told you she wasn't here," Wessy said. "The men came this afternoon to deliver the sofa, and Dr. Duncan wasn't anywhere to be found." He gave Peter a sour look. "She's had a lot of trouble since she met you."

  "There are a few questions I've been meaning to ask you," Peter said pointedly. "Like how did Rayburn Smith get into her apartment? The police said someone opened the door for him."

  "And you're thinking it was me!" Blood suffused Wessy's face.

  "I'm thinking you might have had a hand in it." Peter held his ground but kept his voice calm.

  "And does Miss Eleanor doubt me?"

  Something about the older man's tone gave Peter pause. "I don't know," he said honestly.

  "I shouldn't have opened this door," Wessy said, giving Peter a cold look. "You've used me and then set me up to look guilty. Get out!"

  "I'm not finished here," Peter said. "Eleanor is missing, and I need to see if I can find any clue as to where she went."

  "I have to get back to the door," Wessy said. "I never should have left my post."

  "Did you tell this to the police?" A surge of adrenaline pumped through Peter's veins.

  "I couldn't," Wessy replied, looking at the tips of his shoes. "I'd lose my job if they knew I let that man in the door— if they knew I'd let you into Eleanor's apartment. But it doesn't matter— " he shrugged "— I'm going to lose my job now, anyway. That man was murdered, right in here." He looked around, but his eyes weren't focused. "Right on her old sofa."

  "Wessy, you have to tell me everything that happened. Did the man say why he had to see Eleanor?" An uncomfortable feeling crawled along Peter's spine. Wessy was acting strangely, as if he thought Eleanor was guilty of something, maybe even murder.

  "He was talkative, sort of rambling on more than anything else. He really wanted me to open the door, so he talked a lot. He said he never wanted to come here, but that he'd talked with Eleanor and he was worried because of some of the things she'd said." He met Peter's gaze. "The man was afraid he was going to be hurt. He was afraid of Eleanor."

  "What things did he say were dangerous?"

  "Something about the past and Colorado. He kept talking about her husband." He looked at Peter. "I didn't know she'd ever been married. I never suspected. There's a lot about her that I never suspected."

  Peter clearly heard the edge of disapproval in the doorman's words. "What are you implying?"

  "I've got eyes and I use them. I always thought she was such a quiet woman, so dignified."

  Peter felt his temper ignite. "What are you saying?" He took a threatening step forward.

  "That man that watches her. She knows him, though she pretends she doesn't."

  "What man?"

  Wessy stepped into the hallway. "That one in the lobby, Mr. Rousel. He knows her husband."

  "He what?"

  "He talks to her about her husband." Wessy shook his head. "She tells everyone her husband is dead, but he isn't."

  "That's a lie, Wessy. Her husband was killed in a car wreck."

  "That's what you think. I've got to get back to work." He walked backward down the hall, then turned and rushed toward the elevator.

  Peter started to go after him, but stopped at the doorway. Something had happened to Wessy to shake his faith in Eleanor. He was truly afraid of her. What could Rayburn Smith have told him? There had to be something in the apartment that would lead him to Eleanor.

  Hurriedly scanning the table near the phone, he turned up her address book. He held the book in one hand, weighing it, as if it could determine his next action. He flipped through it. The writing was neat and orderly, the capital letters distinctive with an edge of elegance.

  "Just like her," he said aloud.

  He was looking for someone who might kno
w where to reach her. Night had fallen on the bustling town of Washington, yet Eleanor was nowhere to be found. He'd already tried the university and Magdalena's. In desperation, he'd even called the police department. She was gone.

  Caught between worry for her safety and guilt at prying in her private business, he went through the pages more slowly. Almost none of the names were the tiniest bit recognizable. The addresses were scattered across the globe. For a woman who led such a quiet life, she certainly had a lot of friends. At last he came to the two numbers in the back. The absence of names made him pause, and out of curiosity he looked up the area codes. One Colorado and one Arizona. Rayburn Smith was from Colorado, and he was dead.

  His fingers hesitated over the punch buttons of the phone as his old doubts came back. Could he call the Colorado number? Should he? He put the receiver down. The answer was a bald no. He had no business at all meddling in Eleanor's personal business. Somehow, in the thick of their relationship, he'd grown to trust her. More than that, to love her. There was no room for the tiniest doubt. He turned back to the Gs. Betty Gillette was the place to begin. She knew of his involvement with Eleanor.

  "I've been trying to reach you," Betty said. There was breathless excitement in her voice. "I don't have any idea what's going on with you two, but it sure sounds like a lot more fun than my life. I just got home from the university."

  "So dedicated," Peter said, checking his watch. Betty did work awfully hard. It was nearly eight o'clock. "Do you know where Eleanor is?"

  "Hasn't she found you?" A note of anxiety touched her voice.

  "No, I was hoping she might be with you."

  "She had a meeting with Congressman Nottingham several hours ago. She called from his office and said there was a meeting with Charles Breck. She sounded very excited and asked me to find you. I called your office, but you weren't there. Peter, what's going on that Breck is involved in it? Sounds pretty high-level to this poor college professor."

  He ignored the open curiosity. "I'm worried about her, Betty. She should have been back hours ago. Did she say where she was meeting Breck?"

  "The Capitol, I think. What's wrong?"

  He knew she could read the worry in his voice. "Maybe nothing," he reassured her.

  "Yeah, like a bomb is nothing. You guys need to be horsewhipped. I know just enough to really be frightened, and then you won't tell me any more."

  On the verge of asking for Betty's help, he hesitated. The less Betty was involved, the better. "Let me go to the Capitol and look for her. If there's a problem, I'll get back with you."

  "In case you haven't noticed, Peter, it's after eight at night. Our dedicated public servants aren't that dedicated."

  "Chances are she got involved in a discussion, and they're working out the details. If I don't find her soon, I promise I'll call back and get your help."

  "When pigs fly…."

  "I promise," he swore. "Now tell me if you can remember any one thing that might give me a clue to why she was meeting Nottingham and Breck."

  There was a long pause. "She said something about monkey business. I couldn't make any sense of it, but…"

  "Are you sure?" Peter felt a sudden, irrational chill.

  "I tried to ask some questions, but she was in a hurry. The meeting was pending, and she'd tried to call you without success. That's why she called me. She wanted me to find you and get you to come, too."

  "Thanks, Betty."

  "You'll call back? You promised."

  "One way or the other." Peter replaced the phone. He stood for a moment, marshalling his plan. Something about Eleanor's apartment disturbed him, and it wasn't the new furniture. He replaced the address book. It was the absence of that damn cat! Familiar had become so much a part of Eleanor that he couldn't sit in her apartment with thinking of him. Where had he gone? Well, the cat would have to wait. If his hunch was right, Eleanor was talking with Nottingham and Breck about the orangutan at the Behavioral Institute. The chill touched him again. Evans! He'd been so busy with Eleanor's problems that he hadn't had time to pursue his own interest in bringing Evans to justice. Maybe, just maybe, the two goals were beginning to dovetail. But if that was the case, Eleanor was in more danger than she'd ever thought possible.

  He hurried out of the building to his car. His search of Magdalena's house has been a waste of time. There was nothing there he didn't know about already— a list of ARSA and AFA members tucked away, some notes about future plans for attacks on varying research institutions. Nothing helpful, but plenty that was incriminating. At least he'd been able to remove the lists before the police came to search the place. Magdalena was already under arrest on a trumped-up murder charge. But while he was busy with her, Eleanor had stumbled onto something. And she was alone!

  His memory kept flashing the image of Eleanor and Arnold Evans, and his gut twisted at the idea. Evans was the cruelest monster he'd ever met. Even worse, he had delusions of grandeur. He remembered the long-ago days when they'd both been vet students, working their way through school. Initially he'd been impressed by Evans's obvious brilliance. Even as a young student he'd shown tremendous promise and aptitude. His name had buzzed through the Maryland veterinary school, attracting much attention and acclaim. But as Peter had grown to know him better, there had been a disturbing element. None of the research had been done to better the lot of humans or animals. Evans's work had had a peculiar twist— a quest for ultimate control. In the beginning it was a small thing. But as Peter watched more and more closely, it became a flaw that was intolerable. The summer they'd worked for the chemical company, that flaw had expanded into a major earthquake fault. Evans was mentally off, a dangerous man whose brilliance was warped and twisted. He wanted power, control and unquestioning obedience, and he didn't care how he got it.

  Peter realized his hands were clenching the wheel. He'd fallen into the vortex of old anger that had been reawakened when he found the cat with the mark of Evans on it. Poor Familiar. If Evans had him again, the cat would be better off dead.

  The road was clogged with traffic, but Peter negotiated it with a minimum of trouble. Soon he was parking near the Capitol. The elegant building was bathed in the soft lights skillfully tucked around the grounds. One look at the building, and Peter realized his mistake. He had no pass, and there was no way the guards would let him in at nine at night without some official documentation. As he gazed at the windows, he felt a terrible need to find Eleanor, to see that she was safe. Even a look in a window, to see her seated in an office, would be enough, just to know that she was safe.

  He locked his car and stepped along the curb. The realization that he'd never been to the Capitol before struck him hard. The building was enormous. Even if he got inside, where would he find Eleanor?

  "Can I help you, sir?" a guard asked.

  "Congressman Nottingham, please."

  The guard motioned him through a metal detector and up to his desk.

  "The Congressman's personal office is in the Cannon Building. I have no record that he's here tonight." He waited for further questions.

  "Could you check again?" Peter asked.

  The guard ran his finger down a roster of meetings. "No, sir, there's nothing here. As far as I can tell, Congressman Nottingham is gone."

  "I have something personal to discuss with him." Peter placed both hands on the guard's desk and leaned forward. "Is he pretty decent to deal with?"

  "Well." The guard looked uncomfortable. "He's pleasant enough. He's been here only a few years, not really the kind of time it takes for me to know a man." He shrugged his shoulders. "He's never rude, if that's what you're asking."

  "Does he do…personal favors?"

  The guard pushed his hat back from his forehead and rose. "I don't know what you're asking, but I don't think I like the drift of it. If you're wanting to know if he takes bribes, you'd better ask him. That's not the kind of thing I would know."

  "Sorry," Peter said, "I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that I'm
desperate."

  Appearing to catch the undercurrent of sincere worry in Peter's voice, the guard's tone softened. He leaned toward Peter and lowered his voice. "This place is rife with rumors, and I've heard Nottingham's name mentioned here and there. It doesn't mean anything."

  "Can you help me?"

  The guard held up both hands, looking around him. "Me, I don't know anything. It's just talk, and I shouldn't repeat it. Do me a favor and forget what I said."

  "Of course," Peter said, backing off. The guard was tense; he'd overstepped his limits. "Thanks for the tip, and I'll forget where I heard it. But there is one other thing you might tell me."

  "What's that?" the guard asked suspiciously.

  "Does Charles Breck maintain any offices here?"

  "In the Capitol?" The guard's wariness turned to amusement. "No, sir. That's a little too close for the CIA to suit the taste of some of the people who work here."

  "Look!" Peter pointed down the hall. "There went Representative Nottingham now. Could you stop him for me?"

  "I didn't see anyone." He gave Peter a funny look.

  "I'm sure it was him. Please check it?"

  "Wait here," the guard said. "I believe you're mistaken, but I'll be glad to make sure." He strode down the long hallway toward the rotunda.

  Peter wasted not a second in opening the files. He memorized Nottingham's address.

  The guard returned with a shake of his head. "I don't know who you saw, but no one in that wing even resembled Mr. Nottingham."

  "I'm sorry. I thought I saw someone. Just wishful thinking, I suppose. Thanks for your help."

  Peter ran down the steps to his car. The address was off Pennsylvania Avenue, one of the nice sections of town where political entertaining was an art. So, the word was out that Nottingham took bribes. It could be truth— or a vicious rumor started by a political opponent.