A policewoman sat close enough to her to put both palms flat upon her knees, acting as a twenty-eight-or-so-year-old mother to fifty-or-so-year-old Nina.
Quietly, patiently, while the library’s main floor continued to fill, and the entire area beyond the windows continued to be the Fourth of July, the first officer questioned her again:
“All right, ma’am, I want to be sure I have this right. Your name is…?”
“Nina Bannister.”
“You’re a member of Congress?”
“Yes. Newly elected.”
“And what were you doing in the library?”
“I needed to read. I needed to read a lot. They were nice enough to let me use a carrel up on the tenth floor. My coffee was—I don’t know. Something may have been in my coffee. Anyway I went to sleep.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I was tired. It must have been a little after nine o’clock.”
“No one woke you to tell you the library was closing?”
“No. My carrel, the carrel they let me use is in a corner; I guess they didn’t see me.”
“They should,” said the young woman, her hands contracting slightly as though to show her displeasure with they, whoever they were, “have waked you up.”
There was nothing to say to that. Silence for a second or so as two women, clearly librarians, came and stood just beyond the ring that was continuing to grow around Nina.
“And when you woke up,” Sand-hair continued, “you saw someone.”
“I heard someone.”
“Where?”
“About five stacks away from me. I was walking to the elevators.”
“The elevators wouldn’t have been working at this time of night.”
“I know that,” she said, trying not to sound impatient, as she realized, somewhat thankfully, that impatience had begun to replace fear as her dominant emotion, “but I knew that stairwells would be unlocked, and that the doors to the stairs were right beside the elevators.”
“Congresswoman Bannister,” asked the defensive tackle, “do you think that the man you saw…”
“I’m not sure it was a man.”
“All right, do you think whoever you saw, is still in the library?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you last see him…or her?”
“In the stairwell.”
“At what level?”
“Around level five. I was down here, at the main floor. The person was looking down at me from several landings above.”
“Did this person have a weapon?”
“A knife, I think.”
“You saw a knife?”
“I heard it.”
“You heard it?’
“Yes, it was just…opening and shutting.”
“All right,” he said, getting to his feet and turning toward the stairwell. “I’m going to check this out.”
The red-haired officer looked up at him.
“Take somebody with you.”
“Yeah.”
The black man turned and walked toward the stairwell entrance.
Some steps away, he was joined by another officer, as thin and weasely as he himself was granite and monumental.
They stood for a time, spoke quietly, and drew their revolvers.
Then they disappeared into the hallway.
After that, a new group of officers appeared in the main entrance of the library.
They wore business suits and looked like executives.
They appeared not to notice the other officers, but spoke only to Nina:
“Congresswoman Bannister?”
“Yes.”
“We’re from the Secret Service.”
And with that, she knew that a new chapter of her life in Washington was beginning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE SECRET SERVICE MAKES ME NERVOUS
The United States Secret Service is headquartered in an ugly nine-story building (The Chesapeake & Potomac Telephone Office Building formerly occupied the structure, until the company went out of business, either because of poor business habits or insanity brought about by the appearance of the building) located at 930 H. Street N.W.
Nina Bannister and her roommate, the possible next president of the United States, were ushered into the building at 9:30 AM on the morning after someone with a cackling voice had pronounced women to be evil and the scourge of God.
She had not slept well, possibly because she had gotten over the drug that had been given to her, or also possibly because she had been chased down library stairs by a lunatic with a knife and it had upset her.
Laurencia Dalrymple had not been in the mood to sleep either, so the two women had sat in the kitchen—where at least they could have access to knives if the need arose—drank coffee (sleep being pretty much impossible anyway) and talked of many things.
Only some of them political.
Nina could, she found herself musing, have been back in Elementals.
Except Laurencia was not Margot nor Alanna, and it was late night and not early morning and it was Washington. DC, and not Bay St Lucy and she was a Congresswoman and not a retired English teacher, and she had just almost been murdered.
Otherwise, it was all pretty much the same.
And so, here they were, being escorted into one of the scariest buildings she could think of.
It didn’t look scary.
It looked like no more than a big train station, or a big bank, with marble floors and old, circa nineteen hundred columns supporting filigreed ceilings.
But it was scary just because it housed the Secret Service.
The Secret Service.
She could only think of President Kennedy’s assassination.
She had been a high school student then. A junior. Sitting in the chemistry lab, the chrome-curved faucets over sinks spaced throughout the room, and the Bunsen burners.
James R. Irvin—principal then, as he had been for his entire life—had walked in unexpectedly and taken his place at the front of the room.
His charcoal gray suit a bit frumpy on his tending to overweight frame, and crisscrossed with white chalk marks, for he had been at the black board most of the morning.
He had stood there and said, in his low, rumbling voice:
“I regret to inform all of you that President John Fitzgerald Kennedy has been shot.”
Gasps, of course.
“This has just happened in Dallas, Texas. There is no word yet concerning his condition.”
Of course, word came soon enough.
This she thought about as she and Laurencia were taken into the elevator and escorted to the seventh floor.
Why, she found herself wondering, the seventh floor?
Why not the first, or the ninth?
Strange, the workings of Washington.
The corridor stretched before them, looming, turning, then becoming new corridors, and all the while there was the clacking of shined shoes on shined tiles, and the scarcely perceptible breathing of the two agents flanking them.
“Here we are. Just go on in, and have a seat at the table. Agent Stockmeyer will be with you in just a second.”
They did go in, and they did sit, and they did look around.
They were in a circular conference room, and were being looked down upon by all the previous heads of the Secret Service (or at least paintings of them), from the current head all the way back to Theodore Roosevelt.
Who had founded the agency.
“I feel,” said Nina, a bit shakily, “like we’re going to be sent to prison.”
Laurencia merely smiled:
“In a way we are.”
“It’s my fault.”
“Why? Why is it your fault?”
“I don’t know. I just always think that whatever it is, it’s my fault.”
“Nonsense.”
“Why did I have to go and visit the library?”
“You’re an English teacher. The library is your home. The real question is
, why did someone have to put drugs in your coffee and start lecturing you about Eve’s sins? At one AM, I should add.”
“Maybe it never happened. Maybe I just dreamed it.”
“They found the burned pages, dear.”
“Too bad they didn’t find him.”
“I know.”
“Because if he had…”
She was interrupted by the entrance of a tall angular man with a nose like a broken walking stick, and green eyes like Furl. He had on, Nina found herself remarking, the same charcoal suit Mr. Irvin had been wearing on the day of the Kennedy assassination, except that it was a different size, and it had no eraser dust on it, and he was carrying a gun inside it.
A pistol in a shoulder holster, both of which became clearly visible when he reached down to shake their hands.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Congresswomen.”
“That’s all right.”
“That’s all right.”
No point in taking issue with a man with a gun.
“I’m Federal Agent Stockmeyer.”
Federal Agent Stockmeyer sat down.
“I appreciate your coming in. I know you both have very busy schedules.”
“That’s all right.”
“That’s all right.”
Great minds, Nina mused, think alike.
“We could have had this meeting over at the Capitol building, but it would have been noticed. That’s not something we’re interested in right now. It’s probably good to be as confidential as possible. I’m happy to tell you that we’ve been able to keep a tight lid on this incident. Except for a few officers from college security, no one knows what happened last night. I must ask both of you to keep it that way.”
“We understand,” said Laurencia.
“Well, I’ll get right to the point. Congresswoman Bannister, we’ve been unable to locate the man who accosted you last night in the Georgetown Library. We assume that he left the stairwell around the fourth floor, crossed the stacks, and found a back stairwell. By the time the first university security people went up there, he must have been out of the building. Unfortunately, he left nothing behind that might help us get a lead on him.”
Nothing to be said to that.
Stockmeyer continued:
“Your Chief of Staff, Congresswoman Bannister, has shown us the letters that have been coming to you. We find them more disturbing than the average crank letter. There are no fingerprints on the envelopes and nothing too distinctive about the word processor that was used to type them. So all we’re doing is speculating. But the tone, the style, the method of threat used—all of these fit the profile of an educated man.”
“A man?”
“Yes. And probably an older man.”
“The one in the library last night?”
A shrug.
“No way to know. We can’t rule it out, though. Now, I don’t want to be too technical. But it’s important that I make this clear. Today, the Secret Service is authorized by law (United States Code 3056) to protect the President, members of his or her family…well, there’s a long list. We are also authorized to protect, “major presidential and vice presidential candidates and their spouses within 120 days of a general presidential election. The question is, ‘who are major presidential candidates?’ Well, the law says any individual identified as such by the Secretary of Homeland Security after consultation with an advisory committee consisting of the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the minority leader of the House of Representatives, the majority and minority leaders of the Senate, and one additional member selected by the other members of the committee.”
Stockmeyer paused to let all of the material sink in.
Then he continued, saying:
“I met with those folks this morning.”
Laurencia leaned forward and said, in astonishment:
“Already?”
A nod.
“This is serious stuff, Madame Congresswoman. We take this incident in the library, as well as the letters in question, to constitute a major threat.”
“But according to the law, you can’t protect Nina. Or me, for that matter. I feel that I am a serious contender for the presidency.”
“And everyone else does, too, Congresswoman.”
“Thank you. But it’s more than 120 days before the general election.”
“Only about a month more. And we’re going to bend that rule a little bit.”
“Are you allowed to do that?”
“When all the major heads of Congress tell me I’m allowed, then I’m allowed.”
He shook his head:
“What national leader worth his or her salt is going to sue us, or cause a stink? ‘Let the little woman from Mississippi be menaced! We’ve got to stick by the 120 day rule!’ No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, you may have a point there. Technically though, I haven’t received any letters, just Nina.”
Stockmeyer leaned forward again.
There was that revolver.
“You’ve just declared as a candidate for President of The United States. A woman candidate. A founder of this Lissie organization. Given what the man has been saying in these letters, we have to assume that he may constitute a threat to you, too.”
“I suppose so.”
“And, if I may speak in all candor…”
“Please do.”
“The situation in the country is now quite—well, agitated might be the best word. The July 4th deadline, the gender revolution in terms of political representation—all of these things are very exciting, and you’re both to be applauded for them.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Great minds again.
“But you have to understand that movements produce counter movements. Lissians are seen by some people, women as well as men, as—well––urging something that is unnatural.”
“I have seen the signs on the morning news,” said Laurencia, quietly.
“What signs?” asked Nina, who, having finally fallen asleep at four AM, had missed the broadcasts.
“They have transformed the image of Lysistrata into something resembling a harpy, dear, and they have named her Lesbo Lissie.”
“Well, that’s enterprising of them. Whoever they are.”
Stockmeyer:
“Some of the meetings, some of the rallies, are becoming violent. It’s an interesting phenomenon, though I still find it a scary one. The old issues—abortion rights, gay marriage, gun control—are fading away. People aren’t arguing about those things as much. It’s gotten down to more of a gut level thing: what does it mean to be feminine or masculine?”
“That,” Nina found herself saying, “is gut level all right.”
“So the bottom line is, we’re going to be assigning some people to both of you.”
“How many people?”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re still making those decisions. The main thing is, your protection will be discreet. Often you won’t know anybody’s watching you. But you’ll each be our responsibility now. And there won’t be any more instances like the library.”
And with that—at least that and a few cursory words of caution mixed with encouragement, it all coming out to sound like, “Don’t worry about a homicidal maniac trying to kill you because we’ll be there watching him do it!”—the meeting ended.
A limousine dropped Laurencia outside the Senate building, then continued on to take Nina to her office in The Rayburn building.
She entered, made her way down the crowded hallways, down the stairs of the old building, and finally stopped before the door of her own office.
Which she opened, to reveal eight hard-working people and a chief of staff.
None of them knew about the library.
She greeted everyone, hung up her jacket, and walked back to her own private office.
A stack of letters lay unopened on it.
On top of the stack, though, was a single piece of paper.
Ivory colored.
She picked it up and read:
I ENJOYED OUR TIME IN THE LIBRARY
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NEW SECURITY BLANKET
CERTAINLY YOU MUST FEEL SAFE NOW.
OH AND BY THE WAY—
TELL LAURENCIA DALRYMPLE TO DROP OUT OF THE RACE
IF SHE DOES NOT DROP OUT BY JULY 14, SHE WILL NOT EXPERIENCE JULY 15.
She stood for a time, stock still, the letter shaking in her hand.
Then she sat down, put her face in her hands, and attempted not to cry.
CHAPTER TWELVE: BUSTER THE BEAGLE AND THE TWO DOLLS
Nina was loathe to let the bizarre experience in the university library sour her on Georgetown completely, so the following day she splurged and took a cab to 31st and R Street, which she had learned was the most convenient entrance to the magical world that was Dumbarton Oaks. She had been told of the place early on in her Washington D.C. life, and this would be her fourth visit. For some reason, she could not stay away. Dumbarton Oaks was, of course, really three gardens in one: a wild and tangled English garden, a mathematical French garden, and a magnificent rose garden. There was a stunning collection of terraces, tree-shaded brick walks, fountains, arbors, and pools.
There were also running trails, and, if she ever needed a good slow jog to rid her mind of disturbing memories, it was now.
And so, this particular morning she had pulled on her black Lissie t-shirt (letter writer be damned), her red shorts, her battered jogging shoes, and her floppy hat—and gone for it!
She was now half a mile from the park’s main entrance and chugging along at almost the speed she would have attained on her Vespa, if her Vespa were here.
She missed, she realized as she eyed longingly a bench that was still over a hundred yards away, her Vespa.
But then again, she missed her cat, although it was not certain that Furl missed her, since he was being taken care of by Jackson Bennett and his daughters.
She missed the ocean, and her shack.
She missed Margot’s visits, and the puttering around in Elementals that she had become accustomed to.
Instead, she had this bizarre existence that was proving to be nothing like she had expected.
Was it a dream?
Sex Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 6) Page 11
