Madeline Hale went fishing for the first time when she was eight years old. Her father had taken her in his boat far out on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. The entire lake was shrouded in a heavy morning mist and when he turned off the outboard engine, the muffled silence was awesome. Forbidding and isolating.
In that strange whited-out world, she dropped her line into the water with a sinker and a flasher and waited. After a few minutes she felt a sudden hard tug on her fishing line. She yanked and came away with an empty hook.
But she never forgot the sense of having reached into the unknown, of having touched something mysterious and dangerous. She was delighted and frightened at the same time.
In the State Department personnel offices, she now felt the same way. She’d put her line into the bureaucratic maze and felt the response on the other end. Somewhere back in the labyrinthine corridors and alleys of bureaucratic red tape, someone had given her hook a good hard tug. That someone was blocking the way to information. Why? She felt her first twinge of excitement.
What had happened was quite clear. Bearing Hale’s written request, the personnel clerk had gone to Brewer’s file and found a red flag on it. She’d called the person who had authorized the flag and reported the official request to see the file. The person she called had declined.
That told Hale several things. Only a ranking bureaucrat could authorize a red flag. And whoever that ranking person was, he wanted something in Brewer’s personnel file concealed. She was convinced it had nothing to do with national security.
She walked away staring at the pencil check-mark on the refusal form. She’d uncovered an adversary.
The next step was to see Brewer and submit a court paper to open the file. But that took time. More time than she probably had.
Brewer, as usual, hadn’t returned her call, and Madeline Hale sat at her desk, drafting a telegram to him. She heard the secretaries leaving and glanced at her watch. The last thing she wanted to do that evening was go to that 6:30 fitting for her wedding dress.
“Significant new development,” she wrote. “Must talk to you immediately.”
There was a tap on her door.
“Yes?”
Brewer pushed the door open.
“Well, this is a nice surprise, Charlie,” she said. “You’ve gone from not answering your phone messages to answering them in person.” She pointed to a chair. “Join me.”
“I didn’t know you called,” he said. “I’m here for another reason.” He sat down across from her and waited.
“The reason I called,” she said, “was to give you an update. I’ve hit a glitch in my investigation.”
“I figured you would.”
“It’s your personnel file. Someone is blocking access to it.”
He grunted. “A red flag? I thought so.”
“The reason given is national security.”
Brewer considered that. “So—someone baited a trap with my file.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “And he snared you.”
“I’d hardly say I’ve been snared,” she said.
Brewer shrugged. “You tipped your whole hand to him. He knows that someone is snooping into the Brewer case. And he knows who. And he can easily guess why.”
“What difference does that make? He would have found out sooner or later.”
“The difference is that this is the end of your investigation.” “End? I can file in court for access—”
“There’s nothing in my personnel file worth hiding. The red flag is just an early warning system for him.”
“Well, at least I can find out who it is who put the red flag on the file. It seems to me—”
“They’ll kill you,” he said quietly. “Without any fuss or muss they’ll just come around and kill you.”
She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. “How can you say that? We don’t even know who these people are.”
“Yes, we do,” said Brewer. “They’re the people who framed me. They may be the people who broke into the arsenal to steal the weapons. They’re covering up something. And you’re trying to uncover it. They’re not going to let you do that. Believe me. They will kill you. And that’s the name of that song.”
“Are you telling me I have to stop?”
“Yes. Stop. Right now.”
“Charlie. If we let the criminals intimidate us, they’ll soon be running this country.”
“They’re running it now.” Brewer stood up. “I’ll handle this from here on.”
“I can’t let myself be intimidated.”
“The answer is no. No more investigation. Okay?”
She looked down at her clasped hands. Then she raised her head to look at him. “You want a rematch on the won-ton soup and egg roll? There’s a Chinese place down the street here that really does it all.”
“You’re not going to change my mind, Madeline,” Brewer said.
She stood up. “I think I’ll have the hot-and-sour soup.”
They walked toward the restaurant.
“I’m supposed to be at a fitting for my wedding dress at six-thirty,” she said.
“Why aren’t you?”
She took his arm. “Because I’d rather have dinner with you, Charlie Brewer. I can’t always find a fellow Chinese food fancier.”
Brewer halted. “I’m sorry about what I said about Vermont and the little white house down the lane. That’s what you should go for. And leave the red flags to me.”
She said, “Marvel says no one can get to know you. He says you think too much. Do you think that’s true?”
“Ah,” he said. “You saw Marvel.”
“I think he’s right. Why don’t you let me worry about me? And you worry about you?” She put her hands on his cheeks, drew his face to hers and kissed his lips. “There. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time. In case you missed it, Charlie Brewer, I just made a pass at you.”
Brewer looked at her face, at the deep blueness of her eyes, then drew her into his arms. He kissed her.
“I think I should have gone to that dress fitting,” she said.
“I came to say goodbye, Madeline.”
She stepped back, astonished. “Goodbye?”
“It’s dangerous just to be seen with me. You understand? I can’t protect you. And I can’t be responsible for you.”
“Now wait.”
“Your investigation is over, Madeline. You have to get off and stay off. Understand? Off. Right now.”
“Wait a minute. I have something to say.”
He gripped her shoulders and rocked her back and forth. “I warn you. Don’t make me tell you again. It’s all over. It’s goodbye.” He released her shoulders. “Go to your fitting. And leave the red flags to me. I hope you have a wonderful marriage.”
Charlie Brewer turned and walked away.
Holding her fingers to her lips where he’d kissed her, she watched him walk away into the dusk.
One of America’s favorite games is called Find the Runaway. Among the practitioners, it’s a fully developed art form. Any number can play.
Skips, scamps, deadbeats, absconders: They all try to leave town without a trace. Policemen, federal agents, bill collectors, bounty hunters, tracers, irate spouses: They use a large number of techniques to try to locate the runaway.
There is one overriding reason why the runaway can’t always make a complete disappearance. It is exceedingly difficult to live in this society without being snared by one official form or another. Driver’s licenses, motor vehicle registrations, state and federal tax records, Social Security numbers, post office forms, credit cards, court records, magazine subscriptions, checking accounts, contracts, lawsuits, insurance policies, subpoenas, unwitting relatives: The number of places to seek the hidden is extensive.
Lawyers in particular are skillful practitioners of the art of tracing. And as a criminal lawyer, Madeline Hale was more adept than most.
The next morning, she resumed her search for a man named Rumbh.
> When she got to her office desk, the first person she called was a professional skip tracer she had worked with many times.
“Arthur, I want some fast action on this one. Ready? The name is Rumbh. I don’t have a first name or a date of birth. But I want you to run it through the driver’s license bureaus in all fifty states. I’ll take any and all names in the Rumbh family. Six spelling variations. Yes: male or female.”
Next she called contacts in a half-dozen mid-Atlantic state tax offices. Then, assuming that Rumbh might have used a credit card to pay for the airline tickets from Rome and London, she called the skip tracer back and authorized him to put a check on a half-dozen credit cards, and the ten leading gasoline credit cards.
She then called the Retail Credit Bureau and asked for a personal credit file on anyone named Rumbh. She was interested in any credit information, including bankruptcies, judgments, and court orders. Next were the automobile insurance companies, life insurance companies, prison records, and much more. She had a busy day ahead of her. She ate lunch at her desk.
Shortly after two, the skip tracer called in with a partial report on the driver’s license bureaus.
“We’ve got about half the states done and we’ve turned up only one Rumbh. Mrs. Abigail Rumbh of Dallas. She’s eighty-two years old. You want her address and phone?”
Mrs. Abigail Rumbh was loquacious. She was also a family genealogist. “I am,” she assured Madeline Hale, “the last living Rumbh of my branch in America to bear that name.”
Hale extracted the information she needed: Within the last ten years, the last three male Rumbhs had died, all of them Miss Abigail’s brothers and none with sons. Louis had died in Dallas. Edgar had also died in Dallas six months after Louis. And Anthony had died two years ago—in Washington, D.C.
At three she got her first break. One of the files she had put a trace on was that of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. An unlikely source, it had been added to the list in the interest of thoroughness. So Hale was completely surprised when the name turned up: An Anthony Rumbh had been granted citizenship thirteen months before in federal court in Washington, D.C. His address was the same as Miss Abigail Rumbh’s late brother’s.
Hale was bemused by the information: Anthony Rumbh, a native-born citizen from Dallas, Texas, had been granted U.S. citizenship as an immigrant seven months after he’d died.
All through the afternoon other reports came in. No one named Rumbh had a driver’s license (other than Abigail), nor a gasoline credit card nor any of the major credit cards. No one named Rumbh was on the tax records for Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, or New York. No one named Rumbh had a record of bad debts, bankruptcy, mortgage foreclosure, or of prison incarceration.
Someone had been granted U.S. citizenship under the false name of Anthony Rumbh and had promptly disappeared.
Just before five she encountered another surprise. She went over to the Immigration and Naturalization Service and asked for the records on Anthony Rumbh. The request was denied. The reason: national security.
Another red flag. She’d tipped her hand again to her adversary. Brewer’s words came back to her. “Without any fuss or muss, they’ll just come around and kill you.”
Five times that day she’d called Charlie Brewer and left a message. She tried not to think about that threatening look she’d seen in his eyes the night before when he’d gripped her shoulders.
“Don’t make me tell you again,” he’d said.
But the information was too important to be ignored. He wouldn’t be angry, she told herself, when he heard it. Before leaving the office she sent him a telegram. IMPORTANT NEWS. PLEASE CALL.
For the first time, she had a slight qualm when she opened her apartment door and stepped into the dark interior. She turned on more lights than usual, then went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. A cup of tea would set the world aright. She kicked off her shoes and reached for a cup in the cabinet.
There was a sharp click. She put the cup down and walked into her living room. She heard another click, then something sliding. She walked to the dark bedroom and leaned in through the doorway. The drapes over the sliding glass door were twisted and the door stood open.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
An arm seized her from behind. A hand covered her mouth. She was wrestled into the middle of the bedroom.
A voice whispered into her ear: “I’ll give you a choice. I can cut your throat or throw you off your balcony.” He turned her around. “Which way do you want to die?”
Charlie Brewer stood there, angrily holding her by the shoulders. “Which one?”
She tried to shrug off his hands. “I don’t let people intimidate me,” she said defiantly. “And I don’t run from red flags.”
“I came all the way down here the other day to warn you. And now you’ve made me come all the way back to tell you again.”
“This is as much my case as it is yours.”
“It’s very easy to get in here,” he said. “Right through your balcony door. The doorman didn’t see me. No one saw me. And no one will see me when I leave. You understand?”
“So I’ll get a bigger lock.”
“You’re not listening,” Brewer said.
“Maybe you’re not listening. I can solve this case and I’m not running away from Mr. Red Flag.”
Brewer heaved an angry sigh.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll have to show you.” He stepped back from her. “When I became a government agent, I was sent to Fort Bladenberg for training. I was just like you. Right Makes Might. Virtue Is Invincible. I wasn’t afraid of anyone. I was bulletproof. So you know what they did to me? I’ll show you.”
He grabbed her suddenly and turned her in his arms. “Five muscle-bound D.I.’s came into the mess hall where I was eating and right in front of everyone, dragged me off.”
“What are you doing!” she shrieked. She fought to get away but he merely leaned back and lifted her feet off the floor as he pulled her across the room.
“Are you crazy?” she cried. She got her leg up against a wall and pushed. It barely staggered him. As he pulled her along she reached her right foot for the bureau and missed. Her foot upset a small lamp.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she shrieked. “Stop!”
“Make me,” he said. “Show me your best moves. Go ahead.”
He had dragged her over to the balcony door. “‘If you’re going to be a good agent you have to learn how puny you are.’ That’s what they said. And they carried me over their heads to the base firehouse. And they put me in the cherry picker and lifted the basket five stories up in the air. And then they held me head-down by the ankles. And there, Madeline Hale, dangling by two very puny human hands in midair, I learned humility and common sense. And that’s what you’re going to learn right now.”
He held her by the wrists. “They’re going to send a slopehead around to kill you. And they’re not going to care how he does it. Do I have your attention?”
She tried to pull her arms free. “I’m not impressed. Stop this right now.”
“For starters, maybe he’ll rape you. Every sickie thinks that’s great fun. Then”—he drew his forefinger down her blouse from her throat—“he might carve on you a bit with a knife before”—he slashed his fingernail across her throat—“he cuts you open from ear to ear. And then, Madeline, if he’s feeling generous he’ll do a quick finale on you.” Brewer picked her up in his arms and stepped out on the balcony. He held her out beyond the railing.
“While the tears are still wet on your face, he picks you up and drops you from here straight down. Seven stories down, screaming all the way.”
She tried to clamber over his shoulder to safety. “Enough! Enough!”
“Oh, no, Madeline. You’re a big-time lawyer. Let’s see you get a court order now. Where’s your knife-proof writ? Show me your subpoena with the parachute.” He stood there firmly holding he
r out over the balcony. “Can I make it any plainer? This has nothing to do with virtue or justice or physical strength. If the slope-head doesn’t get the job done, they’ll send around six bigger slope-heads. And if that doesn’t work, Madeline, they’ll use a bomb.”
He put her down and turned her roughly to face the parking lot below. “Down there,” he said into her ear. “In your car. They’ll blow it to the moon. Sooner or later one way or the other they’ll come for you. And I’m telling you I can’t protect you. And I don’t want to come to your funeral. Understand? Do you hear me? You have a lot of living to do up in Vermont, and I don’t want you to die for me. Go live. Live.”
She was panting, spent, quaking, unable to talk. The pounding of her heart was thudding in her ears. If she’d had a gun—if she’d only had a gun—she would have shot Charlie Brewer dead as he stood there.
“How dare you!” she shrieked at last. She paced back into the bedroom. “I can’t believe you did this. It’s unforgivable! Outrageous!”
But when she turned he was gone over the balcony railing. She had no idea whether he had gone up or down. Or sideways.
In the morning Madeline Hale ordered a steel-rod lock for the balcony’s sliding door. She purchased a police special .38, applied to the police for a handgun permit, and signed up for lessons at a local gun club. Lastly, she enrolled in a karate class.
Then she went to her office and resumed her search for Anthony Rumbh.
Her thoughts returned constantly to Brewer and his assault the night before. She still couldn’t believe he had done it. He’d terrified her. He’d reduced her from a professional attorney in Washington to a trembling silly woman terrified for her life. There were moments when she had feared he really would rape her, then had been equally sure he would pitch her off the balcony. She remembered the dangerous anger he’d shown the day he was released from prison.
It had taken years to struggle into her current position and status, and it had taken a great deal of confidence-building. In one violent event, he’d almost wrecked that. He’d almost upended her confidence. His action had been primitive, outrageous, never to be forgiven.
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