More Than Gold (Capitol Chronicles Book 3)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Morgan stopped on the balls of her feet. She rocked back, feeling as if he'd pushed her.

  "Who are you?" she asked, fear so evident in her voice she could hardly speak.

  "Who I am is unimportant."

  "What do you want?"

  "More than you've got," he replied, reminding her of the green giant. "Now do what I say and we'll both be happy. That way." He indicated an area behind her. Morgan took a couple of steps backward. She didn't want to take her eyes off the gun. She didn't know this house. It was supposed to be safe. How did this man get up here? He wasn't part of the staff. She'd met all of them. Hadn't Jack just told her the danger was over?

  She had to turn or she'd trip. Morgan knew if she did, he would use the gun as a club and she had no desire to be pistol-whipped. The walls had portraits on them. At the far end was a doorway that led to the back stairs. There was nothing between her and the door she could use. And this man had a gun pointed at her heart. She could do many things, but outrunning a bullet wasn't one of them.

  Opening the door, she started down the stairs. His hand grabbed her shoulder. "Not so fast." She felt the cold steel through the T-shirt as he poked the gun in her back. Slowly she walked down the stairs. They ended up in the kitchen. Morgan hoped there would be someone there to help her, like Jack. She was disappointed. The room was empty.

  Food and dishes in various stages of cleanup were spread about the room. The center island would have been huge in a normal kitchen but it fit this one. Above it was a massive wrought iron frame. Only a few of the gleaming copper pots hung from it. The rest were on the counter, the table and the sink. Morgan wondered where the kitchen help was. She hadn't heard any shots in the house, but there were other ways of killing people without bullets. She hoped they were all right. She hoped she could count on them for help.

  "Through the door," he commanded.

  Where was anybody? This place had a normal staff of ten, not including the gardeners. Tonight, with the dinner and Hart Lewiston in attendance, there was a complement of people at the house. She heard another burst of gunfire and jumped. She couldn't help glancing over her shoulder at the door to the front of the house.

  "Don't look for help," the menacing voice said. "And if you think Jack Temple will come to your rescue, believe me when I tell you he's probably dead now."

  Jack. Dead. Her heart sank, stopped, then lurched. She turned and pierced him with her eyes. "Jack is not dead," she spoke as if to a young child she was angry with.

  "You hope," he said with as much venom as she had.

  A door opened in the front of the house. Footsteps and voices reached her. The square man was distracted a second. He looked toward the door. Morgan didn't think. This was going to be her only chance to get help. She took two running steps and grabbed the frame hanging from the ceiling. Swinging across the array of pots on the counter, her feet scattered them as she arced to the other side. Hitting the floor she let go of the frame and pivoted to face her killer. He was raising the gun. Morgan went down and grasped the legs of the butcher block counter. She heaved it up. The bullet struck it, pitching shards of wood. She'd wonder later how she lifted the heavy table. The footsteps increased.

  "Jack," she called. "He's got a gun."

  Morgan didn't wait for Jack or for the gunman to come around the upturned table. Using it as cover, she rushed for the back door. She was out of it, slamming it behind her, before he could get to her. Going sideways on the porch, she took the banister in a solid jump instead of the steps. She spent several seconds hiding in the bushes expecting him to follow her. She heard no steps on the porch and no gunshots.

  Leaving her hiding place, she made sure she didn't ruffle any branches or make any noise. She inched her way back to the porch. Silently peeking through the slats in the banister, she held her breath, expecting to see feet, prepared to quickly return to her hiding place. The porch was clear.

  What was happening? She wanted to know. Grabbing the bottom support post, she heaved herself up to floor level. She could hear what sounded like fighting in the kitchen. She tiptoed toward the door, making sure she made no noise. She got close to the door when it suddenly burst open, slapping against the wall as it extended past the hinge design. Morgan jumped back, pressing herself against the wall. A man hit the porch hard on his back. He tried to get up, faltered, tried again, and finally passed out.

  Morgan let out an audible breath. Jack came out on the porch. His stance was ready for battle. He must have been fighting with the refrigerator-sized man.

  "Jack," she said when she could speak.

  He whipped around. For a moment he stared at her. In two steps he had her in his arms. She breathed hard against him.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she said, her voice cracking. She tightened her arms around him. "I'm fine."

  ***

  Morgan massaged her temples. She was tired and her head throbbed with pain. She hoped this signal wouldn't turn into one of her migraines, but it would be a miracle if it didn't. The night had been long, filled with the burning lights of police cars. Hart and Carla had returned. Why, she didn't know.

  Four men, including the one who'd held her at gunpoint, had sat on the rose and beige sofa, their hands tied, the eyes focused on the wall. None were talking, but sat as tight-lipped as statues. Hart looked pale as a sheet while Carla's face was blood red and her chin trembled.

  Finally, they were gone. Police cars lit up the night like a holiday procession heading down the driveway. Morgan and Jack stepped back in the door and went to the drawing room where Hart and Carla Lewiston remained, secret service in tow.

  "Thank God it's over," Morgan said.

  "Not quite," Jack contradicted, causing her to look at him.

  "What do you mean?"

  He pulled the sliding doors closed and walked further into the room.

  "Would you like to explain the rest. . . Mrs. Lewiston?"

  Carla gasped at the sound of her name. So did Morgan. What did Carla Lewiston have to do with this?

  "Are you out of your mind?" Hart took a step forward.

  "I-I have no idea what you're talking about," Carla offered. The blood that had been so near the surface of Carla Lewiston's face drained to make her look like a Dracula victim.

  Jack looked extremely comfortable in his role. "There's a strange thing that's happened in the United States," he said. "A few years ago, terrorists started picking off candidates." He paced about the room. "Uncle Sam couldn't let that happen, not in a civilized country like this one." He stopped and faced her squarely. "So he instituted safeguards. Tonight was planned with extreme care. Everyone here, everyone with any reason to be here, was carefully screened. Many of them have worked this detail for years. Their loyalty is unquestionable. The house was swept more than once." He didn't bother to explain what swept meant. Morgan was sure Carla knew. "No one knew the location. Not you and not the senator."

  "Jack, what are you accusing my wife of doing? She knows nothing about what happened here tonight."

  "Doesn't she?" Jack glanced at Hart. Morgan was stunned.

  "Tell him!" Jack challenged Mrs. Hart Lewiston.

  "Tell him what?" she asked. "Those men tried to kill us. And we don't have to stand here and be accused of being accomplices." She looked Jack up and down, giving him the same stare she'd give a scorpion.

  "Where's your purse, Mrs. Lewiston?" Jack seemed to change directions.

  "Jack, that's enough." Hart walked toward him. "If you're accusing my wife of something, come out with it."

  He looked at Carla. "Last chance," he said.

  "I have nothing to say."

  "Morgan, would you open the door?" Jack addressed her. She did what he asked and the Lewistons' helicopter operator came in carrying a blue evening bag covered with sequins.

  "Give me that." Carla lunged for the bag. Jack snatched it out of the man's hand.

  "Thank you," Jack said to the pilot who left the room and closed
the door behind him.

  Quickly he opened the purse and reached inside. He pulled out a small device that looked like a portable phone. "This is what you used to send a signal to the men waiting on the ground. You brought them here and you sent them a signal to let them know you and the senator were in the air. Safely away from here. They could then come in and execute your plan."

  "Carla, do you know what he's talking about?" Hart asked.

  "No!" she assured him. "He's obviously making this up. Why, I don't know. Maybe he's responsible for the things that have happened to Ms. Kirkwood. Nothing really happened to her until he came into her life. Maybe he's working for the Koreans and trying to shift the blame."

  Morgan thought she had a good argument. Jack could be working for anyone, but she knew better. The one piece of knowledge she had over anything Carla Lewiston knew was that Jack had held her in his arms. He'd been willing to give up his career for her. And he'd put his life in danger to save hers.

  "The Koreans have been caught, Mrs. Lewiston. Tonight before the FBI director left, he received a phone call giving him the details of an FBI operation. The Koreans were picked up while you were having your soufflé." He paused a moment. "It disturbed me to think that there were two separate groups trying to kill Ms. Kirkwood. Initially, we thought it was one until we tried to get to Clarksburg and found one group shooting at the other."

  "How could I possibly do anything in Clarksburg?" she addressed Jack.

  "We took down two helicopters. It took a while to trace them, but we discovered one of them was from Korea. The U.S. had sold it at an auction, and it ended up in Korean hands. The other helicopter, however, was attached to the Children's Relief Program."

  Carla looked as white as a ghost. "Is this true, Carla?" Hart asked.

  "Of course it isn't true," she denied.

  "Then how do you explain this device?" Hart asked, taking it from Jack.

  "It was planted, Hart. You've got to believe me. I've never seen it before."

  "While the police were conducting their initial investigation in here, there was a crew outside, and they went over this little black box." Jack took it back from Hart. "The signal went to the truck that one of the outside agents found parked close to the perimeter. One other thing they found was a complete set of fingerprints.'' He turned and faced Carla Lewiston. "Guess whose they are?"

  "Carla?" Hart said.

  She looked at him. "Oh, stop it," she said, venom dripping from each word. "This is all your fault. We were doing fine. The election was a shoo-in." She paused. "But you had to destroy it because of her." She pointed at Morgan, who tried to remain still but stepped back as surely as if Carla Lewiston had sent a lightning bolt her way. "We had everything. We were this close." She used her thumb and forefinger to show a space only an inch wide. "Now look at us. We'll be lucky if we carry our home state. Winning is out of the question. The most we can hope for is a respectable loss."

  "For that, Carla? For power?" Hart moved to face her. "For the chance to be the First Lady you would kill?"

  "It was my right!" she shouted. "I worked for it, following you around, taking jobs that were political because we were a power to be reckoned with. You think I liked working for those children? You think I liked getting in the dirt and having my shoes wet and grimy so a camera could take a picture that would further your career? We were a team, Hart. We wanted the same thing."

  "No, Carla. I want to be president. I worked for it too, but I would never kill for it.''

  Hart glanced at Morgan. He came to where she stood next to Jack. "I'm sorry, Morgan. I didn't know. Carla and I have lived together for twenty-three years. I've known her for almost thirty. I would have sworn she was incapable of anything like this. I'm just so—" He stopped, unable to go on.

  Morgan's heart broke for him. His world had ended. She flung herself into his arms almost before she knew what she was doing.

  At that moment, he became her father. She became his daughter.

  "Is that sweet?" Carla said, her words dripping with venom. "Father and daughter."

  Morgan moved out of Hart's embrace and turned around.

  "Well you haven't had the last word yet." Carla put her hand in her sequined pocket and pulled out a small gun.

  Morgan gasped.

  "Carla," Jack said. "That will solve nothing."

  "Why didn't you stay invisible?" She ignored Jack, addressing her comments to Morgan. "You'd been in Missouri for all these years. Why didn't you stay there and leave us alone?"

  "Carla, you don't want to do this," Hart said.

  His voice seemed to make her remember him.

  "And you," she spit the word. "You wouldn't listen to reason. We could have contained this. There was no reason for you to go public with the knowledge that you'd fathered a child." She took a deep breath. "How do you think I felt? Everyone whispering behind our backs. Wherever we went people stopped talking when we came in the room. And the polls. Do you want to talk about the polls?''

  "Carla, this is temporary. We'll pull it off. Put the gun down."

  Jack had been taking slow steps toward Carla, but she saw him and pointed the gun in his direction. "If you want a vent somewhere in the middle of your chest, take another step."

  Jack stood still.

  "Carla, what do you want?" Morgan asked.

  "I want you gone," she smiled. "I want to turn the clock back. Since I can't do that I'll settle for—"

  "Carla," Hart interrupted her. "It's not worth it. You'll never get away with it."

  "What a dramatic line," she said.

  "He's right, Carla," Jack commented. "If the men outside that door don't kill you, you'll spend the rest of your life in jail."

  "Put the gun down, Carla," Hart pleaded. "We can talk this over, the way we've talked over everything."

  "We never talked her over," Carla shouted. Morgan had never seen anyone look at her with such hatred in her eyes. "When it came to her, it was just the two of you. I was left out." She lowered her voice. "Well I won't be left out anymore."

  Morgan saw her aim. She was going to shoot her. Jack moved. Carla shifted her aim.

  "No!" Morgan cried and jumped in front of him as Carla pulled the trigger.

  ***

  "Jack, let her go," the ambulance driver said. "We can't help her if you don't let her go."

  Hart Lewiston pried Jack's fingers loose and the ambulance driver took her from him. There was so much blood. Jack couldn't remember seeing so much blood. How much did the body hold? How much had she lost? Was she alive? Would she die?

  Jack watched as paramedics placed her on a gurney. One set up an IV drip. Jack's vision was too blurred to see what was in the plastic bag. Another medic mopped the blood from her shoulder. He applied something to the area and then they were wheeling her away. Jack took a step to go with her. Hart stopped him, applying pressure to his arm.

  Jack turned away, his insides shaking. He walked behind the white-clad medicine men. Hart was by his side. Outside the red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances filled the yard for the second time that evening.

  The secret service broke into the room and secured Carla Lewiston.

  When Morgan jumped in front of him, Jack felt as if his entire life was over. Hart had moved at the same time, subduing his wife, taking the gun from her and restraining her in the fierce fight she put up to get free. The room was suddenly filled with agents. Maids, butlers, cooks, gardeners, poured into the room. Hart sketched the details of what had happened while Jack held Morgan, whispering to her, brushing her hair back from her face. He didn't know who called the police or how long he held Morgan. They were there and she was being worked on.

  Outside, the red and blue lights threw garish colors on the trees and bushes in front of him. Jack grabbed the leaf-laden branch of a bush near the front door with both hands as they lifted the white-sheeted Gurney into the ambulance.

  Hart remained with him. Jack felt numb on the outside but inside he felt as
if a hot knife was cutting through his stomach. His hands curved over the branches and he held on as if he could pull the bush from the ground, roots and all.

  He was in love with her. And she might die if she wasn't dead already. He couldn't turn around to see. Didn't want to face the reality that she might be gone, that he'd never told her and might not get the chance again.

  He felt Hart move next to him and he looked sideways. The older man pushed both hands in his pants pockets. Jack had seen them shaking.

  "Is she—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to know the answer.

  "We don't know," Hart said. "She's going to be fine, Jack. She's going to be fine."

  Jack could tell by his voice he didn't know for sure. The medics told him nothing. She could be critical. Why had she done it? Why had she jumped in front of a bullet to save him? Didn't she know he'd rather take it than have her hurt?

  He loved her.

  He couldn't lose her.

  Not now.

  ***

  Jack paced the tiny strip of floor before a single window in Virginia General Hospital for the past five hours. Hart slept awkwardly on a sofa inside Morgan's private room. Secret Service and FBI agents hovered outside the door, tired and longing for sleep. Morgan, swathed in white bandages across her left shoulder, breathed shallowly under starched sheets. She looked small and pale.

  Sitting in a chair near the bed, Jack took her hand and held it. It was warm and limp. In the subdued light, he checked her fingernails for any sign that something might be wrong. They were pink and healthy looking. He let out a breath.

  Hart shifted and Jack glanced at him. Jack had suggested that Hart return to the house and get some sleep, but he refused. He'd spent hours at the police station before coming to the hospital. Since his arrival in the early hours of the morning, he'd been like a beaten man.

  His life was so altered by only a few hours. He had no idea when he woke yesterday morning that the day would end with his wife in jail and his daughter in a hospital. What this would do to his campaign was another story.