by Andy Straka
The truck jolted through a bigger-than-usual washout. We had been climbing gradually, and now I noticed we were approaching the top of one of the hills. Nicole must have sensed this a long time before I did, which explained the grin that had been plastered on her pretty face.
Still no crows. Maybe they had heard we were coming and convened a powwow someplace to plan their escape. If we did manage to scare any up, our own plan called for lifting Armistead into the sight position and launching her out the window to start a tail chase. It wasn't all that elegant. But it was the tactic best suited to our habitat and our bird. Even Toronto, who had taught me most of what I knew about hawking, had adapted his falconry to suit the piedmont terrain.
Nicole was sitting higher in her seat, peering over the break of the hill. “I'm stopping here,” she said.
“Why? You see a crow?”
“No, but I'm pretty sure I can see the Drummond place down there in the valley.” She set the parking brake, jumped out, and began pulling her heavy jacket and a pair of binoculars out of her backpack.
“Nicky! We're supposed to be hunting here, not playing games.”
But my words fell on deaf ears. She was already several yards from the truck, bounding over the rocky terrain to a better vantage point. I could either sit there with a couple of pounds of anxious redtail tethered to my wrist or follow my daughter.
I jumped out with Armistead and opened one end of her giant hood, which was secured to the bed of the pickup. The hawk stepped inside onto her perch, and I latched the door.
“It's okay, girl. We won't be long.” At least I hoped we wouldn't.
By now Nicole had moved farther down the ridge to a break in the arbors. From up here you could see across open fields to another hillside and beyond to the Blue Ridge. She had the field glasses trained on something. As I came up beside her, I followed her line of sight to a cluster of buildings hugging the opposite hill in a grove of bare walnut trees maybe half a mile distant.
“That's gotta be it. We're closer than I thought. Look at the size of that limousine.”
She handed me the binoculars, I'm sure expecting me to raise them right away and look, but I stared wordlessly at her.
“C'mon, Dad. Don't you want to see what the Drummonds are up to?”
I would like to think it was only business on my part in agreeing to look for Cartwright Drummond, but to tell the truth, I bore a bit of the same sleazy curiosity as your average National Enquirer connoisseur. Why the rich and powerful incite such morbid nosiness is anybody's guess. Maybe we need to show they aren't really any better than the rest of us. Nevertheless, the feeling didn't sit well with me. Titillation coiled like a menacing viper in the pit of my stomach.
I shook my head and raised the glasses to my eyes.
The main house came into focus first: a contemporary design of glass and stone. There was a large terrace to one side that opened to a courtyard of sorts. Behind this stood two or three outbuildings, around which several vehicles were parked, including Tor Drummond's trademark Hummer and the black stretch limo to which Nicole had referred.
“It looks like Drummond's place.”
“Are they leaving for a trip or something?”
I focused more closely on the limo. I could see a garment bag and a roll-on suitcase propped against a retaining wall to one side, partially obscured by the rear fender. I wasn't sure, but I also thought I saw wisps of exhaust coming from the back of the vehicle and the silhouette of a driver behind the darkened glass.
“Something like that,” I said, lowering the binoculars.
“See anything to help you?”
“Not really.”
“What about the guy standing by the corner of the house?”
I'd missed that. I raised the glasses and scanned the house again. “There's nobody there.”
“He was just there a minute ago.”
“Wait a minute.” My stomach did a little rumba. Two men came around the corner of the house. One was clearly Tor Drummond. He hadn't donned either his Stetson or his trademark boots today, but he was easy enough to spot: a tall, angular man with a jutting jaw, dressed semicasually for travel. That famous jaw seemed to be working overtime at the moment. Next to him, listening intently, stood the same turnip in the trench coat I'd met a little while ago on the street.
“Something wrong?”
I let the eyepiece drop from my face. “No. It's nothing,” I said.
“For a father who makes his living exposing liars, you aren't a very good one yourself.”
I smiled, said nothing.
“Why won't you let me help you more with your business? I'm not a child, you know.”
“No, but you're my daughter. You can do better than mucking around with the likes of some of the folks I have to deal with.”
“You could at least give me a chance.”
I looked at her. Her hair blew about in the cold wind, but she didn't seem to mind it a bit. “What are you trying to prove, honey?”
“Nothing.” She glared at me.
I waited.
Gradually, her gaze softened. “You remember when you found out what really happened with Mom and Uncle Cat?”
“You cried.”
“Yup. And I told myself that was never going to happen to me again. In order to protect me, you kept going until you found out the truth. That's the kind of thing I want to do.”
I stared at the ground. She'd just ennobled what for me had became a very ignoble profession. “All right,” I said. “How about that computer search you offered to do? You can start with that. Should save me some time.”
She brightened considerably. “Now you're talking.”
“But classes and studying come first. Right now your most important job is to get your degree.”
“I'm getting all A's.”
“Good. Let's keep it that way. And remember, anything I ask you to do is confidential. You should be able to find plenty on Tor Drummond, but I'm especially interested in his family.”
“Sure thing. I think I remember reading something about the daughters in C-ville Weekly last year. It was right about the time the scandal over Drummond's affair broke.”
“Okay. Check it out.”
We walked in silence back to the truck. We took Armistead from her box and released her to hunt from a soar above us while we drove back down between the rows of arbors, hoping to scare up some game. I scanned the surrounding arbors and hedgerows with the binoculars. The crows, if there were any, had vanished into deep cover.
Nicole spun the wheel deftly to avoid a washout. “You know I would've voted for him last time if I'd been old enough.”
“Who, Drummond?”
She nodded.
“Still feel like voting for him?”
“Well, let's see. Mr. Congress-boy intimidates his secretary into bed with him, cops a plea, dumps his wife—I don't think so.”
“Awfully hard on the guy, aren't you? Remember, we need to maintain some professional distance.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “The guy's a first-class sleaze, Dad.”
So much for professional distance.
6
The university's new aquatic and fitness center is an impressive glass-and-brick affair on Alderman Road next to the even more impressive football stadium. (I wonder if Thomas Jefferson would've liked football.) Parking outside the building in one of the few spots open to visitors is a virtual impossibility, although that never stops a determined few from hovering like vultures in hopes of grabbing any opening. If a riot of undetermined location ever breaks out on the university's grounds, this would be one of the first places I'd tell them to look.
I settled for a spot on a shady side street a few blocks down Alderman and walked to the swim center from there. I'd almost called Cassidy Drummond after taking Armistead back to her mews and feeding her and dropping Nicole back at her dorm, but I decided to wait until I'd talked with Jed Haynes. Whatever Congressman Drummond was up
to with the turnip, I needed to talk to the swimmer first.
Groups of students, individuals, and pairs moved around this area, some as joggers or cyclists, all keeping a wary eye on the sporadic stream of traffic. I entered the lobby behind a long-legged young woman wearing tights and a sweatshirt, carrying a backpack.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you happen to know if the swim team is practicing here right now?”
She paused and gave me the once-over. I was still wearing my hunting garb. She must have decided I was okay, though, because she said, “I think so, unless their practice is already over.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She turned and disappeared quickly into the depths of the building.
I pulled out my wallet and rifled through a stack of laminated cards. Since Marcia's father was affiliated with the university, she had managed to finagle a card that allowed me to use the athletic facilities. I had been down here a few times before to work out on the vast complex of fitness and weight machines that overlooked the pool, although all things being equal, I still preferred my free weights at home. The student checking IDs at the entrance off the main lobby waved me through the turnstile without so much as a second glance. Lucky for me, camouflage had never stopped being a fashion statement.
The entrance to the pool deck was on the lower level, between the men's and women's locker rooms. Two male swimmers came through the doors, laughing about something.
“Excuse me, fellas. I'm looking for a member of the swim team—Jed Haynes?”
“Jed?” one of them answered. He looked me over. “He just finished practice. He's probably in the locker room. Locker number's thirty-seven, I think.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, you a reporter?” the other swimmer asked. “I hear Jedi's up for all-American.”
“Jedi?”
“Yeah. That's what all you guys call him, isn't it? The Jedi knight. Dude's more like Darth Vader.” They both laughed again.
“What's his event?”
“Freestyle.”
I pulled a pen and piece of paper from one of my pockets and made a show of writing it down. “Thanks,” I said.
“Hey, you sure you're a reporter?”
I smiled and pushed through the door into the locker room.
It was a big place with several rows of metal lockers. A wall of warmth washed over me, saturated with dampness and chlorine. I followed the numbers around to find a lanky young man pulling jeans on next to locker thirty-seven.
“Jed Haynes?”
“Yeah?” He slipped a T-shirt and sweater over his head. There was an overly self-assured air about the voice. His eyes blazed into mine, intense. I saw what Cassidy Drummond had been talking about. He seemed to sense right away I was no reporter. I didn't think he looked like Brad Pitt. More like a leering version of Tom Cruise.
“You have a minute to talk?”
“What about?”
“Like to ask you a few questions about Cartwright Drummond,” I said, offering him one of my cards.
He took it and stared at the information. Then he turned it over to examine the back as if the card wasn't real.
“Christ—I don't believe this.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
I said nothing.
“Not here,” he said. “C'mon.”
He extracted a small duffel bag from the locker, closed and locked the door, then slung the bag over his shoulder. I followed him out of the locker room, back up the stairs, and out past the turnstile to the main lobby. There was a snack bar off the lobby with vending machines, a few tables and chairs and such. No one else seemed to be using it at the moment, so we went in and sat down.
The soon-to-be all-American slumped in his chair and glared. “What's the bitch been saying about me now?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You and Cartwright have been dating, haven't you?”
“Yeah—we're supposed to be, anyway.”
“Were you with her last night?”
“No, man. I've been trying to get her to call me all day. She's supposed to be back from Japan, but the little cunt all of a sudden acts like she's too good for me or something.”
Someone needed a lesson in manners.
“That's probably true,” I said, standing up to lean against the table. “But let's put it aside for the moment. Did you know she left the Drummond house late last night on her way to see you?”
“She what?” It took a moment for him to realize he'd been insulted. “Listen, asshole, I don't know what you think you're—”
He didn't quite get to finish his sentence. Instead, he grimaced in pain. It might have had something to do with the fact that the heel of my left hiking boot was pressing firmly down on the toe of one of his soft sneakers. He tried to push it off, but couldn't. He looked around for help, but it was obvious he didn't want to make a scene, especially in his current position.
“I'll sue you, you ba—”
“Ah-ah.” I held up my hand and he got the message. “I'm not from the police, Jed, so I don't have to be nice. I'm usually a lot more easygoing than this. But I need information, and you need to tone down the language a bit. You understand?”
He scowled but nodded.
I took my boot away, sat back down, and watched him rub his sneaker. “Don't worry. It'll just be a bruise. I didn't even give you full pressure.”
He seemed to be working very hard to stifle an impulse to speak.
“As I was saying—Cartwright Drummond left her house last night on her way to see you. Did she arrive at your place?”
He shook his head.
“You're sure about that?”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I told her sister that.”
“Where were you last night after midnight?”
“I was at the house. Myself and a couple of the guys were playing foosball, then we watched Letterman. Then I went to bed.”
“Your roommates can confirm this?”
“Sure—ask ‘em. Ask anybody you like.”
He was thinking through his situation. Maybe thinking about throwing me a punch. Maybe even thinking—really thinking—for the first time about Cartwright Drummond.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Cartwright?”
“Yes.”
“That seems to be our problem.”
We both ruminated about this for a few moments.
His countenance darkened. “If anything's happened to her, I'll kill whoever did it,” he said. Passive-aggressive on steroids, perhaps.
“You're leaping to an awfully big conclusion, aren't you?”
He grunted and glared. “I mean it,” he said.
I could have told him then that the object of his obsession had been about to abandon him and that he was going to have to learn to accept that, but I didn't. “Well, that's just wonderful, Jed. But remember, those who try to kill often end up getting killed themselves.”
He didn't care. He was maybe twenty, twenty-one. He was bulletproof—except, at the moment, when it came to his toe.
“What happens now?” he wanted to know.
“Now I keep looking.”
“You calling in the cops?”
“Potentially. I'm still hoping she'll turn up. You know anyplace else she might go? Other friends, maybe?”
He shook his head.
“Really get to know a girl when you date her, huh, Jed?”
“Well, what do you expect? Cartwright's usually hanging with her sister, if anybody. And they've both been out of the country.”
“Where are you headed right now?”
“Me? Probably pick up some dinner at the Tree House and head over to Alderman to work for a couple of hours.” The Tree House was a snack bar, and Alderman was the main university library.
“What's your major?”
“Biology.”
“Premed?”
“Nah. My uncle's a sur
geon and he tells me, the way health care's going, to forget it.”
“What will you do when you graduate?”
“Maybe research. Maybe something else. I don't know. I wanna keep swimming as long as I can.”
“Olympics?”
“Maybe. Coach says I got a shot.”
“Know anything about history?”
“History? Not much, why?”
“Ever hear of some folks named George and Norma Paitley? They were an elderly couple, died together almost twenty years ago. Car accident up in D.C.”
His face showed not the slightest sign of recognition. “No. I never heard of them. What do they have to do with Wright?”
“That's what I aim to find out.” He still held my card in his hand. I reached over and tapped it. “You think of anything else, you give me a call right away. You understand?”
He crossed his legs, looked at his toe as if it were no longer a part of his body, and began rubbing it again. He nodded.
“Oh, and let's just keep this conversation confidential. Be easier for me to try to find her that way.”
“All right. But you find her, you tell her I want to talk with her.”
“I'll do that,” I said.
He was still rubbing his toe when I left.
7
I whistled between my teeth. Up close, Tor Drummond's rented mini-estate looked solid enough to withstand an earthquake, maybe even an atomic blast. Someone had also spent a fortune on landscape architecture and planting beds. I wheeled my truck in through the open gate. Crushed brownstone snap-crackle-popped beneath my tires. The limo was no longer in sight, of course. The place looked deserted.
I was about halfway up the driveway when a dark blue Chevy Suburban shot over the rise beside the house and approached me in a hurry from the opposite direction. The drive was steep and it had the uphill advantage. The vehicle pulled to a stop, blocking my way, and two suits got out, the first a muscular type who could have been a robotic clone of Al Gore and the second none other than my friend Mr. Turnip, who hopped out from behind the wheel. Unlike our earlier encounter, however, neither the turnip nor his partner appeared to be armed.