The Honorable Traitors

by John Lutz

“I had to make sure, after the butler wrote out the place cards, to take the seating chart back to her. When the party was over, I’d bring her nightcap—always a small glass of straight bourbon—to her bedroom. And while I put away her clothes or brushed her hair, she’d make notes on the chart. Things like, ‘Never seat Mr. R and Mrs. J next to each other again.’ Or ‘Captain X and Miss Y are going to be engaged by next month, I bet.’ or ‘Never invite Dr. K to dinner again. Cocktails only.’ We used to laugh a lot while she did that.” She blinked and focused her eyes on Ava. “You here looking for gossip, child? It’s mighty old gossip.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out, why didn’t that file come to me with the rest?”

  “I don’t know. I was in here by the time Miz Tillie moved out of the Chevy Chase house. How would I know anything about that?”

  “But when you were still working”—Ava struggled to put her question clearly—“is it possible somebody took the seating charts file? Did anybody ever have access to the social secretary’s files?”

  “’Course not. I’d have caught any of those college girls letting outsiders see Miz Tillie’s private papers, I’d have handed her her walking papers.”

  “Ma’am?” said Laker from the doorway. “We understand you never let anybody near those files. But what about Miz Tillie? She ever grant anybody access?”

  Mrs. Bendix wagged her head.

  “Stop and think, ma’am, please. We’re talking about a lot of years.”

  Mrs. Bendix shut her eyes. Again her brow furrowed with concentration. People usually did what Laker told them to do, Ava’d noticed. A full minute passed before Mrs. Bendix spoke.

  “There was that one fellah. Talk about rude questions. He must’ve been from New York City. But Miz Tillie said he was helping her write her book. He was supposed to look at her papers only here.” She broke off, annoyed with herself. “Not here. I mean, in the study of the house at Chevy Chase. But he was always asking to take papers home.”

  “We’re talking about Joshua Milton,” Laker said.

  “That’s the fellah. I was glad when Miz Tillie threw him out. He didn’t go gracefully. He gave me the feeling—you know, when you fire a maid, and she slips some silverware in her pocket? Milton was like that. But I don’t recall Miz Tillie and I ever went through the files to make sure he hadn’t taken anything. We were both old and forgetful.”

  “But if we’re looking for a missing file—” Ava said.

  “Go to that Milton fellah.”

  Ava hurriedly thanked her. She rose to see that Laker was no longer in the doorway. He couldn’t wait to go to the Washington Post and confront Milton, she thought. She hurried into the corridor, and was surprised to see that Laker was not striding toward the exit. Just standing there, looking the other way, and Ava followed the look. There was nothing to see but the nurse pushing his meds cart slowly down the corridor.

  Laker’s arm swung up. The Beretta was in his hand. He fired. Ava was stunned. He’d shot the nurse.

  No, he hadn’t. She turned to see that the nurse had ducked the bullet. In the same blur of motion he swung the cart around and shoved it at Laker. She realized that the patchy beard was false and the fat stomach was padding and this was the Shapeshifter.

  Laker dodged the cart but lost his balance. He threw out his left hand to catch himself. That gave the Shapeshifter the split second he needed to run by them. Laker set his feet and dropped into a shooter’s crouch, both arms straight out. But an elderly couple were making their way slowly down the corridor and he couldn’t risk a shot. Tucking the automatic in his waistband, he set off running after the Shapeshifter. Ava followed.

  The Shapeshifter was already a dozen paces away. He ducked into a doorway. She heard a crash and clatter of metal. Reaching the doorway a step behind Laker she saw that it was the lounge. The birdcages were rolling across the floor and the cockatiels were flying free. The teenagers were hiding behind furniture, their parents crouching beside their chairs. They were looking after the Shapeshifter with frightened eyes. But the grandmother was gazing at the brilliantly colored birds flying overhead, a smile on her face.

  Now the Shapeshifter was running by the people sitting in front of the big screen. Nobody was watching the game anymore; all eyes were turned to him. He came to a sudden stop, grabbed the nearest wheelchair by both handles, and shoved it at Laker. The small, wizened woman in the chair cried out, her eyes wide with terror.

  Laker sidestepped and pivoted to grasp the handles, then ran behind the chair a few paces, gradually slowing it to a standstill. He’d made the move as gracefully as a matador and some of the people in front of the television cheered.

  But the Shapeshifter’s maneuver had worked. He’d already reached the door on the other side of the room. He ran through it. Ava was five paces behind him. She heard Laker shout, “Ava, wait!” but didn’t heed him.

  The Shapeshifter was running down the corridor, skirting the cluster of wheelchairs around the comfort dog. The yellow Lab surged to its feet and bounded after him, barking. The Shapeshifter turned right and disappeared through another doorway. Laker barreled past her. The three of them chased the Shapeshifter into what turned out to be the lunch room. The dog got to him first.

  With a final leap the Lab sank its teeth into his pants leg. The Shapeshifter cried out—the first sound she’d heard him make. He swiveled and clouted the dog hard on the side of the head. The dog whined and collapsed in a heap.

  The trumpeters lowered their instruments and the guitarists froze in mid-strum. The dancer stood flat-footed, letting her castanets fall to the floor. The old folks recovered first. They pelted the Shapeshifter with tacos and burritos as he ran through the opposite door. Ava was glad to see that his left pants leg was bloody.

  In the reception lobby all the personnel were on their feet with phones in their hands. They’d heard the gunshot. Nobody tried to stop the Shapeshifter as he crossed the room and pushed through the door. A moment later Laker followed, with Ava behind him.

  Now he was outside, the Shapeshifter could put on speed. Leaning forward, arms pumping, he was sprinting across the parking lot. Laker drew his gun. He wouldn’t miss at this range, she thought.

  Focusing on the Shapeshifter, she didn’t hear the approaching siren, didn’t see the patrol car until it screeched to a stop in front of Laker. His shot spoiled, he ran around the car, but another pulled up, blocking him again. He stopped and turned. The cops from the first car were on their feet, pointing their pistols at him, shouting. Squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, he dropped the Beretta and slowly raised his arms.

  Ava looked for the Shapeshifter but didn’t see him. He must’ve already reached the other side of the parking lot and disappeared through the trees. She didn’t know what to do.

  She wanted to step forward, join Laker in trying to explain to the police. But they had him braced against a car with a gun to his head. Explanations were going to take a while. Too long. By now the Shapeshifter was probably in his car. Eavesdropping at Mrs. B’s door, he couldn’t have failed to overhear the name of Josh Milton.

  Ava had to get to the Post reporter before he did.

  Turning her back on Laker, she headed for their rental car, forcing herself not to hurry. Another police car approached, siren wailing and roof-lights rippling. The cops passed her without a glance.

  36

  “Mr. Milton is working remotely today,” said the newsroom operator at the Washington Post.

  “What does that mean? That he’s at home?” Ava was driving south along the Potomac on Route 123, phone in hand.

  “I can direct your call to someone else on the National Politics desk.”

  “I need to see Milton, right away. Give me his home address.”

  “I’m sorry but—”

  “This is Ava North.”

  “Oh. Just a moment, Ms. North.”

  The receptionist was back in a minute with the phone number and address, which Ava only had to hear once to
memorize; she’d always been good at that. She considered dialing his number, but the address was in Alexandria, only a few minutes away. She decided to just go there.

  As she exited to U.S. 1, she wondered how Laker was doing. Nervousness was making her a little giddy, because she thought of Notorious, the scene where the motorcycle cop pulled Ingrid Bergman over for drunk driving. But Cary Grant showed his G-Man ID, and the cop saluted and groveled and followed Cary Grant’s orders.

  She hoped Laker had an ID like that.

  Milton lived in the old part of town, in one of the narrow brick row houses built in the mid-nineteenth century. Nice, if you were into vertical living; people happily paid a couple of million bucks for one. Milton’s latest rip-the-lid-off-Washington book must be selling well.

  She looked both ways as she got out of the car, her stomach crawling. The street and the sidewalks were busy, and she lacked Laker’s preternatural ability to spot the enemy. The Shapeshifter had only Milton’s name. It would take a while for him to obtain the address.

  She hoped.

  Steep steps led to the house’s front door. As she approached them, Milton appeared, stepping out of an archway under the steps. He was in a ratty old bathrobe over pajamas. His dark eyes were more heavily bagged than usual, and his graying mustache was droopier. Knowing the ways of writers, she figured he’d stayed up all night to beat a deadline.

  “Ava. At last,” he said, unsmiling but plainly glad to see her. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Your office called to alert you?”

  “Even before that. I knew you’d realize it’s time to tell your story, and I’m the one who will take best care of you.”

  He waved her into the door under the steps. It was a service entrance leading to the kitchen. A long table was covered with papers, notebooks, back issues of the Post, a laptop, and a greasy carton containing half a pizza. Milton must have chosen to work here so that he could be close to his coffeemaker.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  “Sorry, Josh. I’m not here to give you an exclu.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m here to retrieve a file you took from my grandmother’s house. Stole, really.”

  He squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. It didn’t take much for Milton to get up on his high horse.

  “Stole? I reject that term. We were collaborating on a memoir, until your grandmother got cold feet and reneged. A lot of papers passed back and forth.”

  “This was a folder labeled ‘seating charts.’”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, looking genuinely baffled.

  “You kept it because Millie had written gossipy notes about her guests on it.”

  Now he remembered, but pretended he hadn’t. “I’m not with you yet. Tell me more.”

  “Give me the folder, Josh.”

  He plunged his hands into his bathrobe pockets. “Your grandmother fired me because she couldn’t order me around. You can’t, either.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “You’re flushed and breathing hard, I can see that. And it’s not because you want me, unfortunately. By the way, are you sleeping with Thomas Laker?”

  “The folder, now.”

  “Did he send you? I suppose this is a matter of national security and it’s my duty to let you have it.”

  “I’m not going to appeal to your patriotism, Josh. Just your sense of self-preservation. A man is on his way here. He knows about the folder and will stop at nothing to get it.”

  “Oh, I’m about to receive a visit from an enemy agent?” He worked his heavy eyebrows sarcastically.

  Ava wanted to fly at him and pound her fists on his chest. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Yes. An enemy agent. He’s killed five people. He won’t hesitate to kill you. If you have any sense, you’ll get that file off your hands and take a long vacation in Valparaiso.”

  “What can be so important about seating charts for dinners that took place years ago?”

  “Josh, listen. Your life is on the line.”

  He didn’t reply, but after a moment’s thought he led her up the stairs to the main floor. They crossed the hall and went into a formal dining room, which Milton’s decorator had furnished in period style: crystal chandelier, paneled walls—with one panel open to reveal the chute of an old-fashioned dumbwaiter—French windows overlooking the street, and ornately carved antique furniture. Like the one downstairs, the table was covered with books and papers. As well as a few photos. She recognized her grandmother’s face.

  “So the rumors are true. You’re continuing the book about Tillie on your own.”

  “Yep. When Laker came to see me, I figured there’d be a market for it. And I was right, wasn’t I? She’s going to be back in the news soon?”

  Ava stepped closer to the table, scanning the clutter for the file she wanted. Milton planted his hand flat on a light-blue folder. She peered through his spread fingers. The label read seating plans.

  “Which papers do you want?”

  “Jesus Christ, Josh!”

  “You can’t expect me to turn over the whole file. There’s great stuff in there. Tell me which papers you want, and why, and maybe I’ll—”

  She grabbed the folder and whipped it out from under his hand. As he overbalanced and toppled onto the table, she spun and ran.

  He caught up with her at the top of the staircase. Grasped her arm with one hand while the other reached over her shoulder for the folder. She pressed it tight against her breasts. With him half on top of her, she struggled down a couple of steps, then stumbled to her knees. Losing his grip, Milton tumbled over her.

  Her free hand caught the banister, saved her from falling. But Milton went head over heels down the steps and landed flat on his back on the tile floor of the kitchen. She hoped he was stunned and she’d be able to get past him. But as she descended he struggled to his knees, then his feet, and spread his arms to block her way.

  There was a clink of breaking glass.

  Milton’s eyes met hers. She saw the dawning fear in them as he realized she’d been telling the truth. Then he swung around.

  From where she was standing halfway down the stairs she couldn’t see the door. But she heard the shot. A red plume of blood and brains arced from the back of Milton’s head. He dropped in a heap at the foot of the steps.

  Ava cried out and began to back up the stairs.

  A blue-clad figure came into view below. The Shapeshifter, still in his nurse’s scrubs. The glasses and beard disguised his face. His eyes fixed on the folder she was clutching to her chest. The gun was in his right hand. Another instant and he would raise it and aim.

  She whirled and ran. Her back muscles tensed in anticipation of a bullet. But there was no shot. Just the sound of his footfalls on the steps as he pursued her.

  She ran into the dining room. Slammed the heavy wooden door, yanked the chair from the head of the table and jammed it under the doorknob. A second later, the doorknob turned, rattled, then the whole door shook in its frame as the Shapeshifter threw himself against it. It wouldn’t hold for long.

  Setting the folder on the sideboard, she picked up another chair with both hands, swung it over her head, and threw it with all her strength at the French window. The glass shattered and the chair sailed through. She bounded over to it—but hesitated at the threshold. It was a twelve-foot drop to the sidewalk. By the time she got back on her feet—assuming the fall hadn’t broken her ankles—the Shapeshifter would be through the door. As she tried to run away—hobble away—he’d shoot her in the back.

  The door took another heavy blow. She darted frantic glances around the room. There was only one other way out. She ran to the dumbwaiter, peered down the empty chute. Lifting one leg then the other, she scrambled in to perch on the narrow ledge. Holding on with her left hand, she stretched out her right toward the folder on the sideboard.

  Her left hand lost its grip and she w
ent down the chute.

  As she dropped straight down, both arms above her head, she could hear the door to the dining room splintering. He was in. And the folder was lying on the sideboard.

  Fierce pains shot up her legs as she landed. The thin wooden platform of the dumbwaiter at the bottom of the shaft hadn’t been built to withstand the weight of a falling woman. Her feet punched through it. She tried to bring her arms down, succeeded only in jamming herself tight in the chute. Her feet were caught in the ruin of the platform. She struggled, found she couldn’t move at all.

  Up in the dining room the Shapeshifter must be standing at the smashed window by now. Looking out, not seeing her. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out where she’d gone.

  A wave of hopeless panic rose in her mind. She fought it off. Made herself think.

  It was her arms folded tight against her sides that were trapping her. No use trying to lower them. Instead she raised them. Better. She could breathe. Even bend her head so she could look down her legs to the broken planks of the platform. What was under them? Some sort of gears and cables. She tried to wriggle her feet free. Nothing happened except that the pain intensified until she almost fainted. It was dark in the chute. The kitchen hatch doors must be closed.

  Too much time had passed.

  Ava ceased to struggle. Slowly raised her eyes. She expected to see the head and shoulders of the Shapeshifter, leaning into the chute, pointing his gun at her. But there was only the empty chute. The folder was what he was after. He’d grabbed it and run. He was gone.

  She took a long, shuddering breath. Only now did she identify a sound that she’d been hearing for a while: approaching sirens.

  Laker must’ve had an ID like Cary Grant’s after all.

  37

  Laker was in the lead squad car, riding in the front passenger seat beside Officer Rita Martinez. She had luxuriant chestnut hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck and wore a lot of blue eye shadow, but she was a kick-ass cop all the same. She’d enjoyed barreling down Route 123 at ninety mph. Noticing that he was hanging onto the grab handle above his door, she cracked that he could relax, she had every intention of making her daughter’s Quinceañera tomorrow.