The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen Frey

  “Good. And call me as soon as you have the name of Walker’s Area 51 informant. That is very important.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rhodes shook Webb’s hand, then melted into the gloom.

  Webb stared into the darkness long after Rhodes had disappeared. He needed to make a phone call before returning to the Senate floor.

  Chapter 6

  Malcolm Walker had had an advantaged upbringing as the only child of two physicians who had clawed their way out of poverty-stricken inner-city childhoods, then met and married as medical students. They had attended Johns Hopkins on grants from the United Negro College Fund and ultimately settled in Homeland—an upscale north Baltimore neighborhood. Walker had matriculated at Macon Academy, an exclusive Massachussetts prep school, starring in football and track from sophmore year on. He’d graduated summa cum laude from Harvard undergraduate and Harvard Law in only five years, and afterward accepted a position at the high-profile Washington firm of Baker & Stroud, handling civil rights cases.

  Six years after coming to Baker & Stroud, Walker ran a grassroots campaign for, and was elected to, the Maryland state senate. Four years later, at the tender age of thirty-three, he became a United States senator. In campaign speeches he cited lessons learned as the son of parents who had lifted themselves from the ghetto through hard work and determination. He spoke of the times when, as children, his parents did not eat because there was no money. He talked about the dilapidated homes in which they were raised. And he discussed the dreams they had achieved. He was articulate, attractive and a sworn enemy of Washington insiders and behind-the-scenes money deals between politicians and big business. And despite all the advantages of his youth, he related naturally to the plight of the working class—and they to him.

  Establishment opponents constantly attempted to undermine the loyalty of Walker’s constituents by depicting him as a fraud, as himself a member of the elite, focusing on his list of degrees from privileged schools and his sizable, publicly disclosed investment portfolio. However, Walker had managed to deflect the criticism and maintain the allegiance of his followers—until Elbridge Coleman had appeared on the political horizon and began burning millions on advertising that subtly appealed to white voters who had supported Walker in the last election. The ads consistently misrepresented Walker’s record as only voting for legislation favorable to black communities and ignoring others, which in fact was not the case. His record indicated no bias whatsoever; however, he lacked the financial wherewithal to fight the onslaught, and the spin was having a major effect on his white constituency. A constituency he had to have to win reelection.

  Walker smiled pleasantly at the talk show host sitting across the studio.

  “We’re back from commercial break here at WBCC radio Baltimore. This is Night Speak and I’m Cynthia Jones.” Her creamy voice drifted through the microphone and out onto the airways. “Our guest tonight has been United States Senator Malcolm Walker, first-term Democrat from Maryland.” The woman kept her lips close to the mike as she turned her head slightly to make eye contact with Walker. “I want to thank you so much for taking the time to come on our program tonight, Senator. I know you have a hectic schedule.”

  “Not at all, Cynthia,” Walker said in his deep voice. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  “Good. Well we have just several moments left so only time for a few more questions and one very important phone call.”

  Walker gave the host and the producer a curious look but neither responded to his silent question about the phone call. A call no one had mentioned during the prep session just before air time.

  “Senator,” the woman continued, “tell us why your appeal and voter support is so broad. You’re black, but in the last election you received more than fifty-five percent of the white vote.”

  Walker launched into his prepared impromptu remarks. “Cynthia, it’s because I talk common sense and people appreciate that kind of thing no matter what race they are.” He’d said these things so many times he could recite them in his sleep. But he was a polished politician and could project enthusiasm no matter how many times he crusaded. “As we’ve discussed tonight, in my first term I’ve gone out of my way to focus on cutting the Defense Department’s budget and that’s certainly irritated some people in Washington. But it only makes good sense and voters know that. The DOD spends over three hundred billion dollars a year. Three hundred billion. And much of that is appropriated for weapons we just don’t need. Take aircraft carriers for instance. Do we really need to sink, no pun intended, another five billion dollars into a floating target? I don’t think so. Many of these contracts are simply directed to firms to enrich the entrenched military establishment. I believe the DOD budget could be half of what it is now, and the United States would easily remain the world’s only military superpower.

  “Cynthia, imagine what we could do with another hundred and fifty billion dollars a year if we really did cut the budget by fifty percent. Think of the opportunities. We could train inner-city youth to become part of a skilled labor pool. We could increase the number and quality of police officers. We could vastly improve our school systems. You see, race becomes irrelevant when you talk about these things because everyone benefits. I’m all about making this country a better place for everyone.”

  “Senator Walker, do you really believe we could cut the military budget in half and remain strong?”

  “I know we could. And so do those in power in Congress and at the Pentagon.”

  “Then why isn’t anything done?”

  “Because many people are getting rich off that fat DOD budget. It’s a gravy train.”

  “That’s a powerful accusation.”

  “One I intend to prove.”

  “Tough words,” the host crooned. “One more question before we take the phone call, Senator.”

  “Certainly, Cynthia.”

  “This is difficult, but as a reporter I need to ask. Why has the November Senate election for your seat suddenly become a race? Why has Elbridge Coleman, the Republican candidate, been able to close the gap in the polls lately, if you talk so much common sense?”

  Walker had hoped to get through the interview without fielding that one. He wanted to tell the host about the establishment machine he felt certain was doing all it could to defeat him. But he didn’t have names or money trails or anything else that would prove his suspicions. And if he blamed Coleman’s recent success on some faceless group, it would sound like the rantings of a loser. “It’s just a blip. Come November we’ll still be in Washington.”

  “I’m glad you’re confident.” The host raised an eyebrow as if she wasn’t certain Walker should feel so secure. “Now for the phone call.” The host looked away. She knew Walker wasn’t going to be happy about this development, but Night Speak needed ratings and this was sweeps week. “On the line we have the Reverend Elijah Pitts, leader of the Maryland-based Liberation for African-Americans.”

  Walker rolled his eyes and grimaced. In only a few years LFA had risen to prominence by spearheading initiatives designed to assist economically depressed areas. Bringing more government money to poor neighborhoods, bringing jobs to those same neighborhoods and monitoring fair hiring practices were just a few of Reverend Pitts’s favorite causes. In fact, he and LFA had assisted blacks and whites. But Walker’s research showed that many suburban whites mistakenly viewed LFA as militant. So he and his staff had decided to maintain as much distance as possible from Reverend Pitts for fear of losing the white bloc Walker so desperately needed to defeat Coleman and win reelection. Walker gave the host an icy stare, but she simply smiled back.

  “Good evening, Reverend Pitts. Thanks for being on with us tonight.”

  “It’s always a pleasure, Cynthia.” The Reverend had been a guest on Night Speak several times. He paused. “Hello, Malcolm.”

  “Hello, Reverend.” Walker forced himself to be polite. They knew each other well, having attended many public functions together. Walker tapped his
chair nervously. Pitts was always trying to corner Walker into publicly endorsing LFA. But that, the pollsters had determined, would spell disaster. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, Senator,” Pitts said in an equally cordial, equally forced tone. “I’ve enjoyed listening to your words of grandeur this evening.” Sarcasm seeped into Pitts’s voice.

  “Mmm.”

  The host smiled. Things were becoming interesting.

  “But, Malcolm,” the Reverend’s tone became paternal, “you need to pay more attention to your core constituency. You need to build a bridge to LFA. Together we could really accomplish some of your grand design.”

  “I think you and LFA have done some very postitive things for Maryland.” Walker glanced at the clock on the wall. Only one more minute and the host would have to sign off. But the second hand seemed to be going backward. “Some very positive things.”

  “You are skillfully avoiding the issue. Of course, you’re a skillful politician so what should I expect? Embrace LFA, Senator Walker. Together we can be even stronger. Right now! On the air tonight!” Pitts thundered.

  Walker cleared his throat. Thirty seconds.

  “Malcolm.”

  “Reverend, we should get together and discuss our views. Perhaps you should come to Washington.”

  “Malcolm!”

  “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have, gentlemen,” the host cut in. “Thank you, Senator Malcolm Walker, for being our guest on Night Speak.”

  Walker’s shoulders slumped as the woman signed off. He’d be more careful about doing these call-in shows in the future.

  Chapter 7

  Roth cased the room quickly, sweeping the gun from left to right, left eye closed, right eye staring down the sleek barrel to the small sight, and then beyond to the gray and green shapes perfectly defined by the night-vision goggles he wore.

  Bookcase to the left. A desk beneath a bay window in the center with the chair pulled out and no one in the crawl space between the drawers. A large leather chair in the far corner next to the desk and a closet to the right, door closed. But nothing human. He checked the crawl space again just to make certain. There was no way the person could have left here in the short time it had taken him to move inside the house.

  His eyes shifted to the closet. That had to be the answer. Somehow the prey had sensed his presence and in a pathetic effort to escape death had hidden in the most obvious location. As if it wouldn’t be the first place he would check. But it was the only place to hide, and as Roth well knew, survival was the most powerful human instinct.

  He trained the Magnum on the closet door, not taking his eyes from the knob as he moved silently to the wall beside the door. He was ready for the prey to burst from within in an attempt to gain the advantage of surprise.

  Roth reached for the knob, then pulled his hand back from the brass as if he’d received a shock. He wanted to take the person alive, then perform the execution at a remote location and leave no trace of his presence here for the investigation that would inevitably follow. But this mission was too important to risk any possibility of failure. If he tried to take the prey from the house alive, there was that slim chance it might escape. He had to kill it here. There was no alternative.

  With the left side of his body pressed against the wall next to the closet, Roth reached out with the gun in just his right hand—exposing only his arm as a target in case the prey had a weapon—and pointed the barrel at the door, then fired three times into the door exactly four feet above the floor in a neat pattern across the wood. In rapid succession the bullets smacked angrily through the door just a few inches apart.

  Instantly something behind the door fell heavily to the floor. Roth ripped at the knob and hurled the door open. On the floor lay a laundry bag. It had dropped from a hook on the back of the door, its string neatly cut by one of the bullets. Roth cursed softly. The prey had not been so stupid after all.

  He whipped around, eyes flashing about the room, a small seed of concern suddenly taking root at the base of his brain. The prey was escaping.

  The shrill sound of insect calls humming in the night filled his ears. A slight, almost imperceptible breeze of salt air caressed his face. Insect calls louder than they should have been. A salt-air breeze. His eyes shot to the bay window. He moved quickly to the desk, leaned over it, and put his hand against the window. It was unlocked and slightly ajar.

  A large porcelain mug spilled its contents of pens and pencils as Roth jumped onto the desktop and yanked open one side of the window. The banker’s lamp toppled over as he put one foot on the sill, but Roth took little notice as it smashed to the floor. He wasn’t concerned about disturbing the house now. The bullet holes, the mug, and the lamp could be taken care of later. The only concern now must be to track down the prey as quickly as possible. Roth squeezed through the window and jumped six feet to the ground.

  Jesse sprinted through the gauntlet of trees and shrubs, guided only by moonlight, spurred on by the sound of gunshots from the house. The foliage tore at her face, arms, and clothing as she stumbled through the blackness, avoiding the sharp branches as best she could. She had sensed the predator as he had peered through the window, though she was still not certain exactly how. Perhaps her ears had picked up a foreign sound or her nose an unfamiliar scent. Whatever it was, she had known instantly she must leave and that the front door was not an option.

  Her shoulder suddenly clipped a thin sapling obscured by the darkness and she fell heavily to the leaf-covered ground. The file from Robinson’s desk slipped from her hand and its contents spilled to the ground. A sharp pain shot from her shoulder to her fingertips, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She lay on the ground for a moment rubbing the shoulder, then picked herself up, took off her gloves and stuffed them in her pants pocket, retrieved the papers lying strewn about the dry leaves and kept going. She had to keep going. The predator was back there in the darkness. She could feel him.

  Her plan was to move quickly through the forest forty yards in from the road, using the trees as cover, until she reached a spot close to where she had parked her car. Then she would cross the road, find the car in the grove of trees, and escape. It would have been much easier to simply race down the asphalt, but her instincts told her she would have been too obvious on the road, too vulnerable. There was a strong possibility the intruder wasn’t working alone, and she was much safer in the cover of the woods even though it was slower going.

  Be careful. God, if she had only known how serious Robinson’s message had been. And in the next instant the ground fell suddenly away, and she tumbled down a ravine, screaming as the darkness enveloped her.

  Roth’s head snapped to the right. A scream, a terrified scream, human not animal. Female, judging by the pitch, and it was close. Closer than he could have hoped. Relief rushed through his body as he bolted toward the line of trees at the edge of the neatly trimmed lawn. The odds were suddenly back in his favor.

  Jesse stood up, water dripping from her clothes, and moved out of the stream. She picked up the file, which had fallen on the bank. She checked it. It hadn’t been damaged. Then she heard the footsteps crashing over dry oak leaves.

  For a moment Jesse stood still, uncertain of whether to run or hide. Finally she turned, waded through the water, and began struggling up the other side of the ravine. But the moist ground gave way maddeningly in her fingers, and after climbing only a few feet she slid back to the bottom.

  Leaning on the bank, she hesitated for a moment to listen, trying to discern sounds other than the pounding of her heart. The footsteps were still coming fast. She glanced quickly to the left and right, then headed upstream, toward Gull Road.

  She tried to stay on the bank, out of the water, but the stream took a sudden curve, and in the darkness she stumbled into a shallow pool and splashed into the icy, spring-fed water again.

  Roth heard the splash and altered his path toward it as he dodged trees. The prey was close. He grippe
d the Magnum tightly and pressed forward. Then suddenly he too slipped down the steep ravine, tumbling over and over until finally he fell into the stream at the bottom. But he was up quickly, shaking himself, listening for sounds that would lead him to the quarry. He was disoriented from the fall and uncertain whether the splash he had heard was up-stream or down from his position. Seconds were passing. The prey was moving away. He had to make a decision.

  Jesse heard Roth fall, and against every instinct she didn’t run wildly away. Instead she moved more slowly than she had before, careful not to tumble into the water again. Careful to be as quiet as possible. Careful not to give away her position, because there was no longer any question that the predator was close.

  Terror and the urge to scream suddenly overwhelmed her, but she managed to control the fear, realizing the odds were small anyone would hear her—except the pursuer. She stopped, leaned against the face of a large rock for a moment to suck in warm humid air, then pushed on.

  Through the darkness and a break in the treetops the moon appeared, and then a bridge beneath the moon. It was the same bridge she had crossed on foot twenty minutes ago to get to the house after hiding the car. Only twenty minutes ago, but it seemed like hours now. She glanced up at the overpass, just a dark shape against a dark sky. The car was close, only a few hundred feet from the bridge.

  She gripped the file tightly and jogged ahead. The bank was clear of foliage close to the bridge, and she was able to make progress more easily. She pressed her hand against her wet pants pocket and felt the car keys. Starting the engine might give away her position, but she would be gone before the pursuer could take advantage of it. And once she began driving, not even the fires of hell were going to stop her.

  The air became cooler and slightly stale as she moved beneath the bridge. Moonlight shimmered off the water’s surface, casting eerie, pale shadows on the cement. And just the slight sound of her footsteps on the rocks seemed to echo loudly inside the bridge.