Sandra pulled her backpack off and fished inside it for her cell phone. The screen was blank. On the mountain she used the land line. The cell stayed in her backpack. With Wyatt entering her life and absorbing her attention, she’d forgotten to charge it. Finding a quarter, she went to a pay phone near Riggs National Bank, she dialed her parents' Washington residence. Wyatt leaned against the side of the building, his head down, his face completely concealed from anyone passing by.
Moments later, Sandra depressed the receiver button. "He's not home and not expected until very late," she explained, then asked if Wyatt had a quarter. Wyatt gave her the coin and she dialed the Senate Office Building. "He's not there, either."
"We've got to get off the street," Wyatt said, apparently not surprised she couldn't locate her father. "We're going to need a place where we're not likely to be recognized."
"I'm not sure we can do that with all the press coverage you've received but, come on, I have an idea."
"This is your idea?" Wyatt asked ten minutes later as the taxi dropped them on 4th Street in northwest Washington near the reservoir. "We're going to hide in the dorms?"
Behind them stood the Howard University Quadrangle, a configuration of five dormitories enclosing a large courtyard that hid a flowering magnolia tree. Sandra had spent her freshman year in Truth Hall.
"The dorm is not our destination." Sandra turned and faced the hill that led to the main campus of the one hundred and forty-six-year-old institution of higher education. They crossed the street and went through the iron gates. Students passed them hurrying to classes or getting out of the cold. No one took any special notice of who they were.
Sandra remembered her days here. Time hadn't stood still, but she could almost hear Marjorie Linley, her roommate, using their sorority signal to call her from the opposite side of the campus.
Founders Library sat on her left, and the School of Home Economics on the right. Past the Home EC Building the main campus opened up into an expanse of walkways and winter-brown grass. The School of Religion stood directly in front of her, while Douglass Hall’s imposing structure sat next to it. Directly across from the famous columned classroom building was the New Building. It had a name but no one used it. Though the building had been completed in the early sixties, this name endured. In the basement was the computer center. There she knew she'd find Jefferson Taylor, III, a forty-year-old, five-foot-tall, gray-haired man with eyes as sharp as a cat. She'd see Jeff later. Now they had to find someplace to hide.
"Where are we going?" Wyatt asked as they passed Crampton Auditorium and headed onto Georgia Avenue.
"I hope you don't mind walking a bit."
"I don't mind walking, but I'd like to know where we're going." His hand went to his side and Sandra knew he was in pain. If things got bad, she’d hail a cab, but she didn’t want to leave a trail for anyone to follow if she didn’t have to.
"Trust me, Wyatt. If I wanted to turn you in I could have called the cops from the helicopter."
They walked over to 16th Street and up to the 4000 block. On Shepherd Street, Sandra turned, and two blocks later entered a house on Crestwood Drive.
"Who lives here?" Wyatt asked.
"No one," she said, dropping the backpack by the door. "It's my house." She pulled the white sheet from a chair and threw it in the corner. "My grandmother left it to my sister and me when she died. Annie never uses it, so it's closed most of the year."
Sandra continued removing the sheets. Finally, she adjusted the thermostat and went through to the kitchen. "Why don't I make us some coffee? And why don't you make a fire in the living room. It'll be a while before it warms up in here."
"Will you stop with the Donna Reed act?" Wyatt sounded irritated.
Sandra had heard his irritation before and she knew it wouldn't last long. She hadn't been here since last summer and only then to make sure there was no trouble with the place. She kept the electricity and gas on, although it got minimal use. Today she was glad she'd never had it completely shut off. Sandra pulled the refrigerator door open, frowning when she found nothing there but clean shelves and bottles of water.
Wyatt sighed and headed for the fireplace.
There was no milk, but she found non-dairy creamer in the cabinet. In a moment she had the machine dripping. There was little else in the refrigerator, but the freezer had remnants of last summer's stock. Wyatt had a roaring blaze in the hearth going when Sandra returned with a tray. She set it on the table and poured cups for them.
"We have to decide what we're going to do," she began.
"We? You're not part of this."
"Look, Wyatt Randolph." Sandra set her cup on the table and leaned toward him. "Might I remind you that you've already involved me. The moment you told me about those stones, I became part of this . . ." She didn't know how to end the sentence.
Wyatt looked away from her.
"You implicated my father in the worst imaginable crime short of murder. If you think I'm going to let you go off alone and make my father the scapegoat of some plot, you can think again."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I don't know." She stood up and walked to the fire. The heat was warm against her arms and legs. Suddenly, she whipped around. "But you haven't done anything, either. You ran for a week, then you got stabbed and nearly died. You ran to me and they found you. How long do you think you can keep running? You've got to have a plan or the next time you won't make it." She paused. "They'll kill you."
He heard the crack in her voice when she said "kill." She cared about him. He'd been angry with her, but the anger went when he realized there was as much fear in her voice as there was bravado.
"I have a plan. I need to talk to your father."
"Good idea," she agreed. "He could clear this up in no time."
The look he gave her told her he didn't believe it would.
"Suppose," he said. "Just for a moment, consider that I might be telling the truth."
Sandra hesitated. He couldn't be right but she went along with him. "All right, if you are telling the truth, and I don't believe for one minute you are, my father is the last person you should go to."
"What would be your suggestion in that case?"
She thought a moment. "Have those stones analyzed by someone who knows about computer chips. Find out what they can do and if they are the reason Chip was killed. If you're going to die, at least know the real reason."
Wyatt admired her. She was intelligent, loyal, and honest. He wanted her on his side, but her father stood between them. After this was over, if he lived, she'd never see him again. No matter what he felt for her, and she stirred more feelings in him than any woman ever had, they had no future.
"I would like to take them to someone, but the only people I know work for the Defense Department and I don't think it would be a good idea for me to walk in unannounced."
"Then let's take them to someone I know," Sandra suggested.
Wyatt glared at her. Had she planned this? Was he wrong about her? She could be setting him up. In no time he rejected the thought. If she wanted to set him up she'd had plenty of opportunity and she hadn't taken any of them. He had to trust her. There was no one else, and she was right, he couldn't run forever. His time was limited and whoever was looking for him had more resources than he did.
"Whom do you have in mind?"
"A professor I had in undergraduate school. He's here at Howard."
"Is that why we went there?"
She nodded. "After we started across campus I thought it would be better to discuss it with you first."
Wyatt almost hugged her. Obviously, she wasn't used to discussing her decisions with anyone. In his capacity as a U.S. senator, he was constantly bouncing ideas off other senators, asking the opinion of advisors and counselors.
"Who is he?"
"He's a wizard," she smiled. "He knows everything there is to know about computers. I guess he's a little like Chip. He eats, sleeps, and
dreams in cyberspace."
"Can he be trusted?"
"I've never had a top-secret project, but I’d say yes, he can be trusted."
"We'll go in the morning." Wyatt stood up and went to her. "Smile, Sandra, they haven't got us yet."
She didn't smile, but looked up at him. "There's one more thing you should know," she said.
Wyatt braced himself. "What is it?"
"He used to work for the Defense Department."
Chapter 6
Casadia Androcles Winstead Horton had been called Casey all her life. She would be fifty years old in less than a week. The White House staff had been alerted that a huge party was planned for the occasion. Casey loved parties, had loved them since she was a child on her grandfather's ranch. People came from miles to attend one of his barbecues. Her coming-out party had been attended by the governor of the state along with several minor politicians. Also in attendance was a young law student named Everett Horatio Horton.
From that night to this one he'd never failed to inspire admiration in her and in the country which he now led as its President. She watched him and the men in the room. Everett was tired. His entire career rested on the problem of the missing system component. He hadn't slept well since this business began. She knew he wouldn't rest until it was over.
The second floor of the White House was not the West Wing. It might just as well have been. The number of meetings that took place in their private quarters was higher than those scheduled by Everett’s staff of private secretaries.
"What have we got, gentlemen?" Everett asked. His voice was strong, authoritative and sure. Five men sat on the sofas in the study. Melanie West occupied the wingback chair the faced that fireplace and the desk where Casey sat.
"Mr. President," Clarence Christopher, head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, began. "We know he's with Senator Rutledge's younger daughter, Sandra. They left the mountain cabin and returned to Washington yesterday. Dr. Rutledge's helicopter was discovered at Reagan National in an unauthorized hangar. From there we don't know where they went. Other than trying to reach her father, both at his residence and at his office, we know they haven't contacted anyone else connected with the defense system."
Casey listened without comment. She would have her say later directly to the President and without the opinions of the men in this room. When it came to the calm, orderly management of their respective agencies, they were competent, but in this kind of emergency, they were next to useless. Clarence was the best of the lot. He was also discreet. She trusted him and would believe anything he said and did.
". . . fired on as they escaped in the helicopter." Tyler Kirkus, Secretary of Defense, was speaking when she came back to the conversation. "We found bullet holes in the helicopter and one of the forest rangers told us Ms. Rutledge reported ground fire as she took off."
The discussion went on for two hours, each man talking but no one saying anything useful. Casey was glad to see them go when they finally filed out of the second-floor study.
"In all this subterfuge, Everett, the missing link is Brad Rutledge. Where is he and why hasn't anyone seen him the last week?" Everett's closest friend and advisor, Melanie West, asked the question. She'd been with Everett from the first, and Casey had long since ceased being jealous of her. Casey knew Melanie and her husband very well. She and Everett had sat with Caleb West at the caesarian births of both his daughter and son, and Casey had earnestly cried when both children married and moved away.
Everett kissed Melanie on the cheek and closed the door behind her. He sighed and turned back to the room. He came to Casey, reached for her hands, and she placed hers in his and stood. They hugged each other. She loved Everett Horton more than life itself.
"What did you think of them?" Everett asked.
"You know what I think of them. Except for Clarence and Melanie, you could fire the lot and not notice a loss."
Everett stepped back but kept his arm around her waist. Together they walked to the sofa and sat down.
"I need a drink," he said.
"I'll call—"
"No," he stopped her. "Don't call the staff. We keep them working enough without asking for more."
"Everett, they're pleased to serve you."
"I'll just have an orange juice." He started to get up.
"I'll get it for you." Casey knew how much weight his shoulders carried. She also knew he didn't expect her to serve him. He had as much concern for her as he did for the hour and the White House staff. She poured his orange juice into a wine goblet instead of a juice glass and handed it to him as she resumed her seat.
"Clarence said Sandra and Wyatt hadn't tried to contact anyone who would know about the system except her father."
Everett shook his head and gave his full attention to his wife. "They're obviously being cautious. There's nothing that can be done if they don't make a mistake, and so far they seem to be keeping those to a minimum."
"Maybe we shouldn't concentrate so much on them. What about people who aren't connected with the system?"
"Like who?"
"Well, if it were me, and I knew all my sources inside the agencies would lead to a possible death, I'd try to find someone who could help me who isn't connected with the government."
Everett leaned back. He looked like a light bulb of comprehension had gone off in his brain. "You think he'll use the senator's daughter as a source."
"I would." He finished the glass of juice. Holding it in both hands, he went on. "We need to find out everything we can about Sandra Rutledge, and there will be our lead."
***
Sandra snapped the cellular phone closed. She bit her lower lip. Wyatt wasn't going to like what she had to tell him. Uncle Olson had been upset when she suddenly broke communications and flew off to an unknown destination. She knew he would be. He was volatile at times, but only because he was concerned about her. He wouldn't have told anyone about Wyatt until he'd talked to her, but the FBI had shown up and he was obligated to tell them about the shootout and the escape.
By now they'd discovered the helicopter and knew they were somewhere in the District. Wyatt hadn't awakened yet. He'd been dead tired after yesterday's ordeal. During their long walk she'd noticed him favoring his left side. He must have been in pain but he said nothing. Even after they arrived he didn't complain, but he did remain seated unless it was absolutely necessary that he move.
She made coffee and popped some of the muffins she'd run out and bought this morning at the bakery on Mt. Pleasant into the oven. It had been years since she stayed here with her grandmother. Few people recognized her and she felt quite safe in going the short distance. Her only concern would be the neighbors. Lights would notify them that someone was in the house.
Placing the coffee on a tray, along with the muffins and The Washington Post. She was relieved there was no mention of her name in the story the featured Senator Wyatt Randolph's disappearance.
She knocked lightly on the door and opened it. Wyatt wasn't in bed. He stood in front of the large window at the head of the room. The curtain dropped from his hand when she entered.
She'd been up since six. Sandra wondered if she'd slept as badly as he had. She hadn’t felt him watching her, but a sixth sense told her he’d been standing at the window for a long time. Had he seen the car come out of the garage and circle the small cul-de-sac as it traveled to the end of the street and disappeared? He didn't know where she'd gone, or that she'd return alone. She was in her family’s surroundings. She wanted her father exonerated and what better thing to do than to go and find him without Wyatt in tow. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t thought of it. Her only errand was to get something for them to eat.
During her absence he could have explored the rooms of her grandmother's house, finding photographs of both herself and her sister in various poses and at various ages. Sandra would have done it if the tables were reversed. There could be something here to prove his point regarding Brad R
utledge. Sandra knew better, but Wyatt didn’t.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully.
Wyatt looked her up and down. She was no longer dressed in the ski outfit she'd left the mountain wearing. His look, now with an eye that was almost healed, said he appreciated what he saw. Sandra thought it best to change as much of her look as possible. If she was noticed at the airport, she didn’t want anyone seeing the same person. She let her hair frame her face and curved to her shoulders. For a moment, she thought Wyatt wanted to put his hands in it.
"Where have you been?" he replied.
"I guess that means you didn't sleep well."
***
Sandra set the tray on the end of the rumpled bed and started to pour cups of coffee. She was playing Donna Reed again, but this was not a situation Donna Reed would ever find herself in. Wyatt didn't understand his anger. In three strides he came up beside her and wrenched her hands free of the coffee.
"Where have you been?" he repeated.
"Only to the bakery. We needed more to eat than refrigerated coffee."
His action had brought her body into close contact with his. She was looking directly at him. He could smell the soap she'd used in her morning shower. Clean and intoxicating. He stared into her eyes wondering what was happening to him. He thought she'd left him, run out, leaving him stranded and alone. The relief he felt when he saw the old Pontiac turn into the street was so weakening he'd had to sit down.
Now he had her, only a kiss away, and he couldn't deny the fact that he was glad she'd come back, couldn't deny that he liked holding her, that he'd liked it yesterday when she'd kissed him in the taxi and that he wanted to kiss her again.
"Wyatt," she said, her voice low and tight. "Let me go."
The moment snapped liked a wet spider's web. Wyatt raised his hands and moved back. Sandra continued to stare at him for a long moment, then turned back and resumed preparation of their coffee.
He took his cup and went back to the window. There was little to see from here except Rock Creek Park sloping away from the end of the yard. His stomach was in such a hard knot he thought the coffee would hit it and evaporate into a steam that would incinerate him.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 40