As they turned to leave, the door swung inward. "Dr. Rutledge. . .Senator Randolph, come in. I've been expecting you."
Sandra and Wyatt looked at each other, both surprised by his comment.
"Come, Sandra, you always were one of my very best students." Jeff took her arm and prodded her through the entrance. Wyatt followed. "Take off your coats. Sit down."
He shuffled excitedly about the entrance like a man who rarely received guests but enjoyed having them. Wyatt and Sandra gave him their coats and went into the crowded living room. Jeff smiled at them and walked into the kitchen. Wyatt thought he'd stepped back into the Victorian Age. Dark furniture set on dark rugs. Heavy damask drapery hung at the long windows. Books lined the built-in shelves in haphazard disarray.
Wyatt loved it. He could be comfortable here. Jeff entered a moment later laden with the weight of a silver tray. Wyatt took it and waited while the shorter man removed some of the outdated magazines and books from the coffee table.
"Jeff, you were expecting us?" Sandra frowned.
"I had visitors this afternoon," he said as he poured tea in the china cups. "They were from the DOD. Wanted to know if I'd seen or heard from you recently. All I could tell them was I thought you were up in the mountains getting ready to become “Doctor Rutledge."
"I was, but something's come up." She glanced at Wyatt. Jeff, too, looked at Wyatt. "I need your help."
Wyatt suddenly got up. He went to the window and checked outside. If Jeff had had visitors today, the place might be watched. He had an uneasy feeling about being here.
"Is there a way out of here other than the front door?" Wyatt asked.
"There's a back door . . . and a cellar exit. Why?"
"I think we'd better leave."
As he said the words, a sudden banging on the front door paralyzed them. Jeff was the first to move. "Follow me," he said. They grabbed coats on the way to the cellar door then quietly and quickly they went through the darkened passage. Sandra reached for and found Wyatt's hand. Above them they heard a crash, then the ripping of wood. The heavy front door had been forced. All three stopped and stared at the dark ceiling.
"Keep moving," Jeff ordered.
Holding on to Wyatt's hand, Sandra followed the troll-size professor. She could hear footsteps above her head and recognized the muffled sound of authoritative voices. She wondered who had come. Was it the police, someone from the government, or the men who'd tried to kill them?
Fear made her heart pound, and her breath come in short gasps. At the outside door Jeff stopped. Sandra stopped her advance just short of running into him. She wondered about Wyatt and his injured side. He'd been favoring it for more than a day. If they had to run, he wouldn't make it.
Jeff peered out of the door. "They don't seem to be back here," he whispered. "I have a car in the garage across the yard. It opens on the alley so you'll have a good chance of getting away. The keys are here." He handed them to Sandra.
"What about you?" she asked.
"I'll stay here. There isn't time to discuss it." He stopped her from arguing.
He was right. The upstairs door to the cellar opened.
"Go." He pulled the door open to let her pass. "Nice meeting you, Senator," he said with a smile that told him he enjoyed the game.
Sandra heard the comment as Wyatt slipped through the door and Jeff pushed it back into place. Wasting no more time, they ran across the wet grass and into the rear door of the detached garage. Sandra got in and slipped the key into the ignition. Above her head she found a garage-door opener. "Thank you, Jeff," she said to no one. She pushed the button and the doors automatically rose. When they were high enough to clear the car, she started the engine and slipped out, pushing the button again to bring the door down.
"They're behind us," Wyatt said. She adjusted the rearview mirror for her greater height and brought the blue and red flashing lights into focus.
"I've never tried to outrun the police before."
"I think tonight is the time to begin."
Sandra raced down the alley. Behind her was a flood of revolving lights. She only hoped another police car didn't appear at the mouth of the alley and cut off her escape route.
"Oh, my God!" Sandra instinctively braked.
Wyatt turned in time to see the police car block the exit. "Don't slow down," he ordered. "There's an opening coming up on the right, three houses from the end," Wyatt navigated. "Turn there. It'll be tight, but it will take us out onto the street."
Sandra followed the directions. To the car at the end of the alley, she looked like she was going to ram it. Both doors opened and uniformed officers ran for cover. With no margin of safety Sandra swung the small vehicle as wide as the narrow alley allowed and turned into an even narrower corridor. She had the feeling of traveling through a tunnel. Behind her she heard the squeal of tires as the fast-moving cars were taken by surprise. Unable to make the turn, they crashed headlong into each other.
She hoped no one was hurt, but had no time to ponder the thought. From here there would be no escape if the avenue in front of her was cut. She pressed her foot to the floor and the car shot forward at an immense speed. The small decline at the end of the alley sent a hail of sparks shooting about the car as metal and street made contact. The tires bounced on the pavement. She struggled to keep control of the two-ton missile. Sandra swung it northeast and headed toward Fourth Street. At this time of night there wouldn't be much traffic, and as long as she didn't hit one of the college students she'd have a clear path to outwit the police.
"Oh, no!" she wailed. "Where are they coming from?" The entire force of police appeared to be behind her. She raced past the Quadrangle, swinging around a couple crossing the street at the light. The reservoir reflected the lights of the Student Center across from it. She accelerated further, edging the car ahead, passing the other vehicles in front of her, checking both directions, but running every traffic light between her and freedom.
Wyatt sat still next to her. His hands were braced against the dashboard, his head constantly whipping back and forth checking the police cars behind them and the road ahead.
"Take the next right," he shouted.
"It’s the hospital center. They'll box me in."
"I know. Take it."
She hit the brake and turned into the driveway. As predicted, several cars followed her while the others went to the only other entrance.
"What do I do now?"
"Go to the back. They're doing construction. I saw something."
She followed his direction, seeing the construction trailers dead ahead. Two ribbons of colored lights ran parallel on the two roads leading to the end. Wyatt kept watch. Instinctively, she knew he was timing the sequence.
"Make a left," he said. "Go straight over the ramp."
Sandra clamped her teeth together. In front of her were two slats of wood propped up on cans. The width between them would accommodate the small car. The tire spread of the police cars was too wide. If Wyatt's plan worked they'd be airborne, while the police cars would crash. If the traction held, she'd cross the grass and slip into the parking lot of the Veterans Administration Hospital. No police cars had gone to that lot. If she got back to Irving Street before they regrouped, she could disappear into the North East.
She hit the wood doing fifty. The car cut the air like a rocket. For a moment she was on a ride. Time slowed down and there was no sound. Only the easy travel through unrestricted space.
Then she hit the ground. The tires dug into soft earth and stuck. The engine died. Sandra took a moment to stare through the back glass. Flames poured from the cars that had run into each other, brightening the sky with an artificial light. White-clad doctors and nurses ran from Children's Hospital toward the wreckage.
"Start the engine." Wyatt's practical voice jarred her fascination with the melee behind them. She turned the key and the powerful engine roared. Throwing the gearshift into drive, she spun the tires.
"Back up."
Wyatt's command and the executing action came at the same time. The car lurched out of the mud, but she'd lost her edge. One of the police cars had already entered the parking lot and would meet her before she could get away.
"Time to play chicken," Wyatt told her.
Sandra inched the car around the mud and headed for the lot, gaining speed as she went. She skimmed the car coming toward her by inches. Another car turned into the opposite lane.
"Head straight for it," he said.
"We're going to hit him." Sandra's voice was strained as she pointed the car straight at the one in front of her. Playing chicken wasn't her game. She started to turn the wheel.
"Don't!" Wyatt shouted, and she straightened the car. "He'll back down."
Sandra hoped he was right. Her gaze was pasted on the oncoming car. She bit her lip and forced her eyes to remain open.
"Keep it steady," Wyatt said in a calm voice.
She took his direction and kept her speed even as the car ate up miles. With a mere car length between them, the police car swerved to the right and she continued on a straight course. Wyatt let out a breath. She glanced in the mirror. The car hit the curb and flipped into the air. It came down on its roof in front of an approaching car, which rammed into it. Sandra stopped at the sign at the end of the driveway and turned to look behind her.
Assured that there were no other cars approaching, she turned onto Irving Street and followed all the rules of the road back to Professor Taylor's house.
Chapter 7
"Are you out of your mind?" Bradford Rutledge shouted in the soundproof room. Three men stood in front of him. They stared straight ahead like soldiers, but they weren't attached to the military. "Six men critically wounded, five more with second and third degree burns, two with broken bones, fifteen blue and whites damaged beyond repair, three civilian vehicles burned, and you could have killed my daughter." He paced the director's office he'd borrowed, holding the report of last night's events in his hand. "Just who authorized you to call in the DC police?" He slammed his fist against the circular conference table in the corner of the room. The polished wood surface pedestal skittered across the floor at the force of his pounding. "And with half the arsenal of DC’s finest thrown at them, two amateurs got away." He threw the report across the room. Papers flew about like toy airplanes. "I've a mind to have the lot of you fired."
He turned back to them and faced the only other occupant of the room, Lance Desque, Undersecretary of Defense. "Lance, I thought you would have the good sense to stop this."
"Senator—"
"Get out of here," he shouted to the other three men. As if they'd gotten a sudden release from an angry father, the men rushed from the room.
"Senator," Lance started. "By the time word reached us, the pursuit was practically over." He stopped, waiting, then continued. "It was never confirmed that the senator and your daughter were actually in the car."
"Then why are their names so prominent in this report?" He gestured to the litter of paper scattered over the floor.
"We could only assume since they had been to see the professor that it was the two of them who entered his house and then left by an underground route."
"Yet no one actually saw them, and Professor Taylor denied they had ever been there."
Lance nodded.
Brad Rutledge had worked with Lance Desque for over ten years. The man was a genius at diplomacy. He'd often wondered why he hadn't advanced through the ranks faster. Finding out about the disaster from Lance didn't sit well with him. That Sandra had been at the center of it had him raving like a mad man. What was Sandra doing with Wyatt Randolph? She was supposed to be at the cabin. He'd deliberately left her alone so she could study. Not only did the degree mean a lot to her, but she needed to confront John's death and that was the best place for her to do it.
Finding out she had been in a high-speed chase through the streets of the District had nearly given him heart failure.
"Have you learned anything more?" Brad asked, his voice calmer.
"I'm afraid not. Your daughter and the senator seem to be very resourceful."
Brad smiled. "I always thought Sandy could be resourceful if the circumstances ever called for it." He approved of John Cameron, but knew that Sandra’s marriage to him would limit them to the typical life of middle class suburbanites. She would continue as a college professor and he would spend his career as a patent attorney. Normally, there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s admirable. But Sandra was capable of so much more.
"She seems to be doing all right now, sir."
Brad had to agree with him.
"Soon, however, she and the senator will have to run out of cash and use a credit card. Then we'll find them."
The paper trail, Brad thought. It was the downfall of many a criminal. But Sandra was no criminal. She was over her head in dealing with Senator Randolph. The sooner Brad found her and got her away from him the better off she would be.
Lance was discreet. He would find her and bring her to him. He'd explain, let her know that Senator Randolph wasn't the man she thought he was. He only hoped Lance would get to her before Wyatt Randolph got her killed.
***
Clarence Christopher crossed the lobby of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He usually took the elevator from the garage to his office on the top floor. This morning he wanted to walk the halls, see the displays that the public saw when they went on the forty-five-minute tour. He wanted to smile at the staff member who conducted the tours and see the great seal of the agency that J. Edgar Hoover had made into a strong symbol of respect.
Taking this tour would delay his arrival at his office where he expected a message to be waiting for him from Everett Horton.
Clarence's phone had rung at midnight. The report arrived thirty minutes later by special messenger. He shook his head as he read. And for what? he thought. After the destruction that left the parking lot of Children's Hospital looking like a Middle Eastern war zone, Senator Randolph was still at large.
What was he going to tell Everett? That they had found out the couple had been to the Crestwood Drive house and they had missed catching them there? It sounded like an excuse, and he hated excuses. He stopped on the second floor and looked at the gun collection. Fifty thousand guns had been confiscated from various illegal sources, yet Wyatt Randolph and Sandra Rutledge had eluded a large contingent of DC police without firing a single shot.
Working his way around, he passed the first tour group of the day. The guide stopped and introduced him, and he answered a few questions before the guide led them away and he went toward the elevators. He had a private elevator, but today he took the general one.
It was crowded when the doors opened. Several people were speaking in low voices. When he stepped inside all conversation ceased. That was the one thing he hated about his job. Most people stopped talking around him as if it were some unwritten law.
He spoke and smiled as the doors opened and people got off to go to their respective positions. Finally, he was alone. The doors opened on the top floor and he went directly to his office.
"Has the President called yet?" he asked his secretary.
"No, sir."
Clarence had been expecting his call since the report arrived last night.
"Get him for me."
***
Gone were the days when Everett Horton could lounge in bed on Sunday morning and leisurely read the newspaper. When he and Casey were first married and he was working sixty hours a week as a lawyer, Sunday was their only day to relax and spend totally together. God, he missed those days.
Six newspapers arrived precisely at seven o'clock each morning with his breakfast tray. By seven-thirty he'd eaten his meal, read the news, and was ready to begin his day. The Washington Post lay at the foot of the king-size bed Everett and Casey Horton had brought to the White House when they moved in almost three years ago to the day. Th
ere were .only two items he'd insisted on taking with him. One was his bed, the other his pillow. A man should be able to sleep in his own bed, he'd told Casey, and she'd agreed with him. Everything else waited for them in the Texas house he planned to return to when his term of office ended. From the aerial photographs showing billowing smoke and a full-color blazing fire, that term might be four years shorter than he'd anticipated.
Somehow the wire services had gotten hold of it and the same photo made front-page news in the Miami Herald, The New York Times, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Atlanta Constitution, and The Los Angeles Times. The story that followed gave detailed accounts of the high-speed chase through the streets of the District in pursuit of Senator Randolph and the daughter of the chairman of the powerful defense subcommittee.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up. He stretched and bent over to touch his toes. The small gesture made him feel better. Then the phone rang.
***
Wyatt could hear Sandra's sobs muffled through the closed bathroom door. Last night when they'd come in she'd been punch-drunk. The ordeal of running from the police and surviving moment after moment of near misses with death had given her a heady feeling. She'd climbed the walls in giddy triumph, wavering between hysteria and tears. Nothing he could do calmed her until he'd put her under the cold water of the shower. She'd fought both him and the water, until exhaustion claimed her and she clung limply to him. He held her, letting the cool water cascade over their fully clad bodies.
He talked quietly to her, then left her alone to complete her shower. When she came back to the room her hair was slick to her head and her face was clean of makeup. Her skin shone smooth and clear. He wanted to touch it, feel the smoothness under his hand. Her eyes were large and glassy and stared straight ahead. The short gown that covered only part of her said more about what was under it than if she'd been naked. Wyatt's body reacted instantly to the total package. He shifted in his chair at the uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Moving was out of the question. If he got up there was only one place he would head. When Sandra was settled in the bed and asleep, he went into the bathroom and took his own cold shower and thanked God the room had two beds.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 42