Feeling a little like Janet Leigh in Psycho, she pulled into the parking lot. Pulling her hair out of the clip, she let it fall to her shoulders. Placing a scarf over her head, she checked the ID Jordon had thoughtfully given her. Sandra didn’t ask where or how he got it. There were obviously secrets Jordon harbored. Sandra wondered if her sister knew them.
Registration was cautious for both her and the desk clerk, a fifty-something-year-old woman with dirty blond hair wearing a flowered house dress. Sandra kept her face averted, using the pretext of brushing snow out of her hair and the woman stayed behind a glass window with only a tiny opening in which to pass money and keys.
"Sorry, honey," the clerk said. "It's the last one in the back. We got a sign up on the highway and tonight everyone is looking for somewhere to sleep."
"I appreciate it," Sandra said.
"Thank God you came." She handed Sandra a key. "Now I can turn the sign on and go watch TV My favorite show is on in a couple of minutes." Sandra noticed the pink neon Vacancy sign change to No Vacancy. She turned to leave.
"Honey," the woman called. Sandra turned back, but kept her face hidden. "That last cabin's got a shed next to it. If you want to keep the snow off your car, you can use it."
"God takes care of babies and fools." She repeated the cliché as she drove to the cabin. The shed more than protected her car; it concealed it. Lawn mowers and shovels were stored against the walls. Sandra pulled inside and cut the engine. She left the car and closed the barn-style doors. Then, using the key, she went into the room. It was adequate, clean but freezing. She found the thermostat and turned it to the highest position. There was a television, a well-read Gideon Bible with a crumbled bus schedule poking out of it, but no phone.
She toyed with the idea of going back to the car, but didn't want to be out if anyone came by. The heating unit hissed and rumbled as the heat went through the ice-cold coils. Sandra huddled on the bed wondering where Wyatt could be.
Several times she checked the windows wondering if she had been followed. The desk clerk would certainly remember a single woman arriving around this time. From her room she couldn't see the entrance. If people came looking for her, she was at the worst place to execute an escape.
An hour later the room was warm and no one had found her. She let her shoulders relax and thought of the things her father had said about Wyatt.
He had to be wrong. Wyatt would never do anything like what he'd claimed. Who should she believe? They both accused each other of the same heinous crime. Wyatt had had the diamonds for a week before he stumbled into her at the cabin. If he'd wanted to sell them, he'd had every opportunity. Unless he was planning to meet someone in the mountains. Their cabin didn't have to be the destination he was seeking. He could have been lost in the snow and turned onto the road leading to her parents' cabin by accident. The room he was in had pictures of her and Annie with there parents. He would have recognized the senator and knew someone had to be related to him.
Where was Wyatt? He knew she'd call. Why had he gone out? Had he gone out, or had someone found their hiding place? She paced the room, feeling as if it was a cage. She tried to relax, knowing she needed to sleep, but too much was keeping her awake: her father's comments, Wyatt's disappearance, and the thought of FBI agents bursting through the door.
She turned on the television. The color picture played everything in green, all stations and all programs. An old movie she recognized but whose title she couldn't remember was playing. She watched it for only a moment before thoughts of Wyatt invaded her mind. Pulling the bedspread free, she wrapped herself in it and stared at the green pictures. Her eyes drooped and eventually she slept.
She awoke with a start. The old movie was gone. In its place was another one. She recognized a young Sidney Poitier. Lamplight seeped in through the sides of the room-darkening shades. Then she remembered the events of the night. She'd kicked the spread away in her sleep. The temperature in the room must be in the nineties. She checked her watch. Two o'clock in the morning. Wyatt would surely have returned by now.
Picking up the car keys, she left the room and went back to the shed. Her heart pounded in her ears. She needed to know what had happened, if something had happened. Looking at the car phone, she suddenly wanted to call. Sandra snatched it up, then quickly put it back. Her location had been found once due to a phone. She was afraid of it happening again.
Biting her lower lip, she decided to take the chance. She'd be quick. All she needed to know was that he was all right. She dialed the motel. This time the desk clerk told her the guests had checked out and the room was free. Sandra was speechless. It couldn't be. Wyatt wouldn't check out. He wouldn’t leave her without knowing she was safe. Would he? She hung up. Something was wrong, very wrong. She had to go back. Now!
***
The red sports car had gone no more than thirty feet when she saw the first patrol car. It was unmarked but with the distinctive features of law enforcement Sandra turned at the first intersection and came to a halt along the shoulder. She'd cut the engine and the lights. The warm temperature immediately dissipated and she felt the cold begin to seep into the interior. She'd never make it in this car. It had been identified and every cop and agent between here and the District would be looking for it. She had to ditch it and get back another way.
Remembering the bus schedule that had been in the Bible, she wished she'd taken it. But this was a small rural town; the bus would have to come into the center of town. She could go back the way she'd come, which had been at the crossroads of town. How long she'd have to wait she didn't know. Starting the engine, she drove slowly toward town. Using the phone a second time, she tried the motel again. She gave the same information to a different desk clerk. Mrs. Marta Ainsworth, the name she'd registered under, had checked out.
Along the side of the road, before coming into the center of town, Sandra spied a crop of trees. Parking the car, she used snow and branches to conceal it. Jordon and Annie would probably give her hell for leaving it, but she had to find Wyatt.
Brushing the snow from her hands and coat, she walked the short distance into town. Her shoes took the worst of it and her feet were freezing when she walked into the only lighted building. The sleepy clerk who doubled as ticket seller and general store manager told her the bus was late but due any minute. She waited only half an hour before the silver-and-red Trailways bus pulled up in front of the store. Three people got off and Sandra got on.
The driver explained to the clerk, who appeared to care more about getting his sleep than listening to the explanation, that he was trying to get back on schedule and would not be waiting the usual twenty minutes. Sandra was glad to hear this. When she saw passengers getting off, she knew they could be bound for only one place. Soon they would be picked up by the very people she was trying to avoid.
The bus sped along Route 95 heading toward Washington. Sandra pushed up the armrest between the two seats and tucked her feet under her dress and coat. Her toes were wet and stiff with cold. She leaned against the window watching the miles pass and the wintry scenes blur.
What was she going to do when she reached Washington? She didn't know the first place to try to look for Wyatt. He'd said he couldn't go to his house. She didn't expect to find him there. Maybe she could find a phone number and call to see if anyone would answer.
She looked up as they passed mile marker one-fifty. Jeff had come here, she remembered. The officer at the desk said he'd had dinner with Lance Desque? How did Lance fit into this saga? Maybe when she reached the city she could call Lance. Jordon and Annie had suggested she go to Lance. He'd been one of the last people to see Jeff before he died. Maybe Wyatt had gone to Annie. She could hardly wait for the bus to get to DC. Mile marker one forty-seven. God, it would be another hour. Suddenly, it hit her, one forty-seven. Jeff hadn't said 9-5-1-4-7, he'd said 95-147. Route 95, mile marker 147. She turned to look behind her. The bus sped forward. All she saw was a bed of rocks. If someon
e was threatening Jeff and he knew it, he'd hide them in a place where no one would be likely to look.
An hour later the bus parked at the station and Sandra resisted the urge to sprint off the huge people carrier. She waited her turn, then went straight to the phones. She tried Annie, knowing her hotel room was probably bugged by now. She didn't say who she was, only that she was trying to find someone. When Annie began berating her, she cut into the conversation. Seconds later, Jordon took the phone and accepted her cautious questions. Neither he nor Annie had heard from Wyatt.
Sandra left the bus station and walked several blocks until she found another public phone. She was tired and scared and anxious. She looked for a number for Wyatt's Georgetown house, but found none. She called Michael at her father's office but got nowhere. Behind her a woman came who wanted to use the phone and Sandra left.
She'd developed a headache and was near frantic when she walked down the steps to the basement of a department store and found a phone. She dialed the number Sam Parker had given them. No one had heard from Wyatt. It was as if he didn't exist.
She left the department store in a daze. Her shoes were damp but her feet were no longer wet. She wouldn't have felt the cold anyway. She was thinking about Wyatt. She hadn't wanted to confront her feelings, hadn't told him she loved him. Now she might not get the chance. She was sure he'd been caught by now. Hadn't that been her father's objective in getting her to go all the way to Quantico, so he could have Wyatt apprehended?
Sandra felt alone, and numb as she continued up and down the streets. People passed her, cars sprayed water as they rushed to and fro. Sandra didn't notice. Her mind was on Wyatt. Was he dead? How, in the millions of people who lived and worked in the capital, could she find one man? Tears rolled down her cheeks. Streaks caked and froze in the cold. She brushed them away with her hands, but didn't feel the cold. She felt nothing. Only the loneliness of never seeing the man she loved again.
Why had she been so stupid? Why hadn't she told him she loved him when she had the chance? Where was he? How could she find him? Sandra entered the steps to the metro system and waited for a train to take her to the center of town. Somewhere in one of the four quadrants of the District was the man she’d fallen in love with. She hoped he was still alive.
***
Lance Desque was a creature of habit. At precisely one o’clock every weekday afternoon, Sandra knew she could find him at The Charter Club. He had a standing table reserved each day. He'd sampled each of the entrees and decided on the five best the house had to offer. Each day he ordered one of them.
Sandra entered the fashionable restaurant and went straight to the ladies' room. After restoring her face and clothes to a presentable state, she reentered the restaurant as if she were returning to her own table. She found Lance with no problem. He was seated where he could be seen by those in power who also frequented the establishment. For Sandra this might not be the best location, but it was the only one available.
Slipping into the chair across from him, she kept her back to the room. Lance's soup spoon stopped on its way to his mouth.
"Sandra!" he whispered, checking about them with a discreet turn of his head to make sure no one noticed her. The soup spilled and he put the spoon on the plate under his bowl. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"This is not the place or time. If you plan to maintain your present state of freedom, you should never have come here."
"Lance, I need your help. If we can't talk here, then, let's go someplace where we can."
Lance cut his eyes to her and then canceled his meal and quickly signed the check for his soup. As he led her out of the restaurant, Sandra kept her face toward him and away from any prying eyes. She climbed into the waiting limousine and Lance rolled the screen up even before his startled driver had seen him and rushed to the car.
Lance picked up the phone and spoke into it. "Drive anywhere," he said.
The car pulled away from the curb. Sandra noticed it crawl into the afternoon traffic and hunt its way up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol Building.
"Sandra, I am so glad to see you. What can I do to help you? Do you need anything . . . money?" He reached for his wallet.
"Thank you, Lance." She put her hand on his arm and shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Then what can I help you with?" Lance asked.
She shifted into the butter-soft leather. "I had dinner with my father last night."
"Yes."
"We ate in one of the training apartments at Quantico."
Lance waited. Sandra wanted him to volunteer something, anything, but she'd forgotten how cautious he could be, how he calculated every move and every question before replying.
"The officer on duty told me you had dinner with Jeff Taylor the day before he died."
Lance cleared his throat. “Yes, I did."
"Lance, that means you're one of the last people to see him alive. Did he say anything?"
"Nothing that I can remember. We talked about old times at the department, what he was doing now in academia, nothing that could help find his killer."
"Did he mention Project Eagle?"
Lance stiffened almost imperceptibly. If she hadn't been looking for a reaction, she wouldn't have seen it.
"No, he didn't. And you shouldn't know about it, either."
"Well, I do."
"What has Randolph told you?"
"I don't want to talk about Wyatt now."
"Do you know what Project Eagle is capable of doing?"
She thought about that before answering. Lance had been a friend of the family for years. She should be able to trust him, but Wyatt had cautioned her against trusting anyone, and until she found out better, that seemed to be the best course of action.
"I know enough," she answered, not committing herself one way or another.
"Do you know where the stolen gems are?"
Sweat popped out on Lance's brow. She couldn't remember ever seeing him sweat. "Yes," she told him with confidence in her voice.
"Turn them over to me and I'll see the you're exonerated in this. You can go back to your mountain and finish studying for that degree. Forget all about Project Eagle and concentrate on what's important in your life."
"You don't think Project Eagle is important to everyone?"
"Of course it is." He recovered from his blunder with polished ease. "There are people working with this system, experts who know how to best put it to use. Sandra, believe me, these people have the best interest of everyone in mind."
She doubted that. She doubted that anyone could have another person's interest at heart when they were dealing with something as monumental as the power the could be had with this system.
"Where are the stones, Sandra? Do you have them with you?"
"No," she said, suddenly wondering if she'd said yes, would Lance have searched her in the back of the limousine. ,
"We can go and get them now, and by nightfall your life will be back on track."
"What about Senator Randolph?"
"I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best."
Lance smiled, but his words sounded suspiciously like he would do nothing. She didn't even know where Wyatt was. She wanted Lance to help her, but he seemed more interested in getting information from her than giving any. In his defense, he did work for the department that had lost the final part of the system. Regaining it would put a major feather in his cap. It would also increase his popularity and probably get him a Cabinet post in the next administration.
But Lance had higher ambitions than that. Why had she never noticed them before?
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"Lance, I don't believe you."
"Sandra, I wouldn't lie to you." He took her shoulders and turned her toward him. "He's a dead man, Sandra. You're away from him now. Why don't you tell me everything and let me take over from here. If you ally yourself to him you could get killed."
>
She shuddered. "Lance, who’s trying to kill Wyatt?"
"I don't know."
How could he lie with such a straight face? "This project would have to come under your direct supervision. You have to know what's going on."
"It's out of my control, but if you tell me where the stones are, I will use my influence with the Secretary and make sure nothing hurts you and your father."
That's good, she thought. Now he was using psychological pressure. Making her feel that she'd bring shame to her family. Hadn't her father already done that? Lance didn't know what had transpired between her and her father last night; how her father had known about the project all along and how he was probably behind the plot to kill Wyatt.
"I'll think about it," she said.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 53