Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Look at this tree." He shone the light at the base of the tree. Sandra followed his direction. Nothing seemed unusual. Then he swung it to another tree. Again she saw nothing out of the ordinary. When he flashed it me third time she noticed the base of the tree was ringed with rocks.

  "Rocks," she said.

  "The same rocks as we've just seen."

  Wyatt went to them and began turning them as they'd done to the bed next to the highway.

  "Wyatt?" Sandra called.

  He didn't look at her, but continued his task.

  "Wyatt!" she called again.

  He glanced up at her quickly. Her hand reached for him but her gaze was trained on the junction of the two major branches above her head.

  Wyatt rose. Sandra pointed upward. "What's that?"

  He switched the light to the point in question. Above their heads was a small plastic sandwich bag. A thumbtack held it to the tree so it wouldn't fall down. The "Y" effect of the tree protected it from both the elements and the wind.

  Wyatt reached up. The juncture was higher than he could reach. He turned to Sandra. "How would you like to go for a ride?"

  She looked at him, then looked up. She nodded. Wyatt squatted down and grasped her below her knees. As he stood she was lifted the several needed feet to reach the plastic bag. She yanked it free.

  "I have it!"

  Wyatt lowered her to the ground. She opened the seal the minute she was steady. Inside was a plastic disk holder. She opened that to find a small piece of paper.

  Wyatt shone the light on it. Three words were written across it in Jeff's handwriting. "Truth . . . Logical . . . Method." Wyatt read them. "Another meaningless clue," he complained. "I'm tired of being on this scavenger hunt."

  Sandra stared at the words. "They mean something to me."

  "What?"

  "Let's get back to the car. I'm freezing." She shivered con­firming her words.

  The heat didn't take long to make the ulterior of me small car warm. Sandra could feel herself thawing after the thirty minutes of freezing wind she'd endured. Wyatt drove, passing the motel where she'd spent part of a night and entered the highway a mile south of the rock bed they'd turned over.

  "When I was a freshman at Howard University I stayed in Truth Hall," she began. "It was named for Sojourner Truth or a traveler seeking freedom and truth. My mentor, or resident assistant, was a woman called Marjorie Lanky," she explained. "Marjorie became my roommate during my sophomore year when I pledged the sorority for which she was already a sister,"

  "That must have been grueling," Wyatt observed.

  Sandra remembered those six weeks. They were some of the worst of her life, but afterward she and Marjorie became the best of friends.

  "While I pledged, Marjorie gave me that as my Line Name." She pointed to the paper. "I had to answer as Ms. Logical Method more times than I care to remember."

  "I suppose you were famous for coming up with a logical method of getting the work they required of your tine done."

  She cut her eyes to him and Wyatt smothered the laugh she knew was kept off his face by the strongest of controls.

  "What could Jeff have meant by returning you to a nostal­gic past?"

  "I don't know." She picked up the car phone. "I'll start by calling the dormitory." She dialed the number.

  "You remember the telephone number? It must be. . ." He mentally calculated the number of years since she was a fresh­man at Howard.

  "Ten years," she supplied. "What's your ID number?" She shot the question to him.

  "326165," he answered without thinking.

  "How long has it been?" The question was rhetorical. "You remember that. I remember a lot of numbers."

  The office phone rang in her ears. On the fifth ring a recorded message began. She hung up. "A machine," she ex­plained.

  "What is Marjorie doing these days?"

  "She's the Dean of Students at Howard."

  "I suggest we pay a visit to Marjorie Lanley."

  Chapter 16

  "You couldn't have missed them by more than five min­utes," Michael Waring reported to Senator Rutledge. Brad looked about the room hoping to find his daughter. She'd left so abruptly after their dinner that he hadn't been able to ex­plain things to her fully and now it was time he did so. She must have been scared to death with everyone chasing her. He'd made one mistake and compounded it several times over.

  He knew President Horton had taken matters into his own hands, but discovering he'd invited Sandra and Senator Ran­dolph to Casey’s birthday party was a complete surprise.

  "Good evening, Senator."

  He turned to find himself facing Everett Horton. Casey held his arm and both of them smiled as if they were being pho­tographed.

  "We're glad you could join us."

  "Happy birthday, Casey," he said, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "I hear my daughter and the senator were in attendance tonight."

  "Yes," Casey said. "They made quite a stir. I don't believe we've had as much fun in the White House since Andrew Jackson was inaugurated."

  Brad wasn't impressed by that. He didn't care that Sandra was becoming a national hero in all the news services, that people across the country were behind her flight with Ran­dolph, even that Casey Horton had admiration in her voice when she spoke of her. Sandra was in trouble and he wanted to help her. He wanted to get her away from Senator Randolph because he was a target and he didn't want to lose his child in the crossfire.

  "Do you know where they went?"

  "They didn't tell us," the President said. "I spoke to them this morning at Camp David."

  Brad held his features still. They'd been to Camp David Few people were ever invited to go there with Everett Horton, who considered his vacations purely private. Brad wondered what he'd asked them and what they'd told him.

  "I asked them to work with us."

  He stared at President Everett. The man's face could rarely be read and Brad found himself at a decided disadvantage. Most people he could see through, but Everett and Casey Hor­ton must be made of lead, for if they didn't want you to see something it simply wasn't there.

  "I expect to hear from them tomorrow." Horton was speak­ing when Brad came back to the present.

  "Could we go somewhere and talk, sir?" He glanced at Casey.

  Brad knew it was poor form to take the President away from a reception. But he was sure Casey would understand, and this wasn't an international function.

  He was right about Casey. "Go on, Everett," she urged her husband. "I'm sure I can handle this crowd." Casey smiled and Horton kissed her on the cheek, then led Brad toward another room.

  Passing Lance Desque, who came through the entrance as they crossed it, Horton invited him to join them. Lance turned to his date, a buxom blonde who had to be ten years younger than Sandra. Lance loved attending White House functions and he never came alone. A beautiful woman was his trade­mark and the younger the better.

  Lance was ambitious. Everyone on The Hill knew it. He liked his women smart and young, but he also knew the right one to choose when career moves were at stake. Project Eagle was definitely a career move for him. Brad had to admit, it would also benefit him.

  Next to the main ballroom was a smaller room where im­portant conferences could be held if need arose. Rarely under the Horton administration had this been done, but the White House staff was required to keep it ready. A fire burned in the fireplace and refreshments were laid out on a small table. President Horton took a seat at the circular table that held four chairs. Brad and Lance sat in two of the others.

  "Have you located the missing parts?"

  "No, sir." Lance answered before the senator had time to respond.

  "Lance," Horton said as he put his elbows on the table and made a steeple of his fingers. "If we don't have the stones, what do you think will be the worst that could happen?"

  "Off the record, sir."

  Horton shook his head. "If it happens, it certainly won'
t be off the record."

  "Sir, we have a major piece of government property which has been stolen and it's our duty to recover it."

  Horton waved his hand, stopping him. "What is the worst, Lance?"

  Lance looked at his hands, men up at the President. "The worst, sir, is the story will break in the papers. Foreign gov­ernments will be outraged that the United States could develop such a weapon. The world press would make us the worst of the bad guys. Our reputation in other nations will fall into a hole so low climbing out might be impossible. Behind the scenes every government in the world will be searching for the parts.

  "Blame will have to be placed. Sir, you're at the top of the star and it will begin with you. The press will dredge up every lousy piece of news that's ever been recorded and use it against you. You'll be branded a dictator, called the man who wanted it all, or, worse, accused of trying to make the United States your kingdom. Every program you've had anything to do with will be deemed unnecessary. The polls won't have enough negative signs to put in front of the number to record how low your popularity level will fall. From there the blame will trickle down. The fingers will be deep and far-reaching. Of course, Senator Randolph and Ms. Rutledge will be as notorious as Bonnie and Clyde, and everyone associated with them will fall."

  When Lance finished, only the crackle of the fire could be heard in the room.

  "There's no silver lining in that scenario," Horton said.

  "The situation doesn't have a silver lining, sir."

  Everett Horton prided himself on being a good judge of character and he had a bad feeling about Lance Desque. He was sure the picture he'd just painted would no doubt happen if the stones were not recovered. The other thing he was sure of was Lance Desque. The man wanted his job. He wanted it so bad that he'd be willing to throw him to the wolves if he could save his own skin. And Everett had no illusion that Lance Desque would come out of this with his skin as clear and tanned as if he'd been on a Florida beach.

  Brad, his daughter, Senator Randolph, Casey, and himself would be tried by the American press and found guilty of being war-mongers.

  "Brad, do you agree with that?" Horton asked.

  "Not entirely, sir. We will be hurt, but if we don't leak the story to anyone, men it could the a natural death."

  Everett thought little of that happening. No matter what they tried to hide—and past administrations had done just that—the press always found out. Everett had no doubt it would happen. He couldn't go under the illusion that nothing would find its way to the corps of press people who occupied space in the White House.

  "We might be able to weather this, sir," Brad Rutledge said. "If we drop the investigation now we may be lucky if nothing happens until the next election is over."

  "You're dreaming, Brad," Horton said. He couldn't believe the senator would even consider such a thing. "The next presi­dential election is a year away. Your own term comes up for reelection at the same time. If we did give up the search, a year is enough time for whoever has stolen Project Eagle to find or develop their computer module. In a year we could be sitting here without communications. We have got to find those stones. Our existence is in question."

  "Everett." Casey stood in the doorway. "Are you almost done? We have guests."

  "I'll be right there," he told her. She smiled and closed the door.

  "I'd like to have a meeting with you two in my office to­morrow at two. I'm sure I'll have Senator Randolph and your daughter's answer by that time."

  Everett stood up.

  "Sir," Lance said. "I'm confused. What answer from Sena­tor Randolph?"

  "Yes, Mr. Desque. You weren't here earlier. Senator Ran­dolph and Ms. Rutledge are my guests. They attended the party briefly. I've asked them to bring the stones directly to me when they find them."

  "Sir, is that wise?"

  "I thought it was." He turned to face the Undersecretary of Defense. "Obviously, you have another opinion."

  "Sir, we know an entire system has been stolen. We can only assume it's been assembled at some location. The last link is the arrangement of chips. Should it be known that they are to be delivered to you, you'll be setting yourself up as a target. Forgive my saying it, but I don't think the country needs a state funeral at this time."

  "Why, thank you, Lance," he smiled. "I didn't think you cared."

  ***

  "My, my, my. Look who’s coming to dinner. And I see you've dressed." Marjorie Lanley completely blocked the doorway of her 16th Street home in the Flower Section of Northwest Washington.

  It had been eleven-thirty when Sandra reached her, but it was nearly one o'clock before she and Wyatt parked the car in front of her house. They'd driven around several times, checking for anyone who might be watching. The other houses on the street were dark and sleepy looking. Marjorie's house sat in the middle of the block. It had been years since they'd seen each other and except for a Christmas card each year they rarely talked. She didn't think anyone could link her with Marjorie.

  Marjorie was two inches taller than Sandra. When they'd last seen each other she couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

  "Marjorie!" Sandra sounded surprised. She stepped toward the obviously pregnant woman and pressed her hands on her stomach. "When did this happen?"

  Marjorie looked past her friend to Wyatt standing on her doorstep. "Come in, Senator. Sandra seems to have lost every­thing over the prospect of a baby."

  "Marjorie," Sandra stopped her. "Are we welcome? You know we're wanted by the police."

  "How can anybody in DC not know?" she asked, her eye­brows raised. "You make the news every day. Of course you're welcome. If you weren't I'd have told you over the phone. Now, get in here!" She grabbed Sandra's hand and pulled her forward.

  Sandra was relieved. She'd been afraid that her old friend would not want to link her name with Sandra's, since knowing her could mean being investigated and questioned by the DOD.

  Marjorie led them to a lovely room done in soft colors of rose and beige. "I must say, Sandra, I am a little surprised at your actions." A man watching television stood up as they came in. "This is my husband, Earl Morrison," Marjorie introduced. "Earl, my college roommate and the missing senator."

  "Don't mind her," Earl said, switching off the television and shaking hands with them. He was a big man, looked like he'd played football for a pro team sometime in the past. "The pregnancy has affected her sense of humor."

  They all laughed. "Sit down," Marjorie said.

  Sandra took a seat on the sofa. Wyatt sat next to her. Mar­jorie sat on a straight-back chair that didn't go with any of the furniture. Sandra knew it was the chair that had been brought in for her back.

  "Let me get you something to drink," Earl offered.

  When he'd left the room, Sandra said, "I didn't know you were married."

  "That's what happens when you bury yourself up in New Jersey. Not even news gets in up there."

  "That’s not true," Sandra said, a wide smile on her face.

  "Earl and I met two years ago at a NABE, National Asso­ciation of Black Educators' Convention. I'm at Howard and he's at American University. We fell in love, got married, and in another month we'll be a trio."

  "Marjorie, that's wonderful."

  "Congratulations," Wyatt echoed.

  Earl returned and passed out glasses of wine. Marjorie's contained sparkling cider.

  "I've been expecting you, Sandra."

  She and Wyatt exchanged a glance. "Why?"

  "Because of the package."

  "What package?" Wyatt asked.

  "It came a few days ago. It's all dressed up like a little treasure chest. A note arrived with it saying to hold it and that you would be by to pick it up."

  "May I have it?" Sandra asked.

  "Sure." Marjorie pulled up her bulky body and left the room. She came back with a small jewel-encrusted case.

  "It's Jeff's," she whispered to Wyatt.

  "I've been dying t
o find out what's inside," Marjorie said. "In another day or two I don't know if I could have held out any longer."

  Sandra looked to Wyatt for guidance. Should she open the box? She didn't want to have to explain if she found fifteen ten-carat stones inside.

  Sandra tried the lid. "It's locked," she said, trying desper­ately to keep the relief out of her voice.

  "I'll bet I have a key," Marjorie smiled. "It's not that ex­pensive a case. I've seen several like it in the stores. I'll bet my luggage keys will fit it." She was on her feet and rushing from the room before Sandra could stop her. She returned faster than any woman in her final trimester should be allowed to travel.

  "Try this."

  Sandra took the thin key with a square head and inserted it in the lock. "It doesn't fit."

  When Marjorie opened her hand, three other kinds of small keys lay there. Sandra tried them. The second one turned and she heard a slight click. The chest was open. She pulled the key out and laid it on her lap. Slowly, she lifted the top. Silently she thanked God the chest didn't open to a 180-degree angle. Only Wyatt, sitting next to her, could see to the bottom of it. The stones lay there, white against a black velvet back­ground. She felt him take in a breath, but could discern no physical movement.

  Sandra reached inside. At the back of the chest was a com­puter disk. She wondered what was on it. Had Jeff left them a message? She pulled it free, being careful not to disturb the stones.

  "Who's it from?" Earl asked. "It arrived by messenger, but no one could tell us who sent it."

  "It has something to do with the reason you two are run­ning." Marjorie stated the truth.

  "Yes, it does," Wyatt told her. "The less you know the better for you. You're a family. We won’t make our problems yours."

  "Sandra, is there anything I can do?" Marjorie asked.

  She shook her head.