Sandra knew this was her chance, possibly her only chance. Her timing had to be perfect.
The sound of the train grew. She heard the whistle again and the slow, labored clanging of the engine. Louder. Louder. Until it was upon them. Now, she thought. Raising the roof a there foot, only enough to accommodate her thin width, she rolled out of the trunk. Hitting the ground, she quickly reversed and grabbed the lid as it started an upward swing. She pulled it down until she heard the click that locked it.
She nearly smiled. It was the kind of trunk the needed only a slight push. Then it electronically lowered itself until the line of the lid was congruous with that of the car. Exhaust went up her nose and made her want to cough and sneeze. She held the urge in.
The train passed. Seconds later, some unseen computerized switch sent a signal and the gate started its rise. Again, she needed to time her movement. Flattening herself to the ground, she waited for Lance to start forward. A small incline lay in front of the car. It would take it up over the tracks and down again. When it started up she'd be at the most vulnerable, but Lance wouldn't be expecting her to be lying in the road. If he hadn't seen the movement of the trunk when she rolled out of it she was sure he thought she was still securely locked inside.
She had to wait for the car to start down the small depression in the road. It was too slight an angle to be called a hill or even an incline. It was just the point where the ground was leveled to meet the tracks, but for Sandra it was her point of escape. The angle of the mirrors would be too far back and too high for him to see her. She'd roll into the bush and wait until he was gone.
The car moved. It went up. Sandra held her breath as dust and exhaust blew into her eyes and nose.
It moved down.
She rolled.
***
Wyatt had known going to Desque's wasn't a good idea, but he'd given in to Sandra's pleas and driven her there. Now he could kick himself. The scene at Desque's house looked like she'd struggled with him. The broken window glass and blood made him cold. Was it her blood? Was she all right? Where had he taken her?
He drummed his fists against the steering wheel. He'd searched Lance Desque's house looking for something that would give him a clue where he would take Sandra. He found nothing. With the exception that Desque was extremely fond of Oriental artifacts, he found nothing that could help him.
He rifled through drawers, closets, even his mail, but there was nothing that could help. Frustrated, Wyatt had returned to the rented car. He was inside before he realized he was holding one of Lance's letters. It was an invitation from the embassy of Japan. He'd seen one like it at Sandra's sister's hotel room. Staring at it as if it could answer him, he finally threw it aside and forgot it.
He'd driven around trying to find a direction that Lance might have taken. The phone rang and he snatched it up.
"Sandra!" he shouted, but it wasn't her. It was Sam Parker asking him to meet him downtown.
Wyatt didn't want to leave, but there was nothing he could do holding vigil outside Lance Desque's except bring attention to himself and have a jumpy neighbor call the police.
Sam got into the car as Wyatt sat on Pennsylvania Avenue across from the J. Edgar Hoover building. Wyatt had thought it ironic that Sam had asked to meet him in the shadow of the FBI. With probably a hundred agents looking for them, no one was checking the front window.
"I've got good news," Sam said. "I managed to completely defuse the bomb chip."
Wyatt nodded.
"You could sound a little enthusiastic," Sam said. "For a while there I thought my friend Wagner would return from Europe to find his house gone and I wouldn't be around to explain what had happened."
Wyatt told him what he thought had happened to Sandra and that he had no clue to where Lance could have taken her.
Sam picked up the invitation from the floor of the Jaguar. He glanced at the emblem, men at Wyatt.
"I found that at Desque's. I didn't even realize I was still holding it until I got into the car."
"Desque has been very friendly with the Japanese for years," he volunteered.
"I believe that. You should see where he lives. The place is packed with Oriental furnishings."
"What are we going to do now?" Sam asked. "We can go on with the plan—"
Wyatt knew he'd planned to say "without Sandra," but stopped himself in time. "I suppose we'd better do what we have to do." Wyatt spoke but there was little conviction in his voice.
Without Sandra. He didn't want to be without her. He wanted to know where she was. He didn't want to feel as if the worst had happened to her, but seeping into his bones was a weary feeling that there was nothing he could do for her. Even if he went to the President and turned over the stones, he'd still be without Sandra.
He sat up and reached for the key. He started the engine, men glanced sideways. Suddenly, he stopped, his hand frozen on the gearshift.
"What?" Sam asked.
Wyatt stared straight ahead. He blinked, not believing his eyes. Sam looked in the same direction, but couldn't possibly see what Wyatt saw.
Standing across the street, in the shadow of the monolithic building that stood for law and government in the United States was its director, Clarence Christopher. But he wasn't the man Wyatt stared at. It was the other man. The one smiling as if talking to a friend. The one shaking hands with the director.
"Now what could those two possibly have in common?"
"Who?" Sam asked, but Wyatt wasn't talking to him. He no longer even knew Sam was in the car.
The tall, lanky man who acted as his friend, who'd lent him clothes and shoes. "What is Jordon Ames doing with the director of the FBI?"
***
Sandra took a deep breath. She placed her hand over her heart and waited for it to calm. The lights of the car had disappeared. She was free. Lance would be furious when he discovered she'd escaped. He'd come looking for her, and the most logical place would be right here, where the car had come to a full and complete stop.
She came to a crouch, spitting leaves and twigs that had gathered when she rolled into the ditch. Brushing her clothes off, she got up. She couldn't walk along the road the way she had come. Lance would find her in no time.
Into the woods. The trees along both sides looked dark and ominous. The last turn Lance had made was a left. She ran to the right side of the road and disappeared into the woods. She walked not knowing where she was or where she was going. She looked at her watch. An hour. How far could he drive in an hour? Even if the speed limit wasn't at the maximum she could be thirty, forty miles from town. Walking through the woods it would be even farther.
She tried to run, but her shoes prevented it. If she twisted her ankle she'd kill herself. Every B movie she'd ever seen where the woman hampered her own escape attempt by falling and twisting an ankle came into her mind. She vowed never to put on another pair of heels as long as she lived. Trudging on, she walked, hoping she'd find a road, a sign, a phone, something to give her a hint of where she was.
Sandra would never have told any of her students to run around a dark forest without knowing which direction they were traveling, but that's exactly what she was doing. The thickness of the trees and bush made it almost as dark as the inside of the trunk. Branches slapped her in the face and caught at her hair. The sky was almost obliterated. If this were June instead of January she wouldn't be able to see any of the light or stars that could help with her direction. She pushed on trying to find some point of reference. The only thing she knew for sure was she was walking on a diagonal when she started out. If she stayed on a straight line she should come out on the road where Lance had turned left.
Wyatt! What must he think had happened to her? She pushed faster. She needed a phone more than anything. She had to call him, tell him she was alive, the she'd escaped and she needed help.
Sandra kept going. The next time she looked at her watch she'd been walking over an hour. Her feet hurt and were frozen. Her han
ds were cold and her legs were tired. Her whole body ached from being crammed in the trunk and then trying to walk through a forest. She refused to admit she was lost. Lost was a state of not knowing where you were and how to get back. She didn't know where she was, but she knew if she kept walking, she'd eventually come to the road. And the road would lead to people.
Another hour passed and she was still in the woods. She stopped. Gazing around, everything looked the same. She could have been walking around in circles. She wanted to cry but refused. The tears would only make her face colder. And they wouldn't help her.
She was lost.
Chapter 21
Lance was nearly there. He didn't have to improvise often. Usually he had every detail planned and he executed them in order. Then he'd come up against Senator Randolph and Sandra. When she walked into his house tonight he knew he'd never let her leave it. She was too much of an asset. With her he could get to the senator and ultimately to the stones. He needed them before the reception tomorrow night.
He'd stash Sandra at the house. He would have taken her to the embassy, but he wanted her away from the system. She was smart and if she got loose she could cause untold problems. Thank God he owned this place. She'd be safe here and she'd be so far away from anyone the it wouldn't be necessary to lock the doors to keep her in.
He wondered where she and Randolph had hidden the stones. By now they knew about the fifteenth stone, but there was still number five, his favorite number. Stone number fifteen had been put there as an obvious bomb. It was large enough and complex enough to give an expert serious duty in defusing it. But it was a camouflage to cover stone number five. That's where the real bomb sat. Between contact points eight and ten on the chip. As soon as the system was activated and the stones came within striking distance, he could either get them or destroy them.
Sandra didn't have the stones with her. He'd searched her as he held her against him after she leaped through his living-room window. That took guts. He wished he had time to convert her to his way of thinking. She'd aligned herself to Wyatt Randolph, and with him there was no hope of conversion.
She might not have the stones with her, but she knew where they were. Or the senator knew. He'd make sure word got to both senators, Rutledge and Randolph, that ransom for her was the stones. She was in love with Wyatt Randolph, and Lance assumed the feeling was mutual. The two of them had been inseparable since he'd gone up to that mountain. Why couldn't he have died in that alley? Then Horton would already be packing his bags and vacating the White House.
Lance thought he was lucky. He'd dropped by Senator Rut-ledge's office the morning Randolph had called and mentioned Project Eagle. Waring had taken the message and left the pink message slip on the edge of his desk. Lance knew then. Randolph knew nothing about what he had. Lance intended to keep it the way, but things had gone wrong. The senator had gotten away and he'd had to devise other methods of trying to find him and retrieve the system components.
Lance only had one more day. By this time tomorrow it would all be over. Horton would be disgraced, Rutledge would have no explanation for anything, Jackson and Taylor were already dead, Parker was too scared to come out of hiding, and he had Sandra in his grips. The only wild card was Randolph, but Lance had his bed partner. Sex! It had been the downfall of more than one man. Too bad Randolph had never learned that.
"Mr. Desque, we were not expecting you tonight.” Henri Patterson, his caretaker, friend, butler, and confidant opened the door as Lance pulled up to the house and stopped the car.
"Something's come up." Lance yanked at his tie as he brushed past the man. Henri wasn't his real name, but Lance had ceased thinking of him as anyone else. He was a short man, with a square build and muscles as solid as rock. Lance liked that about him. Henri had been in trouble, accused of killing a man with his bare hands, during a student protest over the Vietnam War. Henri had been a soldier. He'd come home during the height of the antiwar movement. When people called him murderer and spit at him he retaliated like any good soldier. The government had taught. Henri to kill, and he liked killing.
Lance had helped him get away from the law, helped him change his name and face and given him a job. In return, the man gave him his loyalty and occasionally did an odd job or two.
"Henri, there's a package in the trunk. I need it kept safe until after the reception tomorrow night. When I get what I want, we'll need to dispose of it.”
"I understand, sir."
Henri knew exactly what he meant. He'd taken care of Jeff Taylor, only he hadn't gotten any information before he killed the bastard. That had been one of the few mistakes he'd ever made. Lance had been angry, but he'd calmed quickly. He had other ways of finding out what he needed to know, and one of them was in the trunk.
"Would you like me to retrieve the package, sir?"
"Yes. I'm going to have a drink, then a shower. I'll have dinner here, but I'll be driving back to Chevy Chase tonight."
"Yes, sir."
As Henri turned to go, Lance headed for the stairs. He'd only gone two rungs before thinking he should tell Henri to be prepared for a surprise when he opened the trunk.
Henri was thorough, but Sandra Rutledge was a little spitfire. She would surely come out swinging. Turning around, he ran down the two steps and headed for the door.
"Henri!" he called, stopping the butler just as he inserted me key in the lock. "Be careful. She'll fight you all the way."
"Yes, sir," Henri smiled. It was more a leer than a grin. He turned the key. The lock gave with a click and he opened the trunk. Looking up at Lance, he said, "It's empty."
Lance couldn't believe his ears. He rushed to where the butler stood, shoving him away. He reached inside, pushing aside the disheveled rug, tire iron, and jack. His breath came in ragged gasps. He breathed hard in the clean air. His heart knocked against his rib cage and instantly gave him a headache. Henri had to be wrong. His eyes had to be wrong. She couldn't have escaped. It was impossible. Then he saw the wires; a red one and a black one. They had almost sunk into the recesses of the metal bracket that led them into the trunk lock. His shoulders dropped in defeat.
The urge to order Henri to get the other car and begin a search was strong, but unpractical. This part of the Maryland countryside was wooded and undeveloped. Finding her would be pure luck in the daytime. In the dark, it would be a wasted effort.
Lance calmed himself. He still had the upper hand. His heartbeat returned to normal. Losing her was a small setback, but he wasn't beat. He still had a trump card. And this one only he knew about.
***
"Have you seen her?" Wyatt was at a near shout when Suzanne Rutledge opened the door.
"Don't tell me she's lost." Sandra's sister was in a bad mood. Wyatt had never seen her in any other kind of mood. Tonight he didn't care. His own mood was bad and getting worse by the minute.
"Has she called?"
"No," Suzanne said.
Wyatt came inside and Suzanne closed the door. Sam was waiting downstairs in the garage. Wyatt didn't want to have the stones on him in case Jordon was there.
Jordon was there. Both he and Suzanne were dressed, as if they were going out or had just come in. Wyatt couldn't decide which one.
"You," he sneered at Jordon. "Have you done something to get her kidnapped?"
"What are you talking about?" Suzanne asked.
"I saw you tonight."
Wyatt was angry. He paced the room like a big cat who wanted to get out of a cage. He felt like an animal. Sandra was missing, had been missing since she went into Lance Desque's house, and he had no inkling where to look for her.
"Sit down, Wyatt," Jordon offered. "I'll get you a drink." He was playing host again. Wyatt didn't trust him. There was something he was hiding, and Wyatt wanted to know if it had to do with Sandra.
"I don't want a drink and I don't want to sit down. I want to know what you and Clarence Christopher have to talk about?"
"Who's Clarenc
e Christopher?" Suzanne asked.
Jordon stared at her. He didn't say a word. He poured a drink and took a long swallow. The stillness in the room could be touched, cut.
"Claren—"
"Clarence Christopher is the director of the FBI," Jordon interrupted the senator.
"You know the director of the FBI?" Suzanne asked incredulously.
"We're old friends."
"Old enough for you to report that Sandra had been here; that I had been here and that you knew where we were, that we had the stones and—"
"Stop." He put his hands up. "My business with the FBI has nothing to do with you."
"You don't expect me to believe that?" Wyatt accused. "Sandra is missing."
"Well, I had nothing to do with it," Jordon shouted.
"Then what were you doing with him?" Wyatt returned the shout.
"I had . . . other business." He lowered his voice, taking another drink.
"Jordon," Suzanne called. "Did you turn her in?"
He shook his head. "Annie, I could never hurt anyone you loved."
"Then what were you doing there?"
"Can I talk to her alone?" He stared at Wyatt.
"No," Wyatt said. "Not until you tell me what you told the FBI."
"Go on, Jordon," Suzanne said. "Whatever you have to say, I'm sure he can hear it."
Jordon shrugged and poured brandy into a small snifter. He recognized Suzanne's mood. She was scared. With both drinks in his hands, he walked around the bar and handed Suzanne one of the glasses. "Sit down?" he asked, the word. “please" implied in his tone.
Suzanne took a seat on the sofa and Wyatt leaned against the windowsill.
"You told me Senator Rutledge was your biological father."
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 64