Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Suzanne recoiled. "You didn't tell that to the FBI?"

  "Only in the strictest confidence. Clarence Christopher can be trusted."

  "The FBI? You think the FBI can be trusted? Jordon, I told you that in a moment of weakness. I never gave you permis­sion to tell anyone else. You should have asked me before repeating it."

  "Let me finish," Jordon said.

  She flashed him a hostile look but remained quiet.

  "I love you, Annie. I've always loved you. This week I got the impression that you might love me, too." He glanced up at her, then back at the glass he held in his hand. "I know you remember the days when you were poor. You think sooner or later someone is going to pull the rug from under your world and plunge you back into that life of poverty. You have so much hate bottled up inside you, Suzanne, I wanted to relieve it. You can't live with that kind of hate and you can't love freely with it."

  "Jordon, it's not your business."

  "You're right, technically, but I'm in love with you and that makes it my business." He stared directly at her. Wyatt felt as if he were intruding on a confession. "I want to marry you, but I want you whole, not the half person who dissolves into tears whenever you see or hear from your parents."

  Both of them went quiet. Wyatt didn't know if he was hear­ing a true confession or if Jordon had just concocted this story and was making it up as he went along.

  "Go on," he prompted.

  Jordon glared at him, but continued. "I asked Clarence Christopher to find out your true parentage."

  "I told you my true parentage."

  "I know," he said. "I wanted all the details. I wanted to give you the real facts of your life before he adopted you. If I found out exactly what you'd told me, I'd keep the knowledge to myself."

  "And if you didn't?"

  "I'd decide then what I should do."

  "Well, Jordon?" Suzanne lifted her head. If Wyatt hadn't been watching he wouldn't have believed the transformation in her. She went from insecure weakling to a stately queen before his eyes. "What did you find?"

  Jordon put his glass on the table and stood up. He went to a case sitting by the door. Opening it, Wyatt saw cameras and lenses, each stored in a compartment Jordon pulled the foam backing from the top and extracted a manila folder. He brought it back and handed it to Suzanne.

  She took it. "Before you open it," Jordon cautioned, "pre­pare yourself. Bradford Rutledge is not your biological father."

  Wyatt was impatient. He needed to know what had happened to Sandra. He wasn't here to learn whether Brad Rutledge had adopted his own daughter. He didn't even know if it was true and didn't care. He only cared about finding Sandra.

  Suzanne opened the folder. Inside were three sheets of pa­per. They were typewritten, double spaced, and included three photographs. One was of her mother. She was smiling, sitting on an old tire swing that hung in the backyard. Suzanne smiled at the memory of that long ago day. She was in the second photo. Her hair was to braids, three long ones that draped over the side of her face and down her back. She wore her church dress, her only dress. Her mother had made it. Back then all her clothes were handmade. If she bought a handmade dress today it would cost thousands of dollars! She remembered the red dress she'd loved so much. The last pic­ture was that of a man she'd never. . .no, not never, she'd seen him once, twice.

  She could almost remember the sound. It was an organ grinder with a monkey. He'd come that day. Suzanne closed her eyes, trying to remember, trying to place herself back to time, into the memory of this man. Yes, she thought. He'd come. He wore a light-colored hat with a brown band. His suit had been pressed and his shoes shined like sunlight on water. Her mother had been happy to see him. He'd taken them out. . .to the circus. That was it. She remembered She was only seven years old. She'd never seen a circus.

  She sat between them. He talked to her, telling her every­thing about the rings she could see below. He bought her cotton candy and popcorn. Each time she looked at him, his mouth smiled but his eyes had hurt in them. She wondered how a person could do two things at one time.

  It couldn't be her mother making him sad. He held her hand and put his arm around her waist when they walked. With his other hand he held on to her. Then he was gone . . . until the train.

  She frowned. Where was the train? There were no trams where they lived. But she could see him. He was at the win­dow. She had to look up a long way to see him. He was old. He waved his big hat. It was black with a white band. He waved it and waved it until all she could see was the waving of the hat. The train disappeared but the waving hat hung in her memory.

  "Who is he?" Suzanne opened her eyes. Jordon blurred before her and she realized she had tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.

  "His name is Curtis Pittman."

  The name meant nothing to Suzanne, but it made Wyatt Randolph stand up straight. She stared at him, then back to Jordon.

  "He was a young lawyer in Atlanta. He had a wife and four children and was making a meteoric rise in politics. He'd been elected to the state legislature with little opposition. Peo­ple thought he was headed all the way to the White House. Then at thirty he suffered a heart attack while campaigning. Two years later, he was found dead on a train heading to Atlanta."

  "A train?" Suzanne choked. Had that been her memory of him? The big black hat; the old man.

  Suzanne sank back against the cushions. "If this man was my father," she stared at the picture, "why does my birth cer­tificate have my da— someone else’s name on it?"

  "Your father and Brad Rutledge were best friends," Jordon answered. "Likewise, your father was a friend of your mother's. He introduced your parents and frequently visited her after Pittman left. He was unmarried and not interested in politics at the time. She couldn't put your real father's name on your birth certificate for fear his wife or his political ene­mies would discover it. So she used his friend's name."

  Suzanne and Wyatt stared at Jordon.

  "How do you know this?"

  "Curtis Pittman left a diary. He has a sister, Janey Good­man, still living in Atlanta. She told the agent the story."

  Wyatt left his place by the window and came toward them.

  "You have this diary?" he asked.

  "Curtis Pittman's sister has it. She's willing to give it to you. In fact, the agent says she wants to see you."

  "What does it say about me?"

  "It mentions you by name; says that you were his child but because of his political career and family he couldn't acknow­ledge you. He tells about your mother, using Bradford Rut-ledge’ name as the father instead of his."

  Tears gathered in Suzanne's eyes, but she fought them. She'd been sorely wrong and her father had never said any­thing. He'd protected his friend's memory because of her and her volatile nature. He probably thought she'd accost the Pittmans, demanding to be recognized. She thought about her anger and realized he might have been right.

  "Janey Goodman told the agent that your father was furious when he found out, years later, what your mother had done. You must have been four men," Jordon went on. "There was nothing the could be done about it If he had the records changed it would surely be picked up by some reporter or news service and two men's careers would be at stake. The best course of action was to let it lay."

  "Then when my real father died and I was adopted, all records of my birth were sealed," Suzanne concluded. "Then there was no way Brad Rutledge’s political opponents could find out that on paper he had an illegitimate daughter."

  Jordon left his seat to come and sit next to her. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "According to the report, that is not the way things happened, Annie."

  She shook her head and laid it against him.

  "I feel so guilty," she said.

  "When you've had time to let all this sink in, I think you should visit Mrs. Goodman. She's your aunt. She can tell you everything you want to know."

  Suzanne thought of the man who had given he
r a home and loved her as a daughter. "He was a wonderful father," she said aloud. "Both of them were wonderful parents." Suzanne remembered the terrible things she'd said to them, how badly she'd treated Sandra. How Sandra kept coming back, refusing to give up even when Suzanne told her she hated her. God, she was a fool. Where was Sandra? Where was her father? She had to talk to him, tell him how wrong she had been.

  Wyatt felt like a fifth wheel. He was also a little guilt-rid­den. He'd been so wrapped up in his own problems he'd for­gotten there were other people with their own difficulties. He was glad Suzanne had found what she needed. He knew her superior attitude was only a defense, but he'd seen her do things for her sister that even she didn't understand. They were mired in the love they had for each other, steeped in the common background they shared.

  He only hoped Sandra was all right and that the two sisters would have the opportunity to reconcile. Wyatt didn't want to interrupt the moment between the two people on the sofa. Clearly they were no longer aware of his presence. He'd found out what he needed to know.

  "Wyatt?" Suzanne called his name as he headed for the door. "Do you know where she is?"

  "No." He shook his head. "She went into Lance Desque's house last night. Fifteen minutes later I broke the door down. No one was there. I've been searching for her all night."

  Suzanne got up and went to him. "She's all right, Wyatt. I know it."

  "I hope so," Wyatt said without conviction.

  Suzanne reached up and took his face in her hands. Gently, she kissed him on the cheek. "You'll find her."

  He hoped so. He knew how much he loved her. His heart was heavy in his chest, and each time he thought of her he remembered something she'd said or done. He remembered her hair coming loose when she pulled it out of the ponytail and combed her fingers through it, the funny way she laughed, the way her eyes looked when she smiled, even the serious way she bit her lip and the skin around her finger.

  She'd been the best thing that had ever happened to him and he needed her back. Anger flared at Lance Desque. If anything happened to her he'd pay for it.

  A knock at the door had the three of them turning toward it.

  "It's probably Sam Parker. I left him in the car downstairs," Wyatt explained.

  Crossing to the suite door, he checked the peephole. On a single breath his lungs were drained. His heart burst against his chest. He grabbed the knob with strength enough to pul­verize metal. Yanking it open, he saw her.

  "Sandra!" he cried.

  ***

  For three seconds no one moved. Then Suzanne and Jordon rushed to the door.

  "Wyatt," she moaned, weaving back and forth like a drunk.

  She was cold and wet. Her feet were bare, bleeding, and nearly blue with cold. There were scratches and dried blood on her face, her clothes were torn, and her hair looked as if

  it had barbed-wire knots in it.

  Wyatt didn't think she could walk. Taking a step through the door, he scooped her up and carried her inside.

  "The bedroom," Suzanne pointed as she went toward it and opened the door. Suzanne rushed forward and pulled the cover down. Wyatt deposited her on the sheet as if she were a pre­cious heirloom. To him she was. She was the woman he wanted to marry, the one who gave him reason to live and breathe to fight for his beliefs.

  He held her to him, smoothing her hair back and whispering her name. Suzanne called to him, but he ignored her. He needed to be near Sandra, needed to know that she was real and that she was all right. He never wanted to let her go.

  "Wyatt, she needs help. Let me get to her."

  Wyatt shook his head. He kissed Sandra's cheek.

  "Call a doctor," Suzanne said behind him.

  "No!" Sandra cried for the first time. Wyatt loosened his grip. "I'm all right."

  "You're not all right," Suzanne contradicted. "Look at your face . . . and your feet." Blood stained the white sheets. San­dra eased them under the cover.

  "Please," she pleaded. "No doctor."

  "There’ a first aid kit in the bathroom," Jordon said. "I'll get it."

  He came back with a bowl of water and the kit.

  "Wyatt, move." This time it was an order. "We've got to get her cleaned up enough to see what she needs."

  Annie paid no attention to her evening clothes. She admin­istered to her sister as if she'd been practicing nursing for years. When she finished, Sandra had one bandage on her forehead. The bruises on her face stood out like dark-purple smudges. Her feet were the worst. The skin on her soles had been rubbed off in spots deep enough to bleed. Her heels had cuts on them and her ankles were bruised and swollen.

  Jordon managed to get Wyatt out of the room long enough for Suzanne to help her bathe and get into a nightgown.

  "Here, take this." She handed her a glass of water and a single white pill.

  "What is it?"

  "A pain pill. You probably hurt in all kinds of places." Sandra swallowed the pill. "It will also help you sleep." Suzanne pulled the covers up to her sister's chin.

  Wyatt knocked on the door and returned. Concern and love vied for dominance in his eyes.

  "She'll survive," Suzanne announced. "A few days in bed and she'll be as good as new."

  "I don't have time for that," Sandra said. “We have to ac­tivate Project Eagle before tomorrow night."

  Sandra reached for Wyatt. He took her hands and sat down on the bed. Sandra yawned. "Wyatt, I don't know where he was taking me." She told him about her attempted escape through the living-room window and Lance forcing her in the trunk. He smiled at her ingenious method of getting out. "I climbed a big tree to find out if I could see any lights in the distance. That's the way I walked. When I got to a road, I tried to hitch a ride, but no one picked me up. I can’t blame them; look at how I looked." Gingerly, she touched the ban­dage on her forehead. Her head ached, but it was beginning to feel better. Her eyes were getting heavy, though. She yawned again and closed her eyes.

  "Sandra."

  She opened her eyes and looked at Wyatt.

  "What happened then?"

  "Oh," she said, a giddy laugh escaping. "I got a ride on a panel truck."

  "Someone picked you up?"

  "No-o-o," she yawned.

  "No?"

  "I saw it coming and I hid in the bush." Another yawn.

  "Saw what?"

  "The truck. When he started to move, I jumped on the back and held on."

  "Sandra, you could have fallen off and been killed."

  "I did fall," she yawned again and turned on her side. "I. . .didn't. . .get. . .kill. . ." She was asleep.

  Wyatt adjusted the covers. He could watch her all night. He was so glad to see she was all right. He knew what had been on Lance Desque's mind. He'd ransom Sandra for the stones. Wyatt sighed. He'd have had no choice but to give him what he wanted to get her returned. He'd have paid any price to do that. He wanted to wake her and have her explain the importance of tomorrow night. Obviously, Lance had said something to make her aware the time had come to a head. Wyatt couldn't say he wasn't relieved. One way or another it would be over tomorrow night.

  ***

  "Mr. President—"

  Everett raised his hand and stopped the senator from further explanation. "Brad," he said. "Let's stop this dance. I'm too tired to keep it up."

  The Japanese ambassador had led him around for the better part of the last week. Tomorrow he'd probably do the same thing and then stand in front of a reception of honored guests and act as if everything was going well. Everett was too weary from his day with the prime minister to engage in a tug-of-war with the senator over the state of Project Eagle.

  "I need to know the status of Project Eagle and I need to know now. The truth is your daughter and Senator Randolph have the parts and—" He stopped. He was being unfair to the senator. He came around the desk and joined Brad on the sofa "Brad, I apologize. I think I'm getting too old for this job."

  Everett slipped his feet from his shoes, something he
only did when he was comfortable. "My life is falling apart and I'm taking it out on everyone else." Word of those parts had been kept secret for longer than he thought it could in a city where careers lived and died on secrets and nothing was se­cret. He knew he was over the limit for keeping his career intact. If he didn't nail down the location of the parts and get them into his own hands, the lid would blow up in his face.

  Brad pushed himself back in his chair. "I haven't seen my daughter in days. When I did see her she did not have the stones. I can only assume that Randolph has them. If he does, getting them is going to be a problem."

  "What about Parker?"

  "He's a technician. I doubt he has enough desire to engineer an action as sophisticated as this. If he had them, he'd turn them over for the asking."

  "Then we had better hope it’ Parker we'll be dealing with."

  "We can hope it, sir," Brad told the President. “But be prepared to go head to head with Wyatt Randolph."

  Chapter 22

  Sandra awoke with a groan. She hadn't dreamed anything she could remember, but her head felt heavy; too heavy to raise. She hadn't felt this bad since her eighteenth birthday when she'd celebrated by trying to drink as many beers as Annie and her boyfriend, Mark. This was worse. Not only did her head pound like it was full of tiny men with jackhammers, but every bone and muscle in her body screamed for attention.

  The light hurt when she opened her eyes. She blinked, let­ting them adjust to the sunlight. She was used to awakening in strange rooms. She remembered this one. She was in An­nie's suite, in the guest room. Wyatt lay next to her. He cradled her in his arms. She couldn't stop the smile that hurt her mouth.

  She'd seen the look on his face when he saw her last night. She must have looked a sight. She wondered what she looked like this morning. Was it morning? What time was it? How long had she slept? Suddenly, she had the feeling that she'd slept through it. That she hadn't had time to tell Wyatt what Lance planned to do, that she'd slept right through the day and this was another morning. Panic made her breathe hard. She tried to push herself up on her elbows. The action made her cry out. Her elbows felt as if she had burns on them. Then she remembered falling off the truck. Her left elbow had taken the brunt of the fall. Her sweater had caused brush burns to bleed through the fabric. She couldn't see them but she was sure they were bruised and scarred with the remnants of her own blood.