With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  "Maybe so. It never gets easier, though. I'm waiting for this Michaels guy to make a move somewhere, and he's disappeared into the ether. I'd call Youngblood, but I don't want to tip him off, in case he's involved, too."

  "He's not," Grant said. "I've known Randall for too long to believe he could have anything to do with this."

  Terry shrugged. "Two days ago, you'd have said the same thing about Wallace. Are you willing to bet your girls' lives on being right this time?"

  Could it be possible he was that bad a judge of character? He'd certainly misjudged Georgie and Art for a long time. He would never have believed Jerry would have been so headstrong as to move Stacy's body, even if he'd done it for all the best reasons. And he had let himself go in a moment of loneliness and weakness, and Karen had let him do it, something he never would have expected of her.

  Or was there more to it than that? The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was asking those questions because of Karen. Not because she'd done anything wrong—he'd seduced her every bit as much as she'd seduced him, and he'd been growing more attached to her with each passing day—but because he was so attached. Was he grasping at emotional straws, looking for any sense of connection and stability he could find? Did he even have the judgment to know?

  And there was the rub. Here he was, getting attached to a woman who gave his heart hope, at a time when people he'd known for years were turning out to be different than he'd believed. If his judgment was so bad, how could he trust anyone about anything, let alone trust a woman with his heart?

  Jerry had gone into the den to call the office staff and explain the situation as discreetly as he could. They would stay in touch by cell phone for the day, if need be. He wanted to keep the land lines clear in case Art tried to contact him. Now Jerry stood in the doorway, holding the cell phone.

  "Grant, you have to take this."

  "Who is it?"

  "John Kittinger."

  The president's chief of staff, a man who did not take "No" for an answer and, when he had to, never forgot it. Grant nodded and turned to Terry. "I'll be in the den."

  "John," he said, once he'd closed the door of the den. "What can I do for you?"

  "Senator. The president sends his sympathies for all that's happened in these past weeks."

  Right. And President Louis just happened to be sending along these sympathies when there was something he wanted. There was no way this was a simple social call.

  "That's very kind of him," Grant said. "Please convey my gratitude to him."

  "Will do," Kittinger replied. "Look, Senator, I know it's a bad time, but we have a situation, and the president needs to know he can count on your support."

  I have a situation of my own, and you're damn right it's a bad time, Grant thought. "What's up?" he asked.

  "It's Colombia. FARC forces just hit our embassy."

  Shit. It never rained. "What happened?"

  Kittinger's voice dripped disgust. "The early reports are that they fired some RPG-7's from a building across the street. It happened about an hour ago. We have three Marines down, not sure how bad yet. And a dozen or more administrative personnel."

  The RPG-7 was an old handheld rocket launcher, built in the Soviet Union as an infantry anti-tank weapon during the Cold War and since exported all over the world. That the FARC had them was no surprise. That they'd used them on the U.S. embassy ought to have been no surprise, either, given the recent talk of military intervention. Still, the notion of dead or dying Marines came as a blow.

  "What's he considering?" Grant asked.

  "He wants to hit them," Kittinger replied. "He's talking a special ops raid. We think we can get good intel on who did this. He wants to send a team in, snatch them, and put them on trial here."

  It was a dangerous tack. A lot could go wrong. If the raid were compromised, it could turn into a bloody firefight. Memories of Somalia flashed through his mind. This would be worse. Given the history of the drug war and the nation's reaction to the Al Quaeda attacks, there was no question what would happen if the networks flashed images of dead soldiers being dragged naked through the streets in Colombia. They would demand war and accept nothing less. Even if the war were unwinnable by any less than unthinkable means.

  On the other hand, if the raid went well, it would send a clear message: the United States would treat terrorists as criminals and bring them to justice, even to the point of sending in troops to find and seize them. It was the approach Grant himself had advocated after the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks. It was, he considered, a moral and just response.

  If it went well.

  "Senator," Kittinger said, "the president's in his last term. He'd like to know that the man most likely to have his job next is going to support him if he goes in. It would send a signal of continuity to the world."

  "I understand," Grant said.

  It was a clever pitch, appealing to Grant's ambition, talking in terms of "continuity" rather than "unity." It came down to the same thing, of course. But he had to give credit where credit was due, and Kittinger had framed the issue well.

  "And this is the same response you argued for two years ago," Kittinger added. "We didn't think it was practical in Afghanistan. And it wouldn't have taken down the Taliban government, which had to happen. Colombia is different. This is the right call here. You know it is, Senator."

  Grant didn't want to deal with this issue now. But it had come to a head today. And despite his disagreements with Louis in the past, the president was making the right call here. And a show of "continuity" would be in the national interest.

  "Tell the president I would support bringing these criminals to trial, once we're sure we've identified them and we're sure we can get at them."

  "Is that a yes?" Kittinger asked.

  He wasn't buying into that trap. "It's a qualified yes. If he does the intel, takes the time to be as sure as he can be, then yes, this is the right response and I'll stand by him on it. Publicly."

  He didn't have to say the rest: that if Louis went off half-cocked, Grant would make his objections known. Just as publicly.

  "I'll tell the president," Kittinger said. "He'll be glad to know you're on board."

  "Again, please pass along my gratitude for his sympathy," Grant said. Even if the gratitude was as hollow as the sympathy, courtesies must be observed.

  He handed the phone back to Jerry and sagged onto the sectional.

  "It was the right decision," Jerry said.

  Grant nodded. "One right decision amidst so many bad ones."

  "Don't do that," Jerry said. "Georgie made her own choices. So has Art. So did I, for that matter. You can't take responsibility for other people's choices. You're just not that powerful."

  Grant looked up. Jerry's face was firm.

  "That's what it comes down to," Jerry continued. "You're a hell of a man, but you're just one man. The rest of us have to muddle through our own problems, make our own choices. Make our own mistakes. You can't control everyone and everything around you. Which means you're not responsible for everything that goes wrong. You didn't make Georgie have an affair. You didn't kill her. You didn't kill Abby or Stacy. You didn't kidnap your kids."

  "I left the kids with Art," Grant said. "That was my choice."

  "And it was the best choice you could have made, based on what you knew at the time. Art betrayed you. But you didn't betray your girls."

  "And I'm supposed to just flip a switch," Grant said, snapping his fingers, "and accept that?"

  Jerry looked down for a moment. "No. No, it's not that simple. I know that." He met Grant's eyes again. "But it's the truth, whether you accept it or not."

  Grant nodded. It was, but knowing the truth and believing it were two different things. And it would be a while before he trusted his own judgment with people. Even Karen. Especially Karen.

  "She's a good woman," Jerry said.

  Apparently Grant's face was an open book these days. Yet another reason
to be cautious. "She's a good cop."

  "At least. On the other hand, if she wanted to tear you down, I gave her every opportunity. She passed. That says a lot about her, and not just about whether she's a good cop. It says a lot about what kind of person she is."

  "Maybe so," Grant said. "Maybe so."

  Terry knocked at the door, then opened it and stepped in without waiting for a response. Adrenaline showed in his narrowed, sharpened eyes and his quiet voice.

  "They're at the cabin."

  25

  The trees and brush provided adequate cover around Art Wallace's cabin. They couldn't get right up close, but they were definitely within easy range. Karen and Miriam hunkered down in the brush near some tall oaks, while the rest of the team encircled the cabin, making sure both doors were covered and all windows easy to observe.

  "I wish we knew for sure the girls were in there," Karen remarked.

  Miriam handed her a pair of binoculars. "The windows aren't covered." Holding her radio to her lips, she reminded the rest of the team to look for any evidence of the children.

  It was Karen who made the first sighting. A pale face bobbed into a window toward the rear of the cabin. Cathy Suzanne. The girl rested her elbows on the window ledge and looked out at the glorious morning. The child was almost eerily still, like a statue. Then a muffled shriek of laughter escaped the cabin, a child's laughter. Cathy Suzanne turned her head for a moment, then resumed her contemplation of the outside world.

  "They're in there," Karen said. "I wonder how he's managing to keep them inside?"

  "And why," Miriam added, a frown creasing her brow. "Nerves? Or does he know something."

  "I'm hoping he just doesn't want to take any chances." After a while, Karen passed the binoculars back to Miriam and rolled over on her back, looking up through a lacy pattern of leaves at a piercingly blue sky. "I hate waiting."

  "Yeah. Well, if the asshole gives us an opportunity, we'll move on him. Otherwise, we don't know what's going on in there, whether he's armed, how much at risk the children are…."

  "I know." Karen closed her eyes, squeezing back an unwanted rise of anguish. "I know, Miri."

  "I know you do. I'm just reminding myself."

  Karen rolled over again onto her stomach and looked at the cabin. "This is the hardest part. Damn it."

  * * *

  By noon, Grant was ready to chew nails and Terry wasn't doing much better. They'd found his kids, they knew where they were, and they couldn't do a damn thing yet. God, he hoped Cathy Suzanne wasn't getting scared. That child was bright, far too bright, and by now had probably figured out that something was amiss. His heart squeezed at the notion that she might be growing afraid and he wasn't there to comfort her. That she might think he didn't know what had happened, that no one was doing anything to come get them.

  For an instant his hands clenched and he could almost feel them around Art Wallace's neck. It was probably a damn good thing he wasn't there, because he honestly didn't know if he could hold himself back. And if he couldn't, what horrors might his charge at the cabin unleash? He didn't even want to conceive of it.

  But he would have given anything to get his hands on Art.

  "No Michaels yet," Terry said, after yet another call to Youngblood's offices. "Hell. I'm gonna get a warrant on his apartment."

  Grant couldn't stand it anymore. He had to do something. Without waiting for permission, he picked up his phone and called Randall Youngblood. In just a few seconds he was past the secretary and talking to Randall himself.

  "Randall. Michaels told you about…what happened, right?"

  "Yes. I thought I told you that." Something in Youngblood's voice sounded strained. "Grant, I've been—"

  Grant interrupted him. "Where the hell is he?"

  "I don't know. I honestly don't know, and that worries me. He's not supposed to ever be out of touch. Last night I woke up…well, I had this feeling about the kidnapping, and I tried to reach him and I couldn't. Not by phone or pager or cell."

  "Shit."

  "I mean, it's not out of the realm of possibility that he's off taking care of something and didn't want to be interrupted. He has a personal life of some kind. But…"

  Terry was making signals, and Grant put his hand over the mouthpiece. "What?"

  "I want a photo of Michaels. If he's got one, have him fax it."

  Grant spoke into the receiver. "Have you got a photo of Michaels?"

  "Yes. Yes of course."

  "Fax it over to me, will you? My home fax." He rattled off the number. "Randall…we're pretty sure Art Wallace, my neighbor, is the kidnapper."

  Terry made a face and shook his head. Grant ignored him.

  "Wallace? He volunteers for me, I think. Well, for Michaels. Oh, Jesus." Randall fell silent.

  "Just fax me the photo, will you?"

  "Right away. And if there's anything else…"

  "I'll let you know," Grant said. He hung up and swore savagely. "Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamn bitch!"

  * * *

  The entire team was wearing headset radios, so no sound would betray them. Karen's headset crackled to life in the early afternoon.

  "Wallace is in the cabin," a low male voice said. "He just walked past a window on the north side. "He was carrying a child."

  Karen spoke. "What did the child look like?"

  "Girl, maybe six or seven, long reddish hair."

  "That's one of Wallace's twin daughters. So we know they're in there, too." Karen looked at Miriam. "How the hell does that affect the equation?"

  "Damned if I know. You'd think he'd want them to be safe, but after what he's done…"

  "Yeah." Karen had seen cases where a parent murdered a child for no better reason than that he or she didn't want anyone else to have them. She sighed and looked down at her hands, knotted fists against dried leaves and dark green moss. "Any word from Terry?"

  "I'll check."

  The minutes couldn't possibly pass any slower. Nor had she seen Cathy Suzanne in a couple of hours now. God, she hoped those children were all right. Because if anything happened to them while she sat on her hands in the woods, she was going to hate herself forever.

  * * *

  Art nudged the piece back with the tip of his finger. "Sorry, Cathy, but pawns only move one square at a time."

  "But you moved yours forward two squares," she said, pointing to his pawn at king-four.

  "That was its first move," he explained. "Pawns can move two squares on their first move only."

  She looked at him. "That's a made-up rule."

  "I didn't make it up, sweetie," he said. "Someone else did."

  "It's still a made-up rule. It's bad enough these little prawns can only move straight ahead. Now you have a made-up rule that they can only crawl straight ahead. That makes them useless."

  "They're pawns, sweetie, not prawns. And they're not useless. In the right situation, they can be the most important pieces on the board."

  Her eyes fixed his. "I would rather you call me Cathy. Daddy calls me sweetie."

  And there it was again. He'd hoped to distract her with games, and she'd promptly beaten him two out of three games in checkers before asking if there was some other game he was better at. So he'd spent the last half hour trying to teach her chess. He'd hoped for a father-daughter bonding experience.

  Instead, once again, he had found that behind those intense eyes lay an equally intense will. He had no idea whether she was happy or sad, comfortable or frightened. She kept it all inside, showing him only what she wanted him to see, setting her rules for every conversation, every interaction.

  He could kiss her cheek but not her forehead. She tolerated hugs stiffly but did not return them. She'd eaten breakfast, but not with the childhood relish of Belle or the twins. When Belle had asked if they could go out to play in the woods, Art had explained that he needed to wait for a phone call. Cathy had announced that she could watch her younger sister, and Art was forced to come up with some ot
her reason to keep the girls inside. He didn't want to have to round them up if he had to move.

  Now Belle was looking plaintively out the window, while Cathy passed judgment on the rules of chess and on how he addressed her. That would change in time, he was sure. It would change in time or she would have to go. That would be tragic, to be sure, but he'd had his fill of headstrong women whose first loyalty always lay with Grant Lawrence.

  It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to deal with that problem. A drunk driver had taken care of Georgie after they'd had a huge fight that night. He'd wanted what every man wants, and she'd said she wasn't in the mood. That had become a common problem toward the end. He suspected she was once again sleeping with Grant and had said as much. She had fixed him with the cold, hard stare for which she was known and told him that was none of his damn business. But he'd shown her just exactly whose business it was, pinning her to the bed and clamping his hand over her mouth, fucking in anger rather than love. She'd lain there, limp and still, only afterwards announcing that she would see him rot for that. He'd known, right that moment, that she had to go. The drunk driver was a lucky break.

  It was the first time Art had thought of the gods siding with him against Grant Lawrence. It had felt good.

  The dancer was different. In a bizarre way, Art had introduced her to Grant. He'd met her often at the club, paying to watch her incredible body undulate in the near darkness, eventually just paying for her to sit with him and talk. It had come out that his neighbor was Grant Lawrence, the famous senator, and she'd brightened in an instant. She had become eligible to vote just a month before Grant's first election, and she'd voted for him. She had been thrilled to vote for a virtual unknown and watch the returns on election night, as he emerged the winner. Her vote had mattered, she'd said.

  The next thing he knew, she was volunteering for Grant's next campaign. A few months after Georgie's death, she and Grant had started dating. A few months after that, she'd left the club, and him, to open that damn dance studio with that dyke. When Elizabeth left him, it had made sense to look up the dancer again, but she'd treated him like a fungus, an unwanted reminder of an unhappy time in her life. She wasn't that girl, stripping in a bar, anymore. She was what she'd always wanted to be…a dancer and a dance teacher. Go away, please. Don't come back.