by Smith, Julie
Working at top speed, he changed the plates and shoved Rosemarie in the trunk, first taping her lying mouth in case she regained consciousness.
Then he barreled out of there, reaching after a few blocks for his last unused cell phone, the one in which he’d programmed his emergency numbers, Rosemarie’s and the one for the phone he’d given Karen. Dialing, he had no doubt in the world that his wife would answer.
On the fourth ring, she said, “David! Dear God, David, what’s going on? I’ve spent the morning at the federal building. They arrested me, David. My uncle had to bail me out.”
They’d moved fast. Much faster than he would have thought.
“It’s okay, baby. Look, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“They stormed in with guns and everything. Jesus, David, it’s about you; that’s all I know. They said you’re dangerous and I shouldn’t even talk to you, but…”
“But what? You love me, don’t you?”
“Oh, hell, David, I’m so scared!”
“Honey, you’ve got to hang on. You’ve got to be really brave and really, really cool. It’s okay; it’s really okay. I’ll get us out of this. I had no idea they’d go this far. It’s all a setup. You know that, don’t you? You know I love you. I was getting too powerful, that’s all. They had to do something to stop me. But it’s too late, you understand? Look, I’ve got some very important people working with me. We’ll get out of this, you know that don’t you? Sweetheart?”
“What?”
“You love me?”
“David, they say you’re somebody else.”
Oh, Christ. “Baby, am I your Mr. Right? How could I be somebody else?”
The line was quiet.
“Karen?”
“What?”
“Listen, I’m on my way home. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll work it all out.” This was a test. Her reaction might tell him something.
“No! Oh, God, don’t! I’m at my uncle’s. They’ve probably got our house set up like a command post. You can’t go there.” That was a good sign.
“Karen, you’ve really got to be reasonable. I didn’t want to tell you this, but some very high-up people are backing me. It’s okay. I’ll just go home and…”
“They’ll shoot you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s our house. They can’t shoot a man in his own house.”
“David, you can’t go there.”
“Okay, okay. Why don’t we meet someplace else? We’ll just call the police from wherever it is, and, by then, everything will be all set up for the stupid feds to call off their dogs, and we can just put our feet up till our friends give us the word. And then we can go home. Together.”
“Look, David. You really have no idea of the scope of this thing.”
“And you really have no idea of the scope of my operation— our operation— sweetie pie. Remember what we talked about?” He made his voice turn to velvet. “It’s already in motion— has been for a long time. Just trust me, okay? How about your office? Why don’t you just go to the Right Woman office, and I’ll be there, and we’ll just ride this thing out together.”
“My office?” She sounded like a zombie.
“The storm troopers aren’t there, are they?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. But they’re here. I can’t get away.”
“Oh, yes you can. I’ve got an idea.”
She didn’t speak, was probably too numb to answer him.
“I know a place they won’t go.” He outlined his plan. “What do you think?”
“Omigod,” she said. “You’re a genius. I’d never in a million years have thought of something like that.”
“Just trust me, baby. Trust me, and do what I say, and we’ll be together real soon.”
* * *
Skip had left the McLeans’ house with a bad feeling. Exactly what was causing it she wasn’t sure, except the near-mythic way Jacomine loomed in her consciousness. He had no notion of his own limitations. He’d try to contact Karen, there was no question in her mind. But the question was this: Was Karen enough of a fool to believe the line of garbage he was bound to try to feed her?
She didn’t seem a fool. Skip liked her. But she did seem a victim. Skip wished to hell she knew more about that baby thing.
She went out and got in her rented car and sat there. The two feds watching Karen probably saw her, but she was betting they’d leave her alone.
Karen didn’t even bother to check the street when she came out some twenty minutes later, probably trying to put on a casual show for the feds. She was still in her jeans and tank top, carrying a huge straw tote, clearly meant for the beach.
She got in her car and started driving. The feds followed. Skip followed the feds. The caravan they made would have been comical seen from a satellite. On the ground, it probably wasn’t even noticeable. If the feds knew she was there, they evidently didn’t care.
Bigger fish to fry, Skip thought.
Karen drove down Preston Road, past a huge, high-fenced area that looked like some oil man’s private estate. She took a right on Mockingbird Lane and in half a block, another right driving through a gate in the high fence she’d been following. A plaque on the wall said Dallas Country Club. The feds followed her in, past tennis courts on the left, a golf court on the right. On the other side of the tennis courts was a large parking lot for the clubhouse. Karen parked, unloaded her straw tote, which, Skip now saw was piled high with towels. She sauntered up to the clubhouse and sidestepped to the left where she looked down, called something to someone, and then entered the clubhouse. One of the feds got out of the car, ran to the place where she’d yelled to someone, and then followed Karen into the building. The other moved the car to a side entrance. If she came out there, the driver had her, but he could also see the front of the building.
Skip parked, got out, and approached the building. She saw that to the left was a stairway down to a pool. Evidently Karen had yelled to someone there, perhaps along the lines of “see you in a minute.”
Skip had three choices that she could see: watch Karen’s car, follow the fed following Karen, or try something else. Well, hell, if she waited here, she could see Karen’s car, the FBI car, and the pool area. If Karen came out for a swim, she could watch without being noticed.
Karen hadn’t even had time to change to her swimsuit before the pedestrian fed scooted out, looking around wildly for his buddy. Evidently, Karen had escaped— or had made him think she had.
To wait for her here or follow the feds? Maybe they knew something she didn’t. She opted for following.
But within five minutes, she saw it was hopeless; the FBI guys were returning to the McLean house where, Skip was certain, Karen wasn’t going.
* * *
Karen had no idea it was possible to have so much fury in her, boiling, coursing, like a toxin blasting through her veins. How dare David treat her like a child? How was it possible for an adult human being to think his wife was as dumb as she’d have to be to buy that crap on the phone?
Her uncle had a gun; every Texan had a gun. All she had to do was to find it.
And how in the name of the baby she’d lost had she for one minute entered into his puerile little fantasy about being president? President, for God’s sake. Talk about folie à deux! How the hell had he done it to her?
The gun would be in the bedroom, she thought. People always thought a burglar was going to surprise them in bed, and they’d just surprise the burglar first. Her own father kept a gun in the drawer of his bedside table.
And the damn escape plan! It was ingenious, something he’d taken a long time to think out, something he’d worked out long before today. “I’ve got an idea,” hell! He probably had a trunkful of ideas.
First, she did exactly as her husband had told her: called a town car to pick her up at a particular time, at exactly the place he told her. A car with tinted windows.
Then she tackled the bedroom. Her unc
le’s nightstand, she figured, would be the one without the hand lotion on top. Gingerly, she opened the drawer, hoping she didn’t find sex toys.
There were two pairs of spectacles in there and a box of tissues. No gun.
Where else then? She checked under the pillow, feeling like a burglar herself, and then under the mattress. Her fingers closed on something hard and cold. Please, God, don’t let it be a dildo.
She lifted up the mattress to take a look. There it was, the obligatory Texas firearm. She wondered if it was loaded and if she could fire it.
It felt way too light. She checked under the mattress again and found what must be a clip for it, meaning it must be an automatic. Good. Those were said to be easier. She loaded both items into a tote she’d brought from home.
Now to lose the damned FBI and get to her office.
She drove to the club, called the car service on her cell phone, verified that the car was in place, and went in, walking slowly, exactly as David had told her. Once she was in, she moved fast.
She moved swiftly through the lobby, into the ballroom (which was currently bare), and turned right at the rear, vaguely aware of motion behind her. The damned feds were probably following. She tried to keep calm. She belonged here; no one cared about her speed. But two men chasing her would be noticed.
She turned right at the far side of the ballroom, proceeded down the hall, and then downstairs to the restaurant. Here, there were two choices: You could turn right and go out the side entrance, or you could go through a door at the rear of the restaurant. Karen chose the rear entrance, which opened onto a short breezeway.
Quickly, she loped through the breezeway, opened a door at the far side, and stepped into a small dining room, the sort where private lunches are held. At the rear of that she opened another unmarked door and entered the ladies’ locker room. It was ladies’ golf day, and the place was full. She hurried through, and just as she was turning right again, to enter the golf shop, she heard the screams.
Ha! Home free. The feds— or at least one of them— had followed her. They’d have no choice except to apologize, leave the locker room, and retrace their steps. So now they were on the opposite side of the club; absolutely no way in hell they could catch her. She strode casually through the golf shop, saying her “hellos” as she exited, and slid into the waiting town car, already pointed toward the entrance opposite the main one at Mockingbird Lane.
She had to hand it to David; that was one carefully thought-out plan. She asked the driver to take her to an intersection near the Quadrangle and told him to hurry.
She kept watch out the back, but there was no sign of the FBI car.
She got out at the intersection, paid the driver, watched the town car disappear, and strolled to the building that housed her office. The first thing she noticed was that the security guard wasn’t in his usual place. Gone on rounds, maybe. A half-smoked cigarette had gone out in the ashtray on his desk. She frowned and thought, Who leaves a cigarette burning in the ashtray? The answer was obvious. Someone who had to leave in a hurry. She wondered if he’d gotten to her husband first. No need to worry, she thought. He wasn’t armed. He was just an old guy paid to take people’s names when they came in. She hoped her husband wasn’t holding him hostage or something. That would complicate things.
The building was a small stand-alone box across from a park, not more than four stories, with a parking lot in back and nice landscaping. The offices on the street— including hers, had wonderful glass fronts that opened onto little balconies. The building didn’t get a whole lot of foot traffic, but there were people working in the offices. They’d be bound to hear the shot. She thought about that, and let a closed smile play at her lips. Who cared? By then he’d be dead.
* * *
Skip could have cried with frustration. She couldn’t believe that it was this simple, that Karen had actually managed to shake two feds and one cop. And yet logic told her she was defeated. Karen Wright could be headed toward her death at this moment, and there wasn’t a damn thing Skip could do about it.
Okay, she told herself. Accept it. You can’t do anything except what you can do. Was there anything left? Where to start?
Start. That was it. Start. Okay, where would Karen go? Where would Mr. Wright tell his wife to meet him? Maybe a favorite restaurant, a street corner, but Skip couldn’t find a place she didn’t know about. That left what she did know: Karen’s home, her parents’ house, the McLeans’ house, the television station, her office, maybe a church. It would be unlike Errol Jacomine not to belong to one, if only to compare himself to the preacher. But Karen hadn’t mentioned a church. She called Karen’s parents’ house; got no answer. Rang Senator McLean again.
She tried to sound calm. “Hi. Had a nice talk with your niece.”
“How is she?”
“Can I be honest with you? I’m a little worried she might try to meet her husband.”
“Oh, no, Karen’s much too smart for that. Besides, isn’t the FBI out front? They’re supposed to be.”
“She left the house, Senator.”
“Well? Didn’t they follow?”
“Oh, yes, they followed. And they lost her.”
He laughed. “She probably went to a mall or something. They wouldn’t be the first people she’s left behind in a mall.”
“Senator, with all due respect, she could be in danger.”
His voice turned hard. “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me any place she and her husband went together. Some place private she might try to meet him.”
“To be honest, I barely know the man.”
Skip didn’t give him time to elaborate. “How about a church. Do they go to church?”
“I don’t know. They don’t go to ours.”
“Her office then. How about that?”
“Her office? She doesn’t work, that I know of.”
“She runs a foundation.”
“I’m sorry, detective. I don’t know a thing about that.”
Now there was a stopper. “Okay, thanks for your help.”
The feds didn’t know about the office; neither did Karen’s own uncle. What the hell was the name of that foundation?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rosemarie woke up while the car was in motion. She could tell she was in a car, but she couldn’t figure out why it was pitch black in there. Her head hurt and she couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe. And her mouth— something was keeping her from opening her mouth.
She sucked air through her nose and smelled fumes— and the newness of the car. Her hands were bound behind her, her ankles stuck tightly together. She was on her side, curled up in a fetal position. She was sweating.
Gradually, she took in the sensations, fighting rising panic. And then she remembered. Remembered going into the garage ahead of Earl, worrying that he’d do something like this, wondering how to prevent it, trying to be cool. He must have knocked her out and stolen her car. He must have loaded her in the trunk.
Okay, if he’d do that, he’d kill her. If she didn’t smother first. She tried to remember if you could smother in the trunk of a car. Maybe, she thought, if it was hot enough. And it was. It was a hot May day, boiling hot. She’d certainly smother if he tried to drive to Mexico.
The only thing to do was breathe, breathe and try to survive as long as she could. She’d taken yoga on and off for years; she knew how to breathe, knew it would calm her. And that it was the only thing she could do. So she breathed, focusing on each breath, trying not to think, just to stay alive.
And, finally, the car stopped. She heard Earl get out, slam the door, and walk away. Fleetingly, it occurred to her to make throat noises to attract his attention, but she knew it was a bad idea. Better he should think she was still unconscious— or dead.
Coming out of the breathing-trance was like waking up a second time; only this time she wasn’t panicked. She was furious.
I’ve got to kill the bastard, she realized, a
nd wondered why she hadn’t already done it, done it when it would have been easy. In those months when she was supporting him instead, with that stupid job at her little cable station. But, hell, that was hindsight.
Now she was going to do it. All she had to do was get out of here. She started kicking and felt a large metal object. It dawned on her that it was Todd’s gas can. She was in Todd’s car! It was the gas he kept for his stupid boat. This was good; the car had an escape button, in case you got locked in the trunk. Earl must have realized that. He was a maniac for details. He must have thought she couldn’t get to the button with her wrists bound. And she probably couldn’t. She didn’t even know where it was, needed her fingers to poke around for it. So she’d have to get the tape off. It was tape, wasn’t it? It seemed to her that it was; wire or rope wouldn’t be so wide or so tight against her skin. She’d have more wiggle room.
It was a nice big trunk she was in. They’d gotten the car so Todd could haul stuff. She could maneuver in it, find the jack or something, get to a taillight maybe, break it…
Wait a minute. She was wearing her watch. Perhaps she could break the crystal, use it to saw through the tape. She slammed her hands against the floor of the trunk.
No. The angle was wrong. She couldn’t even feel the watch, couldn’t know if she’d cracked the glass.
She started moving, slowly, her limbs hurting from the confinement. Her feet hit something. Could you die of gas fumes? Or, maybe, with all that heat, could you burn up from spontaneous combustion? Maybe she’d be barbecued in her own little oven. The panic started rising again.