by Sandra Brown
“You sure? This series was so good, it’s temporarily overshadowed the Justice Green debacle and proved your critics wrong. You deserve the accolades, but beware of getting greedy. Are you sure that you’re not exploiting your sudden attention by inventing another story? Could you be using all this hype as a ticket out of professional purgatory?”
She was about to answer a firm and unarguable no, but she paused to reexamine her motives. Was she shaping the facts to suit her own purposes? Was she letting ambition color her objectivity? Worse, was she falling back into her habit of jumping to the wrong conclusion in order to create a much more dramatic story?
“Honestly, no. I’ve looked at this objectively and from every possible angle. The woman lost her child. For that, she has my heartfelt sympathy. But isn’t it possible that instead of being a victim of cruel fate, she’s the victim of unfathomable malice, which drove her to commit the worst crime imaginable? That’s the question that’s got its hooks into me.
“From the start, it smelled fishy. Why’d she call and invite me to meet her? She’s never done that before—not with any reporter I know of. And while we were talking, it was as though she was trying to communicate something without coming right out and saying it. What if that something was a confession?
“If she were anyone other than the First Lady, I wouldn’t have waited this long to investigate her story. I think I owe it to myself to dig a little deeper. And, at the risk of sounding incredibly corny, I think I owe it to our nation.”
“Okay,” Daily said. “Let me ask you just one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“What the hell are you hanging around here for?”
Chapter Six
After a week of zealously following leads that led nowhere, Barrie’s ardor began to cool. All she had to show for the time she’d spent pursuing the story of Robert Rushton Merritt’s death was frustration.
She’d explored every angle that she and Daily had discussed, but none had panned out. She was trapped in a Catch-22: The story called for a full-fledged investigation, which couldn’t be conducted without revealing the story.
To make matters worse, Howie’s prostate was acting up again—of course, he had regaled her with all the disgusting details—so he’d been grumpier than usual. Jealous over the success of her series, he was assigning her the stories that other reporters refused to do, the ones placed last in the broadcast lineup. She covered them without complaint, and as quickly as possible, so she could spend more time on the story that consumed her.
Even to consider that the First Lady might have smothered her baby son was treasonous. What was the penalty for treason these days? Public hanging? Firing squad?
Barrie had come to fear that she, not Vanessa Merritt, was suffering a mental breakdown. She was hearing voice inflections that weren’t really there, reading hidden meanings into offhand remarks. She should give up this ridiculous notion and concentrate her efforts on the stories Howie doled out to her, rather than hitch her future to a star that would probably explode and form a black hole around her and her career.
But she couldn’t give it up. What if, after a few setbacks, Bernstein and Woodward had given up the Watergate story?
She was in her cubicle, studying her notes in search of another new slant, when the director of the evening news interrupted her concentration. “Yo, Barrie. The intro on the story you did for tonight?”
“What about it?”
“There was a hum in the mike. Howie says you should do an intro live from the set.”
She glanced at the clock on her desk. They were eight minutes from airtime. “In case you haven’t noticed, I got soaked this afternoon, just as we finished shooting the story. My hair’s still wet.”
“And your eye makeup is all…” The hand gestures he made over his own face were discouraging. “But it’s either that or ditch the story. Howie says this is your big chance at stardom.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” she sighed, “but to keep the peace, I’ll do it.” She grabbed her satchel. “If anybody’s looking for me, I’ll be in the ladies’ room.”
“I’ll be out here praying for a miracle,” the director called after her.
After the newscast, Barrie returned to her desk and checked her messages. One was from a crank who’d been calling her for years claiming that the makers of a popular laxative had put a voodoo hex on him that caused chronic constipation. One was from a newly acquired crank, identifying herself as Charlene and reviling Barrie for being dense and just plain stupid. And one was from Anna Chen, her source at D.C. General.
“Anna?”
“Hi.”
Anna Chen’s voice was hushed and cautious, and Barrie noticed that she hadn’t addressed her by name, although she obviously recognized her voice. Barrie automatically reached for a pad and pencil.
“The matter we discussed a few days ago?” the hospital clerk began.
“Yes.”
“There’s no copy available.”
“I see.” Barrie waited, sensing that the woman had more to say.
“The procedure was never performed.”
Barrie swallowed hard. “Never performed? Is it… an elective procedure? Under the, uh, unusual circumstances, wasn’t it mandatory?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But in this instance, the attending doctor determined that it wasn’t necessary. He ordered that the procedure be waived, and it was.”
Dr. George Allan, the President’s personal physician, had ordered the coroner not to perform an autopsy. Barrie bore down so hard on her pencil that the lead broke. “Are you certain?”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Just a few more questions?”
“I’m sorry.”
Anna Chen hung up. Barrie stuffed her notes into her satchel, grabbed her raincoat and umbrella, and rushed from the newsroom.
* * *
She hadn’t actually expected Anna Chen to be waiting for her in her office at the hospital. Nevertheless, she was disappointed to find the office locked and dark. Back in her car, she used her cellular phone.
“Do you have a telephone directory?” she asked Daily the moment he answered.
“Good evening to you, too.”
“No time for civilities.”
Responding to her urgency, he asked, “Metro D.C.?”
“Start there. Look up a residence listing for Anna Chen. C-h-e-n.”
“Who’s she?”
“I can’t say.”
“Oh. A source. What’s up?”
“Too long to tell over the phone.”
“Saw you on the news tonight,” he said. Barrie heard pages flipping in the background.
“How’d I look?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“That bad?… How’re you coming on the Chens?”
“No Anna, but there’s an A. Chen.”
“Give me that one. Phone number and address, please.”
* * *
The hospital clerk lived in a recently remodeled building in Adams Morgan, a funky, ethnically rich neighborhood. The building’s restoration hadn’t included an elevator, so Barrie was short of breath by the time she reached the third-floor apartment. Not wanting to give Anna Chen an opportunity to avoid her, she hadn’t called ahead. She was relieved to hear a TV through the door.
She rang the bell. The TV was muted immediately. She sensed that she was being viewed through the peephole in the door. “Please, Anna, I must speak with you.”
After what seemed a long time, bolts were unlatched, then a chain lock allowed the door to be opened a few inches. Through the crack, Barrie saw only half of Anna Chen’s pretty face.
“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come.”
“As long as I did, may I come in?”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? Isn’t that obvious? I want to ask why an autopsy wasn’t done on—”
“I’m closing the door now. Please don’t disturb me again.”
“Anna!” Barrie wedged her foot in the door. “I don’t understand. You can’t just call and dump something like that on me and then not—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Barrie was incredulous. “Anna, what’s going on? I don’t get it.”
And then she did. The woman’s beautiful, almond-shaped eyes were filled with terror.
Lowering her voice to a whisper, Barrie said, “Have you been instructed not to speak to me?”
“Please, just go.”
“Did someone warn you against talking to me? Were you threatened? By whom, Anna? Your superiors at the hospital? Someone in the medical examiner’s office? Dr. Allan?” Still keeping her voice low, she said urgently, “You won’t be named as my source. I swear it. Just nod if I’m right. Dr. George Allan ordered the coroner’s office not to perform an autopsy. Did that mandate come from the President himself?”
Again the frightened young woman tried to close the door, which now felt like a vise on Barrie’s instep. “Anna, please tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything. Go away. Leave me alone.”
The Asian woman threw all ninety-five of her pounds against the door. Barrie wisely removed her foot. She was left standing in the hallway, staring at the brass figures on the door designating the apartment as 3C, and wondering just who the hell had muzzled Anna Chen. And why.
* * *
Vanessa Merritt switched off the TV in her private chambers. She’d been channel surfing when she happened to catch Barrie Travis on the WVUE news set. How could the girl be so stupid? Why hadn’t she picked up the hint? But then, in some respects, Vanessa was relieved that she hadn’t.
She didn’t really want her secret exposed, but she didn’t know how long she could stand keeping it to herself. Either way, she was afraid it would kill her.
She poured herself another glass of forbidden wine. To hell with the reprimands from her doctor, her father, and her husband. How could they possibly know what she needed or didn’t need? They couldn’t possibly understand how she had suffered. They were teamed up against her. They…
The thought drifted away before it was completed. That was happening frequently. She couldn’t seem to hold a thought for more than a few seconds before it slipped away.
What had she been thinking about?
The baby, yes. Always. But there was something else.…
When her eyes strayed back to the TV, she remembered. Barrie Travis. The dumb bitch. Did she have to be hit by a two-by-four before she caught on? Why hadn’t she gotten it? Or had she, but was too afraid to act on it. Was she stupid, or was she a coward? Whatever, the result was the same. No help could be expected from that quarter.
Vanessa had thought herself clever to use the reporter as a vessel. The idea had hatched when she’d spotted Barrie at a recent press conference on the east lawn. Wasn’t she the one who’d broken the story of Supreme Court Justice Green’s “death”? Wasn’t it she who’d asked an incredibly dumb question at a press conference that had caused a spontaneous burst of laughter?
Barrie Travis’s poor credibility had made her a perfect choice for Vanessa’s purposes, which was to drop a few hints to an irresponsible reporter, someone who would get the ball rolling, would begin asking questions that seemed outlandish at first, but to which the important players eventually would seek answers. If Vanessa had planted the seeds of her story with one of the network heavyweights, she would have been dangerously exposed. This way, it would get out, but not directly through her.
Or so she had hoped. Obviously, Barrie Travis had been a poor choice. She wasn’t only reckless, she was brainless.
So where could she turn next?
Out of habit, Vanessa reached for her telephone.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hello!” the senator said. “I was going to call you later. How’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Quiet evening at home?”
“David’s making a speech to some labor union convention. I forget where.”
“Want me to come over and keep you company?”
“No, but thanks.” She couldn’t drink as much when her father was around.
“You shouldn’t be alone, sweetheart.”
“David’s coming back tonight. It’ll be late, but he promised to wake me.”
After a pause, during which she could envision her father’s steep frown, he said, “Maybe you should go back to your gynecologist. See if he can give you some hormones or something.” He attributed all female ailments to a hormonal imbalance.
“That would hurt George’s feelings.”
“Screw George and his feelings,” the senator boomed. “We’re talking about your health here. George is a nice guy, and I assume he’s a competent physician for routine stuff like bellyaches and flu shots. But you need a specialist. You need a psychiatrist.”
“No, Daddy. No, I don’t. Everything is under control.”
“Losing little Robert has thrown your whole system out of kilter.”
Vanessa took a sip of wine to deaden the sharp pain of remorse that his words sent through her. “David wouldn’t approve. The First Lady can’t have a shrink.”
“It can be handled confidentially. Besides, who’d think badly of you for getting some help when you need it most? I’ll talk to David about it.”
“No!”
“Baby—”
“Please, Daddy, don’t worry him. I’ll get through it. It’s just going to take me a little more time than we thought.”
She had learned at the knee of the master, Senator Cletus Armbruster, how to practice politics. By the time they said good night, she had his promise not to confront David about her health.
To calm herself, she washed down another Valium with her wine, then floated into the bathroom and changed into a nightgown and robe. Propped up in bed, she tried to attend to some personal correspondence, but she couldn’t control her fountain pen. She tried to read the new bestseller that had everybody talking, but she found it difficult to focus her eyes and make sense of the words. She was about to give up and turn out the lamp when someone knocked on her door. She got out of bed and crossed the room.
“Vanessa?”
She opened the door. “Hello, Spence.”
“Were you asleep?”
“I was reading.” Spence never failed to rattle her. She ran her fingers through her hair. “What do you want?”
“The President asked me to check on you.”
“Really?” she said sarcastically.
“He regretted having to leave you alone tonight.”
“Why should tonight be any different?”
Spencer Martin’s eyes didn’t even flicker. It took a lot more than impertinence to provoke him. Even when provoked, he didn’t show it. That had been part of his training.
The Nixon administration had had Gordon Liddy, who bore a scar in the center of his palm from holding it over a candle flame until the flesh melted. Liddy had nothing over Spencer Martin. He was scary in his own right. And invaluable to the President.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked with aloof courtesy.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you. How are you feeling?”
“Fucking great. How are you feeling?”
“You’re upset. Let me call Dr. Allan to come over.”
“I don’t need him,” she shouted. “What I need…” She paused to gather stamina. “What I need is for somebody around here to acknowledge that I had a son, and that he’s dead.”
“It’s been acknowledged, Vanessa. Why dwell on it? What’s the point in belaboring the fact that your son—”
“Say his name, you bastard.” She lunged forward and grabbed the lapels of his perfectly tailored jacket. “It’s hard for you and David to call him by name, isn’t it? Your consciences won’t let you. Say it!” she shou
ted. “Say it right now!”
A Secret Service agent rushed into the room. “Mr. Martin, is something wrong?”
“The First Lady isn’t well,” he said. “Call Dr. Allan to come immediately.”
Spence backed her into her room and closed the door. “Going to lock me in my room, Spence?”
“Not at all. If you want to make a spectacle of yourself in front of the staff, be my guest,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the door.
Vanessa lapsed into sullen silence, but defiantly poured herself another glass of wine. By the time the doctor arrived, she had finished that one and was having another.
“She’s drunk, George,” Spence announced.
She fought off Dr. Allan when he tried to examine her. “Vanessa, your medication doesn’t allow you to drink this much.”
Spence then ordered him to give her something to shut her up. “I really shouldn’t. I have to increase the dosage to make it effective.”
“I don’t care what you have to do,” said the man of steel.
Vanessa bared her arm. “Give me the goddamn drug! The only time I know any peace is when I’m asleep. And, as Spence pointed out, I’m not sleepy, I’m drunk.”
As the drug cruised through her system, David came striding into the room. He was obviously furious over the scene she’d created while he was away.
Too damn bad, Mr. President, she thought, although she was too relaxed now to articulate the words.
He and Spence and Dr. Allan conducted a tense, hushed conversation at the foot of her bed. At the conclusion of it, she heard Spence say, “We can’t let this go on any longer.”
What, precisely, did that mean? She had wished for sweet oblivion, but now she struggled to fight it off.
She was in a deep sleep when they came for her just before dawn.
Chapter Seven
President Merritt concluded his telephone conversation with Barrie Travis and turned to his adviser. “What do you think?”
Spencer Martin had heard every word over the speakerphone. “She was fishing, but you handled it well,” he replied. “You declined her request, but you did it graciously. Did her call go through Dalton?”
“Yes. She played it by the book.”