White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Wyatt didn't like being a celebrity. He'd rather read about someone else than have his own life put there for the world to review. What must his family think? He admitted he hadn't had much time to think about them lately. He was too busy trying to save his own life. He needed to call his parents, find out if anyone had questioned them. Were they being followed? He needed to let them know he was all right. He knew his mother would worry, but he wanted to hear her voice.

  He looked over at Sandra. She slept soundly in the queen-size bed. After they'd left her sister's. Sandra had been exhausted but restless. By the time darkness fell she was too tired to argue about going to sleep. Wyatt had been awake most of the night. Just as the sun tinged the horizon he'd gone out and bought a paper from the newsstand on the corner near a bus stop. Few people stood there at this early hour and he'd waited until the bus had come and gone before approaching the plastic-covered stand. Returning to the room, he'd sat on the bed and skimmed the news.

  He and Sandra hadn't come any closer to finding out what the number Jeff had uttered meant. Neither had he been able to talk her out of meeting her father tonight for dinner. He'd even mentioned going with her, but both of them knew that was a bad idea.

  Wyatt turned the page of the daily journal checking to see if the noise aroused Sandra. It didn't. When he turned back to the paper, he nearly lost his grip at what was printed there. His heart thudded against his rib cage. Page three was a full-page ad. In the middle of the white space was what most people would see as a huge computer chip. Wyatt recognized it as a tie tack. Chip had it made, and he'd given it to him one Christmas. In the middle of the gift-chip, Wyatt Scott Randolph, his full name, had been engraved in gold lettering. As he looked at the newspaper reproduction the word CALL in capital letters was written in that space. It jumped out at Wyatt like a four-letter word.

  Around the edge of the black center with silver prongs sticking down like metal teeth, Wyatt saw his own name. Not his given name, not his family name, but the storybook name that Edward "Chip" Jackson and only a few other people knew—Earp and Scott. Most people thought he was named after Wyatt Earp and Randolph Scott because his mother, Endora Randolph, a teacher in the Philadelphia school system, was a fan of old western movies. Wyatt's name really came from a black Indian who helped carve the West. Chip knew the true story, but Chip was dead. He couldn't have placed the ad.

  Then who did and why? What were they trying to say? Call? Call who? He couldn't call Chip.

  Wyatt tried to apply logic. Sandra would have done this. She would analyze it and find the inner meaning. He thought it was a cruel joke. Chip was dead. No one but Chip could have sent him a message like this. Was he supposed to call. . .Chip?

  ***

  Weather in the District was changeable. Yesterday's rains gave to a bright sunny morning. The coldness that had chilled Wyatt to the bone twenty-four hours ago had been pushed out to sea. Behind it came a warm breeze that held the promise of spring. Wyatt walked casually with his arm around Sandra's waist. They were close enough to appear to share the same grief and far enough apart to look like they dreaded walking through a graveyard.

  In Sandra's case that might have been true. She'd been quiet this morning, agreeing to his decision to visit Chip's grave with little comment. He wondered what was on her mind, but decided not to ask. She'd tell him in due time and he didn't want to bring up her father and the dinner she was scheduled to attend this evening.

  Wyatt glanced behind them. He searched the area as if he was a human radar detector. No one else seemed to want to spend the beauty of the morning in a cemetery. They were alone.

  Wyatt felt different there. Even though his senses were alert, he felt calm, as if this place was a safe haven. The place commanded silence, reverence. His tennis shoes made a suction sound on the paved passageway, much like rubber sticking to the ground and being pulled free. He walked softer, reducing the sound, as if the noise could disturb the dead.

  The cemetery was large and Chip's grave was near the rear. When it came into view Wyatt slowed his steps. Sandra instinctively adjusted her gait to match his. His senses piqued, came alive. Some sixth sense told him to be ready, for what he didn't know, but he wanted to be able to reverse direction and run if the situation turned deadly. Seeing nothing, they continued. He constantly scoped out escape routes, mentally calculated the distance to large headstones or mausoleums, places that would provide a modicum of safety should they require it.

  He’d attended Chip's funeral. Only three weeks ago he'd stood here in the cold while a group of black-draped mourners said their final farewell to a man whose life should have spanned another fifty years. Wyatt hadn't any idea then how his life would change the Monday following Chip's burial. The diamonds would be delivered and his their mention of Project Eagle would set into motion the machinery that brought him to this place now.

  The grass, which looked like a winter carpet over most of the ground, dropped short of Chip’s grave. There was no headstone. It couldn't be set until later. The only marking was the mound of fresh earth working its way back to the surface of the ground. By summer the grass covering it would be as well manicured as the rest of the place.

  Wyatt took Sandra's arm and walked to the head of the grave. They said nothing. He looked down. The red earth stared at him, mutely silent. Then he looked about the place. No police came flooding through the gates, sirens blaring, lights flashing. In fact, he was beginning to feel the trip had been worthless. Then he saw him.

  Dropping Sandra's arm, he lunged across the soft earth. Lowering his head, he hurled himself, not with the finesse of a veteran running back, but with the rage of a bull seeing red. Wyatt had never played football. He preferred the fast-paced movement of a full court press, but when he saw the khaki-colored pants and green raincoat of the man who stepped from behind the nearby tree, rational thought took a vacation, leaving him with only the instinct to seek revenge. Wyatt's fist slammed into the man's stomach. He heard a grunt as the air whooshed out of the man’s lungs and he doubled over in pain. Wyatt grabbed his chin and pulled him up, then punched him squarely in the face. He stumbled backward and fell into the wet ground.

  "Wyatt, stop!" Sandra rushed to him, grabbing his arm. "What are you doing?"

  He unconsciously pushed her aside, only half noticing her stumble over the red earth before gaining her balance. His breath came in ragged puffs. He started for the man struggling to get to his feet. Wyatt tore at his arm, wrenching him upward only to knock him down again. He wasn't fighting back. Wyatt didn't care. He was going for him again, intent on beating him to death. He must have seen the murderous glint in Wyatt's eye because he scooted back when he saw Wyatt coming. "Wait!" he shouted, raising a warding-off hand.

  "Wyatt, no!" Sandra cried.

  Wyatt didn't know if it was the panic in her voice or her hands clutching his arms that stopped him from trying to kill Colonel Samuel Parker.

  ***

  "I didn't know, Randolph. I promise you I had nothing to do with the bomb." He stopped to take a deep breath. "They set me up." Parker’s speech was labored from the beating he’d taken.

  "Who are they?" Wyatt took an angry step forward. Sandra hung on his arm and Sam pushed himself further up in the mound of soft dirt.

  "I don't know. I only talked to Colonel Whitfield. He said to let you get into Chip's office and give you all the time you needed. He said you had something the department needed that was too secret for him to tell me about, but they didn't want more than for you to lead them to it. Then you and the senator's daughter. . ." he glanced at Sandra. "He said nothing would happen to you and you wouldn't be charged with anything."

  "And you believed him?"

  "I had no reason not to." Sam started to get up, checking to see that Wyatt didn't make any negative moves. Wyatt stood his ground, glaring at him as if he still wanted to break him in pieces. Sam got to his feet, brushing the excess dirt and mud from his clothes. Some of the dust came off, but he looked as
if he'd been in a fight. "He's always been straight with me. When I heard about the car bomb I was as surprised as you."

  "I'm sure that's not the truth, but I would have been dead and there would have been no way you could apologize."

  Sam hung his head. "I'm sorry, Randolph. I didn't know."

  "What are you doing here now?" Sandra asked. When she'd found out who he was she wanted to pound his face in the dirt, too. "Why did you send Wyatt a message?" Sandra tried to be rational.

  "They're after me. They know I didn't have anything to do with Randolph and you or the car bomb. Whatever you have, Randolph, they want it and they want it bad enough to kill you to get it."

  Wyatt didn't have to be reminded of that. He kept his hand from going to the healing puncture wound in his side. He could still feel the four niches of cold steel that had nearly killed him.

  "Why did you come to us? Every arm of the law and people outside of it are looking for us. It seems to me you'd want to stay as far away as possible." Sandra's logic was flawless.

  "I came because you haven't got a chance alone." He glared at her, his voice forceful and strong. That quality left it with his next statement. "I haven't got a chance without you, either. We've got to work together, combine our information and try to find a way out. We're nothing without each other."

  "We've managed without you so far. When you stepped in more people tried to kill us. We can’t trust our own government. . .or the military." Sandra sneered as she spoke the final word.

  He nodded at Sandra as if acknowledging her argument. "I was working with Chip on a different aspect of Project Eagle. I have information you need. Until all the pieces are back in place we'll be hunted by our own government—and foreign governments, too—to get what we have."

  Wyatt only knew part of what they had. Sam might know, but then, he might be lying. If he accepted him, trusted him, he could be walking into a trap and taking Sandra with him. In this bizarre nightmare he'd learned no one was trustworthy. Everyone wanted something and they would go to extreme lengths to get it.

  What did Sam want from him? The two of them had met over a defense budget two years ago. Since then, Wyatt, along with Sam and Chip, had spent a lot of time together. He'd have sworn the man was honest, but the flames coming from the Chrysler were charred in his memory.

  "Why should I trust you?" Wyatt asked. "This could be another setup. You've burned me once."

  "I'm telling the truth, Wyatt. I can't give you anything more than my word."

  Wyatt weighed that and didn't find it convincing enough. He knew the government wanted the stones. Sam could be an emissary to find out where they were. Wyatt knew they were important, that people were being killed because of their existence. He was beginning to learn just how important.

  "Why would I come here, Randolph? Why would I seek you out, knowing you'd assume I'd been directly involved in trying to kill you if I had been part of the conspiracy?"

  "Because it didn't work and you want another chance."

  "Okay, that could be true, but it isn't. The truth is, I'm scared to death. I know they'll come after me, too."

  Sandra suddenly looked around. Wyatt could feel the fear coursing through her. The thought that if someone was looking for Sam, he'd have led them straight to Wyatt and Sandra hit them both at the same time. No one veered down on them. "But, if Sam wasn't telling the truth, they'd never make it out of the cemetery alive. He almost laughed at the irony.

  "I'm alone," Sam said, picking up on their body language. "If we could just go somewhere and talk, I'll tell you everything I know."

  "It could be another trap," Sandra warned.

  Wyatt recognized words he'd said to her about trusting her father. His instinct told him Sam was telling the truth. His reason told him Sam had given him a car with a bomb in it. He was confused about which choice to make. He didn't know if the information he'd taken from Chip's office was of any use. He didn't know if Sam could decipher it if he trusted him to come along or even if he'd do it for them. What did they have to give Sam?

  Wyatt scrutinized Sam. He was scared and nervous and looked as if he'd been on the run for weeks, too. Sandra's hand was resting on his arm. Wyatt wrapped his around it and looked down at her.

  "We have to trust him," he whispered.

  "What? He tried to have us killed."

  "I don't think so."

  "I think whoever tried to kill us used Sam. I believe the real enemy goes a lot higher than Sam Parker."

  Sandra pulled her hand free. "You think it's my father."

  ***

  "Welcome to the White House." Casey Everett greeted him as if he were her first visitor as First Lady. She greeted everyone who came to the White House in this manner, no matter how many times they passed through the entrances. At first Lance had felt important. He was finally a VIP, but later he knew she did it to humble people, to let them know that within these sheltered walls they represented the people of the United States and she would not allow them to forget their obligations. Casey would have made a wonderful queen if the United States had followed the British form of monarchy. She was made to stand above the crowd and wave at state functions, but she was also a governing queen. She was as keen as any scholar and always remembered the trust she'd been charged with.

  In his own ironic way, Lance approved of Casey. She was older than most of the women he favored, but she looked a lot younger. The public loved her and Lance admitted to himself that Everett Horton was a lucky man. Lance needed a woman like Casey on his side. There was no limit to what he could do with someone as smart, popular, and good-looking as Casadia Horton.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Horton. Is the President waiting?"

  "He just went in." She began walking toward the dining room. "He'll be glad to know you're so prompt."

  Lance nodded, knowing that was another of Casey Horton's cons. She disguised her insults in compliments. If he'd been even a second late, she'd have lectured him on the many duties of the presidency and how Everett needed to stick to a very tight schedule.

  The White House was a monstrous place, but Lance loved it. He didn't feel awed by the-twenty-foot ceilings, he felt powerful. Inside these walls what the President said and did became law, national policy, affected millions of lives. With the brush of a pen he could send relief to an underdeveloped nation or repeal the social welfare laws.

  Of course Congress provided some checks and balances, but this was the most powerful position on earth and Lance wanted it. If he managed in his present course, he'd have the country behind him in a couple of years. By the next election the entire world would know his name and he'd occupy the Oval Office.

  "Lance, thanks for coming." Everett extended his hand and Lance took it. "You know Tyler and Melanie." Lance shook hands with the Secretary of Defense and Melanie West.

  "Mr. Secretary," he acknowledged. "Mrs. West."

  "Let's sit down."

  Lance didn't have to see Everett signal the White House staff. They were a trained group and knew precisely the right moment to begin serving the lunch that began with oysters and ended with a circle of vanilla ice cream on a chilled plate that had been sculpted with raspberry sauce and cream. Each plate had a unique design as if the chef was moonlighting as an artist.

  "Well, Lance." Everett pushed his chair back and crossed his long legs. "Can you update us on what's been happening in the saga of our wayward senator?"

  There was mild laughter from the two women and two men looking in his direction. President Horton didn't stand on ceremony when it came to asking for information. Instead of directing his questions to Tyler Kirkus, he went straight to the man who should know. He was just as apt to call the corner grocer and ask for a delivery of ice cream than to leave instructions for the cook to do it.

  That was probably what the country liked in Everett Horton. He was one of them, a man on the street, a neighbor who could be trusted to keep his word. So far, Everett Horton had accomplished all his campaign promises.
His ratings couldn't be higher. He was sitting on the pinnacle of the pyramid and with this defense component he could topple quickly and no one would remember anything else except the scandal it could create.

  Lance put his spoon down and adjusted his suit jacket as he sat forward in his chair. The movement was coordinated. He liked presenting a positive face, as if anything he said would be the absolute truth. "Senator and Ms. Rutledge have apparently disappeared from the face of the earth." He paused to allow the words to sink in. "We'd tracked them through Colonel Parker until his automobile was abandoned at Reagan National. A taxi driver remembers taking a couple to a motel in Alexandria, but a search proved negative. Since that time we haven't been able to find them."

  "What about Jeff Taylor?"

  "I'm sorry about him, Mr. President. I know he was a friend of yours."

  "I want to know who killed him."

  “We're not the police,” he said silently. "The DC Police Department is working to find that out, sir."

  "They think Wyatt Randolph and Sandra Rutledge are responsible," Horton said.

  "Quite frankly, Mr. President, all evidence points in that direction," Lance replied.

  "That’s what makes it so unusual, Lance." Melanie West spoke in her quiet unassuming manner, a style he knew could cut as sharply as any rapier. "We know Jeff had been a friend of the Rutledges' for years. It was no surprise when she went to him with the stolen parts. For her to be involved in his death goes against the grain."

  "If I might play the devil's advocate for a moment, Mrs. West," Lance said, keeping his voice even and as politically correct as he could. "Jeff examines the parts and finds out only the Defense Department would have access to something as complex as the stones. He tells the senator and Ms. Rut-ledge what they have is bigger than they are and he should call someone in the DOD. They disagree. He then becomes a loose end."