9-5-1-4-7. The number ran through Wyatt's mind like an unrelenting song. What could Jeff have meant? He'd told them he hadn't given away the location of the stones. Not even he and Sandra knew where Jeff had hidden them. The most likely place was either his house or his office. He hadn't died in either place, but both could be under observation by the local authorities or some other far more threatening agency. He'd have to be careful. Blend in and at the first sign of trouble, forget the whole thing.
Wyatt jogged in the falling snow. Anyone seeing him would think he was a student training for the track team. He was too thin for football, but in the dark looked young and agile enough to pass as a student. The fact that he exercised regularly was on his side. He only hoped his period of inactivity and the tender ache in his side didn't show to a scrutinizing eye. Luck was with him when he saw a couple of guys with Howard University Athletics Department written on their jackets jogging in his direction. They passed him without a nod. He hung back as if he were with them but not as well-conditioned and able to keep to such a fast pace.
He passed Jeff's house without a glance. The windows were dark, giving the place an empty, unlived-in look. When Wyatt reached the alley that had eluded the police and allowed him and Sandra to escape a week earlier, he checked his surroundings and quickly turned into it. He stopped, pressing his back against the wall of the first house. His breath congealed in the cold air as he watched and waited for anyone to follow him. Assured he was not being tailed, he continued his jogging until he reached Jeff's backyard.
Peering through the window of the garage, he found the sports car in place. No lights shone on the back of the house and he found it easy work to jimmy the lock and get inside. From the backpack he pulled a flashlight and began his search. The place had the definite stamp of police on it. It wasn't likely they'd left anything for him to find. He was hoping to find the stones, but he only expected to locate a date book or some type of calendar. He moved slowly from the living room and dining room through the kitchen, opening drawers, checking inside canisters and ice trays. He found nothing. Upstairs was the same. Jeff ‘s computer equipment occupied one bedroom. Most of what was on it was the same gibberish as was on the disks in his backpack. He found a few games and a file of letters addressed to Jeff’s sister in Baltimore, but nothing to help him with the disappearance of the stones. On impulse he looked in the computer address file for Jeff’s sister's phone number and address. Neither had 95147 in any part of it. The basement and the attic proved the same fruitless effort.
Wyatt let himself out as he'd come in. Snow continued to fall while he was inside. He wasn't sure if he'd look suspicious jogging in the snow, so he walked to the campus. Cars passed on the major thoroughfare and students rushed toward their dorms. He fit in and no one noticed him. The closer he got to the campus, the more students were on the street. Several classes must have ended recently.
He stopped at the light on 4th Avenue across from the wrought-iron gates leading to the main campus. Two students joined him as they waited for the light to turn green.
"We wondered how long it would take before you came, Senator Randolph."
Wyatt jumped at the voice and the mention of his name. He jerked around to find two men on either side of him and one directly in front. Wyatt didn't recognize any of them. The one in front spoke. "Would you come with us, please. There are several questions we'd like to ask you."
***
"Damn!" Sandra cried. The car skidded across the road as she sped out of the FBI compound. Her father and several agents had chased her as she traversed the hallways to find an exit and get back to her car.
Tears blurred her eyes and snow impeded her travel, but she defied caution and tore up the winding road. Behind her, cars scrambled to stop her. The surprise exit gave her the minutes she needed to get away. If she could make it out of the small town and back to the highway she could evade her assailants in the traffic.
"That's what they expected," she said out loud. They would expect that she'd head for the highway. If they were smart there would be cars blocking that direction. She didn't know the country. She could get lost if she tried a different path. Well, she'd just have to get lost. Wyatt had been right. It was a trap. She wouldn't do what was expected. This time she would do something unexpected. She abruptly turned into the small town. Thankfully, other people had been on the roads. They were deserted, but their tracks in the snow covered the four directions. Sandra turned left and followed a narrow winding road. Checking behind her, she found no lights reflected in her mirror. She kept going, hoping this would lead somewhere. A Virginia state road sign stood on the right, but it was covered by the blowing snow. The route number was partially visible. She read a three but it could just as easily be an eight. The rest of the number was obliterated. She didn't know where she was or where it would lead. Pushing ahead, she slowed and followed the road. When it ended she turned right, hoping that was north. The road wasn't well traveled and the car slipped and slid over the icy ground like a kid on his first pair of skates. At this rate she'd never make it back to Washington. If she was lucky she wouldn't pitch into one of the ditches and if she wasn't she'd be caught by one of her fathers’ men. Then she saw the sign for a motel.
Feeling a little like Janet Leigh in Psycho, she pulled into the parking lot. Pulling her hair out of the clip, she let it fall to her shoulders. Placing a scarf over her head, she checked the ID Jordon had thoughtfully given her. Sandra didn’t ask where or how he got it. There were obviously secrets Jordon harbored. Sandra wondered if her sister knew them.
Registration was cautious for both her and the desk clerk, a fifty-something-year-old woman with dirty blond hair wearing a flowered house dress. Sandra kept her face averted, using the pretext of brushing snow out of her hair and the woman stayed behind a glass window with only a tiny opening in which to pass money and keys.
"Sorry, honey," the clerk said. "It's the last one in the back. We got a sign up on the highway and tonight everyone is looking for somewhere to sleep."
"I appreciate it," Sandra said.
"Thank God you came." She handed Sandra a key. "Now I can turn the sign on and go watch TV My favorite show is on in a couple of minutes." Sandra noticed the pink neon Vacancy sign change to No Vacancy. She turned to leave.
"Honey," the woman called. Sandra turned back, but kept her face hidden. "That last cabin's got a shed next to it. If you want to keep the snow off your car, you can use it."
"God takes care of babies and fools." She repeated the cliché as she drove to the cabin. The shed more than protected her car; it concealed it. Lawn mowers and shovels were stored against the walls. Sandra pulled inside and cut the engine. She left the car and closed the barn-style doors. Then, using the key, she went into the room. It was adequate, clean but freezing. She found the thermostat and turned it to the highest position. There was a television, a well-read Gideon Bible with a crumbled bus schedule poking out of it, but no phone.
She toyed with the idea of going back to the car, but didn't want to be out if anyone came by. The heating unit hissed and rumbled as the heat went through the ice-cold coils. Sandra huddled on the bed wondering where Wyatt could be.
Several times she checked the windows wondering if she had been followed. The desk clerk would certainly remember a single woman arriving around this time. From her room she couldn't see the entrance. If people came looking for her, she was at the worst place to execute an escape.
An hour later the room was warm and no one had found her. She let her shoulders relax and thought of the things her father had said about Wyatt.
He had to be wrong. Wyatt would never do anything like what he'd claimed. Who should she believe? They both accused each other of the same heinous crime. Wyatt had had the diamonds for a week before he stumbled into her at the cabin. If he'd wanted to sell them, he'd had every opportunity. Unless he was planning to meet someone in the mountains. Their cabin didn't have to be the destination he was seeking. He
could have been lost in the snow and turned onto the road leading to her parents' cabin by accident. The room he was in had pictures of her and Annie with there parents. He would have recognized the senator and knew someone had to be related to him.
Where was Wyatt? He knew she'd call. Why had he gone out? Had he gone out, or had someone found their hiding place? She paced the room, feeling as if it was a cage. She tried to relax, knowing she needed to sleep, but too much was keeping her awake: her father's comments, Wyatt's disappearance, and the thought of FBI agents bursting through the door.
She turned on the television. The color picture played everything in green, all stations and all programs. An old movie she recognized but whose title she couldn't remember was playing. She watched it for only a moment before thoughts of Wyatt invaded her mind. Pulling the bedspread free, she wrapped herself in it and stared at the green pictures. Her eyes drooped and eventually she slept.
She awoke with a start. The old movie was gone. In its place was another one. She recognized a young Sidney Poitier. Lamplight seeped in through the sides of the room-darkening shades. Then she remembered the events of the night. She'd kicked the spread away in her sleep. The temperature in the room must be in the nineties. She checked her watch. Two o'clock in the morning. Wyatt would surely have returned by now.
Picking up the car keys, she left the room and went back to the shed. Her heart pounded in her ears. She needed to know what had happened, if something had happened. Looking at the car phone, she suddenly wanted to call. Sandra snatched it up, then quickly put it back. Her location had been found once due to a phone. She was afraid of it happening again.
Biting her lower lip, she decided to take the chance. She'd be quick. All she needed to know was that he was all right. She dialed the motel. This time the desk clerk told her the guests had checked out and the room was free. Sandra was speechless. It couldn't be. Wyatt wouldn't check out. He wouldn’t leave her without knowing she was safe. Would he? She hung up. Something was wrong, very wrong. She had to go back. Now!
***
The red sports car had gone no more than thirty feet when she saw the first patrol car. It was unmarked but with the distinctive features of law enforcement Sandra turned at the first intersection and came to a halt along the shoulder. She'd cut the engine and the lights. The warm temperature immediately dissipated and she felt the cold begin to seep into the interior. She'd never make it in this car. It had been identified and every cop and agent between here and the District would be looking for it. She had to ditch it and get back another way.
Remembering the bus schedule that had been in the Bible, she wished she'd taken it. But this was a small rural town; the bus would have to come into the center of town. She could go back the way she'd come, which had been at the crossroads of town. How long she'd have to wait she didn't know. Starting the engine, she drove slowly toward town. Using the phone a second time, she tried the motel again. She gave the same information to a different desk clerk. Mrs. Marta Ainsworth, the name she'd registered under, had checked out.
Along the side of the road, before coming into the center of town, Sandra spied a crop of trees. Parking the car, she used snow and branches to conceal it. Jordon and Annie would probably give her hell for leaving it, but she had to find Wyatt.
Brushing the snow from her hands and coat, she walked the short distance into town. Her shoes took the worst of it and her feet were freezing when she walked into the only lighted building. The sleepy clerk who doubled as ticket seller and general store manager told her the bus was late but due any minute. She waited only half an hour before the silver-and-red Trailways bus pulled up in front of the store. Three people got off and Sandra got on.
The driver explained to the clerk, who appeared to care more about getting his sleep than listening to the explanation, that he was trying to get back on schedule and would not be waiting the usual twenty minutes. Sandra was glad to hear this. When she saw passengers getting off, she knew they could be bound for only one place. Soon they would be picked up by the very people she was trying to avoid.
The bus sped along Route 95 heading toward Washington. Sandra pushed up the armrest between the two seats and tucked her feet under her dress and coat. Her toes were wet and stiff with cold. She leaned against the window watching the miles pass and the wintry scenes blur.
What was she going to do when she reached Washington? She didn't know the first place to try to look for Wyatt. He'd said he couldn't go to his house. She didn't expect to find him there. Maybe she could find a phone number and call to see if anyone would answer.
She looked up as they passed mile marker one-fifty. Jeff had come here, she remembered. The officer at the desk said he'd had dinner with Lance Desque? How did Lance fit into this saga? Maybe when she reached the city she could call Lance. Jordon and Annie had suggested she go to Lance. He'd been one of the last people to see Jeff before he died. Maybe Wyatt had gone to Annie. She could hardly wait for the bus to get to DC. Mile marker one forty-seven. God, it would be another hour. Suddenly, it hit her, one forty-seven. Jeff hadn't said 9-5-1-4-7, he'd said 95-147. Route 95, mile marker 147. She turned to look behind her. The bus sped forward. All she saw was a bed of rocks. If someone was threatening Jeff and he knew it, he'd hide them in a place where no one would be likely to look.
An hour later the bus parked at the station and Sandra resisted the urge to sprint off the huge people carrier. She waited her turn, then went straight to the phones. She tried Annie, knowing her hotel room was probably bugged by now. She didn't say who she was, only that she was trying to find someone. When Annie began berating her, she cut into the conversation. Seconds later, Jordon took the phone and accepted her cautious questions. Neither he nor Annie had heard from Wyatt.
Sandra left the bus station and walked several blocks until she found another public phone. She was tired and scared and anxious. She looked for a number for Wyatt's Georgetown house, but found none. She called Michael at her father's office but got nowhere. Behind her a woman came who wanted to use the phone and Sandra left.
She'd developed a headache and was near frantic when she walked down the steps to the basement of a department store and found a phone. She dialed the number Sam Parker had given them. No one had heard from Wyatt. It was as if he didn't exist.
She left the department store in a daze. Her shoes were damp but her feet were no longer wet. She wouldn't have felt the cold anyway. She was thinking about Wyatt. She hadn't wanted to confront her feelings, hadn't told him she loved him. Now she might not get the chance. She was sure he'd been caught by now. Hadn't that been her father's objective in getting her to go all the way to Quantico, so he could have Wyatt apprehended?
Sandra felt alone, and numb as she continued up and down the streets. People passed her, cars sprayed water as they rushed to and fro. Sandra didn't notice. Her mind was on Wyatt. Was he dead? How, in the millions of people who lived and worked in the capital, could she find one man? Tears rolled down her cheeks. Streaks caked and froze in the cold. She brushed them away with her hands, but didn't feel the cold. She felt nothing. Only the loneliness of never seeing the man she loved again.
Why had she been so stupid? Why hadn't she told him she loved him when she had the chance? Where was he? How could she find him? Sandra entered the steps to the metro system and waited for a train to take her to the center of town. Somewhere in one of the four quadrants of the District was the man she’d fallen in love with. She hoped he was still alive.
***
Lance Desque was a creature of habit. At precisely one o’clock every weekday afternoon, Sandra knew she could find him at The Charter Club. He had a standing table reserved each day. He'd sampled each of the entrees and decided on the five best the house had to offer. Each day he ordered one of them.
Sandra entered the fashionable restaurant and went straight to the ladies' room. After restoring her face and clothes to a presentable state, she reentered the restaurant as if she were returning
to her own table. She found Lance with no problem. He was seated where he could be seen by those in power who also frequented the establishment. For Sandra this might not be the best location, but it was the only one available.
Slipping into the chair across from him, she kept her back to the room. Lance's soup spoon stopped on its way to his mouth.
"Sandra!" he whispered, checking about them with a discreet turn of his head to make sure no one noticed her. The soup spilled and he put the spoon on the plate under his bowl. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"This is not the place or time. If you plan to maintain your present state of freedom, you should never have come here."
"Lance, I need your help. If we can't talk here, then, let's go someplace where we can."
Lance cut his eyes to her and then canceled his meal and quickly signed the check for his soup. As he led her out of the restaurant, Sandra kept her face toward him and away from any prying eyes. She climbed into the waiting limousine and Lance rolled the screen up even before his startled driver had seen him and rushed to the car.
Lance picked up the phone and spoke into it. "Drive anywhere," he said.
The car pulled away from the curb. Sandra noticed it crawl into the afternoon traffic and hunt its way up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol Building.
"Sandra, I am so glad to see you. What can I do to help you? Do you need anything . . . money?" He reached for his wallet.
"Thank you, Lance." She put her hand on his arm and shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Then what can I help you with?" Lance asked.
She shifted into the butter-soft leather. "I had dinner with my father last night."
"Yes."
"We ate in one of the training apartments at Quantico."
White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2) Page 21