“That’s not always enough,” Karin said, “but it’ll do for now.” She linked her arm through Rita’s as they left the building.
“Yeah,” Rita said, “that makes me a little nervous too.”
♏
Cafe Hon nestled among the tired, but eager storefronts in Hamden. It was a working class neighborhood that union members and skinheads and big-haired blondes called home. The streets were narrow, crowded on opposite curbs by pick-ups and muscle cars. But while the neighborhood leaned far to the right, Cafe Hon enticed even raving liberals to its tables for honest pot roast and hand cut fries and pies to die for.
“And speaking of our most recent conversations,” Rita said. “Still nothing from Demento?”
She and Karin sat waiting for coffee and lemon meringue pie.
“Nothing from Douglas.” Karin smiled as the waitress, cracking her gum, set the coffee and dessert before them.
“What do you think that means?”
“One of two things. Giving up or surprise attack.”
“I don’t like the second option.” Rita stuck her fork into her meringue.
“Time is the only answer. There’s no quick and dirty way to the bottom line here,” Karin said.
“A common dilemma of our times.” Then Rita added. “I do want to share one other juicy item about the Bobby case though. The tip I got about Mr. Peter DeVane’s sullied past—I decided to explore a tangent off that angle. I made a list of all the people Bobby was in contact with over the last month, then I ran a search of old news on about twenty folks.”
“You found some things?”
“Looks like a few people could have skeletons they don’t want to see daylight. And guess what? One of those might be our friendly and helpful Randy Wyman, though his smacks less of intentional evil than overzealous brutishness.”
“What was it?” Karin asked.
“An accident while he was in college. Seems he was on the wrestling team. He paralyzed one of his opponents. But the article was awash in tearful apology and regret.” Rita stabbed a bite of pie.
“He paralyzed an opponent?”
Rita shrugged. “Wrestling—it can happen.”
“What other transgressions did you find?” Karin asked.
“Nothing very interesting. A handful of drunk driving arrests, a disorderly conduct, no secrets to kill for.”
The pie gone and the coffee dregs in their cups, Rita counted out bills for the check and she and Karin stepped onto 35th Street. The 7-Eleven across the way was a gathering point for black leather jacketed boys in engineer boots. Some strode growling Harleys, exhaust swirling in the November wind.
“What’s next?” Karin studied the gang outside the convenience store as she waited for Rita to unlock the Jeep passenger door.
“I’m going to call on DeVane and Wyman to ask about Americans for an Open Market Economy.”
“You said you were going to investigate them secretly,” Karin said.
“I am.” Rita nodded. “But you have to stick your head up sometime in a turkey hunt.”
Chapter 29
The galleries of the Senate overflowed with future constituents bused in from surrounding school districts. Middle and high school students, populated the close set wooden seats, and were, for the most part, respectful of the theatre unfolding below. As a by-product of C-Span, Senators came to the microphone, one by one, to wave their patriotism and declaim homilies for the annual Thanksgiving proclamation.
“Do you think these kids really believe this is what government’s like?” Rita whispered to Kate Harrigan.
She sat beside her in the less crowded press section. The audience in this part of the ceiling was far less respectful and attentive. They did, however, have the decency to sleep without snoring.
Kate, Rita’s journalist contact, yawned. “Those boys on the floor sure hope so. They want these children to go home and tell Mommy and Daddy they saw their very own Senator saving the world for truth, justice and the American Way.”
Rita shook her head. “Can you imagine watching this on TV all day?”
The two women laughed until a teacher herding her seventh grade class took it upon herself to reprimand them with a “quiet or else” glare.
“So how are you coming on the Bobby Ellis thing?” Kate asked.
“Good. I’m doing good,” Rita lied. She stared down at the speaker’s podium where Charles Strutt advanced for his five minutes of video glory.
“So?” Kate turned to give full attention.
“So what? No, I don’t know who did it. But I’m going great guns on the story he was working on. And Bobby was right about one thing, shit is going to hit the fan when it all comes out.”
“Was it Hillman?” Kate asked. “Is he mixed up in this? I heard he had some ugly little harassment secrets he didn’t want to rise up out of the grave.”
“Hillman? Harassment?”
“Guess that wasn’t it,” Kate said, then added, “or are you just trying to throw me off track?”
“No, no, I didn’t know about any of that. But Kate, I can’t tell you yet what the story is. I don’t have it all, and I can’t afford to have it leaking.” Rita leaned back in her seat while she watched Strutt talk.
He had a strong voice and a well-coached Walter Cronkite delivery. If he’d done War of the Worlds , there’d have been twice the number of suicides.
“Come on, you know me.” Kate leaned closer.
“Yeah, I know you’re the best news reporter in this bureaucratic berg.” Rita stared straight into her eyes.
“Ok, I understand. No hard feelings.”
“But I promise to share it with you first if you do me a favor.” Rita glanced around to check if anyone was listening.
Kate nodded and leaned close again.
“I want you to let it out that I’m on to something big in Bobby’s last story.”
Kate kept her eye contact steady. “You’re the bait in the trap.”
Rita blinked. “I’m the bait in the trap.”
♏
When the show was over and the students were filing through the halls toward their pose for an 8x10 glossy with the Senator of their choice, Kate and Rita split up. Kate headed back to the press quarters while Rita marched to an office on the second floor.
“Not you again. You’re a bad dream.” Pete DeVane brushed past her in the reception area of Brett Hillman’s office.
She followed. “Dreaming men are haunted men.’”
DeVane halted and turned. “Where did that come from?”
“A poem by Benet.”
DeVane turned and resumed his forced march. Rita was at his heels.
“I’m busy,” he said.
“Me too,” said Rita
“Well, good for you.”
They were in a labyrinth of cubicles now, and DeVane disappeared into one. Rita rounded the corner as he tapped a computer key. A screen full of text popped into view. He sat down and ignored Rita who planted herself in front of his desk.
“I want Hillman’s contributor lists for this year and last.”
“I want the Redskins to win the Superbowl.”
“I’ve got the better chance.”
DeVane shot her a look. Before the discussion continued, another Hillman aide came in.
“The vote’s coming up on that grant for the University of Florida,” the man said without acknowledging he’d interrupted a meeting.
DeVane sighed. “Tell Hillman this is the deal. Vote yes. Preston from Florida will vote for keeping that Navy base open for him and he’ll help deliver a few extra from his committee if he comes back with a promise on the farm subsidy for citrus growers.”
The other aide nodded and left.
“You guys make me sick.”
“So leave.” DeVane scrolled through the material on his PC.
“If people only knew now things worked in this ‘I’ll scratch your back’ game—and how much it costs them.” Rita rolled her eyes.<
br />
DeVane stopped to face her. “People don’t give a damn. The only thing they understand is that their Senator got money for their state. That makes them happy and they vote to prove it. Some of them are too dumb to know how it happens. Some don’t care. There’re only a few nit-picking Puritans, like you, who want to grind the process to a halt.”
Rita started to speak, stopped and began again. “Just give me the contributions lists.”
“Write me a letter the way all good constituents do.” DeVane returned to his PC screen.
“If I go through channels, it won’t be pretty.”
DeVane’s fingers froze on the keyboard. He waited then tapped a few more keys. In a few seconds, pages started emitting from the laser printer in the corner of the cubicle.
“Now will you go away?” he said.
“Only maybe. It depends on what pops out of that machine.”
DeVane continued to work on his computer as Rita stood watch at the printer. It finished as DeVane stood and came around the desk. Rita gathered the lists and followed after him.
At the office doorway she almost collided with Randy Wyman as he entered Hillman’s office and stopped to speak to DeVane.
“Did you get those reports on healthcare I sent?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, but I haven’t had time to look at them yet.” DeVane jerked his thumb at Rita.
“How are you doing on the Ellis case?” Wyman smiled.
“I’m making great progress on the story he never got finished,” Rita said. “It’s an interesting piece.”
“Oh? I thought no one knew what he was working on.” Wyman said.
“Hey, we were supposed to be in that committee meeting five minutes ago,” DeVane said. “Let’s go.” He was out in the hall.
“Tell me about it as we walk,” Wyman said to Rita.
“A good reporter doesn’t tell her story until press time,” she said.
“You sound like you’re well along. I was going to ask if there was anything I could do to help.”
“I’ll keep that offer in mind.” Rita smiled.
“It must be a hell of a story.” Wyman slowed.
DeVane was far ahead of them. Rita stopped walking and Wyman with her.
“It’s going to be a killer,” she said.
♏
Something wasn’t right. Rita rolled her head toward the digital clock. Three a.m. Had that sound been in a dream or was it here and now?
Karin was at a PR event with a client in New York. Bev was with her; they planned a day of shopping after the last seminar. They would be back by train tomorrow night.
The Great White Hunter, recently coiled into his usual deep sleep curl at the end of the bed was awake. His head cocked toward the bedroom door. One ear twitched.
Rita sat up and strained to listen. Was that her breathing or someone else’s? She stopped. Nothing. Just as she resumed, she heard it again. A thump, shallow, but distinct. The Great White Hunter rose and stretched toward the sound.
Her old farmhouse creaked, settled, sighed, and shifted. Rita had lived here long enough to identify and sleep through most of the house’s familiar cadence. This sound was not one of them, and Rita’s curse and gift was the ability to hear everything within striking distance, even from the deepest sleep. That gift was the vestige of her unpredictably violent childhood.
The Great White Hunter poised on the edge of the bed, looked back at Rita then softly dropped to the carpet. Rita, in sweatpants and T-shirt, eased herself from the bed and slipped into a pair of sneakers. From the peg rag on the wall, she drew the Glock from her shoulder holster, patting the butt to make sure the clip was in.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She checked the window by the driveway but saw no car. Then she tiptoed into the bathroom and peered through the blinds, no vehicle there either. Maybe it was a squirrel on the roof or a raccoon in the basement.
Rita stole to her bedroom door and listened at the stairs. The bottom step creaked. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought about what to do.
Shoe leather shushed on another wooden step. The Great White Hunter stood at the top and stared down. Rita tried to scoot him away with her foot, but she couldn’t touch him without jeopardizing her position.
The intruder was drawing closer. Rita could hear leather sliding on the handrail. He was taking it slow, one step at a time with a pause to listen at each.
Rita’s mouth tasted of old pennies and she got a whiff of cigarette smoke that quickly evaporated. She held her breath, the barrel of the semi-automatic resting like a kiss against her lips. She touched the trigger and with her free left hand reached for the light switch that would shower the stairway with light.
The intruder took another step up. He was more than half way up now. The Great White Hunter stood transfixed, staring. With his perfect cat vision of the night, he had the eye witness view.
Rita flipped the switch. Instantly hundred-watt candlepower drenched the stairwell. She paused a moment for the intruder’s reaction. The Great White Hunter blinked, but continued to look down the steps. There was immediate silence, followed by the scramble of retreat.
Rita aimed her weapon and then leaped to face the stairs. She saw a Nike disappearing into her living room. She hurtled down the steps in pursuit. The wooden back door was thrown open and the aluminum storm door still hung outward into the night.
Through those doors in the blue mercury glow from the barn light she saw the dark figure of a man, running across her driveway. At the rear of her six acres was a huge horse farm, not visible from the main road, but which was accessible by a private paved drive that ran along her pasture fences. She guessed the man must have parked along that drive. It was rarely traveled, completely dark and a perfect spot from which to approach her house undetected.
She pounded across her driveway. Ahead she heard the thudding feet of her quarry. Once off the driveway and beyond the barn, the mercury lamp was no help. There was a section of open ground between her two unused pastures. The man raced through this area.
“Stop or I’ll shoot.” Rita could see nothing as she stopped, braced herself and aimed toward the sound of running.
Crack. She saw a white fire burst and threw herself to the ground. She knew that she must be backlit by the mercury glow. If she dropped, he would be as blind as she. Crack. He shot again.
“Jesus.” Her face pressed to the dirt.
Rita dug her elbows in to steady her hand and snapped the trigger for a few frenzied rounds. She heard a car door thud and the ignition catch.
She jumped up and sprinted the last yards to the private road. The oily smell of exhaust permeated the cold November air. Tires screamed and peeled rubber as the car fishtailed on the road.
“Goddam you.” Rita pumped the trigger and sparked the darkness with her own firepower.
She heard bullets slam to metal. She heard the smash of breaking windows, but in the light of the street lamp at the end of the private drive, she watched a dark BMW fishtail out onto the main road and roar off.
“Fuck you.” Rita fired into the air.
She did not chase the car, but stood shivering in the night. Her teeth chattered as she bowed her head and dropped her arm with the gun clutched in hand. For a long time, she stood there in that half slump. Her knees were too wobbly to carry her back to her house. Her mouth was open and slack. She gulped deep draughts of air.
Inside her house she stared at the kitchen wall phone. Should she call the police? Waste of time. She made coffee instead. It was almost four.
The Great White Hunter sauntered in and rubbed against her leg. She reached down to scratch his head.
“Who was it, kiddo?” she asked. “Who was that fucker?”
The Great White Hunter purred, but kept his secret.
Rita paced the kitchen as she waited for the coffee to brew. She had to exorcise this experience, share the burden of its intensity or it was going to thrash her. Who to call?
She picked up the phone.
“This had better not be a trivia question about a thirties detective movie you’re watching.” Mary Margaret’s voice was thick with sleep.
“No, this is a trivia question about who the hell tried to shoot me in my own house.”
“Rita, Jesus, are you all right?” Mary Margaret’s voice grew suddenly clear and strong.
“I’m having a bad night. I just need to talk to you for a minute. I’m sorry I woke you up.” Rita ran her fingers through her hair. This was a dumb idea.
“I’m getting dressed.” The receiver dropped to the floor, but was quickly retrieved. “Call the police.”
“I just did, dammit. And I’m not calling any others,” said Rita. She took in a long slow breath.
“Are you sure the shooter is gone? Lock yourself in until I get there. I’ll call—”
“I’m fine. Somebody broke in. I chased him. We both shot off a few rounds, but—”
“My God, are you hurt? Did you shoot him?”
“No, look, I’m really sorry I called. I just, I just—I needed to say what happened. Ok?”
“I’ll be right there.” Mary Margaret hung up.
Rita listened to the drone of the disconnected line for a minute then hung up. She poured a cup of coffee and sat in her kitchen with all the lights off.
Before she could take the first sip, tears, like desert rain, coursed down her cheeks.
Chapter 30
Death calls demanded sobriety. Rita laughed when her father told her that. Not so that he’d know, of course, but in the hidden way children of alcoholics keep feelings to themselves. But she didn’t laugh when he went on to explain that you owed the survivors your pain and guilt of being alive. The unspoken grief of mothers and fathers, of husbands and wives, of children demanded no less.
Rita punched the numbers on her telephone. She’d been in the office for two hours on this Saturday morning and had come in here specifically to phone Edmund Ellis with a status report. She’d filed, dusted, paced, and stared out the window to stall.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 23