Rita dropped to the pavement and scuttled away on her knees and elbows. She had no idea where Wyman was. In the dark, she touched something and picked it up. Wyman had taken off his shoes so that she couldn’t hear him when he ran.
Rita was at the front of the monument. Down the marble steps were the park and the Viet Nam wall, the reflecting pool, safety. She thought Wyman had run off, but maybe it was she who should escape.
Blam. Blam. Blam. Explosions rattled one after another. He was on this side of the dais again, near the back. He must have seen her silhouette in the feeble glow from the street. Rita retreated to the front of Lincoln again.
If she ran down the long flight of marble steps, she’d be a perfect target. She had no idea now if he would sneak up around the statue from the side where he’d fired or double back to attack from the opposite side.
Unbelievable. She was trapped in an open portico, a national shrine and park, a public place. Damn, Mary Margaret was right. She knew sources and grammar. What the hell did she know about a firefight?
“If you think, you’ll get away with this, you’re crazy,” Rita yelled into the depths.
“I will or I won’t. But at this point killing you loses me nothing.” Wyman’s voice came from the side where he’d fired—or was it the back?
Rita crouched to her combat crawl position again and maneuvered toward the opposite end of Lincoln’s perch. After every move, she stopped to listen. If she crawled around the bottom of the dais, maybe she could get the drop on Wyman who’d be looking for a standing figure.
When she reached the edge, she paused and ducked her head around for a quick look. She saw nothing but blackness. It was this or nothing. Rita began her crawl down the dark side of the statue.
“What a clever idea.” Wyman tromped her neck with his stocking foot.
Rita’s face smashed to the freezing marble. She saw stars from the pain in her nose as it whacked the stone. The Glock, although still in hand, was trapped beneath her throat.
“Just like your stupid friend. You newspaper people make me sick. You’re so smug, so damned righteous.”
Rita edged the plastic weapon just a little on the slippery floor as Wyman talked. She knew that if she gave it a sudden jerk to freedom, he’d blow her head off. She could feel him bending over her; his gun was aimed straight at her skull.
“Oh, and you’re not?” She moved her gun a bit more.
“It’s a game. The people with the power, with the balls to take it and make things happen, win all the marbles.”
The Glock was almost out. Only the tip of the barrel jutted into her chin. She had to keep him talking.
“Ok, smart guy, so what are you going to do with me? Think you can still take all the marbles after you’ve killed me?” The Glock was free. Rita’s finger rested on the trigger.
“Well, I might as well tell you since . . .”
The blast of her own gun rang in her ear. She saw fire from above and Wyman’s gun exploded. A spray of chips and marble dust from his errant shot rained in her face.
She squeezed her eyes shut and waited to die. She heard sucking breath and a groan. Instantly she was on her feet. Behind her was a convergence of park and city police.
Randy Wyman lay on his back, his mouth gaping, lips moving without words. She could see the blood seeping from the hole in his starched white shirt. It flowed like black ink across a blank page.
As a platoon of policemen charged up the steps, she stepped aside and began to throw up.
♏
Rita sat in her living room in the early morning hours after she’d made her statement and the DC police released her. Mary Margaret was there when they brought her in. She was probably at work by now.
Rita didn’t remember driving home. It was a blur. The only memory that was clear and recurrent was that last pitiful image of the dying Randy Wyman.
“I didn’t mean to kill him.” Rita had said that five times now.
Karin sat beside her on the sofa, arm around her. Two undrunk cups of coffee on the table before them. Karin stroked her back.
“I know,” she said in a low reassuring voice. “I know.”
“I just wanted to catch him—like in the newspaper when you write up the expose and the rest of the world takes the right action.”
Karin let her talk.
“Then it came down to him or me.” Rita looked up into Karin’s face. “You want to hear something crazy? You know what it took to make me pull that trigger? I thought about Bobby and I got the rage. I didn’t think about saving my own life. Jesus.”
“You’re safe,” Karin said. “That’s all that matters for right now. And maybe you’ll need to talk about it. I know a psychologist who works with FBI agents on things like this.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll like her.”
“I’ll think about it.” Rita reached for her coffee and finding it cold, stood up. “We need to warm these up.”
“Don’t stuff this, Rita.” Karin followed her into the kitchen.
“The good news is it appears that Dr. Demento is gone. You can go back to your life—and your own house—soon.” Rita poured fresh coffee into the mugs she’d just emptied.
Karin sighed and took the cup Rita offered. “Can I set up the appointment for you?”
“I’m fine. Really.” Rita touched her coffee to Karin’s in a salute.
She smiled, but her eyes wandered away as the image of Randy Wyman’s body flashed in her mind’s unforgiving eye.
Chapter 35
Rita’s Jeep leaned hard into the curve of the exit ramp. Karin had dressed and gone to her office to see clients; she had appointments until eight that night. This was to be Karin’s last night in Rita’s house; tomorrow she would pack and go back home.
It was a hard, cold evening. A silvery half-moon rested among a sprinkle of bright stars. She could see the dark shapes of deer as they foraged for leftovers in the stubble of harvested corn and bean fields. Light showed through bay windows, and frost sparkled on the frozen grass.
As she pulled into the joint driveway that she shared with the Mondieus, she glanced over at their house. Loretta, in long coat and earmuffs, stood in her front yard where a floodlight focused on the foil-adorned door. Rita pulled onto the parking pad behind her house and then walked over to Loretta’s.
“Good evening, my dear,” Loretta said. “Loretta Mondieu.” She held out her hand.
“Rita Mars.” Rita shook Loretta’s hand. “I live next door.”
“Well, it’s a lovely time for Christmas now isn’t it?” Loretta asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“You really must come and see my decorations, my dear. How long have you lived there, did you say?” She took Rita’s arm gently and guided her toward the front of the house
“Six years, Loretta.”
“We really should try to see more of one another.” Loretta eased Rita into the brilliant scope of the floodlight. “Isn’t this a beautiful door?”
But Rita was distracted by something other than the door. Loretta’s stone goose, Scarsdale, was ready for an entirely different season. The statue wore a colorful full skirt, a low-cut peasant blouse, and a charming straw hat clustered with shining plastic fruits. Tiny bananas dangled seductively over Scarsdale’s eye.
“Loretta, did you dress Scarsdale yourself?”
Loretta turned from admiring her front door. “Why yes, I did dear, but I had some help from this charming woman who lives next door.”
“Loretta, I live next door.” Rita squatted next to the small statue.
“No, dear, a lovely chocolate woman lives next door. Exquisite taste really. She made the suggestion and helped me prepare the outfit.”
Rita stood up and shook her head.
“It is so festive, don’t you think?” Loretta asked.
“Oh, Bev is festive all right.”
“You should stop in and introduce yourself next door,” Loretta said. “I’m sur
e that nice lady wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure,” Rita said. “Now you had better get back in the house where it’s warm.” It was Rita’s turn to guide Loretta.
“And give my best to Uncle Hodge,” Loretta said.
“I’ll do that, Loretta.” Rita watched as the older woman cautiously climbed the three steps on her back porch and disappeared inside the house.
The interior of Rita’s house was toasty with heat from the two wood stoves. She smelled the scents of chocolate and piecrust baking and heard Mozart emanating from the second floor.
“Home from the wars, honey?” Beverly skipped down the stairs and rounded the corner into the living room. She wore a white velour warm-up suit trimmed in gold. Her immaculate white leather sneakers were a perfect complement, as were her shining gold button earrings.
“You dressed the duck like Carmen Miranda?” Rita pulled off her pea jacket and scarf.
“Scarsdale is a goose, honey.” Bev went to the wood stove to toss in another log.
“What were you thinking?” Rita followed Bev into the kitchen.
“Cherry pie—your favorite.” Bev opened the oven door for a peek. “And chocolate chips, last batch out.” She offered a heaping plate in Rita’s direction.
“But Carmen Miranda?” Rita caved. She took two cookies and sank into a chair at the kitchen table while Bev poured her a fresh cup of coffee, replete with a hint of cinnamon.
“Loretta loved it and it was the perfect lawn ornament for this white bread territory you live in.” Bev sat in the chair next to her.
“White bread?”
“Name two properties owned by somebody other than an Episcopalian,” Bev asked.
Rita thought for a moment.
“I rest my case,” Bev said.
“No cookies for you?” Rita asked.
“Honey, I’m watching this figure like a hawk. Um hm. This girl is going to be The Hippo’s Miss January this year.”
Rita gestured for more cookies
“You doin’ all right? You know, after the shooting?” Bev asked with a deep furrow across her perfect brows.
“I’m ok,” Rita said, her mouth full of cookie. “Thank you for asking. For being here for me.”
Bev was silent for a moment. “Always, baby.” She offered Rita the cookie plate again, but Rita shook her head. “I’ve eaten enough sugar today to put me in diabetic shock.”
“This is not the time to be cool, Rita,” Bev said. “Talk to somebody if you need to.”
Rita stared into Bev’s dark eyes, then lowered her own. “I will, Bev.” She sank back into her chair.
“Don’t push everything down to hide it.”
Rita reached for a cookie, stopped herself, sat back again.
“You’re tough. It’s what’s carried you through the devastation—every time.” Bev stood and picked up the cookie plate. “Thassit, baby. Make it happen.”
“Bev, I’m glad you’re here.” Rita stood and hugged the muscular six-two-frame around the waist. “I need to hear things sometimes.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Bev said, sliding foil over the cookies. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be havin’ any style at all. You’d be wearin’ them ugly flannel shirts and big ol’ clunky sandals with argyle socks, and no good lookin’ woman would be takin’ a second look at you.”
“Well, I still don’t have the eyebrow plucking down pat yet,” Rita laughed.
“Hey, every good thing has its time, baby.”
Car lights arced across the parking pad behind the house.
Bev looked at Rita and tensed for action. Rita glanced out the window. “Karin VanDreem. We’re going to stay here tonight and then she’s going back home tomorrow.”
Bev’s eyebrows raised.
“Don’t even think it,” Rita said.
A knock on the back door, then Karin entered with a bag of groceries. “I thought I would pick up some dinner just in case.” She smiled at Bev who returned the acknowledgement.
“I was just getting ready to go down to the gym,” Bev said. “And since you’ll be here tonight, I’ll go on home.”
“Please don’t leave on my account.” Karin looked to Rita.
“Not a problem, we don’t want to keep Bev trapped way out here in the country. She’s a city girl.” Rita took the bag from Karin and set it on the table.
“I’ll get my stuff,” Bev said. “Rita, I want to show you a plumbing problem you’ve got in the upstairs bathroom. “‘Scuse us, we’ll be right back.”
“I’ll unpack the groceries,” Karin said.
“A plumbing problem?” Rita asked as they headed up the steps.
“God, you are dense.” Bev pulled Rita into the bathroom and closed the door.
“What?” Rita whispered.
“You still need to be careful. There are less people out here than the neighborhood where that crazy doctor almost killed the both of you. And who knows if anybody was working with that Wyman guy.”
“I’ll be fine. I feel safer here.”
“You know, complacency can get you into trouble.”
“Ok, I can see that, but I’m on guard.”
“Good. You know how to reach me. And—your weapon—ready?” Bev opened Rita’s jacket. “Where the hell is it, girl?”
“It’s in my room.”
“Have it ready,” Bev said.
“I will,” Rita promised.
“Think you could pull the trigger—after Wyman?”
“Of course, I can pull the trigger. For God’s sake . . .”
“I’m asking can you pull the trigger?” Bev said.
Rita looked into Bev’s eyes.
“If you do what you’re doing now, you’re a dead girl.”
Rita squared her shoulders. “I can do it, Bev.”
“I can’t lose you, girlfriend.”
“I haven’t gotten lost yet,” Rita replied.
“I’m calling you before bedtime.”
“I’m fine.”
“You make me nervous,” Bev said.
“I make everybody nervous,” said Rita. “That’s my job.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will, Bev.”
They hugged, Rita opened the bathroom door, and in a few minutes, Bev’s black SUV disappeared down the driveway.
♏
During dinner, Rita said little. Karin chattered about the day’s client meetings.
“Bev left some great dessert,” Rita said as they cleared the dishes. “Go relax in the living room. I’ll make coffee.”
In the living room was a big ceramic wood stove. Having been fed by Bev, a healthy fire blazed through its smoky window. The Great White Hunter lay on the carpet near the brick hearth.
“I brought a little of the pie and the cookies. We can sample both.” Rita sat a wooden tray on the cocktail table by the sofa where Karin sat.
“This is wonderful.” Karin helped her arrange the coffee cups and dessert plates on the table.
“It makes me feel that things are returning to normal.” Rita said.
“It makes me feel the world is safe again,” said Karin.
“Oldies?” Rita walked over to the sound system and switched on the radio. “I can’t take too much contemporary stuff anymore.”
Karin laughed.
Rita turned and rejoined Karin on the sofa. The Dell Vikings were finishing up Come Go With Me.
“Bev bakes a mean cherry pie.” Rita offered a plate.
“This is the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time,” Karin said. “This is a wonderful house.”
“Thanks.” Rita broke off a piece of pie with her fork.
“You and your partner lived here?”
“Eleven years.” Rita sipped her coffee.
“I’m bringing up painful memories,” Karin said.
“I’m just tired of talking about it.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok,” Rita said. “Really. So—how about that pie?”
“Delicious. Bev is a remarkable person,” Karin said.
“I’ll drink to that.” Rita saluted with her coffee cup. “A special forces queen on the battlefield and in the kitchen.”
“Should we talk about what happens next?”
“I don’t know who’s more compulsive, you or me.” Rita smiled. “But no, we’re not going to talk about Dr. Demento or Bobby Ellis or world hunger. Tonight we’re going to sit in front of this fire, drink coffee, eat sweets, and rest our pretty little heads.”
“Listen to Marvin Gaye,” Karin added. His smooth voice warmed the room with “What’s Goin’ On.”
The Great White Hunter opened one eye, yawned and curled in a different direction. For a long while the two women leaned back into the sofa without speaking. Gradually the fire in the stove belly waned to flickers of blue and orange.
Rita sighed. “The major drawback to wood stoves.” She roused herself from the comfortable cushions and went to the hearth. She threw in two more logs and stoked the crumbling embers to ignite the new wood.
“Hey, it’s snowing.” She closed the stove door and went to the window that opened on the vista from the top of the hill to the road and the panorama of the valley to the south.
Karin glanced out the window behind the sofa. “I don’t see anything.”
“Come over here, look down the drive,” Rita said. At the bottom of the hill was a streetlight, few and far between out in this part of the county.
Karin came to the front window.
“If we turn out the light . . .” Rita switched off the ceiling light.
“Ohh. It’s so pretty. Makes being in here feel even more cozy.”
Rita and Karin stood by the window and watched the tiny flakes dust the pasture and the trees.
“We used to dance sometimes,” Rita said.
“Excuse me?” Karin looked puzzled.
“Sometimes when it was late at night, when Diane and I were alone, when the music was on. We’d turn off the lights and dance right here in the living room.”
Karin started to speak, but said nothing.
“Memories pop up like that sometimes,” Rita said.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 27