High Crimes

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She heard Vic moving around the kitchen. She got up, crossed the hall, and went back into Baldwin’s office. She started going through his inbox. It was overflowing with legal documents, copies of the Congressional Record, proposed legislation, and letters, all of them official-looking and written in language that people never used. But there was nothing to indicate where he’d gone or why. Or anything about Dena, for that matter. His outbox was empty.

  She frowned and checked her watch. Vic had been gone nearly ten minutes. Much longer than it took to open a pop. He was a member of Dena’s Facebook group. Was that just an estranged father’s way of keeping tabs on his daughter? Or was it something nefarious? She headed into the kitchen.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Georgia pushed through the kitchen door. “Vic, how long did you stalk Dena on the Facebook group?”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a man shot out of the shadows behind the door. He grabbed Georgia around her chest with both arms, one arm high enough to press against her throat. She struggled to pull his arms away, but he had at least fifty pounds on her and much more strength. She’d learned a couple of karate moves at her gym, but she wasn’t in the right position, and his grip was so tight he lifted her off her feet. Her body arced backward, and her feet dangled uselessly in the air. He reeked of stale body odor and bad breath.

  Georgia was barely able to focus, but she did spot Vic at the island in the middle of the room. He was holding the Diet Coke in one hand and an empty glass in the other. She couldn’t tell if he was part of the attack or had been blindsided himself, but his face was frozen in terror. She remembered her Glock; it was in her khaki bag in Vic’s office. She should have had it with her. Jimmy had cautioned her to always carry it in unfamiliar places. But who would have predicted a takedown in an affluent mansion in the nation’s capital?

  It was getting tough to breathe. She twisted and squirmed, trying to free herself from her attacker’s hold, but his grip was too powerful. She tried to bite his arm, but his forearm pressed against her throat, too low for her to open her mouth. That forearm was suffocating her slowly. She tried and failed to open her mouth for air. Red and purple spots formed in her eyes. She felt herself slipping away. She gasped. She needed air.

  As if he knew, her attacker eased off the pressure. She didn’t know why, but instinct told her this was her final chance to rally. Using all her lung power, she sucked in a deep breath, tensed every muscle, and tried a final shove to break his stranglehold. Her pulse was so loud she heard it pumping in her ears.

  Suddenly she felt a sharp sting on her neck near her carotid artery. She had only a few seconds to realize it was a needle. The spots in her eyes became a spread of purple edged in red, filling her entire field of vision. Over the next ten seconds she felt herself go rag-doll limp. Then it all went to black.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  After it was over, Georgia realized what an efficient op it had been. Her attacker had been quiet and well organized. He knew exactly where to apply pressure and when to inject the knockout drug. Propofol or ketamine laced with something, followed by a secondary anesthetic, she guessed. In other words, the goon was a professional.

  At the time, however, she knew nothing, except that she didn’t want to wake up. It was comforting to float in a warm, welcoming void, suspended between mindfulness and sleep. She felt weightless and untethered, as though she could drift anywhere she could imagine. A moment later, though, a loud crash broke through her unconsciousness. A door slam? An engine coughed. She was in a moving vehicle. She tried to crack one eye open, but it was too much effort. Her body bumped and jounced with the motion of the vehicle. A van. She was on the floor of a van lying on her side. That was enough for now. She sank back into the warm, inviting darkness.

  The van was still in motion when she woke again. The void was thinner and she knew she was back. The van was running fast but not at breakneck speed. She tried again to open an eye. This time she could. It was dark, but the window at the top of the sliding panel door was covered with dark material that allowed a sliver of light to slip in around the edges. Georgia had no idea how long she’d been out, but the fact that light was spilling through the flap of material indicated it wasn’t that long. An hour. Maybe two.

  The van must be traveling on a highway, because the ride was fairly smooth. She began to roll over, but stopped. Her hands and feet were tied, and a gag was stuffed in her mouth. If she didn’t end up in the right position, she might suffocate. Or choke. She stayed motionless and tried to take stock. Her hands and feet radiated pins and needles, and there was a sharp pain at the injection site. Whatever he’d used had penetrated deep.

  A male voice called out from the front. “T minus ten.”

  “Got it,” a second male voice replied.

  Someone was in the back of the van with her. He must have been there since they’d been at Baldwin’s. But it wasn’t Vic’s voice. A team of goons. She considered moaning so they’d know she was awake—their reaction might tell her more—but decided to hold off. Any unexpected behavior by a hostage was always dangerous. There would be time later. She hoped.

  The van slowed and turned left off the highway onto a road rutted with rocks and stones. Georgia was jerked to one side, then the other. Was the damn road even paved? At a particularly powerful bump, she groaned instinctively.

  “Hey, man,” the thug beside her said. “I just heard something. She’s awake.”

  He didn’t use his partner’s name.

  “Roger that. No problem,” the man from the front replied.

  The van turned right, and the wheels crackled on gravel, slowed, and came to a stop. Georgia’s stomach lurched. She tried to inventory what she had available to make a stand, but she had no weapon, she was tied up, and she had no idea where she was or who her attackers were. She was helpless.

  The engine died. The driver’s door opened, then slammed shut. The side panel door slid back with a squeak. The driver peered in. Georgia craned her neck, but his face was in shadow, and she couldn’t make out his features.

  “Put the blindfold on,” he said to his companion and withdrew. The crunch of his footsteps on gravel receded. He didn’t want her to see him.

  Georgia was still lying on her left side. The second man approached her from behind and tightened a rag over her eyes. It was a clumsy attempt. She didn’t resist.

  “Have a nice ride?”

  The gag was still in her mouth. She didn’t reply. The man nudged her in her ribs. “Hey. I’m talking to you. I know you’re awake.”

  Georgia was even more convinced the first knockout drug was propofol—a fast-acting but short-lived drug used by doctors in the initial stage of anesthesia.

  “So that’s the way you want to play it?” Did this jerk not realize she had a gag in her mouth and couldn’t speak?

  He climbed out of the van. A moment later, he pulled her out of the van by her legs. She assumed he would pause once her torso was free so she could lever herself to a standing position. But he kept yanking her until her head bounced on the runner below the van’s door. At that point he tightened his grip on her legs, which made the back of her head hit the ground hard. Waves of pain, vertigo, and nausea flooded through her, and for a moment she thought she might go under again. She managed to hold on.

  Footsteps scraped on the gravel. The driver was returning. She felt him untie whatever had bound her arms and feet, but he left the blindfold in place. “You’re gonna stand up now,” he said.

  Each man grabbed one of her arms and pulled her upright. She promptly vomited through the gag and went limp.

  “Goddammit!” The man who’d been in the back of the van yelled.

  “Back off,” the driver said. “It’s the drug, asshole. And the whack on her head, thanks to you.”

  The men tried to steady her, but she kept stumbling. She was desperately thirsty. The men slow-walked her forward.

  Though the stink of her own vomit was strong,
she eventually sniffed what she thought was fresh hay. She hadn’t smelled that clean, sunny scent since she was a little girl with her mother spending summers in Georgia. Hay meant farms. Cows. Horses. Maybe chickens.

  The men stopped. One man restrained her while the other opened what sounded like a massive door. The scent of hay sharpened and mixed with horse manure. A barn. She heard the snuffles and grunts of animals. Horses. The men led her inside and pushed her down on a bed of prickly straw. Her balance was still rocky, and she slumped over.

  “Dammit, asshole, you gotta prop her up.”

  “Sorry, Reince.”

  A quick hostile intake of breath from the driver. She had a clue. Two clues, in fact. A barn. A name. Three, if you included the van.

  The driver propped her against a wall. “Okay, little miss PI. I’m gonna take the gag outta your mouth. You’re not gonna scream, right?” He laughed. “Actually you could, but there’s no one to hear you. Not for miles.”

  She nodded. He removed the gag, but not the blindfold. She cleared her throat, which was raw and thick with vomit. “Why?” she croaked.

  “You don’t say a word and we’ll keep this short and sweet. This is your only warning. Back off. Quit nosing around.”

  “Do you have Carl Baldwin?” Her voice was hoarse.

  A sudden sharp thwack across her face stung. The asshole had slapped her. It reverberated through her head like an echo chamber. Nausea climbed up her throat. Her head was spinning.

  “I told you not to say a word. You understand?”

  Georgia knew she should be frightened, but she only had room for one emotion at a time. Right now that emotion was rage. How dare he humiliate her like this? If they wanted to kill her, she would have been dead already. She shook her head. “I want to know—”

  He cut her off with another blow. She went slack. Pain overwhelmed her. She shouldn’t have provoked them. She wanted to lie down. Go to sleep.

  “Do you understand?”

  This time she tried to nod. She wasn’t sure her head actually moved, but it must have because there were no more blows, and the driver spoke.

  “You’re in way over your head, missy. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  She didn’t react.

  “So you go on back to Chicago and tell Mrs. Baldwin you’re done. Finished. Stop digging around. What’s done is done. She can’t bring back her daughter, and neither can you. Got that?”

  She didn’t reply, but apparently he thought she received the message.

  “And just in case you don’t believe me, we know all of you and how to find you. Erica Baldwin, Paul Kelly, Jimmy Saclarides. Oh yeah. We know about your sister and your mother, too.”

  Georgia’s gut twisted.

  He let that sink in. “Now you’re gonna go back under. And when you wake up, you get yourself the fuck out of Dodge and back to Chicago.”

  Before she had a chance to reply, another sharp pain stabbed her arm. She fell into darkness.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  When Georgia came to again, she didn’t move. Whether ten minutes or two hours went by, she didn’t know. Slowly she struggled to a half-seated, half-reclining position. She opened her eyes and gazed at a row of horse stalls before realizing her blindfold was gone. She could see. The barn door was closed, but light leaked around its edges. She counted eight stalls, of which four were occupied by horses. They seemed to be used to her presence and scent, because they munched hay placidly. Her hands and feet were free also, and she leaned her arms backward for support.

  But when she forced herself upright, one of the horses pawed the ground and she heard snuffling. A wave of vertigo passed through her, and she wanted to lie down. But whoever owned the animals would probably be here soon to muck out their stalls.

  She debated whether to wait for whoever would be coming. Did they know the man named Reince and his buddy? Or had she been dropped at some random farm along the way? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew they raised horses in Virginia. Was she on a horse farm?

  She used the wall of the barn for support and slowly stood up. She wobbled, and her throat was on fire; she would kill for some water. She dragged her feet to the door and used all her strength to slide it open. A rosy dawn sun touched the horizon, tinging deep purple-pink clouds with a ribbon of gold. Beyond the barn stretched a large meadow surrounded by a white fence. Grass was growing, and trees were budding.

  If horses were sheltered here, water couldn’t be far away. She slowly circled the barn and spotted a faucet near the door on the other side. She bent over to turn it on, but another wave of vertigo threatened to make her lose her balance. She crouched instead and twisted the handle. Thank God. She cupped her hands and drank, then splashed water on her face.

  Afterward she felt halfway human. She knew she didn’t look it. She was glad she didn’t have a mirror. Her face had to be bruised, along with the injection site on her neck, and her ribs were sore from all the jouncing in the van. On the other hand, she hadn’t broken any bones, and her legs, apart from a sore ankle, seemed to be in reasonable shape. She would make her way to the road and hitch a ride back into DC.

  She limped slowly toward a blacktopped road. About half a mile in the distance a large structure loomed. Two stories, maybe three. A home? Farm building? Business? She reached for her cell in her pocket before realizing she didn’t have it. Damn. Was there a connection between the building and the thugs who kidnapped her? Could someone in the building tell her who owned the barn? Did they own it?

  She headed toward the structure, unsure how close to get. What if she was walking into a trap? She thought it over. The odds were that the goons who’d attacked her wouldn’t show themselves in broad daylight. They were probably crashing at home, satisfied that they’d scared her shitless.

  As she drew closer, the building materialized into a country home with a redbrick exterior, white columns and portico in front, and a dome in the center. It looked familiar. When she figured it out, she smiled. Ellie Foreman’s boyfriend, Luke Sutton, lived in a similar-looking home on the banks of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Georgia recalled Jimmy telling her that Luke’s father rebuilt the family home into a replica of Thomas Jefferson’s estate. She couldn’t remember the name of Jefferson’s home, but it was famous.

  She did recall Jefferson was from Virginia, though, which added to her theory that she was in the Virginia countryside. She stopped to listen. Aside from the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle and chirps from birds, there was silence. Nothing from the house.

  To be safe she cut back to the field and approached the house from the side. While she didn’t see anyone looking out, it would only take a quick glance from whoever lived in the house to spot her. She angled behind the house and closed the distance from the back.

  A Dodge Ram pickup was parked at the end of a gravel driveway. Not the van in which she’d been transported. Beside the truck was a three-car garage. A gazebo with a glider, the kind that often graced southern homes, occupied most of the back. Next to it was a garden, already teeming with daffodils and tulips.

  Oversized vertical windows on the first floor let sun pour in, and smaller windows ran horizontally across the second floor. Two were open. Georgia crept around to the front. An elegant portico protected an imposing front door, which was open. The temperature was mild, and a slight breeze wafted over her. Was someone airing out the place?

  She gazed back at the meadow. The contrast between the evil that had confronted her last night in the barn and the tranquility of this morning was hard to process. Did the occupants of the house know what had happened in that barn?

  As she gazed at the scene a powerful yearning came over her, and a long-buried memory floated up. A meadow somewhere in the South, not unlike this one. She was at a picnic. She and her mother sat on the grass. Her mother was teaching her how to make a buttercup necklace. A bright sun like today’s tinged the grass and buttercups with gold; a soft breeze wafted over them. Her mom ca
lled her Peaches. Georgia was happy and safe.

  Her throat tightened. It wasn’t worth the risk to find out who lived in the house. She turned and followed the driveway out to the road. Her attacker was right about one thing: she needed to get the hell out of Washington, DC.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  When she finally got back to her hotel room, the first thing she did was check that the hair she’d left in the doorjamb was still intact. It was. No one had come in while she was gone. She was surprised; they’d had time to toss her room if they wanted. Then she called Paul Kelly and filled him in. She could hear the fury in his voice. She assured him she was okay and would be back that night.

  After a long, hot shower she examined herself in the mirror. Her face was purple and yellow, and a shiner around her left eye was prominent. She carefully applied makeup, but the black eye was still conspicuous. She would pick up a pair of sunglasses. She didn’t have her jacket – she’d left it at Carl Baldwin’s house. Her Glock too. She dressed in jeans and a tank top.

  She had one more thing to do in Washington. She called the number she had for Vic Summerfield. It went to voice mail. She looked up his address. A neighborhood called Glover Park. It wasn’t far from the hotel. She called an Uber.

  Vic Summerfield’s condo was in a large apartment building at the bottom of a hill. The building was equipped with a uniformed doorman and a pair of glass doors through which Georgia could see two huge chandeliers hanging from the lobby ceiling. She told the driver to park on a semicircular driveway, which prompted the doorman to head over, his finger wagging.