The admiral’s story about his marriage was depressing.
She wondered about how many of the chosen few who made it to the top in any American profession could tell similar stories about what happened to their families along the way.
The difference with this guy was that at least he seemed to have the capacity to be embarrassed about how it had all turned out, and he could admit that he bore a large share of responsibility for the wreck of their marriage.
She turned right on Springvale Road, and headed out toward the river, adjusting her mirror against the lights of a car behind her. She had met several senior naval officers with similar marriage histories who callously chalked it off to their having picked the wrong wife. The real bastards were the ones who happily let their wives slog through the sea-duty separations and the diapers and the teenager crises all by themselves while the Great Men climbed the ladder at sea, only to dump their wives in favor of new trophy wives to match the trophy stars.
Sherman didn’t seem to be one of those. And it must have been especially hard to know that his only son was out there somewhere, incubating a major psychic cyst.
She turned left on Beach Mill Road at the Frenc h restaurant and started down the winding hill. The car behind her was still there, not tailgating exactly, but staying right with her, its dazzling headlights making it look as if it was right on her bumper. She remembered the admiral’s comment about being careful and tried not to take any particular notice of the car following her. Beach Mill Road was only about a lane and half wide along here, and it wasn’t as if he could pass. Another two minutes down the road, she put her turn signal on and slowed. The car came right up behind her then, its lights filling all the rriiffors.
All right, jerk, hold your horses; I’ve got to make this driveway and then you can go play Richard Petty. Probably one of the local Masters of the Universe with gonads on fire to get his Porsche out of second gear.
She made the turn, going slower than usual just to spite him, and the car roared past. She tried to see who or what it was, but it was long gone in a howl of expensive valves.
She drove down the winding driveway to the house, warmed by the sense of security she felt every time she came down this tree-lined drive. The house Was a two-story Southern Living design, suitably scaled up to fit into the mansion decor of Great Falls. It had graceful white balustrade porches enveloping three sides on the ground level.
There were ten acres altogether, which included a separate two-car garage, a six-stall horse barn, and a small riding ring set within the moss-covered foundations of an enormous old hay barn, all framed by the graying remains of an ancient apple orchard. The rest of the property was divided into three pastures. The property bordered on a narrow strip of state park that formed the Virginia banks of the Potomac River. On still spring nights, she could hear the river from the porch.
She parked in the garage and then diverted down a branch of the driveway that led to the small horse barn to see her three charges. Actually, only one was hers, a steady Morgan mare named Duchess. The other two residents were boarders, one belonging to a neighbor who rarely came to see the creature, and the other to a high school student who lived farther up Beach Mill in what the locals called a “mansion graveyard,” a cluster of huge homes sited much too close together on a hill overlooking Beach Mill Road. The student, a pretty sixteen-year-old named Sally Henson, took care of all three horses in return for’ a break on her board bill.
Karen peered into the near paddocks, but the horses were apparently hanging out in one of the darkened fields, glad to be out of the barn now that winter was over. She took a quick look around the barn, flipping on the aisle lights briefly, but everything seemed to be in order. Sally was conscientious. The sounds of insects and tree frogs were amplified in the confines of the aisleway. She turned out the lights, then returned to the house via the garden pathway, a bricked walk that led through a sixty-foot-long, eight-foot high boxwood hedge passage. She was reassured by the scent of new boxwood leaves and the loamy perfume of freshly mowed grass permeating the night air. There was a bright moon back lighting the low cloud cover and diffusing the shadows among the apple trees and the spreading oaks in the near yard.
The house seemed artificially still in the moonlight as she walked up the steps of the front porch.
A quick peek through the front windows failed to reveal any lurking bad guys. She heard snuffling behind the front door, and she quickly unlocked it to let Frank’s elderly Labrador, Harry, out for a late-night tree-watering mission. She reassured the alarm system, then stood out on the porch while the dog ran around, making his usual federal case out of which tree was going to be honored this evening.
Watching the old dog snuffle around the dark yard, she felt a familiar weight of depression at the prospect of living alone again. It didn’t help that, in all -likelihood, Frank had dishonored the last years of their marriage. An image of Admiral Sherman came to mind, sitting in his living room, rubbing the sides of his face with both hands as he struggled with the ghosts of his scary past. Sherman was a handsome, physically fit, intelligent, and successful man about her own age. But she felt no particular attraction toward him, other than a growin reservoir of sympathy. In her younger years, before Frank even, that kind of man would have had her attending to her makeup, But now all he had were his stars, and a nice, big, empty town house in Mclean with which to share them. She called the dog, but, like an old man with selective hearing, Harry ignored her, intent on pursuing some scent into the bushes.
Over the past few years in the Pentagon, she had watched in amazement as each new crop of flag officers seemed to redouble their efforts to impress, coming in at seven and going home at seven, as if those shiny new stars meant they suddenly had to shoulder the cares of the entire Navy. By his own recounting, Sherman had spurned what had been his best shot at a second chance to have a life pro partner, at least in part because of the demands of his’career.
And now some vengeful ghost from a long-lost war had apparently come back to make his life’truly meaningful.
What a deal. She looked at her watch. It was just past eleven.
“Harry, get in here,” she called.
As she turned back toward the front door, she heard the sound of -a car going by out on Beach Mill Road. It seemed to slow as it went by her front gates, its headlights creating a strobe effect through the double row of tree trunks parading along the driveway. The dog stopped for a moment, as if to listen to the car, but then reluctantly came in. It’s not him, Harry, she thought. But thanks for looking.
FRIDAY Early Friday morning, Karen had decided on an abbreviated workout, and she was coming back toward the Pentagon athletic club’s building from a two-mile run when she saw a small knot of runners clustered around a grassy knoll, about two hundred yards from the athletic club’s entrance.
She finished her cooldown exercises and then jogged over to where the small crowd was gathered. She was surprised to see that they were watching Train von Rensel, who stood like a stubby oak tree, alone in a space about fifteen feet square. He was wearing a martial arts outfit consisting of a white short-sleeved cotton jacket, white cotton trousers, and canvas tennis shoes. He had-a narrow red-and-white cloth wrapped around his forehead and, with both eyes closed, was gripping a thick curved wooden stick shaped to look like a Japanese sword. The stick was about four feet long, three inches thick, and made of what looked like rosewood.
As she came up on the small group of watchers, Train was executing a carefully choreographed set of maneuvers with the wooden sword, moving almost in slow motion, while stamping out a metronomic rhythm with his feet, first one foot, then the other. He resembled one of those sumo fighters in the way he moved, a careful exertion of great physical mass, but without all the fat rolls. With every other stamp, he pronounced a low grunt in whit sounded to Karen like Japanese, while simultaneously executing the next move. Train’s concentration appeared to be complete, and he gave no sign that he had seen Karen or was even aware that people were watching. Finally, he gave a huge shout and whirled around in a complete circle while holding the stick straight, out at waist level with both hands. Even though it was just a stick, everyone watching instinctively moved back a few more feet as the huge man began to execute a swift series of what were obviously fighting moves, vertical and horizontal slashes, each followed by a defensive posture against an imaginary attacker, then another thrust, a jump, a slash, a crouch, a lunge, another defensive position, then a running attack, each move punctuated by an unintelligible cry. He continued this drill for about three minutes, at the end of which his close cropped head and face were pouring with sweat and his chest heaving under the straining jacket.