Death, Tess thought. I'm surrounded by death.
'So I know how you feel, Tess. Lord, I wish I didn't, but I do. My husband. Your mother. We'll miss them. Our lives are less without them.' Mrs Caudill braced her shoulders as if she didn't want to pursue the topic. She nodded glumly toward the Washington Post in front of her. The fire at your house… the killings… apparently they happened too late last night to be reported in this morning's paper. But perhaps we should turn on the radio. There might be some new information, some further developments you should know about.'
With a cringe, Tess recalled the nightmare, the flames, her mother being shot. The thought of hearing it described on the radio appalled her. Nonetheless she was desperate to know if the police had managed to catch the men who'd shot her mother. 'Yes. That's a good idea.'
'And then of course, now that you're rested, you'll have to phone the police.'
'Exactly,' Tess lied. 'I was just about to do that.'
But her attention was directed toward the newspaper in front of Mrs Caudill. The headline faced away from her. Even so, she managed to decipher what it said and turned cold, stiffening. She gasped, leaned forward to grab the newspaper, and twisted it so the headline glared up at her.
BRIAN HAMILTON DIES IN FREEWAY ACCIDENT
'Oh, my God.' Bile from her breakfast burned into Tess's throat. 'Brian Hamilton's dead?' She frantically read the article.
'A van forced his car off the road.' Mrs Caudill sounded depressed. 'Either a maniac or a drunken driver.'
Tess kept scanning the article. 'Then Brian's car hit an electrical pole? His car exploded?'
'If he wasn't killed in the crash, the flames would have… To think he survived all those years in combat in Vietnam, only to die in a pointless car accident.'
'But I just saw him last night!' Tess jerked upright from her chair. 'I spoke to him at my mother's house!'
'Yes, I forgot. He and your mother were friends. Because of your father.'
'It's not just that. I asked him to do me a favor. I…'
'A favor?' Mrs Caudill asked.
A welter of frightening thoughts collided in Tess's mind. The fire at the mansion. The accident on the freeway. She couldn't believe that the two were coincidental. Whoever had killed her mother had also killed Brian Hamilton! They'd somehow found out that Tess had summoned him! They feared the information that Tess had given him!
They're killing everybody who knows what I know! They're killing everyone I come in contact with!
No! Mrs Caudill! If I don't get out of here, she'll be next!
'I have to use your phone.' Tess tried desperately not to sound terrified.
'To call the police?'
'Right,' Tess said. The police. It's time. I need to talk to them.'
'There's a phone in the hallway. Another one in the kitchen.'
Hallway? Kitchen? Which would be more private? A maid was in the kitchen.
'The hallway,' Tess blurted and hurried from the dining room.
Her fierce thoughts multiplied. She'd hated Brian Hamilton because he'd sent her father to Beirut where he'd been murdered.
But last night she'd made a bargain with the man she hated, and now the man she hated was dead. Because he'd set out to cancel the debt he owed by trying to use all his power to learn everything he could about Joseph Martin.
Death. Everyone I speak to…!
Not me, though! I'm still alive.
And I'll get even!
She reached the phone in the hallway, groped into her purse, fumbled past the handgun, and yanked out the card that Craig had given her.
Craig! He was the only person who'd understand. The two of them had been through this nightmare together almost from the start.
But Craig knew what she knew. Maybe he was in danger. She had to warn him.
Glancing urgently toward his card, she pressed numbers on the phone.
'This is Bill Craig. I'm not home right now, but if you'll leave your name and…'
Shit! She'd forgotten the time. He'd be in the office now. She jabbed the disconnect lever and pressed more buttons, this time for…
'Missing Persons,' a raspy voice said.
'Lieutenant Craig.' Tess struggled not to hyperventilate.
'He's out of the office. But if I can be of help, I'm sure-'
Tess slammed down the phone.
No! I need Craig! The only man I can trust is Craig!
'Tess?'
Spinning, Tess faced Mrs Caudill, who'd nervously emerged from the dining room.
'Did you talk to the-?
'Police? You bet! They want me downtown right now. I hate to impose, Mrs Caudill, but if you've got a car I can…'
'My home and my cars are yours. Use my husband's car. I've kept it licensed and maintained. On the slim chance that I'd ever be brave enough to resist my memories and drive it.'
'What kind of car did he…?'
'A Porsche nine-eleven. It's got plenty of… what do the kids say?… guts.'
'Just like your husband, Mrs Caudill.'
'Believe it, Tess. Take the car. Use it. My husband would have liked that. Plenty of guts. Because I've got a feeling that your problems are worse than I imagine. And terrible problems need…'
'Guts?' Tess raised her arms. 'Your intuition's on target, Mrs Caudill. I do have problems. Beyond belief. I don't have much time. Not to be rude, but quickly, the keys. Where are the keys?'
SEVEN
Maintaining his composure but braced for a confrontation, Vice President Alan Gerrard stepped past the metal detector and the Secret Service guards in the White House corridor, their features remaining stolid as he entered the Oval Office. Since Gerrard had been chosen – to the nation's astonishment – as the president's running mate in the election three years ago, Gerrard had been invited to the Oval Office only eight times. His few visits accounted for his renewed surprise that the office was so much smaller than it looked on TV.
Outsiders might have been puzzled by the vice president's lack of access to the president. But Gerrard understood too well. After all, he'd been chosen as a running mate not because of any skills but merely because of three coincidental, pragmatic, political reasons.
One, he'd been a senator from Florida, and that southern connection balanced the president's northern connection as a former senator from Illinois.
Two, Gerrard was forty – fifteen years younger than the president – and Gerrard's handsome, movie-star features made him appealing (so the president's demographic advisers claimed) to young voters, especially women.
Three, and probably most important, Gerrard had a reputation for being compliant, not causing trouble, following the Republican party line, and hence he wouldn't be a rival to the president, who already anticipated the next election and didn't want anyone upstaging his take-charge personality.
But no matter how much the campaigning president's logic had made sense in theory, its practical effects had almost been disastrous. The public, the media, and political analysts had not merely been surprised by the president's choice; they'd been appalled.
'Gerrard knows more about tennis than he does about politics. He's more at home at a country club than he is in the Senate. He's got so much money he thinks everyone drives a Mercedes. He's never made a decision about anything without asking advice from all of his contacts, including his gardener. God gave him great looks, then went for a walk, and forgot to add brains.'
And on, and on.
Republican leaders had begged the future president to reconsider his choice for a running mate. Fearful, Gerrard had heard strong rumors that the president had almost relented but had finally concluded that to change his mind would make him look indecisive, a poor way to start an election campaign. So the president had kept Gerrard on the ticket but had distanced himself as much as diplomatically possible from his running mate, sending Gerrard to make speeches in the least important, least populated districts, exiling Gerrard to the boonies, in effect making him disappear from the voters' minds.