“Checked that of course. You’re the only visitor he had here.”
The only registered visitor, Warfield mumbled. He kicked himself for not going to Atlanta to meet with Joplan in person after he agreed to cooperate. At least he would have learned who his contact was.
When Warfield told Cross about Joplan’s demise, the president was furious that the opportunity was lost. He said he would order Fullwood to investigate the murder, but Warfield knew the killer would never be found. Prison murders were as easy to come by as snow at the North Pole and if anyone knew too much, he’d end up like Joplan.
Warfield spent the next two hours driving without purpose through the Virginia countryside. At one point he pulled off the road and sat on a creek bank, picking up small stones around him and tossing them into the stream. Joplan was a scumbag, a traitor. And except for the obvious reason, Warfield didn’t care that he was dead. Saved taxpayers’ time and money. But the practical effect, the real problem now, was that Fullwood’s people would never know what Joplan could have told them that might stop an ongoing operation, or learn what damage he had done in the past.
That afternoon Warfield called Fleming DeGrande at her office. “How many more basket cases you got wringing their hands in the waiting room?”
“If all I did was basket cases, as you call them, you’d occupy most of my time.”
“You could close the office then. Treat me at my place.”
“You can’t afford me. What’s on your mind now? Got people waiting. You know, people who actually pay to see me.”
“I feel like riding. I need some country air.”
“Meet you at Hardscrabble at four.”
Warfield had the horses saddled when Fleming got to Hardscrabble Ranch. She left her car in the driveway next to Warfield’s and ran in to change. Minutes later she strode across the manicured lawn toward Warfield, who was leaning against his horse, Spotlight. It was sunny and seventy degrees, perfect for riding: Fleming on Freud, Warfield riding Spotlight. Fleming walked up and put her arms around Warfield’s neck. She wore jeans and a white cotton blouse in which she looked excellent. He mockingly checked her out as if he were deciding whether to accept her, and nodded.
Fleming pushed back to arm’s length. “You act like some prince contemplating an addition to his harem.”
“Worry not! I’ve decided to accept you.”
They followed the path around the perimeter of the stables and corral. Half of the ranch was covered with hardwoods, and they pointed the horses along a trail leading into the trees and let them find their own pace as they rode side by side. Unlike many in northern Virginia, Warfield and Fleming rode Western style, which to Warfield, who grew up on a horse in Texas, was the only way to ride.
Warfield was quiet after a few minutes and Fleming noticed.
“You okay, War Man?” He’d told her about his meeting at the White House, including Fullwood’s fit.
Before Warfield answered, Fleming went on about Fullwood. “I can tell when I see the old boy on TV that he’s got a problem. Worried about losing his job?”
“Cross can’t fire him, that’s the problem.”
“Who else was there? Anyone interesting?”
“Guess I should tell you the president asked about you.”
Fleming laughed. “That’s very flattering. Thank you. The President of the United States!”
“Stern, Quinn…”
“Your alter ego.”
“Quinn? Hardly. But the position he holds ain’t bad.”
“Head of CIA! Like to have it, wouldn’t you?”
Warfield thought about that for a moment. “Have to admit I wouldn’t mind having my finger in all those pies, but I’d be too involved in the nuts and bolts. Quinn, he’s not a technician but he’s smart and he’s a leader, and that’s what it takes to run an outfit like that. It’s mammoth, Fleming.”
“CIA?”
“The intel community’s made up of numerous organizations but CIA is the flagship. If I was going for one, it would be CIA.”
The woods thickened as they rode along. The trail became so narrow that Fleming dropped behind and the crackle of the brush and leaves beneath the horses’ hoofs became the only sounds. Sun rays sneaked through the dense trees and Joplan moved further from Warfield’s consciousness by the minute. Squirrels in the branches froze in their tracks as the horses went by. A hawk circled lazily far above.
Fleming rode as if she grew up on a horse, although she didn’t. She was raised in the city, the daughter of a surgeon, and became a doctor herself, a psychiatrist. She met her husband, Tom, at a horse auction and they lived on his Hardscrabble Ranch, an hour or so west of Washington.
Twenty minutes later they came upon a cluster of boulders in a clearing, and just beyond that a rushing stream. As they came closer the furious sound of the water spilling over the rocks drowned out all other. The creek banks were solid rock, exposed over the centuries as the water chiseled through. Fern and other plants grew wild and some of the roots of the towering trees were exposed above ground. Giant moss-covered boulders rested near the edge of the creek. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Warfield had never seen this part of the ranch.
He loosened the horses’ saddles as they drank from the stream. The late afternoon sun poised over the water upstream found its way through the trees and splotched the landscape. Warfield climbed onto a rock the size of a car to absorb it all.
He’d become preoccupied with Fullwood. There was more to his little tantrum than Warfield understood in the meeting. He thought how the whole episode had been rendered a waste of time by Joplan’s death, and began to think of Joplan again.
Fleming retrieved the blankets from their saddles and climbed onto the rock with him as he told her about Joplan’s fate. They discussed it for awhile and then sat without talking. Fleming ran her fingers through his hair and rubbed his shoulders. Even the worst of worries lost some of their edge in such a place as this, and he stopped dwelling on Fullwood and Joplan and yielded to drowsiness. It seemed like no more than ten minutes later when he awoke. Fleming was under the blanket with him and had removed her clothes
“There’s this particular therapy I recommend for you,” she said, nuzzling his neck.
He pulled back and admired her. No woman was more beautiful to him than Fleming DeGrande. He was captured when he looked at her, but it wasn’t only her fine bones, her sharp jaw line. She was honest. Loving. Caring. Sexy. Easy to be with. And her eyes, the brim-full windows to the curiosity and excitement and intelligence that lay within. They had enough things in common. She put up with him, filled in where he fell short. She could out-think him half the time. He was at peace with her. That is, when he could put work aside.
Fleming was the soft part of his life. He never thought of himself as unhappy before her, but he wasn’t in any hurry to try life again without her. She massaged something in his soul he didn’t know existed before.
Now her full length of bare skin fused with his own. They lay still except for the little finger of Fleming’s right hand that traced out something on his face. With her lips almost touching his, she whispered something and smiled.
“You’re asking for trouble, you know!” he said, as she rolled over on top of him. As he pulled her close she threw her head back to clear the hair from her face. They fell asleep on the rock after making love.
Warfield was the first to quicken. One of the horses had neighed but that wasn’t what startled him. It was the distinctive crackle of twigs breaking beneath a two-footed being, but he couldn’t see anything because the blanket covered his head. In the instant he was weighing his options he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun muzzle pressed into his back.