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The Man Who Heard Too Much

Richard Forrest writing as Stockton Woods

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

Chapter One

“Is it on?”

The uniformed chauffeur held the limousine’s rear door open with one hand and touched the brim of his cap in a military gesture with the other.

Senator Rutledge Galation Baxter nodded affirmatively and slid into the rear of the vehicle. He immediately picked up a neatly folded copy of that day’s Washington Post. “Proceed as planned. Anyone around?”

The chauffeur slid behind the wheel and swiveled to face his passenger. “One of Sperry’s legmen is in that blue Volkswagen parked down the street.”

Rutledge cursed under his breath. “That figures. The goddamn gossip monger spends half his time having me followed. Make sure I’m protected at the transfer point.”

“Yes, sir.” The engine throttled to life and the long car swept from the curb in front of the Senate Office Building. Rutledge opened the newspaper wide until it obscured his face.

The man in the VW turned his ignition key and heard the engine cough and die. He tried again, praying that he hadn’t flooded it. He had the small car moving by the time the black limousine passed, and he slid into the line of traffic two cars behind the senator’s vehicle.

They were moving slowly down Connecticut Avenue, caught in rush hour traffic, when a green Porsche pulled into the lane next to the limousine. Rutledge looked over the top edge of the newspaper and nodded at the driver of the car running parallel to them. “I’ll go when we’re in position,” he said to his driver and immediately hunched lower in the wide seat. He opened a compartment on the rear of the driver’s seat and took out a checkered sport coat and a small flat cap. Slipping out of his own jacket, he donned the sport coat and held the cap in his hand.

The chauffeur kept checking the rearview mirror until a district bus interspersed itself between them and the trailing VW. “Now!” he said over his shoulder as he braked at a traffic light.

Rutledge quickly slipped from the limousine while the driver of the Porsche did the same. Both men passed each other wordlessly, the senator getting behind the wheel of the sports car and donning the cap while the other man got into the limousine, put on the senator’s suit jacket and pulled up the newspaper to hide his face.

The two cars separated at the next corner when the Porsche turned right. The VW continued dutifully following the limousine.

They lay side by side on the wide bed with their limbs intertwined. The senator ran his fingers lightly over her cheek. “You are some woman,” he whispered.

“Uh huh,” she replied with a half smile. “That’s always a preamble. What god-awful place are you sending me to? Where is it this time?”

“A little town called Horton. It’s in upper New York State, surrounded by the Adirondack Mountains.”

“I hope they have a decent motel.”

“One and it’s nearly decent.”

She shrugged. “Will I be working with anyone?”

“There’re two of them. Both good men that I’ve used before. Your usual method of contact. They’re already up there in unit sixteen.”

“Sixteen. I’ll remember.”

He ran his hand over the curve of her hip and down the firmness of her thigh. There was good muscle tone. She kept herself in shape and he liked that. He leaned over and kissed her.

He elbowed himself into a sitting position and looked down at her vivid red hair which was now splayed across the pillow. Her skin was milk white, her eyes violet gray. She was a stunning woman.

“Don’t look so damn ravishing while you’re up there.”

“I’ll tone down and wear a granny dress.”

They had been lovers for six years. She had other men, he knew that, just as she knew about his wife Martha at his home in the rolling Virginia hills. She didn’t pressure him about it, and he liked that also.

They had met when he was a freshman congressman. She was a highly recommended research assistant, and at their first meeting not only had a charged spark of physical attraction been apparent, but he had also discerned her deeper feeling—an affinity toward power and those who possessed it.

As their affair continued and her duties took on more of a confidential nature, he removed her from his governmental payroll and paid her with secret discretionary funds.

She was effective in her highly personal assignments and seemed to thrive on the danger involved.

Under different circumstances their love affair might have been superficial and soon ended. But the dual attraction of power and danger created a bond that kept them together. As an experienced Washington hand, Althea Remington knew the extent of power—where it lay, who possessed it and how. She knew that Rutledge Baxter was one of the new breed who would succeed at any cost … and from her vantage point, she would aid him in any manner she could.

“What’s my assignment?” she asked as he continued looking down at her.

“There’s a man up there who is very dangerous to me.”

She pursed her lips. “And?”

“His name is Martin Fowler and I want him eliminated. It’s extremely important.” Rutledge paused. “You will find him a bit unusual, Althea.”

“In what way?”

“He’s mentally retarded.”

Martin Fowler rode the bicycle badly, but he enjoyed the small bell attached to the right handlebar. He kept pushing the lever rapidly to the side and listening to it ring. It reminded him of the white ice-cream truck that passed the school at two in the afternoon each day of the spring and summer.

Occasionally one of the attendants would buy Popsicles if too many children weren’t in the yard at the time.

Martin was twenty-eight and had dark hair, a shock of which seemed to constantly protrude over his forehead. He was six feet tall with a medium stocky build. His arms, revealed beneath the short sleeves of the yellow tee shirt he wore, were well muscled with bulging biceps. During his adult years at the training school, he had been assigned to heavy maintenance work on the grounds, and consequently he was tanned and in good physical shape.

A rather expressionless face marred Martin’s otherwise pleasing features, and he spoke in a monotone devoid of feeling. He walked with a slight stoop and a barely perceptible shuffle.

Two days earlier, he had been driven from the school to a large Victorian mansion which was a halfway house. Yesterday he had discovered the bicycle in a dim corner of the barn, webbed and nearly hidden within the intricate framework of an industrious spider.

Martin had removed most of the cobwebs by making great arcs in the air with a broken hoe handle that destroyed the webs. When the bike was relatively clean, he had wheeled it gently out into the bright sunlight of the yard in front of the barn. The tires were flat but held air as he filled them with a hand pump. Carefully, he had dusted the remainder of the frame with an old rag.

The mansion’s driveway, which ran from the barn to the house, was unpaved, and he had used its relatively soft surface to learn to ride the two-wheeled vehicle.

Miss Bucknell, the halfway house resident director, had watched him through the kitchen window. He could tell by the way her forehead wrinkled that she was concerned over his safety, but she didn’t leave the building to stop his painful riding lessons.

He had spent most of the afternoon at it, but finally he could ride a wobbly straight line without falling. Today the bike would save him the long walk from the house to his new job at Dunn’s Service Station.

Horton, New York, depended upon tourists, both winter and summer, and resented it. There was little tillable farmland, and the seasonal influx of hunters, campers, skiers, and sightseers kept the town alive.

The town’s small business district was built along two streets that formed an X. Dunn’s Service Station—three pumps on the island and two bays—was located on a corner at the center of the X.

Martin immediately sensed hostility in Dunn Junior as Dunn Senior gathered them in the small office adjacent to the service bays. Senior, a grizzled older man with three days’ growth of stubbly white beard, worn coveralls, and arthritically gnarled hands, seemed to have difficulty walking and ensconced himself behind a battered desk. Junior was sullen, as unattractive as his father, and filled with the Dunn resentment of being small-town men caught in life’s bypass.

“I got two lubes and a bunch of tires to fix,” Junior snarled. “I got no time to teach him how to work a goddamn pump.”

“You’ll show the boy how to use the goddamn pumps or you’ll get a knuckleful.”

Junior waved a deprecating hand at his father in a gesture that he obviously had used countless times before.

Martin wasn’t sure that he would be able to like these two men.

“What about oil?” Junior asked belligerently, as if it were an affront to the OPEC nations.

“What about oil?” Senior snapped.

“He ain’t going to know where to put it.”

“Then you’ll show him where to put it.”

“What about my lube jobs?”

Dunn Senior gestured toward a large pushbroom in the corner of the crowded office. “Sweep it down, Martin.”

Martin nodded and went out into the warm morning. The door closed behind him, but he could still hear the two men quarreling.

“I could get Haney down here and he’d work minimum and goddamn know where to put the goddamn oil,” Junior yelled at his father.

“The dummy works minimum, but the state of New York pays us a buck an hour for him, idiot.”

Martin moved to the far end of the macadam near the street entrance and began to sweep. He hoped that he was far enough from the bitter men arguing in the office so that their remarks wouldn’t reach him.

He was used to it. All the kids got used to it after a while. In the beginning you thought you were like everyone else … you were just a kid in the home and everyone seemed to be about the same, although some were worse than others. Then you would hear the remarks when they took a group into town to see a movie: “Look at all the retards.”—You got used to it. He kept sweeping.

A compact car, with two adults in the front seat and two small children in the rear, swept into the station and braked to a fast halt at the pump island. A woman and the children broke from the car as if it were afire and ran for the restrooms. The driver, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Rod Laver sport shirt, lounged outside the car with one hand resting on the roof.

“Fill her up?” Martin asked.

The man nodded and looked over the town toward the hills rising in the distance. Martin was confused. There were three pumps on the island: regular, no lead, and diesel. He glanced at the office, but the Dunns were still engaged in their dispute. The driver continued looking toward the hills.

There were small letters over the car’s fuel tank cover which read, “Use No Lead Fuel Only.” Martin smiled and took down the hose from the no lead. He threw the lever and inserted the nozzle into the tank.

“Check under the hood, will ya?” the driver said without averting his gaze from the distant mountains.

Martin took his hand off the trigger of the gas hose and the pumping immediately stopped. How could he fill the tank and also check under the hood? He remembered past trips to town that the school had arranged. Once in a while the van would have to stop for gas. The service station attendant would leave the hose in the tank while he checked under the hood. He looked down at the hose device clenched tightly in his right hand. There was a bracket ring near the trigger. He flipped the ring forward and saw that it engaged the trigger and kept the gas pumping.

With a sigh of relief he walked toward the front of the car. Now he had to figure out how to raise the hood.

By mid-morning Martin had the rhythm of the job and did not have to call Dunn Junior from his work in the service bays. When a car pulled up to the service island, if he wasn’t there already, he ran to meet it. When he had the order he would start the gas pumping, wash the windows, and check under the hood.

Martin took a fifteen-minute break for lunch. Dunn Senior gave him a free Coke from the machine, and Martin squatted in the shade by the side of the building to eat the peanut butter sandwich he had brought from the home.

By mid-afternoon he was enjoying the work. It felt good to be useful again—almost as good as he had felt those days at the club, but that was before …

The only unpleasant incident of the afternoon was the misunderstanding over the money.

He had inserted the nozzle back in the pump, squinted at the dollar register, and hurried to the front of the car. “Twelve dollars, ma’am.”

The woman handed him two bills. They were marked as a ten and a five, but they didn’t look right. He stared at the money in the palm of his hand and wondered how to handle the situation.

“Something wrong?” The woman’s voice from the car interior was astringent and irritable.

Martin looked up into her argumentative eyes. He knew he had to be polite to the customers, but he also knew that they had to pay their money … either in cash or with a credit card that he would rush to Mr. Dunn in the office.

“Can I have my change!”

He looked from the money to the woman’s face. “This isn’t real money,” he finally mumbled.

“What do you mean, not real? Of course it’s real.”

“Doesn’t look real to me.”

“It’s Canadian. We came across the border this morning. I suppose you’ll want to discount it or something, but hurry. We want to check into our motel.”

“I need real money.” He feared the wrath of the Dunns senior and junior. They might fire him, and he wouldn’t be able to come back tomorrow. They wouldn’t let him stay at the halfway house and he would have to return to the school. “I got to have real money.” It was nearly a desperate plea.

“Let me speak to the manager.”

“He’s in the office, over there.” He pointed to Dunn Senior, who by this time had risen to his feet behind the desk and was peering at them through the window.

The woman slammed from the car and grabbed the money from his palm. “Idiot!” She strode briskly into the office and the door shut behind her.

Martin saw Mr. Dunn give change, point to Martin, and talk to the woman. She had a look of chagrin on her face when she returned to the car.

“I didn’t know,” she said to Martin and gave his arm a pat.

The car drove away from the station, and he looked after it with the knowledge that something had passed between normal people that he was not a party to. He experienced a surge of sadness that he had felt before and would feel again.

Around four in the afternoon, two motorcycles entered the station and stopped in a line abreast a few feet before the pump island. Both riders wore jeans, bulky leather jackets, and plastic crash helmets that completely covered their heads. The frontpieces of the helmets were of opaque reflecting Plexiglas that hid their features.

Martin hurried toward them. “Can I get you something?”

The smaller of the two pushed up a visor, and Martin found himself looking directly into a woman’s violet gray eyes. A few strands of red hair coursed down her forehead. “Are you Martin Fowler?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

The visor was flipped back and the bikes were thrown into gear. Both machines quickly turned and left the macadam with a roar.

Dunn Junior came out of a service bay with a small sledgehammer dangling in his hand. “What was that all about?”

Martin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Chapter Two

“A man don’t get paid for cleaning the place after he’s finished work. You understand that, don’tcha, boy?”

Martin Fowler wasn’t so sure he did, since Dunn Junior had departed half an hour before and left the service bays where he worked in the same mess they had been that morning. Parts, tools, and partially repaired tires were strewn throughout the service area. But Martin had rubbed down the pumps, swept his area twice, and even washed the plate glass window in front of the office.

“I understand,” he answered.

Dunn Senior took a timecard from its rack and, using a stub of a pencil, wrote in eight hours for the day. “Be here early tomorrow.” He cocked his head. “I think you’ll catch on in a coupla three weeks.”

Martin shook his head in acknowledgment and left the small office. The high school student who had arrived to relieve him was slouched in a paint-encrusted captain’s chair that was tilted back against the side of the building on two legs. A large cowboy hat was pulled down over his eyes. As Martin retrieved his bike from behind the station he wondered how the boy could give the good service that Mr. Dunn required, since he appeared to be sound asleep.

There was a lot to learn, he thought as he mounted the bike.

The man by her side had a length of chain wrapped around his left wrist with the other end clenched in his right hand. He kept whomping the end of the chain into a gloved palm.

“Stop doing that!” Althea said.

He looked at her with what she assumed was an attempt at a wry smile, but which actually appeared as an almost obscene grimace. “You sure you want to do it this way?”

“Damn sure.” She took off the crash helmet and wiped her brow. No wonder so many bikers objected to using them. They not only cut down on visibility, but were also damn hot.

“Why?”

She shook her head to let her hair fall free before she gave her companion a look of contempt. “You want out?”

“No.”

“Then we do it this way.”

He shrugged, wrapped the chain tighter around his wrist, and peered through the trees toward the road.

Rutledge trusted her to do it right, but she wondered if that was all there was to it. She was honest enough with herself to admit that the senator’s trust was not all that impelled her. To the extent she was capable, she loved him. She was fascinated with the power he held now and the power which would soon be his, but there was more—much more. She felt it within her now. The feeling started at the beginning of each operation and swelled until it nearly consumed her—a sense of excitement, danger that pushed her to a high pinnacle where she felt that all her senses were alert and functioning at their utmost capacity.

The first time she had accepted one of his “assignments,” she had recognized the feeling. Then, Rutledge was trying for his first senatorial term, impatient at the restrictions imposed on members of the House of Representatives where he was one of many. He had been the underdog in the senatorial primary race, a dark horse who was given little chance to obtain his party’s nomination … until his opponent had died in a plane crash.

The plane’s mechanic, whom she had seduced, had conveniently killed himself afterward. It had saved them the difficulty of removing him in another manner.

She hadn’t known Rutledge’s opponent would be on that charter flight, just as she didn’t know the reason for killing Martin Fowler … but reasons didn’t matter.

It would be done.

She had arrived at the motel the night before. After checking in and leaving her luggage in her unit, she had gone to the small bar off the dining room. In addition to the bartender, there were two men at the far end of the bar playing liar’s poker. They had glanced up when she entered and gone back to their game.

She ordered a vodka gimlet and waited. It annoyed her that it took five minutes for the larger of the two men to approach her.

“Buy you a drink?”

“I’m on the wagon,” she replied.

“You’re A.” A statement, not a question.

“Let’s take a booth,” she said and scooped up her drink and proceeded to the furthermost booth in the dimmest corner. The bartender’s eyes followed her with an incredulous look. He hadn’t seen a hooker of her caliber in Horton in a dog’s age.

Althea appraised the two men as they followed her to the booth. They were both large, with bulging necks that seemed barely restrained by collars and ties, and looked uncomfortable in their business suits.

“Do you have the motorcycles?” she asked.

“Two Kawasaki KDX 420’s. They’re safely hidden.”

She nodded. “Good. I’ll need one man on a bike with me, and the other in the car as backup.”

She explained the plan completely as she tried to gauge their ability.

“I think that’s him,” the man by her side said.

Althea glanced through the stand of trees that hid the motorcycles. The young man from the gas station was riding toward them. His bike tottered slightly as if he were unsure of his balance.

“That’s him,” she said. “Wait until he passes us.”

She quickly donned her helmet and snapped down the visor. They sat poised to kick start the cycles.

Martin wasn’t tired—the work hadn’t been that difficult, and he was filled with a deep satisfaction. All in all the day had gone well. At the end of the week he would be paid and would actually have real money. In a couple of months they would let him look around for his own room or apartment. Perhaps someday he could even buy a cheap car and take driving lessons.

He was pleased at the new beginning. He began to whistle “Over the Rainbow” from the Wizard of Oz movie they saw on TV each year at the home.

The sound of the motorcycles revving up startled him and he glanced to the rear. The road was empty both behind and to his front. The staccato cough of the engines drew closer, and he turned to look toward the far side of the road as both cycles broke from the trees and jounced over the dirt onto the pavement. He recognized the machines and the drivers as the two who had stopped at the station earlier in the day.

The riders made a sweeping curve so that they pulled abreast of him. Reluctantly, Martin let a hand leave the handlebars in order to give them a short wave of greeting.

There was no response from the bikers.

The motorcycles and the bicycle rode in parallel formation down the deserted road. They were in a remote area on the outskirts of town, three miles from the Victorian mansion that was the group home. Stands of tall pine bracketed the road with sparse underbrush intermittently growing between the trees.

The biker to the left of Martin began to edge his motorcycle closer to the rim of the bicycle’s wheel. Martin looked down in alarm. “Hey!”

The cycle kept coming closer, and Martin swerved to avoid an imminent collision. His bicycle jounced onto the dirt shoulder of the road, the front wheel careened off a large boulder, and he flipped off the bike and landed with a thud on his right arm. He lay immobile a moment, assuming that the motorcycles would continue on and he could pick up his vehicle and proceed to the house.

With military precision the motorcycles swerved onto the shoulder. The first machine swiveled to a stop before him, the second stopped five yards behind him. Martin scrambled to his feet, brushed his pants knees, and slowly looked from one helmeted figure to the other. “What do you want?”

The larger of the riders cut his ignition, kicked down the stand, and dismounted. He walked slowly toward Martin while twisting a length of chain that he held between his hands.

The chain whipped through the air and caught Martin painfully on the shoulder. The force of the blow knocked him to the side and backward. The man with the chain moved closer. One end of the chain now dangled back over the man’s shoulder, while the other was clenched tightly in both hands.

Martin rolled quickly to the side as the chain streaked downward and whacked the rocky roadside with a clank. He scrambled to his feet and without a backward glance at his fallen bicycle loped toward the trees.

The second cyclist, still astride her machine, pushed up her face visor. “Get him,” she commanded.

“He’s going like a bat out of hell.” The man with the chain started his cycle and turned in the direction Martin was running.

Martin ran with a bent-over stumbling stride. His breathing came in wracking sobs, not from loss of breath, but in surprise and fear due to the unexpected and unprovoked attack. He knew that he must reach the protection of the trees and lie in wait until his tormentors left.

There was a sound behind him, almost at his heels. He glanced back to see the man on the motorcycle nearly upon him. Martin took evasive action and ran in a zigzag manner, but the cyclist compensated for his movements.

The chain swished through the air and again caught him on the shoulder. The blow sent a jarring sensation through him and he fell to his knees.

The motorcycle swerved erratically as the angle of the slope increased, until the driver lost his balance. The machine tilted on its side and stalled.

Martin scrambled to his feet and ran deeper into the pine forest. He heard loud curses behind him as the man disentangled himself from his machine and finally restarted it. The sound of the second cycle was now also apparent as it approached.

His arm and shoulder were numb from the blows. As it struck him the last time, the tip of the chain had flicked up across his cheek and ripped a gash that now dripped blood.

He must keep running. He must hide. He had to find a deep thicket to crawl inside.

The chain again. It slashed across his back with sufficient force to splay him forward. He hit the ground with another jarring blow. Before he could regain his footing, his pursuer dismounted his machine and whipped the chain toward him.

Martin caught the end of the chain in his right hand. The force of its downward momentum nearly fractured his hand, but he held it and jerked forward.

It was the other man’s turn to slither face-first and groaning across the rough ground.

Althea stopped her machine at the foot of a hill twenty yards from the fighting men. She took off her helmet, threw it to the ground, and shook her head in anger. The son-of-a-bitch was botching it.

She dismounted and slipped out of her backpack. She undid two straps and impatiently pulled open the bag. The weapon, wrapped in cheesecloth, had been laid out for quick assembly. She unwrapped the barrel first, and then the trigger housing mechanism, and began to screw them together.

The gasping cyclist tore the crash helmet from his head as he and Martin faced each other. Each held an end of chain. The man had a .357 magnum strapped to his side under his jacket, and he debated dropping the chain and fumbling for the weapon. The idiot bastard holding the far end of the chain was strong as hell. He was afraid if he let go, Fowler would whip the lethal chain through the air, around his neck, and kill him. He prepared instead to jerk backward with all his force and weight.

Martin saw the man’s muscles tense and knew he was going to make a lunge to obtain full possession of the chain. The instant the man snapped the chain toward himself Martin let go of his end, and the man tumbled, landing on his back. The chain whipped forward across the man’s face, fracturing his nose.

Martin began to run. His zigzag course took him up a small rise. He ran like a hunted animal, searching for some safe lair.

Althea felt the barrel click into place and she shoved the small magazine into position under the chamber. She pulled back the bolt, engaging the first bullet, and snapped the weapon to her shoulder just as Martin topped the rise to her front. He disappeared over the far side.

“Goddamn,” she said aloud and ran forward.

She passed the fallen man who was now on all fours. With one hand he held his wounded nose that dripped blood down over his fingers, while with the other he fumbled inside his jacket for the magnum.

Without breaking stride, Althea beckoned with her weapon. “Come on.”

Martin was now able to see railroad tracks below him, winding through the shallow valley. A freight, pulled by a grimy diesel engine, was laboring up a steep grade. Several of its boxcar doors were open. He moved directly toward it, avoiding the zigzag course he had previously run—his only thought was the safety of the moving train.

The magnum boomed twice from the top of the ridge. Martin glanced back and saw a figure with fiery hair standing next to his assailant.

Althea knocked the man’s arm down. “Fool. You’ll never hit a running man at this distance with a hand gun.” She again raised the rifle to her shoulder. There would be no necessity to lead the target. The running man before her was nearly straight ahead. A clear shot at fifty yards. She couldn’t miss. The sight picture was clear … the target was properly silhouetted in the sight. Her finger squeezed, and the rifle bucked slightly against her shoulder, as the high velocity projectile streaked toward its target.

The impact knocked Martin off his feet and he skittered across the ground. Cinders and gravel from the track bed ground into his cheek and he momentarily lost his breath.

He knew he had been shot.

Althea automatically levered another shell into the chamber as her target fell. She held the small rifle at the ready as she beckoned to her companion to follow and slowly picked her way down the ridge toward the roadbed below.

For a moment, wild berry bushes obscured their view of the train as they stepped through a draw. The caboose passed them as the train, now on a downgrade, began to pick up speed.

“He should be right over here,” she said.

“Well, he ain’t,” her companion said through the handkerchief held across his broken nose.

“He’s got to be. I hit him. I know I did. I saw him fall.”

“Some dummy you picked to hit,” the man said with disgust as he kicked at the high grass.

“Shut up and let’s find him.”

They were an incongruous pair that wove across the roadbed looking for a fallen man—the woman with vivid red hair holding a rifle at her hips, and the man with the large handgun, holding a cloth across his face.

Martin Fowler lay on the floor of the empty boxcar and felt the warm seep of blood as it spread from his shoulder down the small of his back. His breath still came in gasps and his body hurt.

They had tried to kill him. They had beaten and shot him and he didn’t know why.

He hunched across the flooring and leaned back against the wall of the car, as far from the open door as he could get.

Chapter Three

Sara Bucknell stood nude before the ornate bathtub, which was supported on clawed feet. She poured bath salts from a small plastic container and marveled at the size of the tub as it filled with warm water. The tub was huge, as was almost everything else in the converted mansion that was now the halfway house.

Sara considered her job as resident director a temporary one. It was a sort of halfway house for her, too, a safe haven, a place to take stock and reorient the direction of her life.

The job squeeze had made her an academic bum. She hadn’t intended for it to turn out that way, but reality had forced her into a nomadic wandering from campus to campus.

Everyone had encouraged her during her undergraduate years; teachers, fellow students, and faculty advisors had painted a rosy picture of her life in academia. She had taken her undergraduate degree with honors, her master’s with near-honors, and although her doctoral thesis had proven more difficult, she had finally obtained the coveted Ph.D.

Fellowships, loans, and scholarships were always available. During the period of her predoctoral studies she had had teaching positions—history survey courses for freshmen—and grading themes for full professors. The income was sufficient to allow her to pay her own fees and still have enough money left for a modest standard of living.

When her course work was complete, she had accepted a one-year contract at Middleburg College as a junior instructor in American History. It had taken her all of two weeks to discover that was exactly what she had—a one-year contract, which would not be renewed. It was a simple matter of economics. There just weren’t enough tracked tenured positions available, and she was one of many doomed to an academic life of limbo in the constant search for a tenured opening.

She hadn’t found one.

Shaking her head to break the reflective mood, she noticed, with chagrin, that she had poured nearly her whole bottle of fragrance into the bath water. She turned with a bemused smile and replaced the nearly empty container on the shelf by the door. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror bolted to the room’s door.

She was high-waisted, long-legged, and small-bosomed, with a round gaminlike face that seemed to belie her innate intelligence. She ran a hand over the tight curls of her close-cropped hair. Still not too bad, she thought. She might be pushing thirty, but her body was taut and firm. She turned from the mirror and climbed into the tub, sinking up to her neck gratefully in the warm fragrant water.

The house was quieting around her. The TV was still on in the large living room which ran nearly the length of the house, but most of her charges were abed.

Her eyelids half closed in the luxury of the warm soothing water; she might have fallen asleep if there hadn’t been that one nagging thought.

Where in hell was Martin Fowler?

When he hadn’t arrived home by eight, she had called Mr. Dunn, the service station owner, at home. The querulous old man had told her that Martin had left on his bike at five-thirty. He had nearly hung up on her.

The halfway house wasn’t more than half an hour’s bike ride from the station at the center of town. Martin should have arrived at six or no later than six-thirty if he had dawdled.

She would have to go looking for him. First, she would call the authorities, and then the medical clinic. If they didn’t have any information, she would dress and take the van to retrace his route.

Sara climbed reluctantly from the tub and began to towel off.

Althea’s hand lashed out and rained a stinging blow across the man’s face. “You blew it!”

“I thought he was supposed to be a dummy. I figured I could take him easy.”

“You aren’t being paid to figure. I told you to chase the train. The tracks run parallel to the road.”

“It took me to Dawsonville to catch it and I couldn’t find him. I don’t know if he jumped off or was hiding. Hell, you shot him—maybe he died.”

“Don’t you think he moved rather quickly for a dying man?” She poured herself a heavy dollop of bourbon and half filled the glass with ginger ale. It would wreak hell with her diet, but tonight she needed a drink. She sat back in the single easy chair in the motel room and appraised with distaste her accomplice sitting uneasily on the edge of the bed.

“We should have shot him right away and forgot the games.”

“Our contact didn’t want him shot except as a last resort.”

“What do we do?”

“We go looking for him,” Althea said. “We start looking now and keep looking until we find him.” Their quarry was tired and wounded. They would start with the area doctors, clinics, and hospitals. They would locate him and they would take him.

She drained a third of her drink. “And then we kill him.”

He lay against the track embankment with his face pressed painfully into the gravel. His body ached, and any movement caused sharp shooting pains to course through injured muscles with such severity that he groaned aloud.

He struggled to his feet, wobbled, half fell, and pushed himself up again. He had to get back to the house. He had to talk to Miss Bucknell. She would know what to do.

Martin staggered away from the railroad tracks. He wondered how far from home he was. The bleeding from the wound in his shoulder had stopped, but there was still a dull ache in the area. His body was bruised from the chain slashes, and the jump from the slowly moving freight had skinned his knees and palms.

A car passed on a distant road and for a brief moment its headlights illuminated the direction. His gait was uncertain and the darkening day made him stumble over rocks and small brush as he pushed toward the road.

Would they be there? Had they been following the freight just waiting for him to leave the boxcar and deliver himself into their hands? What had he done to be so punished? He had tried to work hard that day and give the Dunns their money’s worth. He had obviously done something wrong, but didn’t know what it was.

It had happened at Mohawk, too.

He pressed on toward the road, occasionally falling or stumbling, and again his breath came in choking gasps that sent more pain surging through his body.

As he reached the road, he stopped. He knew that if he walked along the shoulder, he would eventually reach the home, but he was unsure how far he had come. He also knew that he looked terrible. He was used to people staring, but now with his bleeding … they might stop and do more things to him. He decided to walk on the far side of the road shoulder and stay hidden in the shadows.

Martin Fowler stumbled through the pain-filled night, his eyes sporadically reflecting the glare of oncoming headlights as he continued toward the safety of the halfway house.

In the rear downstairs hallway, Sara Bucknell hung up the phone. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Calls to the local hospital, police, and doctors revealed that no one had seen Martin Fowler. Three weeks on the job and she had lost her first charge.

Opening her eyes, she looked down the long passage at the heavy oak front door with its brass fittings and stained glass at the transom and sides. The Meegan Home for the Educable Mentally Exceptional might invoke memories of nineteenth-century strength and character, but that would be of little help in finding Martin.

She wanted to avoid calling Ray Heath at the training school. Calling him would be tantamount to an admission of failure.

The loud sound of the television in the main living room intruded on her consciousness. Four of the boys—no, men—were still watching a movie. She pushed away from the wall and peeked through the rear door into the living room. They were sitting in a row on the long couch before the television, and seemed entranced by the program. They would come to no harm, she thought. Perhaps they would stay up later than they should and watch the late show … but they could fend while she searched for Martin.

Picking up the van keys, she slipped out the kitchen door and hurried to the parked vehicle.

As she drove toward Horton, she was careful to observe both sides of the road. When the van reached the crossroads that comprised the major portion of the small town, she drove onto the apron of Dunn’s Service Station and stopped. The station was closed and dark, its pumps standing stiffly in the night as if guarding the premises.

Old Mr. Dunn had told her over the phone that Martin had left at five-thirty. He would have ridden the bike down Main Street toward Route 20 and the halfway house. Sara put the van in gear and began to slowly retraced route.

About two miles outside of town she noticed something pick up the gleam from her headlights. She braked the van and backed up.

The shiny object that lay beyond the shoulder was difficult to make out from the road so she took a flashlight from the glove compartment and started up the hill toward the stand of pines at the crest.

The bike lay on its side. The front fender had been dented and several spokes canted obscenely outside the wheel. Shining a small pool of light down on the wrecked bike, she decided that it had been forcibly ridden up the hill.

She swiveled the light around the area and called out, “Martin! Martin! Are you here?”

The wind in the trees answered and a train whistle sounded mournfully in the distance.

“Martin!” she called again without response.

Sara walked reluctantly back to the van. If she didn’t find Martin tonight, she would return to this area in the morning, when she could search properly in daylight. She was certain the wreck was Martin’s bike, but what had happened to him? She began to drive slowly toward Dawsonville, still inspecting shoulders for any sign of her missing charge.

In Dawsonville, she turned the van around in the railroad station parking lot and began to make her way back to Meegan House.

Four miles from Dawsonville something scurried from the side of the road into the brush, away from the illumination of her headlights. She braked, immediately took out the flashlight again, and stepped from the vehicle, shining the light toward the brush. “Martin, is that you?” No answer. “Martin, it’s Sara … Miss Bucknell.”

A choking gasp came from the brush in front of her, and a figure, a near-apparition, rose from behind the protective covering and stumbled toward her.

Sara involuntarily stepped back as the figure approached. “My God, Martin. What’s happened to you?”

“Miss Bucknell … I … they …” He stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t clutched the van’s window frame.

“You’ve been beaten,” she said.

“Motorcycles … two of them … one with a chain … ruined my bike … I got on a train …”

She put his arm over her shoulder, helped him around the side of the van, and levered him onto the seat. He lay his head back against the seat rest with his mouth half open, gasping for breath.

She drove rapidly back toward Meegan House, glancing with concern at the injured man by her side. “Why did they do it?”

“I don’t know. They just did.”

“Two men on motorcycles … They were probably part of one of those sadistic bike gangs.”

“A woman. One was a woman.”

They were approaching the mansion, and Sara debated about continuing on to Horton and taking Martin to the small hospital located there. Ray Heath, the chief psychologist at the training school, had informed her when she took the job that they had run into difficulty with the citizens of Horton over establishing the halfway house. Petitions had been signed, and so-called concerned citizens had objected to the location of what they termed “a home for dummies” in their fair city.

Martin’s respiration seemed to be returning to normal. She would examine him fully at the house before calling for medical aid. It was too early in the home’s history to involve local law and medical officials unless it was absolutely essential.

Except for the still flickering television set in the living room, the mansion’s downstairs was empty. Since Martin’s quarters upstairs were shared with another man, she helped him into her room located at the rear of the first floor.

He fell across the bed when she released him.

Sara turned Martin over on the bed, adjusting his head comfortably on the pillow, and then removed his heavy brogans. His shirt was caked with dried blood, and in order to remove it, she had to cut it into strips and peel it off his body. She brought in a basin of warm water from the bathroom and pulled her large first-aid kit from under the bed.

When she had bathed his chest and upper torso with warm water mixed with an antiseptic solution, she found the slashing flesh wound across his shoulder.

The bullet had passed completely across the shoulder, leaving a gaping bloody gully.

She applied more antiseptic and dressed the wound carefully. When the bullet wound was firmly bandaged she began to administer to his cut and ravaged face. She winced as she bathed him. He had suffered a cruel beating.

She stepped back thoughtfully. Martin needed medical aid. The wounds might heal with her first aid, but the possibility of infection was too strong to be denied. She turned from the wounded man asleep on the bed and walked back into the hallway to the telephone. A half-page of typewriter paper with a dozen names and phone numbers was Scotch-taped over the phone. She ran her fingers down the list until she found the one she wanted:

“Dr. D. Strickland, Horton Hospital, Tel—388-3882.”

Sara dialed the number and waited while the hospital operator paged Dr. Strickland.

“Strickland here,” said a laconic voice.

“I’m Sara Bucknell, doctor. I’m the resident director at Meegan House and one of my charges is hurt.”

“Get him to the Emergency Room. How is he hurt?”

“Beaten.”

“Any fractures?”

“I don’t believe so.”

She detected an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “Meegan House, isn’t that the Victorian monstrosity on the Pike?”

“Yes.”

“I was about to go home. I live a couple of miles past you in that small red A-frame off the road. Suppose I stop in on my way home? Say twenty minutes?”

“That would be fine. Thank you.”

She gave a start as she opened the massive oak front door. The bearded man on the stoop holding a medical bag was her age.

“Dr. Strickland?” she asked tentatively.

“No. Jack the Ripper. I just found this medical bag on the front walk. Where’s the patient?”

She led him to the rear bedroom, and his facetiousness faded as he bent over the sleeping Martin. After a few minutes he turned to open his bag. “Someone did a number on this guy. One of your other charges?” He took a disposable syringe from his bag and prepared to inject Martin with an antibiotic.

“No. No one here. I found him by the side of the road. He mumbled something about people on motorcycles.”

“Uh huh.” He deftly flicked the needle into Martin. “That’s a gunshot wound on his shoulder.”

“I thought it was.”

He bent back over Martin and cleansed the wounds again and began to bandage. “I’ll have to call the gendarmes.”

“I hate to see this get into the newspapers. The superintendent of the training school told me that they had a terrible time with the local people when they opened Meegan. We’d like to keep a low profile.”

“Maybe he was robbing banks and you’re harboring an arch criminal.”

“Come on, Dr. Strickland.”

“Call me Don. No banks?”

“Not even a small liquor store.”

“A couple of transient sadists?”

“That’s what I think.”

He finished working on Martin and turned to her. Their eyes met and locked. Sara felt a spark between them.

“You ought to see it around here during deer hunting season,” Strickland continued. “If I had to report every gunshot wound, I’d be up to my gluteus maximus in paperwork.” He smiled his ingenuous grin again. “Of course I get a lot of free venison that way.”

“I can offer you a peanut butter sandwich.”

“How about dinner on Saturday?”

“I owe you one.”

“Dinner or a favor?”

“Both,” she replied.

“I know a local steakhouse that mixes a mean drink.”

Sara nodded. “That would be fine. Will Martin be all right?”

“God, yes. He’ll be sore as hell in the morning, but we’ve stopped infection, I think. Look at the musculature on that guy. They must major in body building at that school.” He closed his bag. “Keep an eye open for fever and give me a call at the Emergency Room in the morning.”

“I really appreciate your coming.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get my bill. Saturday?”

“Sixish.”

“I’ll be here.”

After she escorted Strickland to the front door, Sara returned to the bedroom and looked down at Martin. She felt a wave of compassion for him. Awake, his features were a shade too expressionless to be handsome, but asleep he was sweetly attractive.

Of course all her charges were fairly normal in outward appearance. It was only after prolonged conversation that you discovered that they reacted as a ten- or twelve-year-old might.

Such vulnerable men. She was deeply angered with those who had tortured Martin.

Sara Bucknell sank into the lone easy chair near the bed and lit a low night-light. She would keep the vigil.

“This is Sara Bucknell, Mr. Dunn. Martin is ill today and won’t be able to come to the station.”

“He don’t get his ass down here, he don’t have a job.”

“He really can’t come in today, sir. He … he had an accident on the way home last night.”

“His leg broke?”

“No, but he’s banged up a bit.”

“Get him in here.”

“I really can’t. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Then I got to get someone else. My arthritis won’t allow me to pump gas, and Junior is busy in the service end. I got to have someone in here … now. How ’bout another of those dummies you have up there?”

“They aren’t dummies, Mr. Dunn. They are educable.”

“I don’t care what they are … get someone in here or Martin’s out of a job.”

The phone clicked dead in Sara’s hand. She slowly hung up and listened for a moment to the creaking sounds of the large, now almost empty house. The others had left for work, and none would return until four. Martin had fallen back into a deep sleep after she had fed him soup early that morning. He would probably sleep the day through.

Jobs in Horton for her clients were hard to find: If Martin lost the service station job, he might have to return to the training school. There was only one thing to do.

Sara walked back to her bedroom to change into jeans and sneakers.

“You!”

The service station owner’s mouth gaped open to reveal a chasm where two teeth had once resided.

“Why not,” Sara said. “I’ll fill in for a day or two until Martin’s better. Fair enough?”

“You ever pump before?”

“Most of the stations I’ve stopped at are self-service. I’ve pumped my share of gasoline.”

“Minimum wage is all you get.”

She forced her best student-teacher smile to her face. “That’s all I expect.”

By the end of the first hour Sara realized that every time she bent under the hood of a car, Dunn Junior was staring lasciviously out of the service bay at her rump. She quickly straightened and turned. He was leering at her. Their eyes met until he waved and turned back to finish a lube job.

By the end of the second hour he was periodically sauntering over to help her service cars.

Sara accepted a Canadian twenty for a fill-up. Junior was standing nearby. “What’s the arbitrage on Canadian dollars?” she asked him.

“Huh?”

“The arbitrage … the difference?”

“You mean how much we give them for it?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Ten percent. Can you figure that?”

“I’ll manage.” She quickly made change and the car drove off.

“I’ll fill your grease pit any time you like, doll.” Junior’s mouth was partly agape with a large band of saliva clinging to the corner.

Sara looked at him steadily. “Oh, really?”

“You talk funny, you know that? You talk like you’re from one of those fancy girls’ schools.”

“I’ll try and keep it under control.”

“You wanna mess around?”

Sara looked directly at him. “Don’t hit on me, asshole, or I’ll crack you one.”

Junior’s mouth gaped open further. It was remarkable how closely father and son resembled each other, she thought as he returned sullenly to the service bay.

A dark sedan pulled alongside the pumps and Sara went over to the driver’s window. “Yes?” she asked as she leaned toward the open window and found herself staring at a redheaded woman with the most incredible violet gray eyes.

“I’m looking for someone. I was here yesterday, and there was a young man named Martin Fowler here. Do you know where he is?”

“Did he do something wrong?” Sara asked.

The redhead laughed. “Good Lord, no. I would just like to find him.”

“Perhaps I can help you?”

“I left something here yesterday and I thought he might know where it is.”

“Oh, what is that?”

The woman hesitated. Their eyes met in direct contact. “Nothing really important. A small item, a pen, but it had a sentimental value. I must have left it on the clipboard when I signed the credit card slip.”

“I’ll ask in the office.”

“Don’t bother.” The redheaded woman turned the ignition and the engine started.

“He should be back to work in a day or two.”

“A day or two … thank you.” The dark sedan drove off the apron and turned down Main Street. Sara watched until it was out of sight.

Chapter Four

Martin Fowler’s eyes snapped open. For an instant he smiled with the thought that he was back in the familiar surroundings of his small room at the training school. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light that seeped through the drawn curtains he slowly realized that he was in a strange place.

Where was he?

He had a vague, dreamlike remembrance of stumbling along the road’s shoulder. A car … a van … had stopped, and he had been helped inside. It was Miss Bucknell. He was sure of it.

As he sat up in bed, he winced at the stinging pain that shot across his shoulder blades. He inched his way erect, slowly. The room was slightly familiar. He had seen this room briefly through an open door. Yes, it was Miss Bucknell’s room, and he was in her bed at the halfway house.

He became aware of the bandages and ointment that covered his wound and bruises. She had taken care of him, undressed and washed him.

The fear returned.

It was not fear of physical abuse or a beating. He had suffered that too many times at the training school—not from the staff, but from some of the charges whose physical bodies and strength were those of adults, but whose mental capacities were of small and unruly children, and who vented great anger at being thwarted at the most trivial incident.

The unknown and unprovoked nature of the onslaught frightened him. He had learned to avoid attacks at school by the simple expedient of staying away from those who were violently inclined, but yesterday’s incident was devoid of reason.

The school was his sanctuary, his home, and he yearned to return to its safety and security.

A slight squeak.

His body tensed and again the bruises signaled his battered body of their location.

Footsteps sounded in the downstairs hall near the stairs.

He levered himself carefully from the bed and reached for his trousers hanging over a nearby ladderback chair. Painfully, he stuffed one leg and then the other into the pants.

A voice from down the hall. “They’re all gone. I been sitting out there since six a goddamn o’clock and I counted. The woman too. She left near eight.”

A hoarse whisper. “Keep it down. His room’s upstairs.”

Footsteps … quiet as if purposely muffled. Martin eased the door open a crack and looked down the hall toward the front stairs.

Two men were poised by the banister at the foot of the steps. One had a hand on the balustrade.

The man with the gun in his right hand was the same one who yesterday afternoon had clenched a whirling chain. Martin closed the door quietly and felt the tremble begin in his knees as spasms worked their way up his body.

He knew they were after him. They would search the house until they found him, so he must hide.

Barbados.

The word sprang into his mind with a ringing clarity. He didn’t know what it meant, but it seemed to signal further fear from another time.

He must find a hiding place. He was afraid to leave the room because they might hear him in the hall or notice the squeaking screen on the back door.

Briefly, he considered slithering under the bed and huddling against the wall, but rejected the idea, remembering something from the past. In a dim time, long ago, he saw himself as a small, frightened child who sneaked under the bed. Attendants, huge adults in a child’s retrospect, poked with broom handles until the pain forced him out.

Martin stepped toward the closet. The door was open a few inches, and he eased it further aside and slipped inside. He could smell her fragrance on the hanging clothes. Gently, he pushed a rack of summer dresses and slipped to the back of the closet. Then he pulled the clothing back over the rod and hid his feet behind a suitcase on the floor.

The house spoke its familiar sounds. A gentle wind brushed the cupola on the roof, and the squeak of an ancient weather vane could barely be perceived.

Steps overhead. Stealthy, hurried footfalls. They had finished with the room he shared with Roger and were now methodically checking the other rooms on the second floor.

Barbados.

Again the word he could not fathom, except to know the fear it provoked was somehow connected with what was now happening.

They were coming down the stairs. He heard the protest of a floorboard midway down the flight. Next they were in the main hallway. Then one was in the living room, the other checking the dining room.

The nearly silent steps, which he had to strain to hear, approached the room where he hid.

The door to the bedroom opened.

“This is the broad’s room,” a voice said.

“Check it anyway, idiot.”

A grunt, as a large man fell to his hands and knees to peer under the bed. The door to the closet was yanked open. A hand pushed aside the rack of clothes and they squeaked in protest as the hangers moved across the metal rod.

A hand with fat fingers, inches from his face. Then the clothing was returned to normal position. The door slammed.

They hadn’t seen him and he heard them leave the room. His knees continued to tremble.

Barbados.

Again so clear and terrifying.

Rutledge Galation Baxter fully intended to be president of the United States and the reporter from Time’s Washington Bureau knew it. The newsman stood next to the rowing machine in the Senate gym with his ballpoint pen poised over a lined steno pad. He watched the senator’s arms and shoulder muscles bunch as he stroked the oars.

The reporter adjusted the steel-rim glasses on his nose and looked up. “I’ll need to include the usual background on you, sir. I understand that you are a West Point graduate?”

“A year at VMA first and then class of ’55. On active duty I served primarily with the special forces and retired as a full colonel after twenty years. But you can get that kind of material from the bio my office hands out.”

The reporter nodded. Rutledge tightened the rowing mechanism to its most difficult position and began to stroke. The increased tension on the machine caused the cords of muscles on his forearms and shoulders to stand out in bold relief.

“The Baxters were in banking, weren’t they?”

Rutledge knew that the man had done his homework and the casual question was actually pointed. He carefully considered his reply, hiding the delay by an increase in his rowing speed. After a dozen more strokes he stopped and stepped out of the machine. He toweled his perspiring face. “Insurance actually. My father was primary stockholder in the Patrick Henry Group.”

“I would assume those shares passed to you on his death?”

“And to my sister.” The senator smiled in the boyish manner that had become his trademark. “They—my shares—are worth eight million, if that’s of any interest.”

“You’re most candid, sir.”

“I have nothing to hide.” The reporter hovered by his elbow as he walked toward the shower room.

An attendant dressed in starched white duck pants and a form-fitting tee shirt signaled to Rutledge. “Phone, sir. You can take it in the office.”

Rutledge smiled, waved, and strode briskly to the small glass-fronted office where he snatched up the phone from its cradle. “Senator Baxter here.”

“You damn well assigned me a couple of ding-a-lings,” Althea said curtly.

“Are you sure your end of this phone is safe?” Baxter’s voice was sonorous even in routine conversation.

“Who the hell knows? I’m in a piping hot phone booth in some hicksburg called Dawsonville. If anybody’s tapping the line here, they’re doing it with an oatmeal box and a ball of twine.”

“You want more help up there?”

“No. It would just bring in more people that shouldn’t know. I’ll muddle through with what I have. I guess it’s bad luck, but for the time being, it seems that your friend has disappeared.”

“I’ll put a routine call through to the training school. That might turn up something.”

“I’ll call back on schedule,” she said as she prepared to hang up.

“Althea.” His voice was impelling and insistent.

She hesitated and put the receiver back to her ear. “Yes?”

“You know I count on you. You’ve never failed me yet.”

“I know,” she replied and then hung up with resolution. Leaving the phone booth, she walked back toward the car. George and Henry were sitting in the front seat like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, both staring straight ahead as if acknowledging her presence would be the revelation of a secret they should not possess. She slammed into the back of the car. “Turn up the damn air conditioner,” she snapped with irritation.

Tweedledum, also known as George, immediately switched the air conditioner to high. Tweedledee turned the ignition and threw the car in gear. They left the curb with a faint squeal of tires.

The driver looked up into the rearview mirror at her reflection. “Where to?” Henry asked.

Althea closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. She visualized the random numbers that were the code sequence for the next calling time and location of the pay phone. The town of Abbott at 3:00 P.M. clicked into place.

“Where to, Al?” Henry repeated impatiently.

“Don’t call me that. We’ve got time to kill. Drive around and see if you can find a decent place to eat. Some place where they know how to make a drinkable martini.”

Through some marvelous accident they located the Leather-stocking Inn only a half-dozen miles from the location of Althea’s last phone call. The dining room was cozy, the cocktail glasses iced, the vodka martinis mixed to perfection. She noticed with distaste that her companions had steins of beer.

She would dawdle over her cocktail, have a small lean steak for lunch, and then make the contact. Rutledge, or someone in his employ, would have information that would allow them to proceed.

Rutledge had given her the life she wanted. Somehow the boyish-appearing senator seemed able to sense a proclivity to violence that lurked beneath the surface of certain people. They became lovers, and he sensed it in her. Through his assignments she had moved into a role that was far more exciting … in her case, more fulfilling, than anything she had done before.

Sara Bucknell kept working at her nails with the small brush. The damn grease still wouldn’t come out. She was tired. The day of physical labor—bending and rushing outside in the hot sun—had fatigued her far more than she would have imagined.

She wondered with further irritation where Martin was. She had assumed he would still be in her bed asleep when she arrived home from the service station. Well, if he were well enough to run around the grounds, he would be well enough to get his hide to work in the morning.

“Phone call, Miss Bucknell.”

“Thank you, Roger,” she yelled through the bathroom door as she dried her hands quickly and rushed to the wall phone in the hallway.

“Sara, it’s Ray.”

She felt a warm glow and unconsciously brushed a stray strand of hair back from her forehead. “Hi, darling,” she answered and then furtively glanced down the hall to see if any of her charges had heard the term of endearment. She wondered, with a slight smile, if the others suspected she was sleeping with the school’s chief psychologist.

“Is Martin Fowler there? I mean, is he in the house now?”

She was slightly taken aback. “I don’t know, Ray. He was here this morning. I just got in myself. Let me find out.”

She let the phone dangle from its cord as she quickly hurried to the living room. The television was on and several of the home’s occupants were grouped before it. “Roger, have you seen Martin?”

“He’s out in the barn … like he’s hiding or something.”

“Are you sure he’s there?”

“Sure. I saw him a couple a minutes ago.”

She nodded, “Thanks,” and rushed back to the phone. “Martin’s outside, Ray. Do you want me to get him?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Is he still working at the service station job?”

“Why, yes, he is. Why the sudden interest in Martin?”

“Damned if I know,” was the near-hearty reply. “Some big mucky-muck in Albany was making inquiry. Seems that Martin piqued some interest in one of the VIPs who was at Camp Mohawk recently. They wanted to make sure he was getting along all right.”

“Sure, he’s fine.” The lie was automatic and she wondered why she had told it. Martin was not fine. Martin had been beaten to a pulp yesterday, shot, and nearly lost his job today. She hesitated a moment, but hated to make the long explanation over the phone. “When will I see you again, darling?”

“Not this weekend, but I can break away next week for a three-dayer.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll call you on Tuesday,” he answered. “Have to rush and call Albany back with the info. Bye, love.”

She hung up and left the house to go out to the barn to find Martin.

He was in the loft and had obviously been watching the double doors, for he appeared above her as she stood in the circle of light in the center of the barn. “That you, Miss Bucknell?”

“Come on down, Martin.” She watched as he slowly climbed down the ladder from the hayloft. “What are you doing in here?”

He stood before her like a small boy caught in some unconscionable act. “They were here today, Miss Bucknell.”

“Who?”

“Two men. One of them was the one who beat me yesterday. They sneaked into the house and came looking for me and I hid in your closet.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just imagining things, Martin?”

“No, ma’am.”

She realized with a start that she was dealing with this man who was nearly her own age with the condescension most adults reserved for children. And yet in a way, these educable retarded were children.

“You were frightened yesterday, Martin. You had a rough night and were probably half-delirious most of the day. Perhaps you imagined they came into the house.”

“I saw them, Miss Bucknell.”

“You thought you saw them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, come on inside and let’s get ready for dinner. Remember, we all have to help with the chores.”

He followed her dutifully back across the yard and through the squeaking rear screen door.

“If it will make you feel better tomorrow,” Sara continued, “I’ll drive you to and from work.”

“Thank you.”

The argument at breakfast started over the prize in the Coco-Pops cereal package. Martin sat at the far end of the table, opposite Sara, and stared mournfully down into a bowl of com flakes. He was oblivious to the confrontation going on around him.

Roger stood, reached across the table, and snatched the Coco-Pops out of the hand of Nicholas Baker.

“It’s my turn!” he said as he reached deep into the cereal with his fingers in a search for the hidden prize.

“No fair!” Nicholas shouted back. “You have to wait until you eat to where the prize is.”

“That’s enough!” Sara said more harshly than she intended. “I’ll take that.” She grasped the offending package and aligned it alongside her own cereal dish. “Roger, you can have corn flakes.”

“I don’t like corn flakes.”

“You had better hurry or you’ll be late to the hospital. And that goes for all of you.” She looked over the table at her charges. Several of the men worked at the Horton Hospital, and several more for the State Forestry Service doing maintenance chores in the Adirondack State Forest that surrounded the area. They worked hard, and once they were taught and had mastered a task, they would perform it well hour after hour. They could be a definite asset to society, she thought; and if all went well, would eventually maintain themselves with only occasional supervision. Meegan House was the first step, and as Ray Heath had told her, they would make periodic evaluations and gradually move those that were able to function into their own apartments and rooms. It was a lengthy process, but a worthwhile one.

Martin’s face looked terrible. He seemed physically recovered from the beating, although he moved one arm awkwardly from stiffness due to his wound. He would need makeup to cover the most blatant of his facial bruises.

“If you’re through with your breakfast, Martin,” she said, “I’d like to see you in my room.”

A chorus of whoops and “oh, ohs” went up from the table.

“Miss Bucknell likes Martin,” Roger chortled.

Sara, at the archway to the living room, turned. “We’ll leave the door open.” She went back to her bedroom and Martin followed her.

He stood in the doorway as she searched through her dresser looking for makeup that would disguise his bruises. “I don’t want to go,” he said.

“I said I’d drive you to work. And at five-thirty I’ll pick you up in the van and bring you home.” She beckoned to him and he sat stiffly on the edge of her bed.

“I still hurt,” he said.

“Of course you do, but you can make it. You want to keep your job, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

She peeled his tee shirt up and over his head and began to knead his shoulders. Occasionally, he winced, but his eyes half closed. “You’re very strong, Martin. I know you can do it.” As her hands rippled across the firm muscles of his back, she looked over his shoulder into the mirror. He just missed being handsome—that dull expression—she thought. His body was tanned and well proportioned and …

She stood abruptly and hurried to the bathroom where she made a pretense of searching through the medicine chest. “I’ll get something for your face,” she called out.

Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She had felt attracted to a man who was her charge, and who by some accident of genes or birth trauma was nearly a child.

Ray Heath, where are you when I need you? she thought. She found the makeup she needed and returned to the bedroom. Standing stiffly before Martin, Sara began to apply the lotion to hide his wounds.

Roger Toumy loved to mop floors, and the hospital cafeteria was his favorite place because the results were so dramatic. The restaurant’s floor was a white tile, and new construction for a south wing had spread dirt and sand on the outside walks which was tracked into the cafeteria. Roger dipped the mop into the wheeled bucket, pulled it halfway out and stepped on the lever to activate the wringer. He watched water drip fom the mop strands and then swished the mop from the bucket and began to do a new section of floor.

“Young man.”

Roger stopped mopping, stood erect, and turned to the table near where he was working. He hoped his white duck pants and tunic were clean and looked like a real uniform. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied sharply.

“You live in Meegan House, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I have a nephew there. Perhaps you know him, Martin … Martin Fowler.”

“Martin and I are roommates,” he replied with pride.

“Is that right? How nice. Is Martin there now?”

“He will be when he gets off work.”

“Then he is at work today?”

“Miss Bucknell took him. I saw them go out.”

“You like Miss Bucknell?”

“She’s all right. I think she likes Martin.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“The other night, when they thought I was asleep, I heard her drive up and come into the house with her arm around Martin. They went into the bedroom and didn’t come out all night.”

“They’re good friends?”

“She took him to her bedroom this morning,” Roger said with pride at his powers of observation. “I peeked. He had his shirt off and she was rubbing him.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I like your hair,” Roger said. “Red is my favorite color.”

As she drove the van into the gas station to pick him up, Martin’s face beamed with the most expression she had ever witnessed him exhibit. She reached over and unlatched the passenger door. “Hop in,” Sara said cheerily.

Dunn Senior looked up from his place at the desk in the office and scowled, while Junior leered at her from behind a battery charger. Martin climbed in the van and slammed the door.

“Home, sir?” she asked.

“Yep.”

She drove out of the station and turned down Main Street. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Do we have to go home this way?” His body tensed in the seat.

She looked down Main Street. Of course, she should have known. They were approaching the area where he had been attacked. “We’ll take Mountain Avenue,” she said with the same note of cheer. “It’s longer, but more scenic.” She swerved down a side street. “How’d it go at work today?”

“Okay.”

“Junior giving you a hard time?”

“No more than usual.”

She turned onto Mountain Avenue and soon they were out of town and in open country. The road wound up a hill, allowing a panoramic view of the Adirondacks rising from the valley floor. The day was slightly overcast and the peaks of the higher mountains were topped with clouds.

Ordinarily Sara would slow along this stretch of road in order to enjoy the view, but tonight her concern was for the man by her side.

“You know, Martin. We have to view what happened to you the other day in proper perspective.” She paused for a moment and saw that he was staring directly ahead without visible reaction. “What I mean is, we can’t let the fact that a couple of hoodlums attacked you spoil your new life at Meegan House.”

He turned to look at her. His eyes seemed to contain large pools of hurt. “I don’t know that I like my new life.”

“You will. You have to give it time. You will only be with me until you’re secure in your job. Then we’ll begin to look for a room … perhaps you can take driving lessons. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would have.”

“Don’t make it in the past tense, Martin.”

“I don’t like being hurt.”

“No one does. You’ll probably never see them again.”

“They came by the house.”

“You thought they did. It’s like things that go bump in the night.”

He looked at her again, and she glanced his way until their eyes met and she looked rapidly back at the road. “I am not a child, Miss Bucknell.”

“Oh, God, Martin, of course you’re not. I didn’t mean to be condescend—childish in the way I talked to you. I’m sorry.”

They drove on in silence for a few moments. “Has anyone ever attacked you before?”

“And tried to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Couple of times. The only place I’m safe is at school,” he said.

“Who tried to kill you the first time?”

“My mother,” he replied tonelessly.

The truck hit the right rear fender of the van with such force that Sara momentarily lost her grip on the wheel. Their vehicle skidded toward the fragile guardrail as she fought for control. She gripped the wheel with all her strength and was finally able to regain control and swerve away from the rail.

The truck hit them again, this time further along the body, and the van careened sideways across the pavement.

“They’re going to kill us!” Martin yelled.

Again the truck struck. Sara lost any semblance of control as the van canted against the guardrail.

The truck struck again and the van plummeted through the railing and jounced down the steep grade. The violent descent threw Sara and Martin to and fro within the cab.

The wheels fought for traction, but the rate of decline and gravelly grade made their route erratic. Suddenly a large rock in the vehicle’s path caused it to tip sideways and begin to roll.

They came to an abrupt stop as the van reached the bottom of the steep grade. The smell of gasoline was all-pervasive in the passenger compartment.

Martin crawled through the window and ran away from the burning van. The flames, whipped by a stiff wind, were beginning to move from the rear to the front of the vehicle.

He turned and yelled. “Miss Bucknell! Sara!” No answer.

He ran back to the van and around to the driver’s side. He could see her slumped over the steering wheel. He reached in and shook her shoulder, but she only slid sideways on the seat. “Miss Bucknell!”

He jerked at the door, but it was wedged shut. He scurried around the burning vehicle to the passenger’s side and crawled through the window. Grabbing Sara’s shoulders, he pulled her toward him.

The flames were spreading. In seconds the van would be filled with fire and might explode. He felt her body slide free.

He put his hands under her knees and lifted her to waist level as he stumbled across the rocky ground.

He had gone twenty yards when the van exploded with a force whose shockwave knocked him forward onto the ground.

Sara moaned as Martin shielded her body with his.

Chapter Five

“We found a half-empty liquor bottle in the glove compartment. We’d like a blood test run to determine your alcohol level.” The state trooper held his wide-brimmed hat between his hands as he stood by the gurney in the Emergency Room of the small hospital.

The young bearded doctor lounging against the counter shook his head. “No way. My patient is not in any condition for samples at this time.”

The trooper looked irritable. “Come on, doc. You only need to take a couple of cc’s.”

The beard shook again. “I’m extremely concerned about her electrolyte imbalance. Any further tests would be detrimental to her possible subdural hematoma.”

“How’s Martin—the man who was with me at the accident?” Sara asked.

The trooper shook his head. “Weren’t no one else there when we arrived, ma’am.”

“He was right beside me when we went off … through the rail.”

The trooper shook his head again. It seemed to Sara that everyone wanted to communicate with head shakes.

“You were the only one in the ambulance,” the doctor said.

Sara sat up and for a brief moment felt dizzy. The room steadied and the momentary double image refocused. “He was with me, I tell you. Right beside me. He could have been thrown from the van and be lying out there right now—dying.”

“No, ma’am,” the trooper said. “Weren’t no one else anywhere near that vehicle. We searched, you can count on it.”

Sara lay back on the gurney. “A truck deliberately ran us off the road.”

The trooper whipped a small pad from his breast pocket. “What kind of truck? Did you get the marker number?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was too busy fighting for control of the van. I didn’t notice much of anything except that it kept hitting us until we went over the side.”

The highway patrolman looked at her dubiously. “Weren’t no truck there when we arrived either.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be if they ran us off the road on purpose.”

Strickland took the police officer by the elbow and steered him from the small examining room. “She needs rest now. She can give you a statement tomorrow.”

“What’s all this talk about electrolyte imbalance?” Sara asked Don Strickland when he returned.

He smiled. “I got busted in college for carrying a couple of joints. Damn near didn’t get into medical school. It made me a little paranoid, so, a little subterfuge.” He took a small penlight from his pocket and began to peer into her right eye.

“To protect me from the minions of the law?”

“What else?” He proceeded to examine her other eye. “This isn’t your week, is it?”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“Sure,” he said as he replaced the light in his breast pocket. He made a few rapid notations in her chart.

“What about the phone call?”

“I’ll have one jacked in the wall here so you won’t have to move. I’d like you to stay the night, just in case. You had a nasty bump there. I’ll send an admissions clerk in to fill out the forms, and we’ll move you to a room.”

“The phone, please?”

A few minutes later, an orderly brought in the phone and jacked it into the wall. With shaking fingers, Sara dialed Meegan House. The phone rang a half-dozen times before it was answered.

“Yeah.”

“Who’s this?”

“Roger. Who’s this?”

“Miss Bucknell, Roger. Is Martin there?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“I ain’t seen him.”

“Haven’t seen him,” she replied automatically and nearly bit her tongue in frustration. She certainly had a lot to learn in handling these people. “I want you to listen carefully. Roger. Leave the phone off the hook and get the other boys … the other people and search the house, yard, and the barn for Martin. It’s very important that I find out if he’s home.”

“You like Martin, huh?”

“I like all of you, Roger, but Martin was in an accident and I’m worried about him.”

“Okay.”

She heard the phone clank and clank again as it hung from its cord, swinging back and forth against the wall. It took an eternity, a black eternity, until Roger came back and picked up the phone. She clenched the receiver with damp palms. “Is he there!” she nearly screamed.

“Nope. Not unless he’s hiding in a real good place.”

“Thank you, Roger. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“We want hot dogs for dinner and we’re hungry.”

“Fine. You guys can cook them yourselves, right?”

“You know it.” He hung up without further comment.

As Sara swung her legs off the gurney she felt a wave of dizziness that made her lightheaded. Concentric black rings swarmed before her eyes. She sat quietly for a moment until the feeling passed, and then slid from the cart. They had removed her blouse and bra and the covering sheet fell to the floor as she staggered over to the hooks where her clothes had been hung.

She dressed hurriedly, and was running her hand through her tousled hair when Don Strickland stuck his face in the door.

“Admission will be here and—what are you doing?”

“Dressing. I’m leaving. I have people to take care of.”

“You have yourself to take care of.”

“Will I die?”

“Probably not. But you might have a more severe concussion than we can now determine.”

“I’ll take the chance.” She walked to the door. “Thanks for everything.”

“This is against medical advice, you know that?”

“And you have a form for me to sign.”

“But of course.” He smiled. “Saturday still on?”

“If I live,” Sara said.

At the front desk, by the waiting room, the startled clerk informed Sara that cabs in Horton were an extinct breed.

“I must get to Meegan House as soon as possible,” Sara insisted.

“I’m going out that way. I’d be glad to drop you,” a woman called from the nearby waiting room.

Sara turned to smile at the invitation. “That’s very nice.”

The woman who offered the ride wore a light green pants suit, dark glasses, and a scarf over her red hair. She came toward Sara with an extended hand. “Debby. Debby Wainwright.”

Automatically, Sara took the offered hand. “Sara Bucknell.”

The woman took her arm and they walked from the hospital together. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard your name before. You must be the new director of the halfway house?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I think you’re doing such good work. I volunteer at the hospital—you know, push the book cart around for a couple of hours a week, but it isn’t nearly as significant as the work you are doing.” The woman opened the door to her car and Sara got in.

“Most of it is really mundane, but it is a challenge.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said as she started the car and drove cautiously from the parking lot.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the ride. I really am in a hurry to get home.”

“I’m glad to be of help.” The woman looked over at her apprehensively. “Is anything wrong? I mean, besides the accident. You seem rather nervous.”

“One of my charges is missing, which is why I’m so eager to get back.” Sara realized that she was apprehensive over more than just Martin’s disappearance. There was something familiar about the woman driving the car … a familiarity that was somehow connected with Martin.

“I suppose they do run off ever so often,” the woman said.

Sara shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I’m rather new on the job.”

“If he did run, how will you go after him?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I heard from the receptionist that you were in an automobile accident and that your car was totaled.”

“To say the least,” Sara replied. “A real mess. We were forced off an embankment.”

“How terrible. Perhaps I can help. We have an extra car at home. It’s rather old and not much to look at, but it would provide transportation for you on a temporary basis.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

“Nonsense. It would only be a loan until your car is fixed or you get another one. I’d really like to do it. It seems … well, more significant than volunteer work.”

Sara’s natural reaction to not be beholden to strangers was overcome by her increasing concern for Martin Fowler. If he wasn’t at the house, he could be anywhere. She had to find him. She decided to take the offer as a gesture of good faith. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I accept and promise that it will only be for a few days.”

The woman gave her a warm smile. “You keep it as long as you like. We’ll just stop by my house and pick it up.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes before the woman turned off the highway and up a narrow winding drive that approached a small white house nearly hidden in a grove of maples. The car stopped by the stoop and both women got out.

“The car’s in the garage, but I’ll have to scare up the keys. Please come in.”

Sara was led into a warm, sun-splashed living room. A highly polished hardwood floor gleamed in reflection of the care that had been lavished upon it. The room was dominated by a baby grand piano, also polished to a high gloss. The furniture was maple and a Navaho throw-rug covered the center of the floor. It was a warm room with a large bay window at the front of the house. Photographs of small children in the arms of young couples adorned the mantel. Everything in the room reeked of love, care, and a full life.

The ambiance removed the last of her misgivings about the woman who had befriended her.

“Let me get you a glass of sherry while I find the car keys.”

“I really must go,” Sara replied.

“Of course you must. I know how anxious you are, but I’ll probably have to search my husband’s bureau from top to bottom. Do let me get you something, it will calm your nerves.”

“Thank you.”

The woman returned in a short time with a pony of sherry that shimmered in the sunlight. Sara sat on the divan and took the sherry gratefully. The woman smiled and left the room.

The sherry created a warm glow in her stomach. She finished the pony and leaned back on the couch.

The wine seemed to have created a lethargy that seeped through her. Her arms and legs felt leaden. Her eyelids were heavy. She wanted to lie down on the couch and close her eyes.

The room was turning dark, as if clouds, appearing from nowhere, had obscured the bright day’s sun and filled the room with deep shadows.

Sara began to lean toward the pillows on the couch, but forced herself to sit erect.

Something was wrong!

The floor was tilting. The wide windows at the front of the room were elongating into strange trapezoid shapes.

An arm touched hers. She was pushed firmly over and her eyes closed.

She had been drugged!

She must sit up. She must find Martin.

Her eyes closed again.

“Phone call for you, Senator Baxter. You can take it in the manager’s office.”

“Thank you.” Rutledge smiled at the waiter and then at the group at the table. He placed his arm lightly on his wife’s shoulder. “I’ll just be a moment.”

“You’re going to have to hide better than this,” his wife said.

“They always find me,” he whispered back. He moved confidently through the restaurant waving to those known to him. The receiver was off the hook in the manager’s office and he picked it up.

“Senator Baxter here.”

“Are you on a safe phone?” Althea asked. “I had a hell of a time finding you.”

“You can speak. Make it short.”

“I’ve got her.”

“You’re compromised.”

“I know. What do you want me to do with her?”

“Fix her. Fix her so that if she recites the ten commandments no one will believe her.” He hung up and walked back to his dinner partners, his boyish smile automatically restored. As he passed each table the diners fell silent, and then, when he had passed, he heard them resume their conversation—about him.

Sara choked.

A water tumbler filled with liquor was harshly pressed against her lips. A strong male hand held her head tilted back, another hand squeezed her nostrils shut. She couldn’t breathe!

She gasped and liquor spewed down her throat. She choked again and fought against the restraining hands.

“Drink it! Damn you!” The voice was unfamiliar. “Drink.”

Her eyes fought for focus, but the room was blurred. She gasped for air and drank more.

Lying in the hallway, Sara stared glassy-eyed toward the white molding only inches from her face. She felt ill, dizzy, and knew she was drunk.

“God, what a mess,” a man said from some distant place far above her.

“Is the car ready?” a woman asked.

“Yes. I’ve worked on the brakes.”

“And it’s rented in her name?”

“With her credit card.”

“Then dump her in and let’s get it over with. We have to find Fowler.”

“Find Fowler,” Sara mumbled. “Martin where are you? Come out, come out wherever you are.” She giggled.

Hands under her shoulders yanked her erect. Her feet gave away and she stumbled and would have fallen if hands hadn’t held her. She was half-carried out the front door and unceremoniously shoved into the passenger side of a small car. Althea climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Martin where are you? What were they going to do to her?

The woman drove slowly down the drive and turned into the secondary highway. When they reached a straightaway leading to a steep incline, she depressed the accelerator until the speedometer hovered near seventy. Then she adjusted the cruise control and tapped the brake pedal.

Sara saw the pedal depress completely to the floor. There were no brakes. The woman kept her foot off the accelerator and the car’s speed gradually decreased until it rolled to a near stop.

The car was still moving slightly as Althea opened the door and jumped out. She ran alongside the car, slammed the door shut, and then twisted the cruise control button to “resume.” The accelerator automatically depressed as the car increased speed. Sara’s inner voice screamed.

The steering wheel! She had to grab the steering wheel. Sara lurched over toward the driver’s side and grasped the wheel and jerked it.

The car waffled back and forth on the narrow road as it reached the crest of the incline and started down. She moved over until she was under the wheel and depressed the brake pedal time after time.

The pedal jammed completely to the floor with no apparent reduction in the vehicle’s speed.

She squinted, as if the act of contorting her face would adjust her dizzying vision, but the road ahead wavered back and forth. A car was approaching; its headlights flickered up and down in warning and now she could hear the sound of its horn.

She was in the wrong lane and on a direct collision course with the oncoming car. She wrenched the wheel, and again the car slithered back and forth over the road, ending up in the correct lane as the other car, its horn protesting loudly, careened safely past.

The woman who had driven this car had adjusted something on the wheel.… What had she done? Sara fumbled with the unfamiliar dash, her fingers sliding from one button to the other. The windshield wiper started wavering back and forth before her, and cleanser spurted up to obscure most of her already poor vision.

Frantically, she downshifted into low amidst the protesting scream of the transmission.

There was a steep curve ahead. The car, even at its rapidly decelerating pace, would not make the turn.

Sara twisted the wheel violently to the left. The car skidded across both lanes and off the shoulder. It started to climb a steep dirt embankment, slowed, and tilted over on its side.

She was able to push the door open and tried desperately to pull herself from the vehicle. Another car, lights flashing on its dome, had stopped on the road below. Two large men came up the hill toward her.

She had one leg over the side of the car and painfully pulled up the other and fell over onto the ground. There she threw up, and lay panting on the grass.

“Drunk as a skunk,” one of the men said.

“Throw her in the tank.”

Chapter Six

Bright morning light cast a pattern of window bars against the wall by the bunk. Sara examined the shadow for a long time as she adjusted to the fact that she was in jail.

The previous night’s events were a blur of fuzzy images. She had tried to tell them. She had forced out the words, but they hadn’t understood and had mistaken her terror for drunken paranoia.

She felt physically debilitated. Not only did her body signal the pain of the two auto wrecks, but the drinks they had poured down her all culminated in a massive headache.

Steps came down the corridor. With difficulty she lowered her feet from the bunk and ran a hand through her matted hair.

A heavy-set matron rattled a large key ring as she beckoned toward Sara. “Your bail’s been posted, honey.”

The door swung open and Sara followed the matron down the hallway.

Ray Heath stood in the open door that led into the cell block. Sara gave a short cry. She ran ahead of the matron and into Ray’s open arms. He held her as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

“Oh, darling, thank God you’re here. It’s been a nightmare.”

His voice was low and reassuring. “It’s going to be all right, Sara.”

She stepped back to look up at him. Ray was a tall man of Sara’s age, nearly six-feet-four, with a rangy body and slightly curling sandy blond hair. He had a wide mouth and smiled often, producing two deep lines that creased the sides of his face. He was not so much handsome as pleasant looking.

“They tried to kill me and Martin’s missing.”

He nodded. “I know about Martin. The police called me late last night and I drove down here right away. I took a head count at Meegan House and found that Martin wasn’t there.”

The matron stood impatiently behind them rattling her keys. “If you sign for your property, you can leave,” she said. “Your court appearance is two weeks from Thursday.”

Sara turned. “Court appearance?”

“Excessive speed and driving under the influence of alcohol.”

“They forced me to drink.”

The matron shook her head. “I know, hon. My old man forces it down me every Saturday night. We have a ball, but we don’t drive cars.”

“I want to make a formal complaint. I want a warrant drawn for the arrest of two people.”

Ray had his arm around her waist as they continued down the hall. “Are you sure you want to pursue this, Sara?”

“I sure as hell do. I want them arrested for assault.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know their names, but I know what house they operate out of.”

“You really want to make a complaint, hon?” the matron asked.

“I surely do.”

“I’ll take you in to the chief. You wanna sign for your property first?” The matron picked up a large bulky envelope from a desk and opened it. “One pocketbook with assorted lipsticks and so forth and twenty-five hundred in cash. Sign here please.”

Sara pulled her hands away from the sheaf of money as if it were contaminated. “That’s not mine. I only had about ten or twelve dollars in my purse.”

“It’s yours. We took it from you last night.”

Ray led her to a far corner of the room where he whispered to her. “Early this morning, I looked at the Meegan House checking account. You withdrew twenty-five hundred, nearly the whole account, yesterday.”

“No, I didn’t. Ray, you can’t believe that.”

“The checkbook was lying open on your dresser.”

“You went into my room?”

“I had to. They called me with some wild tale about your drinking and wrecking cars.… It’s my responsibility, Sara.”

“I didn’t take that money. You have to believe me.”

“Come on, you two,” the matron said with extreme impatience. “I have other prisoners to look after.”

“Take the money,” Ray said. “We’ll straighten everything out later.”

Sara nodded and numbly signed the receipt for the money. She handed the large wad of bills over to Ray who stuffed them in his pocket.

“You still want to see the chief?” the matron asked.

“Yes.”

Chief Richards was a balding man with a reddened, weathered face. He smoked a corncob pipe and viewed Sara and Ray with a mixture of good humor and irony.

He tapped his desk top with a pencil and then looked down at the notes he had made on the yellow legal pad. “You’re sure that’s the house where they took you?”

“Positive. Set back from road, white, with bay windows in front … on Route 153.”

“That’s the Boylston place. I’ve known Tad Boylston for four years—ever since he retired and moved to Horton. Worked for the telephone company for years. His wife Mary is active in the garden club and they both go to the Baptist church.”

“Miss Bucknell wouldn’t lie about a thing like that,” Ray said with less conviction than Sara would have wished.

“Not saying she is, but am saying she might be mistaken.” He leaned forward. “You see, Miss Bucknell, the permanent population of Horton is five thousand, although that triples when the tourists come in. That means I know everybody but anybody in this town. And I know the Boylstons well enough to know they aren’t kidnapping and shooting drugs into people.”

“What do they look like?” she asked.

“Well, Tad is kinda fat in his old age, got less hair than I do, but there’s a fringe of white around his ears. Mary’s kinda round too, wears her hair up in …”

“That’s not them. The woman was my age … a redhead … and the man wore a suit and looked like …”

“Like what?”

“A cop or something.”

“My men are all accounted for. Not that there’s many to account for.”

Ray stood up. “Perhaps we can come back another time.”

“I know what happened to me,” Sara said, realizing that a hysterical tone had crept into her voice.

“And I know you wrecked two cars yesterday, Miss Bucknell. The State boys couldn’t get you on driving under the influence the first time … but we got you the second.… We got videotapes of you crawling around the floor when we booked you.”

“I don’t want to hear.”

“They aren’t pretty, that’s for sure.”

“You,” he pointed the stem of his pipe at Ray, “you’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Of psychology,” Ray answered.

“Well, this little lady needs a little psychology. She was on one hell of a toot yesterday, wrecked a van and then rented another car which she drove off the road. Seems to me, for everyone’s health, she ought to be kept away from wheeled vehicles.”

“I told you what happened.”

“You got to give me names, Miss Bucknell. Or tell me where these bad guys are.”

“I don’t know.”

Chief Richards shrugged and stood up to signify the end of the interview. “If you find out, let me know.”

In the police station parking lot they sat in the hot car baking under the sun. Finally, Ray leaned over and turned on the ignition and air conditioner. In a few minutes a cool stream of air flowed around them.

“I’m not a drunk, Ray. You’ve got to believe me.”

He tapped the Wheel in thought for a moment before swiveling on the seat to face her. “Remember last year at Middleburg College when we met and when … the first time we were really together?”

“It’s called making love,” she snapped, “and you’re supposed to be the psychologist.”

“You drank an awful lot of sparkling Burgundy.”

“For God’s sake, I was nervous and it … it seemed romantic.”

He threw the car in gear and backed out of the parking space. “Why don’t you tell me exactly where the house is that they took you to, and go over in detail everything that’s happened.”

“That’s the first sound idea I’ve heard all day.”

She covered the details as succinctly and orderly as she could. Ray was quiet as she spoke, only occasionally stopping her to ask a question or for clarification of a particular point. She started with the beating of Martin Fowler by the motorcyclists and continued until the recounting of last night’s accident.

“And now Martin is missing,” Ray added.

“Are you sure he’s not hiding out somewhere near the halfway house?”

“We couldn’t find him.” He slowed the car to a stop and pointed up the winding drive toward the white house with the bay windows. “Is that the place?”

“Yes, it is.”

“We’re going in.” He turned up the drive.

Sara cringed back in the seat. “Please, Ray, there’re at least two of them.”

He braked before the front stoop, slammed from the car and walked over to an older man weeding flowers along the small garden under the bay windows.

“Mr. Boylston?”

“Yes.” The man painfully stood and brushed soil from his pants knees. “What can I do for you, son?”

“This is your house, isn’t it?”

“Last I heard. You selling insurance?”

“No, sir. You and your wife live here alone?”

“We do, except for when the kids or the grandchildren visit. What is this, son? Twenty questions?”

There was a small flurry of movement in the bay window behind the curtains until a white-haired woman peered inquisitively out at them. Sara left the car and walked over to where Ray and Mr. Boylston stood. “Were you here yesterday?”

“We don’t go many places except to town for groceries once a week.”

“And there’s a baby grand piano in the living room, pictures of your children and grandchildren along the mantelpiece,” Sara spoke quickly, nearly in a staccato.

“You’re describing our place, all right.”

“Thank you,” Ray said as he took Sara by the elbow and purposefully steered her back into the car. He drove rapidly down the drive and screeched onto the highway.

The white-haired woman came down the steps and stood near her husband. “I don’t think we’ve done the right thing,” she said softly.

He vehemently thunked his hoe into the dirt by his feet. “We needed the money,” he snapped.

“I knew the house,” Sara said.

“And not the people in it.”

“How can you explain it?”

“I don’t know, Sara. Maybe you were in there drunk.”

“Without the Boylstons seeing me? Besides, I told you, I hardly drink at all.”

He fell silent and drove rapidly back to the mansion. Without speaking he opened the car door for her, grabbed her arm in what had become more of a captive gesture than comforting, and walked her through the front door, down the hall, and into her bedroom. He left her standing in the middle of the room and opened the large closet door. Sweeping back hangers of clothing, he pointed to the closet floor.

Sara looked down in astonishment at the collection of empty vodka bottles neatly aligned in rows. “I … I don’t know how they got there.”

“You drank them, Sara.”

“No, Ray.”

“Have you ever heard of alcoholic psychosis?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

A man with a long handlebar moustache poked his head around the door. “Hey, Ray, I need some things at the store and there’s no bread in the house bank account.”

“I have the cash for you to deposit,” Ray answered.

“Who’s he?” Sara asked.

Ray signaled for the man to come in. “Bob, I’d like you to meet Sara Bucknell.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Bob said.

Ray blushed when Sara turned to face him. “And just what is Bob’s job here?”

“He’s the new resident director,” Ray said in a small voice.

Chapter Seven

Sara sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter Ray handed her. She had had contracts not renewed and tenured jobs that disappeared before fruition, but she had never been actually fired before. Tears peaked her eyes and she didn’t care.

The letter was short, formal, and without compassion or regret. The words “your provisional job is terminated effective immediately” were the ones that counted, and it was signed by the superintendent of the school. There was no appeal.

Ray sat down next to her, and his arm slipped over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She broke from his grasp and stumbled across the room. “Sorry! You’re sorry! Why didn’t you stick up for me?”

“I tried.”

“I’ll just bet you did.”

“There wasn’t anything I could do, Sara. He had enough on you to fire you two times over.” He waved a deprecating arm toward the silent line of empty vodka bottles in the closet. “Not even counting those. Or the money taken from the house account.”

“I told you, I didn’t … Oh, God! What’s the use?” She pulled a large suitcase from the closet, plunked it on the bed, and began to pile in clothes haphazardly from the bureau. She stopped with a handful of lingerie in her arms. “What did he have on me and how?” she asked quietly.

Ray sat awkwardly on the windowsill with his hands clasped before him. “There was a call from Albany. Someone high up, a commissioner or a legislator, I don’t know exactly. I only know that whoever it was swung a lot of clout. They told the super that word had come to them about you. That you …”

“That I what?”

He abruptly stood. “Damn it, Sara! It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

“They said that you were drinking, wrecking cars, and some other unfounded allegations.”

“Like what?”

“It’s too ridiculous to mention.”

“Try me.”

“That you kept one of the men in your room overnight.”

“Good Mother of God!” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I did. There was a reason for it. Martin Fowler was injured and the doctor said that he should be watched.”

“I knew there was an explanation for it.”

“Then why in hell didn’t he ask me first?”

“There was too much pressure from Albany.”

“You’re a bastard, Ray. Do you know that?”

“Come on, Sara. What choice did I have? The super sent me down with the letter because he knew that we were friends. It could have been someone else. What can I do now? I can’t deny the police reports, and God knows what Bob has seen and heard. He certainly saw the bottles in the closet.”

“And don’t forget the missing money.”

“It’s been returned and won’t be mentioned.” He put his arms around her, but she shrugged them off. “I tried, but the super was adamant. You can’t always kill the bearer of bad news.”

“I know. I guess it isn’t your fault.”

“I’d like you to stay with me at my place.”

She brushed her eyes and turned toward him angrily. “Boy, see how inconsistent you are. First you fire me and then you ask me to move in with you.”

“I didn’t fire you. I brought the letter. That’s all. Period. Will you believe that?”

“I suppose.”

He smiled and put his hand on hers. “Maybe there’s method behind my madness.”

“Like what?”

“If you run the house in Horton and I live near the training school … how can we get together for more than a weekend a month?”

“By firing me and having me move in with you?”

“Exactly. Sort of.”

“I’ll probably be drunk all day.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“You’ve got a goddamn salvation complex, do you know that?”

He smiled again. “Why do you think I’m a psychologist?”

“Lord help me.” She turned to stare out the window. “I’ve been framed, you know.” He didn’t answer. “Martin is missing, or dead, and they wanted me out of there.”

“Who’s they?”

“If I knew that, I would have turned them in to the cops.”

“Maybe we have lost Martin,” he said. “That’s one of the risks in group homes. A few of them wander off, get in trouble, or have difficulty adjusting. Most of them stay and that’s why it works.”

“What happens to the ones that wander off?”

He shrugged. “Different things. Oddly enough, occasionally we find them later working on a farm and making it. Almost all come back eventually.”

“Martin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you want me to move in with you?”

“Because there was nothing personal about your dismissal, and because I have faith in you, and because I like you, and because you don’t have any place better to go.”

“I’ll stay with you a couple of days until I learn what happened to Martin.”

He gave her a quick sidelong glance. “All right. A couple of days.”

It was a dark and musty place, but it was safe. The large, bulky shapes of the machinery stored around him loomed huge and foreboding, but he knew that he was safe from those who attacked him.

The double doors at the front of the building creaked on rusty hinges as they opened part way and sent a shaft of bright light darting across the interior. He gave a start, his muscles tensed, and he gripped the two-by-four with both hands. “Who is it?” Martin whispered hoarsely.

“Mickey.” The door shut behind the slight figure who now stood in the shadows.

“Come here, Mick.”

The figure shuffled forward and stood trembling before Martin Fowler. Low whimpering sounds issued from him. Martin ran his hand over Mickey’s arm and head.

“It’s all right. You’re a good boy and did right to help me.”

“Did right?”

“Yes. Did you get any food?”

The head shook violently in affirmation, and after a struggle with his shirt front the small figure produced half a loaf of bread. He handed it to Martin as if it were a gift of great importance.

“You did fine, Mick. I’m proud of you.”

The boy smiled.

Martin stuffed a slice of bread into his mouth, chewed it hurriedly and swallowed. “Now, you’re not going to tell anyone I’m here, are you?”

Again the violent shaking of the head.

“No, of course you’re not. For you know how it is, don’t you, Mick?” They looked at each other with wide eyes in the dim light. “You won’t tell your mom or dad, or your teacher?”

“No, I won’t tell.” The words were poorly articulated.

“Thanks.” Martin gave him a hug.

The boy left and Martin secured the door shut with a small piece of wire he had discovered on the floor. He ate two more slices of bread and then secreted the remainder of the package underneath a tractor seat in a corner of the shed. There was a water spigot located part way up the rear wall and he turned it on and let it trickle into his palm so that he could drink.

He had found an old army blanket in a corner, and he spread it under a shelf and pulled it around himself. He was safe from view here, and unless someone were specifically looking for him, he would be undetectable.

He lay back with his head cradled on his arms and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, for sleep he must, to move the long hours forward.

Sleep meant dreams, and he dreaded those. He could only hope he would not cry out. They came nearly every night now … the man on the motorcycle with the chain that whirred through the air and crashed over his shoulder and arms, the van forced off the road and rocking dangerously down the steep incline … the boat and the lake, and then the most dreaded, the woman stalking him with the knife clenched in her hand.

He stared into the darkness afraid to sleep.

In the White House Oval Office, Senator Baxter grinned across the desk at the president of the United States. Rutledge Baxter was operating on two levels, as he always did, conversing on the subject at hand while simultaneously plumbing the depths of his adversary’s weakness.

President William Harkins was a massive man with a bull neck and a weathered complexion that came from thousands of hours in the out-of-doors. His abundant hair was white, and his stature and booming voice usually allowed him to dominate any gathering by the pure magnetism of his bearing and personality. He was a rancher, the owner of thousands of acres, who should have been conservative by nature, but who astonished his followers by the breadth of his private reading and insight.

“I need your support, Rutledge,” the president said.

“I’m very flattered, sir. However, there are other men in the Senate who carry far more weight.”

The president smiled. “Now, son, that reminds me of the day I was out riding herd and came across a mess of rattlers. This little snake turns to the big one and says, ‘You’re bigger, you take the first bite.’ The big snake says, ‘It don’t make no never mind—after the first mouthful they all taste the same.’”

Rutledge forced himself to laugh. “I don’t know that I like being compared to a rattler, sir,” he said good-naturedly.

“Then you’re missing an important political point, son. In my place, all you folks up on the Hill are rattlers that have to be stroked, petted, cajoled, gotten rid of, or run away from.”

“What category am I?”

“That remains to be seen.” The president’s mood and manner instantaneously shifted. The “country boy” mantle fell aside to be replaced by the speech patterns and vocabulary of a thoughtful man. “We’re in trouble in South America. I am sure you realize that.”

“It’s obvious to everyone, Mr. President.”

“Then it should be apparent that a dramatic change of policy must be implemented if we are to establish any sort of relationship with the emerging powers.”

“That would require accommodations with forces unacceptable to many in the Senate.”

“I am aware of that, which is why I invited you here this morning.”

“I’m not sure how I can help you.” Rutledge knew exactly what the president was driving at, but he was damned if he would help this cowboy come to the point.

“Well, let’s put it this way. That was quite an article they had about you in this week’s Time. I was curious as to how many of those quotes you really subscribe to.”

Rutledge flashed his most ingenuous boyish smile, but noticed that the president’s expression did not flicker. “I think that some of the quotes were taken out of context, Mr. President. I’m not nearly as hawkish as they make me out to be.”

“At Wild Wind Ranch we have a saying about hawks, but I’m going to force myself to avoid it at this time.”

Rutledge laughed appreciatively. “I’m sure it’s to the point, sir.”

The president leaned forward. “I want you to lay back in the grass, Senator Baxter. I want you to sun yourself on a warm rock, and take a long vacation away from the floor of the Senate when I present the Harkins Manifesto.”

“There’ve been rumors about that.”

“I’m sure there have been. I’ve counted my votes carefully. If you and the loyal bloc who follow you do not oppose me, I will prevail.”

“You might be asking me to do something against my own conscience.”

“The Harkins Manifesto has been in the works for years. The groundwork was laid by my predecessor. If the Senate accepts the plan, it will revolutionize our dealings with South America and, I might add, maintain a secure peace in this hemisphere.”

Again Rutledge laughed appreciatively. “That’s a tall order, Mr. President. Some of us might think that a stronger and more active defense posture would achieve the same end.”

“And some are saying we should intervene militarily in certain countries south of the border.”

“True, sir. But with the specter of Viet Nam still with us, I don’t think that would have support without some active aggression against our country or its forces.”

“That will not happen as long as I am commander in chief. I have notified the Joint Chiefs to be doubly alert so as to avoid any untoward incidents.”

“I have been out of the service for several years, Mr. President. I am hardly in a position to lead troops in an aggressive situation.”

“Of course. What I want from you, Senator, is your commitment that you will not oppose me. I do not ask that you support me—only that we do not clash.”

“You make that sound like a patriotic call to duty.”

“Consider it such.”

“Then you have my complete support, sir, I am sure the Harkins Manifesto will be a landmark in this country’s history of diplomacy.”

William Harkins stood and came around the side of the desk to offer his hand to Rutledge. They shook hands firmly. “You are a man of honor, sir,” the president said.

The squatting floor manager pointed his finger at Rutledge as the red light blinked on at camera one. The show’s host, clipboard on his lap, turned to face the camera to give his lead-in to the show. Rutledge’s face automatically tensed into its grin as camera two, its red light signifying a live sequence, dollied in for a close shot.

“Last night at his press conference, President Harkins announced that you have given your support for his new Southern Hemisphere foreign policy. What made you give that commitment, Senator Baxter?”

The close-up of Senator Baxter’s face revealed an ingenuous look of amazement. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words. It was a well-orchestrated and stunning effect.

“I am sure the president was in error to include my name.”

“After the conference, our sources double-checked it with his closest aids. They assured us that you gave a personal commitment to the president.”

Rutledge hesitated for the briefest of moments, but in that time he had a sense of the panorama of history, of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, of Napoleon’s march on Paris. The battle had begun and would continue until Barbados and the Baxter Amendment were in full operation.

“The president is mistaken,” he said quietly and sincerely. “Let me explain my position.”

“You were nothing less than terrific on TV this morning,” Althea said over the phone.

“It was well thought out,” he answered abruptly. “What about the woman?”

“She has been taken care of and poses no further threat.”

“The man—Martin Fowler. Do you have him?”

“No, but I think we’re close.”

Rutledge balled a hand into a tight fist. He tried to keep his voice under control, but deep anger was still apparent. “Goddamn it, Althea, it couldn’t have been simpler and you’ve blown it.”

She caught the anger and answered with a twinge of peevishness. “You obviously have things under control in Washington. Why in the world are you afraid of a man … who’s retarded? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ll decide What makes sense,” he snapped back. “All you need to know is that he knows certain things that are so specific; if they were released prematurely, they would spell our ruin. Our ruin, Althea. Do you read that?”

“I’ll take your word for it, of course.” Her professional mantle returned. “I took the precaution of photographing him with a telephoto lens while he was at the service station. We’re making copies of the prints now. We’ll have him in forty-eight hours.”

“See that you do.” He slammed the telephone receiver back on its cradle.

The sheet fell from her bare breasts as Sara turned to face him. “Tell me about Martin.”

“Good Christ, Sara! Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s poor etiquette to talk about another man when you’re in bed with someone else?”

“I’m worried about him.”

“I can sum up my feelings in one word.”

“You’re supposed to be dedicated to your charges.”

“Not so dedicated that I think about them in bed.”

She ran the top of her finger over Ray’s bare chest. “Please. A little information.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know that much about him. I can’t know everything about everyone at the school. I’m trying, but I’ve only been here nine months.”

“What do you know about Martin?”

“That he’s been here … or was here … for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since he was six.”

Sara sat up against the headboard in horror. “My God, he’s twenty-eight now … twenty-two years in this place!”

“It’s not that bad. We do our best.”

“But still.”

Ray shrugged. “I wasn’t even aware of him until late spring when we were making up our list for the Mohawk Club workers.”

“Observant for a psychologist.”

“No snide remarks.”

“What brought him to your attention?”

“I don’t know really—a vague feeling and then a question to the super. For a long time I thought he was a member of the maintenance crew. He rode the lawn mower and did such a damn good job, I just assumed he worked for Mack Pierce of maintenance. Then one night when I was on duty I noticed him in the dining room and realized he was an inmate.”

“Thank God you have a doctorate.”

He ruffled her hair. “Okay, so I wasn’t aware, but I made up for it. I realized that if he could work maintenance and run machinery like he was doing, he was certainly educable no matter what the tests showed.”

“What did they show?” she asked.

“Fifty.”

“IQ?”

“That’s what was on his record, but you know I have an interest in testing errors and I took a gamble on him. He went off to work at the club.”

“That’s sort of a yearly event around here, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, we use it as a training ground to see if the men are ready for a halfway house.”

Sara lay back and stared at the ceiling. She reviewed the events of the past days: the beating Martin had received, the car accidents, her forced intoxication and firing.… Someone was trying to destroy Martin and to neutralize her.

Why?

Martin was the clue and the answer and now he was missing. She turned to Ray again. “You awake?”

“Am now.”

“Martin says his mother was the first person that tried to kill him.”

“We’re off and running again.”

“He said the only place he ever felt safe was at the training school.”

“A lot of them feel like that. Often it’s difficult to convince them they’re ready for a halfway house.”

“Why is that?”

“When you’ve been someplace for more than twenty years, it’s your home, it’s everything you know … the outside world appears threatening.”

“It certainly does,” she said and reflected again on the things that happened to both her and Martin.

“Go to sleep, hon. I have to get up in the morning.”

“And I don’t,” she whispered with a slight bitterness, but too inaudibly for him to hear. She lay back in bed with her hands laced behind her head.

Half an hour later she knew where Martin was.

Chapter Eight

Ray was gone when she awoke.

Sara donned a terry cloth robe and padded around the small house. Ray was still in the process of accumulating furniture and the rooms were sparsely equipped. A king-sized bed and dresser comprised the bedroom’s complete decor, while in the living room one wall was covered with bookcases constructed of cement blocks and stained boards. The remainder of the room held a couch, large leather chair, and throw cushions on the floor.

Of the two remaining bedrooms, one held an army cot for use by old friends that needed a temporary place to crash, and the third bedroom contained Ray’s large desk, a typist’s chair, and a battered file cabinet.

The structure had once been a farmhouse and was still heated primarily by wood stoves. The surrounding farmland had been absorbed by the State of New York into the large Adirondack State Park, which now abutted the remaining few acres.

She stood at the kitchen sink and filled the coffee pot. She could look out the double windows over the counter and see the hills and farmland that seemed to creep toward the house. She had once asked Ray why he had bought the property when he had free housing available at the school.

He had laughed and replied, “It’s a steal, and if I ever leave this job, I’ll still have a summer place.”

She plugged in the electric percolator and roamed the near-empty rooms. It was time to order priorities. She needed a job, and the fall semester was rapidly approaching. Tomorrow, at the latest, she would have to start sending out resumes. Then there was the question of Martin. She thought she knew where he was, and information somewhere in this house would help verify her conjecture.

The coffee finished perking. She poured a cup, black, and sat at the Formica-topped table in the large kitchen. As she drank the coffee she thought about Ray.

She had never really come to terms with her feelings about him. She liked him, they were compatible, and certainly enjoyed each other’s company both mentally and physically; but something was missing.

He refused to believe her story, and perhaps that was a clue to the fault in their relationship. Trained as a skeptic, he simply refused to trust her enough to make the leap of faith that would allow him to accept what she said. There was a barrier that would always remain.

She finished her coffee and began to search Ray’s study. She found what she needed in a folder at the back of the file cabinet. The tab was labeled “Marshall Training School,” and the folder appeared to contain information forwarded to Ray when he had been hired but had not actually arrived at the school.

She spread the aerial photograph on his desk. Each building and area had been carefully identified with a dark Magic Marker. She continued studying the photograph and layout of the school until it became familiar.

Ray had evidently ridden to work with a co-worker, because the ignition keys to the small K Car were on the center of the dining room table. She dressed in slacks, a light blouse, and sneakers.

It was time to go.

Martin finished the last of the bread and drank some tepid water from the spigot. He was still unsatisfied. It would be hours before Mickey came again, that is, if Mickey remembered. He settled back on his haunches with his back against the wall and tried to doze.

The creak of the double doors being forced open awakened him at once. He tensed and reached for the two-by-four near his right hand.

A swath of bright morning light cut across the shed and then disappeared as the doors were closed. He felt his muscles relax and then the weakness that follows the heavy surge of adrenaline. His eyes flicked shut again.

A footfall made him tense. Someone was moving quietly inside the building, and he picked up the board and stood with his body shielded by a large mower. He could make out the outline of the intruder.

“Martin, are you here?”

The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t wait. He stepped around the far side of the tractor, approached Sara from behind, and wrapped one arm around her neck as he drew back to hit her with the board.

“Martin!” It was a gasping cry.

He released her and she nearly fell. They faced each other in the musty maintenance shed. “Miss Bucknell.”

“The training school is the only place where you’ve felt safe,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“And you returned here to hide. Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Mickey, but he’ll probably forget.”

“I want you to come with me.”

He cringed against the wall. “No. They’re trying to kill me.”

“I know. They tried to do it to me also.”

“You can stay with me. Mickey will bring food … maybe.” He laughed and she returned his grin.

“What have you been eating?”

“Bread and there’s water to drink.”

“You can’t live on that.”

“I won’t live otherwise,” he replied noncommittally.

“Well, what about … about your bodily functions?” she asked with an edge of embarrassment.

“I sneak out back when it’s dark.”

“Come on with me now.”

“I can’t go back to Meegan House.”

“No, I have another place where we can stay. It’s only a few miles from here and you’ll be safe.” She reached toward him.

Martin looked down at her outstretched hand. He hesitated, then slowly slipped his hand in hers. “I have to trust someone.”

She smiled and squeezed his fingers. “Now, do you know a way we can leave the grounds without being seen?”

“Sure. There’s a way that runs behind the gym.”

Ray sounded slightly irritated over the phone. “Those old records are in the basement. It’ll take me an hour to find them.”

Sara shook her head at the phone and looked over at Martin devouring his third hamburger and second pint of milk. “It’s important, Ray. I want everything you’ve got on Martin Fowler.”

“Come on, Sar.”

“Everything.”

“That sounds like a command.”

“It’s very important. Please?”

“That’s better. See you at six.”

She hung up and sat across the table from Martin.

Ray Heath hung up the phone and thought about Sara for a moment. She might be a little off the wall, but he liked her. He liked her more than he cared to admit. He turned to face the visitor sitting across the desk. “Sorry for the interruption. Where were we?”

“We were talking about my magazine article. I feel, as does my editor, that the work you are accomplishing in these halfway houses should be publicized.”

Ray nodded in agreement. “Once they’re on their own, we often get magnificent results from the educable. It takes time, and we lead them carefully, but, damn, it works!”

“Do the towns where the houses are located often oppose them?”

“Yes, and that can cause serious problems. Once a home has been established, we don’t seem to have further difficulties. It’s the initial opening that brings out people’s subconscious fears and prejudices.”

“Very interesting,” she said as she made notes in her pad. She looked up at him and smiled. “My editor became interested in the subject when he recently visited Camp Mohawk.”

“I’m not surprised. We send a group of educable kids up there every year to help out with the work.”

She glanced down at a small note. “He said one man in particular impressed him. I’d like to follow his story if possible.”

“I’ll do what I can. Who was the student?”

“Ah … Martin … Martin Fowler. Where can I reach him?”

Ray gave a perceptible start. For a moment he was at a loss for words. “You’ll have to pardon my reaction; you have embarrassed us.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Martin is one of our failures. He has run away and is now listed with the police as a missing person.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” She handed him a business card. “If they find him, would you let me know? I’ve checked into a motel here in town and the address is written on the card. My editor is very interested in the case and wants me to follow up.”

Ray took the card and shoved it in his pocket. “I’ll call you as soon as he turns up. It won’t take long.”

“Do they always come back?”

“They have no other place to go,” he answered.

Sara continued talking as she poured their third cup of coffee and sat back across the table. “And so that’s it. We went back to the house and there was an older couple there who seemed to be completely innocent.”

Martin nodded. “Uh huh.”

“Do you know the redheaded woman, Martin?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied with a flat intonation.

“Are you sure?”

He stirred restlessly in the chair as if agitated. “When they attacked me … the people on the motorcycles … I turned when I was running. She had her helmet off and her hair was red.”

“It could be the same person.”

“Lots of people have red hair.”

“Lots of people aren’t attacking you and me.” She leaned eagerly forward and nearly elbowed her coffee cup off the table. “There’s a clue here somewhere. Something you’ve seen or done has set these people off. We’ve got to find out what it is.”

“I can’t think of anything, Miss Bucknell.”

She slapped the table in frustration, the sound causing him to start. “We aren’t getting anywhere. Why am I telling you this?”

He looked directly at her, and she saw the hurt in his eyes. “Because it concerns both of us,” he said simply.

They froze in a silent tableau for a few moments until she heard a car in the drive. She went into the living room and glanced out the window to see Ray slide from his co-worker’s car and lope toward the house. He carried a fat briefcase in one arm, holding it in his large hand as if it were a football and he were a running back making an end sweep. She had the front door open when he came up the steps.

“Hello, darling,” Sara said as she put her arms around him. He threw the briefcase on the couch and kissed her.

“I like that,” he said when they were finished. “I knew there was a reason I asked you to stay here. You’re good to come home to.”

“Do you have the material on Martin?”

“Sometimes I think I buy you.”

“Of course. There’s a little of the whore in all of us.”

“What’s an hour of my time in the storage bins worth?”

“I’ll tell you after I see the files.”

“Oh, no.” He held her and kissed her again.

“I have to pay first?”

“Absolutely.”

She slipped out of his arms and opened the briefcase. “What do you have?”

“Not that much, nor is it that unusual,” he answered. “But a strange coincidence did occur today.”

She looked at him expectantly. “I think you had better tell me.”

“A reporter came in to see me and said she wanted to do a story on our halfway houses.” He pulled the card the blond woman had given him from his pocket and handed it to Sara. “She asked about Martin Fowler. It seems that her editor has an interest in him. She’s staying in a motel in town.”

Sara glanced down at the card and read the motel address and unit number. “Virginia Cunningham,” she read aloud. “Did she have red hair?”

“Your bogey lady again—no. She was a knockout blonde with a body that wouldn’t stop. If I hadn’t been otherwise engaged, I might have taken her to dinner.”

Sara flicked the card back and forth between her nails. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“You’re the historian. They do happen.”

“Maybe. What about the files on Martin?”

They sat on the couch together with their knees touching as he aligned the papers from the case. “How about a drink?”

“Coming up.” She hurred to the kitchen. Martin was still sitting at the table and looked up at her for a command. She held her finger over her lips. “Later,” she whispered. She poured two shots of vodka into a glass, added ice and orange juice from the refrigerator, and returned to the living room.

Ray began talking before she placed the drink in his hand. He recited Martin’s background in a didactic, professional tone, as if lecturing a class.

“Twenty-two years ago, in Albany, New York, as a result of an anonymous child abuse call, Martin was picked up in a rooming house. The initial police report states that he was tied to a bed and his body was covered in welts and burns. He appeared to be autistic.”

“What happened to his mother?” she asked.

“Cindy Fowler, a known prostitute, was picked up the following morning when she returned to the room. She was arrested, charged, and released on bail. She skipped and we have no record of her after that.”

“She never visited her son?”

“No.” Ray flipped over several pages. “Martin was initially taken to Albany General Hospital for treatment of the burns and bruises. He was also suffering from malnutrition, and X-rays revealed several bones that had previously been broken.”

“My God, what animals people can be.”

“Not very pretty, is it?” He continued. “Martin would not communicate with any of the hospital staff, and he was evaluated by a social worker before routine placement in a foster home. The report made at that time indicates that he exhibited flat emotional reactions and extreme withdrawal. The recommendation was made that he be placed in the training school.”

“Wasn’t he tested?”

“Not until he arrived up here.” He picked up a test booklet. “The Wechsler-Bellevue individual standardized IQ test was administered. The psychologist entered a score of fifty.”

“That’s practically imbecilic.”

Ray glanced at her. “Not a word we use, hon. But it comes out about the same. A barely functioning mental defective.”

“But the child had been through hell.”

“The tester made a note that the subject was unresponsive and that the results therefore were not to be considered conclusive.”

“That was over twenty years ago. Surely he’s been tested since then?”

“He wasn’t for ten years. Although during that period various staff observation reports indicate that he acclimated well to the school and seemed adjusted. A few years ago they began periodic testing of all inmates and Martin was retested. Three times since then, in fact.”

“And?”

“Scores of fifty and one of eighty.”

“Isn’t that too large a variance?”

“I would have thought so, but these things get lost in the shuffle.”

“A man’s life, more than twenty years of a person’s life, and it gets lost in the shuffle?”

Ray responded defensively. “When I finally found him, I immediately assigned him to the work program at Camp Mohawk and afterward the Meegan house. I didn’t give a damn what the tests indicated, any man who could run that lawn machinery like that could function on the outside.”

“I’m not blaming you, Ray. It’s just that I think Martin is brighter than any of those tests indicate.”

“It’s more than tests, Sara. As a kid he suffered extreme emotional trauma. He’s probably compartmentalized his life and now considers the school his only home and refuge—which, by the way, is why he’ll eventually return.”

“I have.” Martin entered the living room and stood before Ray.

The other man jerked to his feet and spilled his files across the floor. “My God! What in hell are you doing here?”

“Miss Bucknell found me.”

Ray turned toward Sara in anger. “You could have told me.”

“I intended to.”

“When? Next week?” He turned to glare at Martin. “And just where in hell were you?”

“At the school,” Martin replied.

“Where?”

“I found him hiding in the maintenance shed,” Sara replied.

“Why didn’t you notify me?”

“Because you would have come gallivanting out here with a couple of attendants in tow to take him back to that place.”

“That ‘place,’ as you call it, is the place of my employment. It happens to be one of the best institutions of its kind in the country.” He bent to stuff the files back in their case. “All right, I’m sorry I blew my top. But I wish you were more truthful with me, Sara. The important thing is that Martin has returned, safe and sound. He’ll be back in his own room in half an hour.”

“He’s not going back,” Sara said.

“What do you mean, he’s not going back?” Ray finished retrieving his papers and slung the briefcase on the end of the couch.

“I want you to give him the Heath Apperception Test … tonight,” Sara said.

“You know my test isn’t even properly standardized yet. The results can’t be considered conclusive.”

“I don’t want to take any tests,” Martin said firmly.

Sara stood in the center of the room and glared angrily at both men. “Then I’ve had it! I have been run off the road, almost killed, arrested, and framed to the point where I lost my job; and you two won’t cooperate.” She pointed a finger at Ray. “You don’t believe me.” She swiveled and pointed at Martin. “And you know something that’s causing all this and you won’t tell me.”

“I don’t remember,” Martin replied softly.

“That could well be the truth,” Ray said. “Martin has so encapsulated his life, and compartmentalized all unpleasantness, that he could justifiably say he doesn’t remember something.”

“Will you give him the test?” Sara pressed.

“All right, I know when I’m beaten. Martin can go back to Marshall in the morning as well as tonight.”

“What kind of test?” Martin asked suspiciously.

Ray seemed to calm and automatically assumed a professional mantle. “It’s an intelligence test specifically designed to be administered to people whose first language is not English.”

“That’s not me.”

“No, but the basic problems are the same. You know, all things considered, I’m curious as to how you’ll make out on the test, Martin. It would be a great help to me if you took it.”

“All right.”

Ray spoke softly to Sara. “I’ll give it to him. I suppose the author is always vain about his own creations, but it might indicate some interesting variations. If Martin was phonying the routine tests, this one is different enough to break through that habit. In any case, in the morning he’ll have to go back. I have my job to consider.”

“Do it right now.”

He nodded. “The kitchen will be the best place. Ready, Martin?”

Martin shrugged.

Sara walked over to him and put her hands on his upper arms. She felt his body tense and his biceps swell. “I ask that you do well, Martin. I want you to concentrate on this test as you have never concentrated before. Will you do that for … for me?”

He looked down at her and their eyes met. “Yes, Miss Bucknell. I’ll try.”

Sara shifted restlessly on the couch, the book on her stomach unread. She could hear the low drone of their voices in the kitchen. She glanced at her watch. They had been at it for nearly two hours.

She was concerned about the blond woman in the motel. The coincidence of another interest in Martin Fowler was more than she could believe. Her impulse was strong enough to force her to swing her feet from the couch and search her pocket until she found the car keys.

The kitchen door swung open, and Martin shambled into the living room. He had a smile on his face. “I tried, Miss Bucknell.”

“Thank you, Martin. I’m sure you did your best.”

Ray stuck his head out the door. “It’s going to take me a while to correct this thing. Remind me to develop a self-marking key next week.”

“Okay,” she said gaily. “Listen, I’m going downtown and see if I can scare up some pizza.”

“Great,” Ray replied. “I’m famished.” The door swung shut as he went back into the kitchen.

“I’ll go with you,” Martin said.

“No, that’s all right. I’m just going to dash down and back.”

“I think I should go.”

She saw concern on his face. “Do you know where I’m going?”

“You’re going to see that blond lady.”

“You were listening at the door.”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “We’ll stop by the motel after I place the pizza order. You’ll stay in the car.”

Sara pulled the car to a halt several units away from the manager’s office and around the corner from unit twelve. She took a silk scarf from her bag and tied it over her head and down under her chin. Dark glasses completed the rudiments of her disguise. “Stay here and keep quiet,” she whispered to Martin.

She left the car and walked briskly to the motel office. The vacancy sign was still lit, so someone should be available. She slipped through the screen door, walked over to the horseshoe-shaped desk in the corner, and slapped her hand down on the bell twice in rapid succession.

A sleepy-eyed nondescript clerk with tousled hair ambled through a rear door behind the desk.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I’m Virginia Cunningham in unit twelve and I seem to have locked myself out.”

The clerk reached over to a pegboard and slapped a duplicate key on the desk. “Return them both in the morning or I’ll have to charge you for them.”

“I understand. Thanks a load.” She left the office and walked quietly to the door of unit twelve.

She glanced up and down the motel walk and saw that it was deserted. The Venetian blinds were drawn on the room’s windows, but through the small crack at the edge she could determine that the interior lights were out. She pressed her ear against the door. No sound.

She slipped the key into the lock and slowly turned it, hoping that the inside night latch wasn’t hooked. The door opened and she slipped inside and softly closed it. She pressed her back against the door while her rapid breathing returned to normal and her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

She could hear low, regular breathing from someone on the near twin bed.

It was too dim for her to make out anything except the gross outlines of the furniture. She slipped her hand over the Venetian blind cord and slowly opened the louvers. Light from a nearby street lamp filtered through.

The mannequin head was on the bureau top slightly to the right of the mirror, a blond wig snugly drawn over it.

Sara carefully turned to look at the woman asleep on the bed. The sheet had partly fallen from her body, and through the nearly transparent nightgown she could make out the full figure of the sleeping woman. Abundant red hair was splayed across the pillow.

She had seen enough.

She slipped out of the room and turned the key on the outside of the door. She dropped the key in her pocket and was about to turn when strong arms gripped and pushed her against the door.

“Where you been, little lady?” Fingers pressed against the rear of her neck with a power that sapped her strength.

Her head was pushed roughly against the doorframe. “Please,” she gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

She shook her head.

“Then let’s go inside and look again.” He reached roughly into her pocket and pulled out the key, inserted it in the lock, and turned it.

The pressure on her neck was increasing and her legs were buckling.

There was a heavy thud from behind her. The man gripping her neck gave a low prolonged groan and fell forward to crumple against the door.

Sara whirled to see Martin with a tire iron gripped in both hands. “I had to hit him,” he said.

She bent to examine the fallen man and saw that the massive blow from the tire iron had crushed the back of his head. He was obviously dead. She turned to look up at Martin in horror. “You’ve killed him.”

“He was going to kill you.”

The lights inside the unit switched on and the door was flung open. Althea stood in the doorway, the room lights shining through the transparency of her nightgown illuminating her figure. Holding a long-barreled pistol with silencer supported in both hands, she looked down at the body crumpled in the doorway and then at Sara.

“You!” she said as the revolver barrel swung forward.

Martin flung himself against Sara and knocked her sprawling across the pavement as the pistol “thunked” and the projectile ricocheted off the cement walk. He threw the tire iron toward the figure in the doorway.

Althea staggered back as the heavy steel tool glanced off the side of her head. She stumbled back inside the room as blood gushed from the side of her face. She caught the side of a small desk, brushed blood from her eyes, and turned to fire again.

Martin pulled Sara to her feet and dragged her along the walk as they ran for the car. The woman by his side emitted choking gasps that signified her perch on the brink of hysteria. He shoved her behind the wheel of the car.

“Drive!” he commanded.

Chapter Nine

Sara and Martin arrived back at the house to find Ray exuberantly pacing the living room floor. He stopped when they entered and pointed an accusing finger at Martin.

“I’m on to you, Fowler. You’re a goddamn cheat.”

Martin took a backward step, poised as if to flee. “What?”

“You’ve been faking it all these years. The tests they gave you, you phonied them on purpose.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the couch and waved them in the air. “I’ve double-checked the answers. And damn it, even if the test isn’t properly standardized and my results can’t pinpoint intelligence down to the last decimal, it sure in hell proves one fact.”

“He’s normal,” Sara said.

“Normal hell! Above normal. By how much I can’t accurately predict, but it’s significant.” He good-naturedly pummeled Martin on the shoulder. “You sly fox. You’re a victim of institutionalization. It’s not the first time this has happened, you know. There are other recorded cases of test error, or as in Martin’s case, deliberate error. He obviously realized when he was fairly young that if he tested well, they would make him leave the school. And the staff, like me, was so filled with preconceptions that we didn’t see the obvious evidence. We’re all victims of …”

“Ray,” Sara interrupted. “I think we’ve just killed a man.”

“I did it,” Martin added.

“What are you two talking about?” He seemed confused, unable to make the mental shift required for the assimilation of their statements. “Killed who? Not another car accident?”

“I hit him—with a tire changer,” Martin said.

“Oh, my God.” Ray sank onto the couch. “What happened?” he asked in a low voice.

“We went to the motel where the woman who came to see you earlier today was staying,” Sara began.

Ray shoved himself numbly from the couch and walked toward the kitchen. “I think I need a drink. I know I need a drink.”

Sara caught his arm. “And I have not been drinking. Not today and not yesterday, I am not suffering from any so-called alcoholic psychosis.”

“I guess not.”

“It was the red-haired woman that came to see you. The same woman who questioned me. The same who rode a motorcycle and tried to kill Martin.”

Ray uneasily brushed his hand over his hair. “We’ll have to go to the police, of course. I would think the sooner the better.”

“And they won’t find anything,” Sara replied.

“What do you mean? You told me Martin probably killed the man. There will be a body, a doctor will be there, the police will have been called.”

“I doubt it.”

“In God’s name, why?”

“Because these people, whoever they are, can’t afford to reveal themselves. I think the dead man will either be left at the motel or hidden in the woods.”

“You’re paranoid, do you know that?”

“They’ve tried to kill us, what more do you want?”

“Reasons, damn it! Women looking like that reporter who came to see me don’t go around trying to do in men like Martin.”

“He’s not retarded. You proved that tonight.”

“But everyone thought he was. That’s what matters,” Ray snapped.

“Martin knows something he’s not supposed to.”

“We went over the records tonight, Sara. Martin’s been in the school for twenty years, and except for an occasional day field trip, he’s never left.”

“He was at Meegan House with me.”

“For a few days.”

“And before that he spent three weeks working at Camp Mohawk.”

“That’s a private club for some of the most powerful men in the country. Men of impeccable …” Ray stopped in mid-sentence. “It had to come from there.”

“What?” Sara turned. “Martin. Where is he?” The living room was empty behind her. “Martin!” She ran to the front door and threw it open to yell out into the dark night. “Martin, come back!”

“He can’t have gone far,” Ray said. “I’ll get a flashlight and we’ll go.…”

A toilet flushed and Martin stepped out of the bathroom. “You called me, Miss Bucknell?”

They both turned to watch Martin come across the living room. His appearance had changed radically from what they had observed earlier in the evening. The shamble of the institutionalized retarded had returned. His face had once again assumed the mask of unemotionality. He had reverted to a former state, and only now did they realize how different he had been.

Sara ran to put her arms around him. She felt his body go completely rigid and she stepped back. “We’re going to find out what happened, Martin. It’s going to be all right. You don’t have to act like this.”

“I want to go back to school. Can you drive me, Mr. Heath? I want to go back now.” He spoke with words and tones that verged on the edge of a small child’s tantrum.

“You don’t have to go back,” Sara said.

“I want to go back. Whenever I leave they hurt me.”

“You can’t do this!” She shook his shoulders and he slumped forward without resistance. “You can’t sentence yourself to die.”

Ray pulled her away. “For God’s sake, leave him alone. He’s been through enough.”

“What about the test results? He tried tonight. For the first time in his life he really tried and proved that he could be.”

“What test?” Martin asked.

“The one right …” Sara saw that the couch that had been strewn with Ray’s test results was now bare. “You took it, didn’t you?”

“That test didn’t count,” Martin said. “Like you said, it wasn’t a regular test.”

“You destroyed it,” she said in a low voice. “That’s where you were?”

Martin didn’t answer and turned away from her. “I want to go back.”

“You can’t!” she said in a hoarse voice.

“Sara, stop it!” Ray interjected.

“No.” It was nearly a cry of anguish.

Martin put his arms over his head and slumped forward in a crouch.

Althea looked with disgust at her surviving accomplice. He was perched on the end of the bed with a warm beer can cupped in both hands. He wore pajama bottoms and no top, and a beer belly overflowed the drawstring around his waist. God, she hated men who were out of shape.

“Did you wipe the blood off the pavement and door?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No.” He jerked the can to his mouth and drank.

She wanted to call Rutledge. She needed his help on this; but it was an extremely inconvenient time to make the call, and she would have to go outside to a safe phone. She would handle the cleanup details of the mess herself, and call Rutledge at the usual time in the morning.

She walked over to the second twin bed and looked down at the corpse. They had moved him from the doorway of her unit into the men’s room. She shook her head and turned away.

The man on the other bed crumpled the empty beer can, threw it toward a trash can, missed, belched, and picked up another can. God, she thought. Hire scum and this is what you get. He flipped the tab on the new can of beer.

“If you didn’t drink all that junk, you might have been in shape and taken that guy.”

“I wasn’t out there. One of us had to sleep sometime.”

“You had your chance with the chain.”

“You told me he was a retard and couldn’t coordinate.”

“I didn’t ask you to blow it.” She stood in the center of the room staring blankly at the mirror as she thought. Radical changes would have to be made, a new approach with fresh blood must be begun. Alternatives flicked across her consciousness. Her eyes focused and in the mirror she saw him looking at her. He could see through the flimsy nightgown and his eyes were devouring her. It made goosebumps rise on her flesh. He mopped his brow with the back of his hand.

“You better get dressed so’s we can do something with the stiff,” the man on the bed said.

She turned with a smile. “Do you really want me to?”

“I said you better,” he snapped.

Her decision was instantly made. She slanted her hips and wet her lips. “Don’t you like what you see?”

“I think it’s pretty goddamn terrific.”

“Want to try it?” She walked slowly toward him.

He gulped. “Sure.” As she approached he put the beer can on the floor and followed her with his eyes. “Maybe we could have some fun.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “You don’t mind him in here?” She jerked her head toward the corpse on the other bed.

“Don’t bother me if it don’t you.”

She stood docilely between his legs and felt his hands knead her breasts. She let him continue for a few moments before reaching over to the night table and picking up the .38 with its attached silencer.

One step forward, she thought—they’d found Martin Fowler. Two back—with the loss of her accomplices. She would need more money and more men.

She placed the pistol against his forehead and fired.

The surrounding hills made reception on the small transistor radio on the windowsill poor. The three people sitting at the kitchen table had to strain to make out the announcer’s voice.

“Local police have called in the State Police for aid in the murder-suicide investigation. The two men found early this morning at the Sleepy Hollow Motel by a chambermaid had evidently died late last night. One victim, as yet unidentified, had been bludgeoned to death with a tire iron found on the premises. The other victim, also unidentified, was found near the first with a bullet wound in his head. A large amount of cash was found in the room which leads authorities to speculate that underworld activities were involved in the deaths. Further details will be brought to you as they become available. Now, back to the Jon Wharton show.…”

Ray flipped off the radio and turned to face Sara and Martin. He rubbed his head in consternation. “You two didn’t by any chance also shoot someone, did you?”

“Obviously—she did it.”

“The redheaded woman?”

“Do you believe us now?”

“I think I’m going to have to. There’s no other logical explanation.”

Martin picked up his coffee cup in both hands. He drank and then carefully replaced the cup on the table. “Can I go back to school now?”

“Will you stop acting like that,” Sara said impatiently.

“Leave him alone,” Ray said evenly. “He’s got a lot to work through and it’s going to be a long process.”

Martin stood up so abruptly that his chair fell backward to the floor with a crash. He moved to the door. “I’m going to walk back.”

Sara grabbed his arm. “No. Don’t go.”

He turned to face her and she saw that he was trembling. “The school is safe.”

“No,” she said softly. “It won’t be safe for you there anymore. She will look until she finds you, and then she will see that you are hurt again. The only way to end this is to find out why and stop them. You must understand that, Martin. Please. For me.”

He stepped back until he was against the door and her grip on his arm was broken. “I … I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Will you try?” Her voice was a pleading supplication.

He looked at her for a long moment before replying. “Yes.”

Ray slapped his thigh. “Well, that settles it. The first order of business is for me to call the school.”

“You’re not going to tell them?” Sara asked.

“Under the circumstances that wouldn’t be wise. I’m going to call the super and tell him that I’m taking some vacation days I’m owed to work out a family emergency. He’ll be a little pissed since I haven’t given prior notification, but he’ll go along.”

“What then?” she asked.

“Then Martin and I are going to have a long talk.”

Ray moved the large and comfortable leather chair from the living room into his study and cleaned off the desk. He had to search the house for a window shade that worked, but when he found one he installed it on the study window. The light machine was placed on the center of the desk facing the leather chair. A metronomelike affair located in the front of the machine’s base had an arm with a round shiny disc that would pass to and fro in front of the bright light. To the side of the machine he set up a small cassette recorder with a microphone that also pointed in the direction of the chair.

Sara led Martin into the room and watched as he was seated in the leather chair. Ray signaled her to leave. She looked at him questioningly, but he gestured to the recorder and then closed the door after her.

Ray sat in a straight chair placed behind and to the left of Martin’s seat.

Both men sat quietly until the silence surrounded them like a warm cocoon.

Ray spoke in a soothing monotone. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to lean back and look at that object on my desk. That’s right. Now, let your neck muscles relax. Your arms are tense, try and let them lie loosely on the chair arm. I want you to think about your feet, then your legs … they are relaxing, each muscle in your body is slowly relaxing as if you are nearing sleep.”

“Yes.” The voice was drowsy.

Ray half stood to reach over and switch on the light machine. The disc slowly passed to and fro as it flicked across the gleaming interior light.

“I want you to stare at the light, Martin. I want you to concentrate on the disc. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now, you are relaxed and quite sleepy.”

“Yes.”

Ray let a full minute pass as Martin continued staring at the light machine. He chose his words carefully before beginning, for he knew he had to lead his patient into a dark labyrinth of memories filled with terror. It would be a long and difficult process and he must proceed with caution.

“June twenty-eight was a very sunny day,” Ray began. “And we all boarded the bus just outside the school gate. There were a dozen of you and you sat next to Roger.”

“I remember,” Martin mumbled barely audibly.

“I stood by the driver and spoke to you before the bus left.”

“Yes,” Martin said. “You talked about the Mohawk Club.”

Chapter Ten

The disc clicked back and forth until its motion merged into one continuous sweep. The bright light seemed to expand until it filled his complete vision to the exclusion of everything else. His limbs felt leaden, and the carefully enunciated soft words of Ray Heath were the only stimuli Martin felt.…

He turned away from the bright sun to see Ray Heath standing by the driver at the end of the bus. The excited voices of those around him fell silent as the psychologist began to speak.

“Listen, guys, it’s rather important for you all to do as well as you can at Camp Mohawk. It will be good work experience and may well be the first step for those of you who are to move on to a halfway house.”

“They got girls up there?” Roger yelled.

Ray shook his head. “No girls, no women. Just a bunch of important men who are relaxing and having a good time.”

“Who’s going to feed us?” There were murmurs of agreement at the voicing of that important point.

Ray smiled and lounged against the pole near the driver’s seat. “Good question. Okay, here’s how it works. The club members have campsites. Now, some of these areas are pretty fancy and include cottages equipped with everything, and some of them are rustic—just a tent or two. The members will do their own cooking. They eat a lot of steaks and things like that.”

“Throw me a bone,” Roger yelled from his place next to Martin.

“Right,” Ray snapped back, “and a little more. The members will cook, and there will be enough for you guys.… Now, your jobs will consist of gathering firewood, laying the fire, washing dishes, and otherwise helping out around the camp. Each of you will be assigned to work with various members at the camp.”

“We get paid money?” asked an astringent, petulant voice from the rear of the bus.

Ray smiled. “It is the habit of the club members to tip … to give money to school residents at the end of their stay. I might say that in the past they have been most generous.”

“Enough to buy a car?”

Ray smiled again. The desire for a car and the ability to drive was probably the most all-consuming passion of these men. “Not quite that generous,” he answered. “Any questions?”

There were none. Ray stood a moment longer at the doorway of the bus as if reluctant to step off and finally send them away on their own. “Good luck, guys,” he said, waved, and left the bus.

The driver immediately threw the vehicle in gear, turned toward the highway, and accelerated. Those on the bus were silent, their recent exuberance dismissed as they left the sanctuary of their home.

Martin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass of the window. The frightening images bounced into mental focus. They sprang forward with such stark clarity that he winced.

Her hand lashed out and struck him across the face with such severity that he fell back against the headboard of the narrow cot.

The drunken man by her side laughed and ground out his cigarette against the child’s bare thigh.

He screamed in pain as they lashed him to the bed and left him alone in the dark. He heard them laughing as they went down the stairs.

His head snapped back against the seat. His eyes were wide in remembered fright. The fear always returned when he left the school. Once through the wide double gates of the chain link fence, the images returned, and his forehead beaded with the perspiration of fear and hurt.

He had tried to understand these feelings, and now knew that the pictures he saw were memories of long ago, from the days before he was at school.

He was determined that this time his nightmares would not keep him from the enjoyment of freedom.… He would work hard. He would try to follow the orders given him, down to the last command. He would do well. He would try and be the best of the group traveling to Camp Mohawk.

Martin Fowler stared ahead, determined not to close his eyes again that day until he fell exhausted onto whatever sleeping arrangements they made for him.

The bus drove on deep into the inner recesses of the Adirondacks. A dark raincloud covered the tip of a nearby mountain, but through an odd quirk of meteorological conditions, a ray of bright sunlight shone through the mist and fell to earth in a symmetrical shaft.

Martin smiled for the first time that day.

Billie Bamburg stood on the porch of the cottage perched on the side of the hill and watched the approaching vehicle through a pair of Binolux 10 × 50 binoculars. The bus was traveling along the dirt road in the valley below the camp, and it raised a hovering cloud of dust as it approached the main gate. He estimated that it would arrive at the assembly area in twenty minutes.

That meant twenty minutes for target practice. Then he would walk the few yards down to where the bus parked and select his aide for the next several weeks. He stepped inside the cottage and snorted at the word “aide.”

Whomever he selected would never be able to learn how to mix a decent drink, but at least he would keep his mouth shut and wouldn’t remember or understand any indiscretions he saw or heard. It was a passable arrangement.

He went into his small bedroom immediately adjacent to the senator’s, stood before the mirror, and adjusted the thin black tie under the collar of his stiffly starched immaculate white shirt. He nodded at himself in the mirror, picked up the throwing knife from the bureau, and carefully inserted it into the spring sheath strapped to his forearm. He slipped into his black suit jacket and adjusted the fall of the material. He nodded again and went back outside to practice.

He had painted a small red bull’s-eye on a pine not far from the cottage. The mark was five feet from the ground and approximated the height and size of that crucial point in the average man’s sternum. There was only one throw to the knife and so no margin for error.

He stood thirty feet from the tree and slightly twisted his arm. The sheath sprang free and the blade was in his right hand, which immediately snapped back and threw.

The knife cleaved the center of the bull’s-eye and vibrated slightly as it imbedded itself in the trunk. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he walked to retrieve the knife. His timing was still good. A few dozen more morning throws would keep it so.

Billie Bamburg was five feet two inches tall, weighed one hundred thirty pounds and was one of the most deadly men who had ever served on a Green Berets A team. He specialized in death by stealth, and far preferred the close proximity of a knife thrust or a piano wire garrote to the anonymity of an automatic weapons fire fight.

Colonel Rutledge Baxter had recognized Billie’s talents nearly as soon as he took command of the unit, and had assigned him to what were euphemistically called “Special Headquarters Assignments.” Billie had initially been disgruntled, that is, until he had been informed that these duties meant carrying out assassinations of individuals who were marked for “termination with extreme prejudice.”

He had terminated thirty-two men and women before the American forces left Viet Nam. Peacetime duties had proven onerous, and he had resigned from the army to work for his former commanding officer who had recently been elected to the Senate.

He finished the last of his morning’s routine of throws, replaced the knife in its spring sheath, and walked down to the reception area to meet the bus.

Out of habit, Martin was last off the bus, and stood at the rear of the ramshackle line of training school inmates. A group of men was straggling down toward them. Some were dressed in the work whites of navy stewards, others in army fatigue pants and white tee shirts, while the rest were obvious butler types. The last man in the group was a diminutive man dressed incongruously for the weather in a black suit, narrow tie, and white shirt. With a swagger of authority, the small man crossed to the driver who was now sitting on the bus’s doorstep, smoking a long cigarillo.

“Any of these guys in good physical shape?” Billie asked.

“They all been checked out by a doctor before they were sent up here. Nobody’s sick or anything.”

“No. I mean do any of them do athletics? I need one who can run with my boss in the mornings.”

The driver’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, but Martin could overhear, just as could half of his peers. “Listen, mister,” the driver said, “half of these guys can hardly walk. They’re retards, you know,”

“So I’ve heard,” Billie said contemptuously. He turned disdainfully away from the driver and called out to the group. “Any of you jog?”

They looked back at him blankly.

“Any of you in terrific physical shape?”

“Martin is,” Roger said helpfully. “Martin works outside every day.”

“Which one is Martin?”

Martin stepped reluctantly forward. He hated to be singled out from the group. “I am.”

“How far can you run?”

“I don’t know. Coupla miles.”

“You’ll do.” He turned back to the driver. “This one will be working for Senator Baxter.” He beckoned to Martin. “Come on, kid. I’ll fill you in with the drill.”

Martin picked up his bag and slowly followed him. “The drill?”

“The job. I’ll tell you what to do.”

Martin saw the cottage where they were heading. It was at the top of a winding trail and seemed to occupy the highest point of the camp. He glanced to the side to see a clear mountain lake sparkling below. A half-dozen. Sunfish, with gaily colored sails, were pulled ashore along the lake bank, while several others were scudding before the wind out on the water itself. There was a quiet ambiance about the place—a small group of men was fishing off a dock, others were walking in twos and threes along well-tended paths, and one lone portly man was standing waist deep in the cool lake water, splashing himself with lethargic movements.

“This is the ‘Glen,’” Billie said as they passed a cove of trees that surrounded a small natural amphitheater. Logs had been cleaved in half and laid on stakes to form crude seats before the rock stage. “A lot of important guys in this country give talks here. Everything’s off the record, of course, general background information that nobody but nobody knows about beyond the camp. That goes for anything you hear … understand?”

“Sure,” Martin replied. “They told us that at the school.”

“That place must be like a prison,” the small man said.

“It’s not so bad,” Martin answered.

“How old are you, Fowler?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Christ! You sure in hell don’t look that old. I would have put you at twenty, maybe twenty-one. You’ve still got a year before the cutoff date. You should join the army. You’ll find a home for yourself.” He stopped on the path and turned to face Martin. “I guess they wouldn’t take you, huh?”

“Probably not,” Martin mumbled.

Billie turned to continue on to the cabin. “Too bad.”

They arrived at the cottage and Billie gave Martin a quick tour of the premises. Although somewhat rustic in outward appearance, the interior furnishings were ostentatiously masculine. A ten-pointed deer head was mounted over the large fireplace that nearly filled one wall of the long living room. The furnishings consisted of leather chairs and sofa, and there were exposed beams on the ceiling. One corner held a poker table, another a well-stocked U-shaped bar. Billie quickly opened three doors and briefly exposed a large bedroom, a smaller one, and a compact but efficient kitchen.

“It’s pretty,” Martin said.

Billie laughed. “I wouldn’t describe it that way, but it’s okay. I sleep in the small room, the boss in the other. There’s a separate room out back where you can bunk down. We’ll take your things out there later.” He picked up a clipboard from a kitchen counter. “At 7:00 A.M. the boss runs. You’ll go with him and carry his gear that he uses at the halfway mark. When you get back here, wash up anything left over from the night before and then go out for firewood.”

“I chop down trees?”

“Naw. They have a shed full of wood near where the bus left you off. Lunch is noon sharp. The senator has one drink … I mix, you serve. Same with lunch, I cook and you serve. You know how to do that?”

“I think so.”

Billie looked at him dubiously. “I’ll give you lessons, all right?”

“Sure.”

“The senator won’t arrive until late tonight, so today’s easy,” Billie continued, “but you start running tomorrow, and then tomorrow evening we have a cocktail party to work … an important one.”

Martin was up at 5:00 A.M. on the following morning, and was making his second trip to the woodshed down by the reception area when first light broke through the camp. A wispy white fog rose in tendrils from the mountain lake, and a haze of ground fog swirled around tree trunks, giving the encampment an eerie quality. He loaded his arms with as much wood as he could manage and began the uphill trip to the cottage.

He had awakened abruptly at 4:00 A.M. and had lain on the narrow cot trying to sort his thoughts. The frightening thought that had startled him into consciousness was the realization that Mr. Heath was not going to let him stay at the school. For the past month or two the new chief psychologist had been looking at Martin with questioning glances.

They were going to send him to a halfway house. The stay at the camp was only the first step, the trial run. If he failed this job, there would be another test, and then another, until he was forced from the school and into an outside life.

He had sighed in resignation of what was to come and, in so doing, had resolved to do his best.

Martin continued up the path to the cottage, stowed away the wood, and padded silently around the living room dusting, putting away empty glasses, and preparing for breakfast.

“Who the hell are you?”

Martin whirled to face a man coming out of the larger bedroom, wearing sweat pants and carrying a pair of running shoes. His hair was tousled, and his face sleep-creased.

“Martin Fowler, sir,” he replied quietly.

“From the training school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Senator Baxter. Get me some OJ—quick.”

Martin stood rooted in the center of the living room. He tried to remember if OJ was a type of alcoholic drink, something he might have seen made on television.

“Juice, damn it! In the kitchen,” Rutledge said irritably as he sat down to don his running shoes.

“Orange juice,” Martin said.

“God, yes. How can a man run at this ungodly hour without something to build up the blood sugar?”

Martin hurried into the kitchen and found a pitcher of orange juice in the refrigerator. He located a glass, filled it, and returned to the living room where he handed it to the senator. “Here you are, sir.”

Rutledge took the glass, downed it in two gulps, and then jogged in place for a few moments. “I hope to hell you can run. Last year the kid we had couldn’t make half a mile.” He threw a small haversack toward Martin. “Carry that. It’s extra shoes, socks and a towel. I run three miles and then change shoes and socks—you run with me that far. Coming back, you can crawl for all I care. Come on, let’s go.” Without a further word he ran from the cottage and began a brisk jog along a forested path.

Martin hefted the haversack’s strap over his shoulder and ran after the senator. He caught up with him forty yards down the trail and kept a respectful ten feet behind as the exercise continued.

They found their stride on a well-tended path that ran along the edge of a cliff. Their bodies were silhouetted against the sky as they ran in perfect formation. The pack, high up on. Martin’s back, was light, and he hardly noticed the weight.

The senator began to slow as they approached a small mountain stream cascading over flat rocks as it made its way down the hill toward the valley floor below. He stopped, sat on a rock, and held out his hand toward Martin.

Martin instantly whipped the pack from his back, threw open the two restraining straps, and handed it to the senator.

Rutledge took a towel from the pack, brushed his face with it, and then wrapped it around his neck. Next he took out a small thermos, filled the cap with water, and handed it to Martin.

“An officer always drinks after his men.”

Martin nodded, took the brimming cap, drank, and handed it back to the senator. “Thank you.”

“You’re doing all right, son. Can you make it back?” Rutledge smiled at Martin, and it was as if a transformation had come over his features. “Well, can you?”

“I think so, sir,” Martin replied with the knowledge that he’d run double the distance for this smiling man.

“Good.” Rutledge peeled off his running shoes and socks and changed into fresh pairs from the haversack. When he had finished he looked up at Martin again. “You’d make a good soldier.… What’s your name again?”

“Fowler, sir. Martin Fowler.”

“Man in your shape would find the infantry a joy. I guess they wouldn’t take you, would they?”

“Probably not,” Martin answered for the second time the same question posed by two different men.

“Pity.” Rutledge stood. “Well, let’s get on with it.” He broke into his easy, rhythmic stride while Martin closed the haversack and followed.

Martin knew they were supposed to be some of the most important men in the country, but he wouldn’t have guessed it by their dress as they milled around the cottage living room drinking cocktails. There were a dozen men present besides him, Billie, and Senator Baxter. They were dressed in jeans, Bermuda shorts, rumpled slacks, and an equal mix of assorted shirts.

“Circulate with the hors d’oeuvres,” Billie snapped in a low whisper. “Circulate. Offer the tray to everyone in the room, one at a time. Got it?”

“I think so.” Martin picked up the tray and began to walk from group to group. He stood quietly at the shoulder of talking men until his proffered tray was noticed and the hors d’oeuvres either accepted or waved away.

The conversation became a kaleidoscope of remarks, and it took him until the second hour of the party to realize that there was a dominant undercurrent theme to what everyone was saying.

“Baxter’s the man to do it. He’s one of the most respected men in the Senate, with an unblemished military record.”

“If we don’t do something, there’s going to be a domino fall up the coast of South America that will make what happened in Southeast Asia seem like an American Legion patriotic celebration.”

“The goddamn bleeding hearts won’t stand for it. They’ll make a stink, have sit-ins, protest marches, and all that goddamn stuff.”

“Baxter’s the one.”

Martin returned to the kitchen for another tray of canapes. He knew by sight several of the people he had served in the living room. They watched a great deal of television at the school, and although the nightly news did not stay on long before someone switched the channel in a search for cartoons, he had seen at least four of the guests on national television.

Slightly awed, he picked up the new tray and went back into the living room.

They had finished their second day’s run, breakfasted, and now Martin was finishing the cleaning and dishes. Rutledge had left early to make his rounds of several other encampments he had begun to visit regularly. Billie was standing before the front porch practicing as Martin came out for further orders.

The small man’s arm twisted slightly to the right and the knife slid into his palm and was thrown in a motion so fluid that it seemed continuous.

“You’re good with that,” Martin said as he watched the knife quiver in the tree, dead center in the target.

“I practice a lot,” Billie said as he walked to the tree and with difficulty withdrew the knife.

“You’re the senator’s bodyguard too?”

“Something like that. Want to see something?”

Martin nodded. “Yes.”

“Follow me.” Billie walked through the cottage and into his bedroom. He pulled a large case out of the closet, threw it on the bed, and opened it with near reverence. “Take a look.”

Martin moved cautiously toward the bed and peered into the interior of the case. Felt slots had been built to the exact dimensions of the housed weapons. “Guns,” he said.

“Guns are cannons. These are hand weapons.” He lifted a large pistol with a twelve-inch barrel. “This is a .357 magnum with long barrel. The most powerful handgun made, for its accuracy.”

“Are you as good with those as you are with that knife?”

Billie laughed. “Hell, no. Can’t hit the goddamn broad side of a brick shit house. That’s why I have this baby.” He carefully lifted a sawed-off shotgun from the case. A harness was wound around the pistol grip and he unraveled it and strapped the weapon to his body. It stretched from under his armpit to his waist.

“You put your coat over it?” Martin asked.

“If I need to carry it. Come on, kid, I’ll show you.” He picked up the magnum and a handful of shells from the case and left the room. “Grab a coupla empty cans and bottles from the kitchen … we’re going plinking.”

They walked over the ridge and down the side, as far away from the main section of the camp as they could get. The spot was obviously familiar to Billie, because he walked straight to it.

They were in a small cove of trees with a high bank directly in front of them. Billie set the cans and bottles on the ground before the bank and rejoined Martin twenty yards away. He loaded the magnum and handed it to Martin.

“Come on. It don’t bite. Take it. Just don’t point it my way.”

Martin took the weapon and was surprised at its weight. “It’s heavy.”

“Now try and shoot one of those cans or bottles. Go on. Aim … pull the trigger … no! Let me show you how to hold and brace your shooting arm.” He put the revolver in Martin’s right hand and demonstrated how to brace his wrist with the left. “Now, fire.”

The pistol roared in Martin’s hand. The recoil and jolt startled him and he nearly dropped the weapon.

“Ya’ didn’t hit anything. What did I tell you?”

“It sure makes a lot of noise.”

“Course it does, and that’s about all the good it is. To scare a guy to death. Now watch this.” Again, the fluid motion as the sawed-off shotgun fell from its harness into the small man’s waiting fingers. It fired, and a blotch of dirt, sand and pebbles spewed skyward from around the bottle to the right. The bottle itself disintegrated into a thousand shards. “See. With this I don’t miss.”

“I see that,” Martin said in awe.

“The average guy doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know that in the old days the cowboys used to have gunfights by standing ten feet away from each other. Couldn’t hit anything if they were further apart. Handgun’s no damn good at anything more than a dozen feet. Go on, try again. Empty the damn thing.”

Martin fired and fired again. He didn’t hit anything.

Billie laughed in glee. “What did I tell you? Now try this.” He handed Martin the shotgun. “Point it in the general direction … like it was an extension of your finger.”

Martin pointed, fired, and disintegrated the second bottle.

“You learn, don’tcha?” Billie clapped him on the back.

Chapter Eleven

It was enough for one day.

Ray Heath stood, snapped off the light machine, and depressed the “stop” button on the cassette player. He looked down to see that Martin had fallen into a light sleep. He walked to the window behind the leather chair and gently raised the shade.

What manner of men were they dealing with? What powers were they unleashing? He was convinced that the answer to recent events lay with what had befallen Martin at Camp Mohawk. The hypnotherapy was bringing them closer and eventually it would be revealed … but at what further danger to all of them?

Martin stirred and his eyes opened. “I fell asleep, huh?”

“Do you remember what you told me … about your first days at the camp?”

“Yes. It’s like a dream. A very clear dream.”

Ray gave him a clap on the back. “And it’s made you hungry. Let’s eat.”

“Fine with me.”

They walked in single file through the narrow hallway and downstairs to the kitchen. “Did you shoot every day with that man? The one called Billie?”

“Every afternoon. I had the feeling he was bored and wanted to teach someone. I got pretty good toward the end.”

Ray shook his head. Even his own frame of reference in past studies of abnormal psychology hadn’t included psychopathic men who spent hours a day throwing knives at trees and firing shotguns at bottles … men who diligently honed these skills and then for obscure reasons imparted them to a supposedly retarded man who would have no functional use for them.

Sara had made a heaping platter of bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches and was now pouring large goblets of ice cold milk. She smiled at them as they entered the kitchen. “Heard you coming. What happened?”

“It’s on the machine,” Ray answered.

“I’ll eat mine upstairs.” She hurriedly whisked a sandwich onto a paper plate and scurried up the narrow stairs.

“Where’s she going?” Martin asked through a mouthful of sandwich.

“To listen to the session on the recorder.”

Martin nodded. “I guess she should know everything.”

Althea stood before the mirror in the bathroom of her room at the Leatherstocking Inn and examined the tire iron bruise on her right cheekbone. It hadn’t been so obvious the first day, but now had spread until nearly the whole side of her face was discolored.

She snorted and began to apply makeup.

The soft knock at the door annoyed her. “Who is it?” she snapped irritably.

“Bamburg.”

“Oh, God,” she muttered aloud, “King Creep is here.” She strode to the door, opened it quickly, beckoned him inside, and slammed it after he entered. “He sent you?”

“No, I’m on a bird-watching trip.” Billie threw a small valise on the bed.

“You’re not moving in with me, buster.”

“That’s the weapon and money you wanted. Knock it off, honey bear. I wouldn’t touch you with an eleven-foot pole.”

She flipped open the bag, quickly rifled through a stack of currency, and then picked up a .38 revolver and examined it carefully. “It seems in order.”

“What happened to your face, honey bear?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“I ran into a door.”

“Opened by Fowler by any chance?”

“Fowler, Fowler, Fowler! I’m so goddamn sick of that bastard! Why in hell didn’t Rutledge tell me about him?”

“He did.”

“He’s supposed to be a retard.”

“He’s an idiot savant, at least so the boss says.”

“A what?”

“A person of below normal intelligence who can remember long strings of unrelated facts or numbers. Which, by the way, is why he’s so dangerous to us.”

Althea felt the throbbing side of her face. “He also knows how to throw things.”

Billie sat in a chair and lounged back. “So, do you have any leads?”

“Of course I have leads.”

He gave her a tight smile. “Let’s not be bitchy, honey bear.”

“Why did Rutledge send you?”

“Because I’m the best.”

“You also have known connections with the senator, whereas I don’t.”

“The problem is too important to him, and you haven’t succeeded.”

“It was accidental. He should have been taken out on two occasions.”

Billie folded his arms. “But he wasn’t, doll face. This time we go ahead without fancy stuff. No chains, no cars off roads—we take him and the woman out, cleanly and simply.”

“Be my guest. It will be interesting to observe an expert in action.”

“My, my. We are offended, aren’t we?”

“You’re damn right I am, Billie. Rutledge knows I can’t stand you, and I resent his sending you up here.”

“Where is Fowler?” The bantering tone had completely left the little man’s voice.

Althea sighed. “Let me fill you in. In looking for Fowler, I went out to the training school under an assumed name. The chief psychologist out there, Ray Heath, somehow made me. It had to be him because he was the only one who knew what motel I was staying in. A few hours after my visit with Heath, Fowler and the woman arrive at the motel. You know what happened there. It would seem that the connection between Heath and Fowler is obvious. It becomes even more obvious when I learned that Heath has taken an unexpected vacation.”

“Ergo, the three of them are together?” Bamburg asked.

“Ergo, you are so right.”

“And on their way to California?”

“And in a house five miles from here.”

Billie glanced at his watch. “We’ll need a safe car, and I never go into a strange place without looking it over first. Details tomorrow and we take them tomorrow night.”

Althea felt her bruised face again. “It can’t be too soon for me.”

For the first time in twenty-two years Martin Fowler cried.

He was sitting Indian fashion in the center of Ray Heath’s living room with a glass of red wine on the floor before him. The booming sounds of the stereo’s strategically placed speakers roiled sound around him. The chorus rose to a crescendo backed by the full symphony orchestra and then the final movement was over.

He was stunned and it took a few moments for his sense of the present to return. He looked over at Ray and Sara sitting on the couch. He saw they were looking at him.

“I never knew anything could be so beautiful,” he said in a husky voice that did not sound like his own.

“Some people think it’s the most beautiful piece of music ever composed,” Sara said.

“What is it?”

“It’s the final movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It’s called the Choral Symphony because the composer felt that only by adding the human voice could he reach the heights and achieve the effects he wanted.”

“I never knew such things existed,” Martin said. There was a faraway poignant tone to his voice as if he were voicing the loss of two decades.

Ray stood and walked over to the amplifier to switch off the machine. “We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, Martin. Let’s hit the sack.”

Martin stood in the bathroom doorway, toothbrush in hand, and watched them come up the stairs arm in arm. They stopped at the entrance to Ray’s bedroom. Ray smiled at him and Sara blew a kiss. They went into the room and closed the door behind them.

He hung the toothbrush in the rack and went into the spare bedroom. He stripped down to his shorts, hung his clothes in the empty closet, opened the window, and stood looking over the dark mountains. A cool northerly breeze swept over him and he shivered.

Ray had said the last movement of that symphony was based on a poem called “Ode to Joy.” He would see if he could find a copy tomorrow in one of the many books in the house. He thought about the music a moment and then climbed on the cot and pulled a quilt up to his chin.

Sara’s low moan made him sit bolt upright. His muscles tensed as he prepared to fling himself against the door.

She moaned again and then he heard her voice through the thin walls. “Oh, God, Ray.”

Martin lay face down on the cot as his fingers clenched the sidebars. He pushed his face as deeply into the pillow as he could.

The clicking disc made a metronomelike sound as it continued its endless passage to and fro before the light.

Ray noticed with satisfaction that the prior conditioning had worked—Martin went into the trance faster than the day before, and it seemed to be of a deeper nature. The deep trance would give him a greater control and allow him to speed up the process and reach the important events that occurred at Camp Mohawk.…

Martin’s work fell into the rhythm of the day’s events at the camp: obtain wood near dawn, the six-mile run with the senator, washup, cleanup, target practice with Billie, and then preparation for lunch. Each night there were meetings with important people at the isolated cabin.

Rutledge Galation Baxter dominated the proceedings. He usually stood before the fireplace, his tanned face and well-muscled body seemed to exude confidence and assurance.

He spoke with the sonorous tones of a man with a mission. “We are going to lose,” he said. “The Southern Hemisphere will fall, and communism will creep up the continent until we are surrounded and then engulfed.”

The men, listening intently around him, would murmur assent. They were the careful culls from dozens of verbal feelers and conversations.

“It is imperative that we have a legal fulcrum upon which to base our counterattack against these forces,” Rutledge would continue. “Operation Barbados and the Baxter Amendment are the mechanisms through which we shall attain our goals.”

Heads shook in agreement, thoughtful men puffed pipes with greater fervor. He had them and he knew it.

“Here is what I propose,” Rutledge said.

It was Martin’s task to see that each of the guests was served prior to Rutledge’s presentation. Then he would stand respectfully at the rear of the long living room and listen as the senator talked.

Billie Bamburg parked the rented car on a road that ran parallel to Ray Heath’s house, a half-mile distant. He pulled off onto a logging road, checked to make sure the car was obscured from the highway, and gathered his equipment.

He wore an army camouflage suit, jump boots, a bush hat that dangled down over one side of his face, and carried day and night binoculars. His only weapon was the knife strapped under his sleeve on his forearm.

He stood by the car and took a compass reading, snapped shut the lid on the instrument, and walked into the woods. He would take a position well back from the Heath house, with good cover, but excellent sight lines to the front and side yards of the house.

A cloud of black flies discovered him and hovered near his face and neck. He swatted at them and pulled the brim of his cap lower over his head. Occasionally he would stop to take another compass reading, and then walk on.

Today and tonight would be surveillance of the house—the strike would be made near dawn.

He was vaguely fond of Martin Fowler. The weeks at Camp Mohawk had created a tenuous bond between the two men, but that would not deter him. He would make the hit in the same efficient manner that he had taken out Dung Thou.

Dung had somehow sensed his presence that night, and had abruptly turned as the piano wire garrote had encircled his neck. Their eyes had met, inches apart, and recognition had briefly flickered in the man’s face until Billie had yanked the wire taut and turned the look into terror.

It would be the same, but not the same. They were all different and that’s what generated the excitement.

He could see the house in the distance and found a spot under a willow tree with brush cover to the side. He lay prone on the ground and took out the binoculars: It would be a long day, but he was a patient man.

“The last night, Martin.” Ray’s voice was low and barely audible as he bent toward Martin’s ear and repeated the phrase three times. “The important thing happened that night … you remember … I know you do.”

“Yes … yes … the last night.”

It was a cool evening, and a brisk fire crackled in the fireplace immediately behind Rutledge. The flickering flames seemed to accent his cream-colored suit and make him appear ten feet tall as he stood before the seated men.

“American warships, while peacefully cruising in South American waters, will be maliciously attacked by foreign torpedo boats. There will be a minor loss of life, but the audacity of the act will cause an uproar of disgust in the United States Senate. The Baxter Amendment will be introduced and overwhelmingly passed.”

“Exactly what will this so-called amendment say?” Robert Turngood asked brusquely.

Martin, in his usual place at the rear of the room, recognized the man. He knew from a previous day’s meeting that Tumgood was the owner of the Turngood newspaper chain and one of the most influential men in the media.

Rutledge nodded at the question. “In essence, the Baxter Amendment will give the president of the United States the right to use military force to protect all national interests in our Southern Hemisphere.”

“You can pass all the amendments in the world and that doesn’t mean the president will utilize the power,” Turngood pressed.

“He will be forced to do so. A public outcry and the voice of the Senate will force him to land troops in certain threatened countries.”

“Sounds like the Gulf of Tonkin ploy to me,” Turngood said.

“It is similar in intent and execution,” Rutledge agreed. “If you will recall, that gave the legal cloak for Viet Nam.”

“I’d like to hear the exact details,” another voice added. “This could be an awfully vague plan without cooperation from the navy and other forces.”

“The details, gentlemen, have been worked out down to the position of the last sailor. Captain Newmark, if you will elaborate.”

Rutledge stepped aside and beckoned to a naval officer to take his place at the front of the room.

Captain Newmark was dressed in tennis shorts and a bright tee shirt. He seemed slightly flushed as he took his place at the front of the room. He started to speak and then abruptly stopped and turned to talk to Rutledge in a low voice. “I assume this is the final group and everyone here is entitled to know full details?”

“You assumed correctly, Newmark.” Rutledge beamed his most boyish smile. “Those of us in this room tonight are the final selection—no one else will be brought into this, no one will leave, and security will be maximum from tonight on.”

“Very good,” the naval officer said briskly. “Operation Barbados will begin when two naval missile cruisers sail for routine training in the South Atlantic. On September seventeenth they will be attacked by three torpedo boats. Heavy damage will be inflicted on our vessels.”

“Exactly where will this incident take place?” Turngood’s voice boomed out.

Newmark looked slightly flustered. “Naturally I have the map coordinates written down, but the exact location is not important to the discussion.”

“I think the location is important. You mean you don’t even know the damn map coordinates?” Turngood seemed irritated at the lack of specific information.

There was silence in the room.

Martin took two paces forward. “Coordinates 34 degrees, 17 minutes, 12 seconds latitude, 58 degrees, 30 minutes, 5 seconds longitude.”

The men in the room turned to stare at. Martin. Rutledge, for probably the first time in his military and political career, looked dumbfounded, while Captain Newmark seemed pleased to be off the hook concerning his own lack of information.

“The torpedo boats,” Martin continued, “flying the Peoples’ Liberators flags, will approach on a compass azimuth of 250 degrees and make a flanking attack against the lead cruiser.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Rutledge interrupted. “Now if you please. Captain Newmark, continue.…”

The living room was a shambles. Ashtrays overflowed, and half-finished drinks seemed piled on every available open space. Martin picked up the silent butler and began to empty ashtrays into its interior. He could hear the low voices of Senator Baxter and Billie in another room.

He was pleased with himself as he methodically cleaned. He had listened carefully and provided the information they needed when it was necessary. He could only hope, now that their stay at the camp was ending, that the senator would give him a good report.

“Martin.” It was a low but commanding call.

He looked up to see Rutledge Baxter in the doorway to the bedroom. “Yes, sir?”

“Just leave that mess for a minute. Come in here and have a drink with Billie and me.”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t drink.”

“Ever had one?”

“No, sir.”

Rutledge smiled and in that moment Martin knew why men followed him. “If you say so, sir.”

“Billie, mix the man a drink—a good one,” Baxter yelled over his shoulder.

“Coming up, Colonel.”

“Sit down, Martin, sit down.”

Martin sat stiffly on the edge of one of the twin beds. “I hope what I said was all right?”

“Well, you certainly stepped in when the good captain was at a loss for his map coordinates.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Martin replied as Billie thrust a tall glass of dark liquid into his hand.

“Drink her down, Marty. That’s good bourbon in there—the best. The colonel only serves the very best.”

Martin looked at the dark drink dubiously. “Well, okay.” He took a large drink, gagged, nearly choked, and felt the warmth of the liquor as it spread across his abdomen.

“Finish her off. Two gulps, now,” Billie insisted.

Martin did as he was ordered and the empty glass was snatched from his hand and replaced with another full one.

Rutledge Baxter sat only inches from him, his hands clasped between his knees as he smiled at Martin. “Let me ask,” the senator said, “do you still remember those map coordinates?”

“Yes, sir. Thirty-four degrees, 17 minutes, and 12 seconds latitude and 58 degrees, 30 minutes, and 5 seconds longitude.”

“Very good,” Rutledge said exuberantly.

“Drink her down, Marty,” Billie commanded as his arm draped over Martin’s shoulder.

“Let me ask you something else, Martin,” Rutledge said. “Do you remember the men who were at the meeting here tonight?”

“Yes, sir. They’ve been in and out of the cottage all week long.”

“Let me see how many of their names you can get.”

“Well, there’s Captain Newmark of Naval Operations, and Mr. Robert Turngood of the Turngood Communications Group. Then there’re Senators Willard and Webster. They work with you, right, Senator Baxter?”

“Yes, that’s right. There were others—can you remember who they were?”

“I’ll try.” Martin took another gulp from the drink in his hand and stared at the ceiling. He could see the faces of the visitors before him. It was only a question of putting the faces together with the names he had overheard. He began to speak and give the recitation of names and occupations.

When he had finished, Rutledge stood, walked over to the bureau, and slammed both fists down on its surface. “Damn! Double damn!”

“Something wrong, sir?” Martin asked.

“Nothing’s wrong with the colonel,” Billie Bamburg said as he replenished Martin’s drink.

“I think I could pretty well outline and repeat everything in Operation Barbados,” Martin continued.

“That’s quite all right, Martin,” Rutledge said in an extremely low voice. “You’ve said enough. Quite enough. I am very impressed.”

“I thought he was supposed to be a goddamn dummy,” Martin heard Billie whisper to Rutledge.

“He must be an idiot savant. One of those rare individuals of subnormal intelligence who has an immense capacity to memorize facts and figures that are totally unrelated to his knowledge.”

“Then it can’t hurt anything. He can’t put it together and hurt you.”

Rutledge slowly turned and surveyed Martin on the bed. He spoke half to Billie and Martin and half to himself. “There will not be another opportunity like this for five more years. If I can’t pull it off this time, how will I ever get agreement from the group again? It’s now or never.…”

“You want me to take him out?”

Martin was desperately trying to follow the conversation, but he felt dizzy and his thoughts lacked coherence. He lay back on the bed and discovered that by putting one foot on the floor, he could steady the revolving room.

“Colonel, you want me to take him out?” Billie repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” Rutledge snapped.

“I still don’t see how he can hurt you.”

“He’s going to tell other people and someone somewhere is going to appreciate the significance of what he knows. The details are so damn specific, map coordinates, the call numbers of the ships.… They’re all there and he knows everything. Also, the security lid is on the group we’ve put together. There’s no way to change all those details. The only alternative would be to call the whole damn operation off.”

“I get your gist, Colonel.”

“I’m a man among men,” Martin said aloud. “I hid away too damn long in that place.”

“What in hell is he mumbling about?” Rutledge asked irritably.

“I’ll fix him another drink. A short one but potent.”

Rutledge crossed to the door as Billie forced another drink on Martin. “You know what to do, Billie. I’m going to scare up a drinking, card-playing crony and make sure I’m accounted for during the rest of the night.”

“The lake, sir?”

“That seems a valid spot.”

Chapter Twelve

“I can’t breathe! I’m drowning!”

The leather chair slammed back against the wall as Martin catapulted from its seat. Ray quickly leaned over and simultaneously snapped off the light and depress the button on the cassette player.

Martin cowered in the corner. His hands were over his head, his chest heaved in convulsing gasps.

Ray put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and felt the flesh quiver. “You’re awake, Martin. You are awake! Do you hear me?”

“Can’t breathe … water … hands and feet tied … pushed over the side … sinking … slime oozing around me.…”

Ray shook him with both hands. “Wake up! Damn it, wake up!”

They stared into each other’s eyes, their heads inches apart. Ray saw the deep fear within the other man as Martin’s eyes slowly focused and his tremors began to subside.

“I was drowning. It was very real. They pushed me over the side again and I sank.”

“It’s over now. You remember it all?”

“Yes. Every godawful moment of it.”

“I think it’s time for us to have a cup of coffee.” He led Martin from the room. He noticed that his charge walked like an automaton as if he were still unable to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. The session had been too vivid, too traumatic.

Ray poured coffee and sat across the kitchen table from Martin. They both drank silently, knowing that now that they had left the study, Sara would be listening to the recording of the session.

They were staring into empty coffee cups when Sara finished and came into the kitchen. She stood over the sink and looked out the window. Her arms, braced on the counter edge, seemed to be supporting a heavy weight. She slowly turned. “I heard it. How did you escape?”

Martin shrugged. “Billie made two small mistakes and I was very lucky.”

“Tell me,” she said softly.

“It was dark and there wasn’t any moon that night. Billie rowed out to what he thought was the middle of the lake. I found out later we were closer to the far side than he realized.”

“You said he made two mistakes?” Ray asked.

“The spot where he dumped me was his first—the second was that he didn’t weight me down. He tied my feet together and my hands behind me, but in the water I was able to pull my feet through my arms and bring my hands forward.”

“What else?”

“When I was under water I was able to push myself to the surface and dog-paddle.”

“It’s a goddamn miracle you got out alive.”

“If your hands and feet were tied; how did you get back to the school?” Sara asked.

“I cut through the ropes with a sharp rock and walked back.”

“Damn!” Ray’s fists came down and thumped the table top. Sara and Martin involuntarily started. “I should have known,” Ray said. “The others came back on the bus that day, but Martin wandered in hours later looking a mess. He wouldn’t speak and we just assumed he had wandered off and gotten lost.”

“It would seem that you make a great many assumptions at the school,” Sara said.

“Easily said in retrospect. Now it all fits,” Ray continued. “A week after Martin returned we got the word on further funding for Meegan House. The donation specifically stated that certain of the educable that were at Camp Mohawk would be assigned to Meegan House.”

“I don’t understand.” Sara said.

“The new funding for Meegan halfway house was from a private donor. When he gave us the money Meegan said that he had been at Camp Mohawk and observed the work done by the students. He wanted to further our program, and he even attached a list of those he insisted go to the halfway house.”

“And that list included Martin’s name.”

“But of course,” Ray answered.

“And this Meegan is … Meegan Toiletries?”

“A very wealthy man.”

“It’s possible then that the new donation to the halfway house was only an excuse to get Martin out in the open where they could reach him.”

“And kill him,” Ray added.

“And they won’t stop trying,” Sara said. “They will come after him and keep coming until he’s destroyed.” Her increasing agitation was becoming more and more apparent. “Eventually they will find out that Martin’s here.”

“I’ll leave before they do,” Martin said flatly.

“Like hell you will,” Ray retorted immediately. “I have a responsibility for you.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“Yes, you are,” Ray agreed, “but you’ve also been cloistered for most of your life. Right now you don’t have the necessary tools to exist on your own. You’ll get them and we’ll help you to get them, but at this moment you aren’t prepared to make it on your own.”

“We’re losing sight of the information Martin has. People have to be told,” Sara said.

“About what?” Ray snapped. “You don’t mean that political crap about Operation Barbados?”

“I sure in hell do. They’re going to push us right into another Viet Nam.

“Rutledge Baxter is one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Senate. And he’s not alone in this. According to Martin’s list there are some of the most powerful people in the country behind Barbados.”

“Which is why they have to be stopped,” Sara insisted.

Ray paced the room. “We accidentally posses information that’s none of our business. If we try and tell anyone, it will mean our jobs.”

“Jobs!” Sara screeched. “Jesus God, jobs! They already have mine and Martin’s and almost killed us both to boot.”

“Then my job, since I seem to be the only one in this group that’s gainfully employed.”

“Hey, thanks. Thanks a load.”

Ray put his arms around her. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean it the way it came out. Damn it all! You know what I mean. If the powers behind this crazy scheme link me into it … I’m ruined.”

She broke from his embrace. “More than fifty thousand men died in Viet Nam. God only knows how many could die if we start waging land wars in South America—and that’s what they want. That’s the end result of Operation Barbados.”

“Who’s to say they are wrong? Important men like Rutledge Baxter possess information not available to you and me.”

“I’ve heard that argument before. It doesn’t wash.”

“You weren’t at Camp Mohawk, Sara. You can’t imagine the entourage of important people parading around up there. Not just congressmen and military leaders, but economists, scientists, multimultimillionaires; men who control corporations, banks, the media. Face it, we’re outnumbered.”

“The men in agreement with Senator Baxter don’t control all the newspapers.”

“Just part of them, but that’s enough,” he said.

“You don’t want to get involved?”

“It’s not only that. I just don’t see any effective action we can take. It’s Martin’s word … words on the recorder, against power you can’t imagine.”

“Then why are they so frightened of him? Why have they tried to kill him and ruin me?”

Ray looked thoughtful a moment. “Because he knows dates, places, names, and numbers on the ships involved, and most importantly—map coordinates.”

“Exactly,” Sara said with vehemence. “Information so damn specific that if it got out before the day of the operation, they couldn’t go ahead with their plans.”

“The last I heard, the Joint Chiefs of Staff weren’t accepting my phone calls.”

“No, maybe not,” Sara agreed. “But there are other senators on the hill, men we know of who would be in disagreement with what Baxter proposes. We could make up a pretty powerful list of our own.”

“And they won’t believe us,” Ray said.

“There’re newspapers.”

“Some controlled by men involved.”

“And many not.”

“You want to contact all of them?”

“Not all,” Sara said. “Just a good sampling of the major papers in the country—The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Los Angeles Times—maybe a couple more contacts with magazines dealing with foreign policy. No, there’s not time for magazines. We should probably try for a columnist like J. J. Sperry.”

“He’s a muckraker.”

“He sure is. And that’s exactly what we need.”

Ray was silent for long moments. “We could write letters. It’s still days until Operation Barbados is scheduled. Someone somewhere might believe us.”

“Your credentials aren’t exactly invalid,” Sara said.

“No. I can vouch for my techniques with Martin’s hypnosis.”

“Can it be duplicated?”

“There’s no need to. It’s part of his conscious mind now.”

“Then he can repeat it?” Sara asked. They both looked at Martin. “Can you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Martin answered after a pause.

Sara’s excitement began to build. At last she had a weapon to overcome the frustration of recent events—a weapon not only of historical importance, but of personal vindication. “We’ll compose a letter containing all the facts in as brief form as possible. We make a list of the congressmen, columnists, and papers we want to contact. The letters we send will be essentially the same, but someone somewhere is going to have their interest sufficiently piqued to begin to make inquiries. The information is too damn specific.”

“If they don’t kill us all in the meantime,” Ray said.

“Once the information is in the hands of responsible parties, we’ll have built-in protection.”

Ray nodded. “I hope so, Sara. I hope to God so.” He walked toward the stairs. “I’ll get paper and the typewriter. We sure in hell better start today and get those letters mailed tomorrow.”

“Don’t they ever go to sleep?” Althea lowered the binoculars and turned impatiently toward Billie.

Billie took the glasses from her and trained them on Ray Heath’s lighted living room. He examined the room through the uncurtained windows for five minutes before putting the binoculars down. “The bastard’s typing something.”

“I’ll give you one guess what it is.”

“We’ll have to make sure we hit all three of them.”

Althea levered the short Uzi machine pistol from her haversack and checked that the magazine was firmly seated.

“Let’s get it over with,” she said.

“Patience, dearie.”

“Why in the hell should we wait? With two of us we can probably take them through the front window.”

“Maybe. Take another look with the glasses. Examine the right living room wall.”

Althea snatched the binoculars from his hand and adjusted them. She swept them to her eyes and trained them on the living room. She moved her field of vision past the three people in the center of the room and began to examine the surrounding walls carefully. “I don’t see any … oh, oh. Against the far wall, by the fireplace.”

“You’ve got it, dearie.” Billie smiled in the dark. “Now what do you see?” he asked as if teaching a primary lesson to a new recruit.

“A shotgun. Double barreled with open hammers.”

“Twelve-gauge, I’d say. Notice that the hammers are pulled back. The damn thing is ready for big game.”

“It’s no match for an automatic weapon.”

“Maybe not, but why take the risk? Here’s the attack plan.…”

“I’m not a goddamn Green Beret, Billie.”

“Honey baby, you’re my A team tonight ’cause you’re all I’ve got. Now shut up and listen to me.”

He began to outline the attack in careful detail culled from his day’s examination of the house. They would go in at 4:00 A.M., the hour before dawn when the human metabolism was at its lowest ebb, when disorientation was most likely to occur. He explained to her that there were three bedrooms in the upstairs of the house. They would enter the downstairs silently through the front. He would go into the master bedroom where Sara and Ray slept and take them both. She would hit the middle room where Martin slept.

The attack should take less than two minutes including a forced entry into the house.

Althea yawned and looked down at her watch. Three more hours to go.

In the beginning, Sara’s and Ray’s excitement had been infectious. They marveled at each new sentence and paragraph of the rapidly lengthening letter they were composing.

Martin had sensed that their vitality somehow excluded him. It was not a malicious affront. It was habit—they had assumed the composition of the letter to the media and selected congressmen themselves and somehow he had been shunted aside.

It was as it always had been. As hard as he had tried he had never fit into the training school either. The others, his peers, had somehow unconsciously understood, and although they did not or could not voice it to their keepers, they had automatically made him an outsider.

They had gone to classes of a sort. He remembered the arithmetic classes. He was soon able to add the sums in his head, but even years ago he had somehow felt that any alacrity with answers would only draw attention to himself. If the problem’s total were a figure such as 932, he would write 239. It was his own private way of indicating that he really knew the correct answer, even if he were unwilling to let others know.

A young temporary teacher had seen through the subterfuge and called Martin into class after hours. He had given Martin a long series of examples and Martin had dutifully entered the totals in reverse order.

“I know what you’re doing, Fowler,” the young teacher had said. He had written a report and shortly thereafter left to go on to graduate school. The report had been lost in the files and eventually thrown away—after all, the young teacher was not certified.

Martin involuntarily yawned and Sara looked over at him with a softness about her face. “This must be boring you to death. There’s no need for you to stay up, Martin. Go on to bed.”

“Another half an hour and I’m turning in,” Ray said. “We’ll finish copying tomorrow morning and can have them in the noon mail.”

“Thank God,” Sara said tiredly.

Martin saw how they touched—small, intimate gestures. His fingers lingered on her arm for a few moments, her hand brushed against his shoulder. Little things, but somehow they made him ache.

Martin stood and stretched. “I think I will go to bed.”

“Goodnight,” they both chimed as he walked slowly up the stairs.

Martin paused at the top of the stairs where he was hidden from view, but where he could hear what was said.

“I think we should watch him tonight,” Ray said.

“You think he’ll run?”

“There’s that possibility. Let’s be on the safe side and take turns checking on him.”

“You’re right,” she agreed.

Martin walked down the hall to his room.

Ray was correct in his assumption. He did intend to run, and he intended to do it tonight. He slipped out of his shoes and lay fully dressed on his cot. He pulled the blanket up under his chin and lay staring at the ceiling.

They would be safe if he were gone. As long as he lived here the people who wanted to kill him would harm anyone who stood in their way. He must leave so that they could not hurt Sara.

He was still awake half an hour later when the door to his room silently opened. He saw Sara standing in the doorway.

“Are you awake, Martin?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

She came into the room, sat on the edge of the cot, and ran a finger along the line of his cheek. “It’s going to be all right, you know that?”

“I know. Everything will be all right when we hear from someone we wrote to,” he answered, but did not believe it.

“Ray has his gun loaded.”

“It’s a shotgun. A gun is a cannon,” he automatically responded.

She laughed. “All right. A shotgun. He’ll see that nothing happens to us.”

“I know.”

“Goodnight now.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

She left the room and he was alone. Blotchy moonlight running before scudding clouds cast patterns on the wall. The dull ache of loneliness that he knew so well surrounded him. He had been an outsider before, but had always associated his necessary apartness with a sense of security. Now he had neither, and that filled him with a nostalgia for things he had never known.

He lay quietly, attempting to come to terms with feelings outside his experience. He knew that in a few minutes Ray would poke his head in the door to check on him and then they would both sleep. They were tired and dawn was only an hour away. Then it would be time to go.

The door opened and Martin saw Ray’s head, recognizable in the dim light of the moon. The door closed again. A few more minutes until Ray was asleep and then he would leave.

“It’s time,” Billie said as he glanced down at the luminous glow of his watch. “Check your weapon.”

“I did that an hour ago,” Althea said.

“Do it again,” he snapped back. He listened until he heard the double click of her magazine as she reseated it and then the short dull clunk of the bolt as the weapon was primed for firing.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

He nodded in satisfaction. This was the first operation he had ever run with a woman, but he could not detect any tightness in her voice. She was a cool one. He stood in a crouch and began to move away from the stand of trees where they had been hiding. He glanced to the right and left.

The narrow secondary road that ran past the Heath house was deserted. In all probability it would remain that way, since the nearest neighbors were a mile in either direction. They would not be disturbed.

He saw her take a position a few yards away on his flank … a smart and safe move.

In soft-soled shoes they walked up the steps of the front porch. When he reached the door, Billie inserted a thin wire into the lock. There was sufficient moonlight to work, and he did not use his flashlight.

It took fifteen seconds for the lock to click open. He slowly turned the handle. The door moved forward a few inches and stopped.

They had hooked the latch chain. He replaced the wire in his belt and removed the wire cutters from their holster at his side. He pushed the cutting edge through the door’s aperture and placed the jaws around the chain.

He snipped and heard the barely perceptible clank as the chain fell apart and back against the doorframe.

They stepped inside and Althea silently closed the door behind them. The staircase was a few feet in front of them, and they moved in single file, keeping as close to the wall as they could, in order to avoid the old house’s creaking floorboards.

At the top of the stairs, Billie stepped toward the master bedroom and quickly measured the distance before looking over his shoulder toward Althea.

She stood before Fowler’s room, the same distance from the door as he. Her weapon was unslung from her shoulder and held ready.

Billie nodded and nearly simultaneously their feet thudded against the respective doors at a spot a few inches below the door handle.

The doors flew open and they moved into the rooms firing as they went.

Martin was bent over, giving the last tug to his sneaker laces, when the door flew open.

Automatic weapon fire stitched a pattern across the cot where he had lain moments before, and continued across the room shattering the window into a hundred shards.

Over the clatter of the weapon in his room he heard the double boom of a shotgun from Ray’s bedroom.

As Martin came up out of his crouch he was inches away from the barrel of the. Uzi.

The weapon continued its arc across the room as Althea realized the cot was empty.

He grabbed the hot barrel with both hands, and while it was still firing, tore it down and away from the woman’s grasp.

“Bastard!” she was able to say before he hit her on the side of the head with the stock of the stubby weapon.

Althea fell in a heap to the floor without further sound.

As the door to Ray Heath’s room slammed back against the wall, Billie stepped into the room and arced his shotgun toward the frightened man who sat up in bed.

Ray made a lunge for the 12-gauge standing by the bed table. Billie’s first shot nearly tore off Ray’s arm and shoulder.

Sara screamed as Ray threw his body sideways toward her and rolled them both over onto the floor. He splayed himself across her in a protective cover as the second shotgun blast tore through his back.

Billie knew that the man was dead as he stepped further into the room and around the side of the bed. The woman beneath the man’s body groaned, but his field of fire was obscured by the bloody corpse covering her.

He was reaching down to pull the body off the woman when he heard the sound behind him and whirled to face the door.

Martin leveled the Uzi at the small man across the room. “Drop the weapon,” he ordered.

Billie smiled as he let the shotgun clatter to the floor. “You learned good, kid.”

“Back away.”

Billie stepped cautiously away from the bed until he stood before the window. Martin walked toward him, and he turned to take a quick look at the two people sprawled in the corner by the side of the bed.

The woman groaned.

“Sara!” Martin gasped.

Billie’s forearm dropped and the knife popped into his grasp.

Martin turned. His concern over the two bodies had obscured his fear of Billie, and suddenly he realized that the diminutive man held a dagger in his right hand.

The Uzi was pointing toward the floor. There was not nearly enough time to swing it toward the man with the knife.

He knew, all too well, the lethal accuracy of the throwing weapon. He knew the rapidity with which the small man could deliver the blow. At that close range, there was no way he could miss.

The knife was flung as Martin took the one half-step he had time for, in order to present his profile to Billie.

The knife imbedded itself deeply into his shoulder at the exact height of the sternum.

As Martin staggered back under the knife’s impact, he swung the Uzi up with one hand and pulled the trigger.

Firing in continuous staccato bursts, shells walked across Billie Bamburg’s abdomen and flung him through the window.

Chapter Thirteen

The entire battle had lasted less than ninety seconds, and now in the quiet, night sounds again filled the air. Martin’s right arm was numb from the knife wound. He could feel the warm trickle of blood along his arm and down to his fingertips. He walked slowly to the shattered window and leaned out.

Billie Bamburg was spread obscenely on the ground, his body speckled in moonlight. His lifeless grin turned toward the partially obscured moon as if he jeered at the gods who now possessed him.

Martin let the Uzi fall from his left hand, and it landed on the ground below the window not far from Bamburg’s body.

Sara groaned.

Martin tore the knife from his shoulder and the shock of withdrawal sent a stab of pain through him with such force that he fell to his knees and bent over to retch on the floor.

Sara groaned again.

He stumbled toward the two bodies huddled in the corner. Ray’s body was still spread over Sara’s, protecting her even in death.

Martin pushed the bed away from the huddled forms and with the exertion felt another dizzying pain course through his arm. He stood and held a bedpost a moment as his vision blurred. His eyes returned to focus, and again he bent to pull Ray away from Sara.

Her head was tilted up against the wall. She’ wore only a man’s pajama top that now rode high over her hips, revealing the streaks of blood that covered her body. Her eyes were wide, infantlike, and she stared up at him without recognition.

“Sara.”

His call was answered with a whimper of terror.

“Bastard,” was the guttural choke from the woman who stood in the doorway. Her body was half-shielded by the doorframe as she pointed a .25 Beretta toward Martin and fired.

The small projectile tore into the wall four inches from Martin’s head. He instinctively ducked as she fired again, hitting the mattress.

His hand clutched the sawed-off shotgun and he raised it with his one operational arm.

Billie’s words from the firing range at Camp Mohawk were as clear as if he stood by Martin’s side giving calm instruction. “A handgun is a waste, can’t hit a damn tank at anything over a few feet.” Martin levered the shotgun over the side of the bed. “Point it at your target, like your finger, and fire. You’ll take them out.”

Althea fired again and then Martin pulled the trigger.

The blast of the shotgun tore through the doorframe, blowing away her left cheek. She tumbled backward down the stairs and lay in a senseless heap on the floor.

The shotgun fell from his hand as he bent to help Sara to her feet. He automatically tried to use both hands, and again felt the shoot of pain dash down his injured arm. Sara seemed to sense his anguish, pulled her legs under her body, and stood.

“Ray’s dead,” she said more as a statement of fact than a question.

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God.” She put both hands to her face, leaving streaks of blood where they touched.

“Are you all right … you’re all …”

“I’m not hurt,” she answered flatly.

“We have to leave. There may be others.”

“Leave?” She looked at him with dull eyes.

“Now!” He led her into the hall where they stood at the head of the stairs looking down at the body of the red-haired woman crumpled below.

“You killed her?”

“I guess so.”

He put his arm around her shoulder and helped her down the stairs. They moved slowly, as if each step they took was racked with pain. At the bottom they stepped over Althea and walked numbly into the living room.

“The car keys? Where are the car keys?”

“Keys?” She looked up at him dumbly. “You’re bleeding, Martin.”

“The keys. Where are they?” he asked as forcibly as he could.

“Hanging … on a wallboard in the kitchen.”

He let her sit on the edge of the couch and hurried into the kitchen. The car keys were where she said, and he grabbed them from the board. She was still sitting on the edge of the couch when he returned to the living room. She was staring at the far wall as if the reason for incidents that had just befallen them would shortly be revealed there.

“We have to go.” He took her hand and she dutifully stood.

“I’m not dressed.”

He half-dragged her to the door and noticed the cut chain swinging uselessly by the frame. He let go of her fingers to turn the door handle, and then pulled her out the door and down the porch stairs.

He watched her climb into the passenger’s side of the car, fold her hands primly on her knees, and stare quietly through the windshield into the night.

His arm and shoulder were throbbing and sympathetic pains shot tendrils through each finger. He slid behind the wheel, inserted the keys awkwardly into the ignition, and started the engine.

“I can’t drive, Sara,” he said softly. “I’ve never driven a car before.”

She slowly turned to look at him. “Ray’s dead.”

“Sara, I said I can’t drive.”

“Yes, you can, Martin. There’s no traffic this time of morning. If you can drive a tractor and a mower, you can drive a car. Turn on the lights.”

He fumbled with buttons until the headlights blinked on in high beam. “What now?”

“Put the car in ‘drive’ and go,” she said almost gaily, and he realized that she was on the verge of hysteria.

Martin put the gear in “drive” and depressed the accelerator. She was right, he thought, it wasn’t much different from a tractor. He drove down the gravel drive to the road and turned.

Althea awoke. Her eyes, at floor level, could only see what seemed to be spilled red paint stretching toward the still open front door.

Her fingers fluttered and felt the sticky constitution of the substance on the floor.

She was lying in her own blood.

She moaned and pushed into a sitting position. Her right hand slowly reached toward her cheek and then recoiled in horror.

“No,” she said aloud.

She pushed erect, stumbled, and grabbed the banister with both hands as her legs seemed to detach from her body. Her mind whirled with disorientation until a deep-seated instinct for survival took hold. With shaking fingers, she tore a swatch of cloth from her blouse, folded it, and pressed it against her face.

She held the makeshift bandage in place with one hand while the other clenched the banister as she stumbled upstairs.

In the bathroom she fumbled for the light switch, flipped it, and stared at her harsh reflection in the mirror.

Carefully, she withdrew the cloth from the side of her face. Her eyes widened as she viewed the devastation.

Her face began to bleed again, and tiny rivulets of blood ran down her neck and over her shoulder. She continued staring at her reflection in macabre fascination. Tendrils of pain began to seep through numbed nerve endings, and the shock returned her to reality.

She was a survivor and this was going to be the most difficult challenge of her life. There were things to be done, ends had to be tidied, a story had to be concocted.

Her legs weakened and she had to grab the edge of the sink with both hands to keep from falling.

The pills in the ivory case in her pocket would help. She fumbled for the small container and broke a nail in her rush to open the tight lid. There were yellow Percodan tablets and black biphetamine capsules—pain-killers and uppers. The “black beauties” would probably counteract the effect of the Percodan, but she’d have to make do. She popped two of each into her mouth and swallowed with water from her cupped hand.

Next a tight pressure bandage was fashioned from gauze pads and adhesive tape found in the medicine chest. She gingerly applied it to the mangled flesh of her cheek.

There was no time to waste. Billie’s body had to be disposed of, the UZI hidden, and a thorough search made of the house in order to destroy anything incriminating they had left behind. It would be light in less than an hour.

She was hurt and weak, but her hatred for Martin Fowler would give her the strength to do what had to be done.

Martin was on the precipice of unconsciousness. The road before him wove back and forth like a coiling snake, and rings of black pain seemed to muster on the pavement ahead to spring forward and converge around his unfocused eyes. His jaw was slack, his wounded arm without feeling, and webs of spidery substance seemed to cling to his face.

The car began to weave from lane to lane.

The vehicle’s erratic motion penetrated Sara’s daze, and she looked at Martin in alarm. She was still numb from the horror of the shooting at the house, but an inchoate sense of self-preservation forced her into action.

He winced as she touched his arm. “Let me drive.”

“I can make it. Where are we going?”

“I know a place. Pull over and let me drive.”

The car immediately swerved onto the shoulder and braked to a halt. Martin slumped over the wheel and for a moment she was afraid he had passed out. She left the car and went to the driver’s side.

“Move over, Martin, please.”

“Yes … move.” He hunkered over on the passenger’s side of the car and leaned against the window. Sara threw the car in gear and drove off the shoulder.

When she had first reported to the training school, Ray had taken her on a picnic to a secluded portion of the forest. She knew vaguely that the turnoff road to that spot was not far ahead. She could only hope that she wouldn’t miss it in the dark.

At the cutoff, she swerved onto an unlighted narrow road. It was paved for the first three miles, and then the pavement abruptly turned into a rutted dirt road, more suitable to a four-wheel-drive vehicle than the car they were driving.

Martin groaned at every rut and pothole they hit.

The headlights picked out summer camps that occasionally lined the road. They consisted mostly of small two- or three-room cabins, with an occasional recreational vehicle or house trailer.

Sara slowed and began to examine the passing camps. She wanted an isolated one, at least several hundred yards from its nearest neighbor, and also one that was obviously vacant.

An even more primitive dirt road branched off to the right, and she took the turn. After a half-mile of rough driving they approached a deserted campsite. She turned into the area in front of the cabin porch and let the car’s headlights splay across the building.

The cabin was rustic and seemed to be composed of two rooms. She drove around back so that they were hidden from the road and helped Martin from the car.

With a small rock she broke a pane of glass in a window at the rear of the cabin. She reached in to unlatch the lock and then levered herself inside.

She turned. Martin was leaning against the side of the building. “Can you climb in?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Go around front. I’ll see if I can get the door open.”

The front door was secured with a padlock, but by utilizing a poker from the fireplace, she was able to pry it off its hasp and help Martin into the cabin.

It was dawn and chalky light gave an unreal dimension to the dim interior of the camp. With Martin’s arm around her shoulder, they stumbled into the second room and toward a bunk covered with a bare mattress. She let him slip from her arms and he fell heavily onto the bed.

A hand pump at the sink finally trickled cool well water into a basin, which she used to bathe his wound. A sparse first aid kid found in the top drawer of a worn bureau provided a small bottle of Merthiolate, which she poured into the gaping flesh.

It was all she could do, and she stood over the shivering man and realized that he was on the verge of going into shock.

“Don’t hit me. Please, Mama.”

It was a child’s cry for help. Sara lay on the mattress, pressed her body against the shaking man, and held him as tightly as she could.

Lt. Amston Wellfleet of Troop K, Horton Barracks of the New York State Police, walked down the nearly deserted hospital corridor. He felt the tightening band of a migraine begin to encircle his forehead. He knew its causes—too much poker, too many cigarettes washed down with too much beer, and a problem with filling a disastrous four-card flush. Catching the call at the barracks before he had a chance to drink black coffee didn’t help matters any.

He stopped at the ward clerk’s desk and scowled at the gray-haired woman behind the counter. “Give me the wounded woman’s chart.”

“I can’t do …” She glanced up at his unsmiling face, blinked, and handed a metal-backed chart to the police officer. “She’s in room fourteen, down the hall to the right.”

“Uh huh.” Amston clunked the chart down on the counter and flipped through its contents. He attempted, with difficulty, to focus his eyes and make sense out of the contents.

The call had come to the barracks at 8:02 A.M. The woman had sounded hysterical, and only the automatic holding device on the phone had allowed them to trace the call and send a unit to the remote farmhouse.

The victim had been suffering from multiple gunshot wounds in the face, and an ambulance had been immediately dispatched. That’s when Amston had arrived for work and the duty captain had sent him to the hospital.

He slammed shut the chart cover and left it on the counter as he strode down the hall toward room fourteen.

There was a “no visitors” sign on the door, but he entered without hesitation.

A youthful looking doctor, wearing a scraggly beard, glanced in Amston’s direction. “What the hell do you want? Didn’t you see the sign?”

“I saw it. Police.”

Dr. Strickland looked down at the woman on the bed. One half of her head was completely swathed in bandages, while the other half was still that of an attractive woman. He had seen her while aiding the surgeon in extracting the shot. It was doubtful that the wounded half of her face would ever appear completely normal.

“She’s had an injection,” Strickland said. “You won’t get much from her.”

“I’m awake,” Althea said. “Are the police here?”

Don Strickland squeezed her hand. “Yes, they are,” he said softly. “Can you talk?”

I want to talk to them. I want them to get who did this to me.”

“Only for a few minutes,” Strickland said with a glare at the police officer.

With a grunt, Amston pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and placed a small recorder on the nightstand. He flipped it to “record” and tilted the chair back on two legs. “I’m Lieutenant Wellfleet of the State Police. I’m here to help all I can, Miss Wilson.”

“How is Ray?”

“The man with you?”

“Yes. He saved my life, you know. When they broke in, he threw himself over me and … how is he?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead.”

Her hand reached out and clawed at his. “You must find them. They must be sent to jail.”

“We’ll do our best, ma’am, but you can help. Tell me all you remember.”

“I … I live in Washington … the District, not the state. I’ve known Ray Heath for years, and he invited me up to spend my vacation with him. We … we were in bed. It must have been late, near dawn, when they broke in and began shooting.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?”

“Yes. There were two of them. One of them was a woman called Sara. Sara Bucknell. She used to work for Ray, but he told me that he had to fire her for drunkenness.”

“You said ‘they.’ Do you know who was with her?”

“A dark-haired man, in his late twenties … he looked funny, like he was one of the students at the school. Just as they shot him, Ray called out, ‘For God’s sake, Martin, please …’ Those were his last words.”

“There’s a Martin Fowler who’s listed as missing from the halfway house. Could that have been him?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

Don Strickland stepped forward and put a restraining hand on Amston’s wrist. “You have enough for a start. This woman must get some rest.”

Amston nodded. “We think they have Heath’s car,” he said as he pocketed the recorder. “I can promise you, Miss Wilson, they won’t get far. They won’t get out of the state.”

“I hope not, officer. I pray to God that you catch them.”

Althea lay back on the pillow and let the warm glow of the narcotics begin to take hold and carry her into sleep. It was working, she thought. Billie Bamburg was gone. His body, encased in the car’s trunk and driven into the lake, would probably never be found. Also in the car were the tape recordings and letters she had discovered at Heath’s house and Billie’s bloody knife. It was working, she thought again sleepily.

The last thought she had was the hope that the police wouldn’t find Sara and Martin. She wanted to do that herself.

Midday sun warmed the cabin and Sara slipped from the bunk. Her body was caked in dried blood, and she crossed into the combination living-dining-kitchen area that was the second room in the small cabin. She pumped a dishpan full of cool spring water and let the pajama top fall into a heap at her feet. She recoiled at the sight of her bloody naked body—the blood of two men, Ray and Martin.

She began to wash her body with harsh strokes that rubbed away the streaked caked blood. As she washed, she reached over and opened a kitchen cabinet to find half a dozen assorted cans. At least they wouldn’t go hungry.

“I’ve never seen a naked woman before,” the voice in the doorway said. It was a remark without salacious overtones, filled with a sense of wonderment.

Sara whirled to see Martin standing in the doorway, supporting himself with his uninjured arm. She felt a deep flush of embarrassment seep up from the base of her neck. “Martin, please …”

“You’ve got an awfully nice …”

“I know what I have. Now, please go back in the other room until I scare up something to dress in.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help looking.” It was his turn to blush as he turned away and went back into the bunk room.

“How do you feel?” she called after him as she finished her pan bath and began to search the small cottage for castoff clothing.

“My arm hurts a lot.”

“I can imagine. We just have to hope it doesn’t get infected.”

Under the sink she discovered a pair of paint-splattered jeans and frayed tennis sneakers. On top of a kitchen cabinet she located a tee shirt far too large for her body. She donned the clothing—it was ratty, but would have to do.

“Hungry?” she called out.

“A little, I guess. Can I come in now?”

“Okay.” She found a can of corned beef hash and opened it. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

He sat at the small table. “Fine.” He watched her working at the stove, and she could see a troubled look come over his face. “I killed them, Sara. Three people now. The man at the motel, and the man and woman at Ray’s house. I never meant to hurt people.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Martin. Those two last night—they killed Ray and fully intended to kill us both. You had no choice.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“What are we going to do now?” Martin asked.

“First I’m going to look at your shoulder.” She removed the makeshift bandage and saw him wince deeply in pain. The knife wound was red and jagged. She felt the surrounding flesh and found it warm to her touch. “This needs stitches,” she said.

“To be sewn up by a doctor?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.…”

“Shouldn’t we go to the police?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Things have happened so fast that I haven’t had time to think. We should redo those letters, I suppose. I just need time to think.”

“We’ll rest here for a few days,” Martin said. “I’ll get better and then …”

He fell unconscious across the table.

Chapter Fourteen

Dr. Donald Strickland was bone weary as he drove his Ford wagon toward the small A-frame he called home.

Four years of undergraduate work, four years at Boston University Medical School, a year of internship, three years residency, and the sale of his soul for another four years to the National Health Foundation made him tired. He had three more years in the outlands, the price he had to pay for his medical school tuition, and then he would be free to move where he wished.

He didn’t know where he wanted to go. Perhaps he would stay on in the Adirondacks. It was pretty country. You worked like hell in the summer, but except for the orthopedic work during skiing season, the winter months were mostly idle.

He pulled to a stop in front of the A-frame and contemplated a warm shower, cold martini, and a small steak. A little Vivaldi on the stereo and maybe he’d get a little squiffed.

He slammed out of the car and fished for the door key. Once inside he fumbled for the light switch alongside the doorframe and flipped it on.

It escaped him involuntarily. “Oh, my God.”

Sara Bucknell sat in a chair by the empty fireplace with her hands folded primly on her lap. The man unconscious on the couch had his knees drawn toward his chin.

“Martin’s hurt,” she said without expression. She tried to light a cigarette, but her hands trembled too strongly for her to light the match.

“Which of you am I supposed to treat first?”

“Martin. Please. He needs stitches.”

“My bag’s in the wagon.”

“Hurry.”

He nodded, went back to the Ford, and snagged his medical bag from the rear. He stood by the open vehicle door for a moment, contemplating diving for the ignition, throwing the car in gear, and making his escape.

There would be time for that in a few minutes. He hadn’t seen any sign of a weapon, and the two people inside were obviously in bad shape. He went back to the house.

He bent over Martin. “His shoulder?”

She nodded.

He removed the makeshift bandage and peered intently at the wound. “My God! What did this?”

“A knife.”

“You’ve waited too long—I can’t suture him. He needs to be in the hospital.”

“He can’t go to the hospital right now.”

“So I’m aware.” He began with the injections: tetanus, pain-killer to numb the area, and a dose of antibiotics. When the arm was anesthetized he cleaned the wound, irrigated it with a saline solution, and applied more antiseptic and a bulky bandage. “Help me get him to the bedroom. He needs rest.”

Martin, with their assistance, stumbled toward the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and fell into an immediate sleep. Sara and Strickland removed his clothing and covered him with a blanket.

“I’ve done all I can for him,” Strickland said, “but in four days you’ll have to get him to a doctor for a secondary closing.”

“I will, and thanks for helping.”

“Drink?”

“God, yes,” she replied.

“Martini?”

She nodded. “Anything would help and that includes hemlock.”

“Been out of hemlock for weeks,” he said as he stirred the martinis carefully and poured two cocktail glasses full. He handed her a drink and watched as she grasped the glass with both hands and bent to sip from the rim. “You could use some help yourself. You’re in rough shape.”

“I had a bad day at the office,” she said bitterly.

He sat across from her and slowly sipped his martini. “You stood me up.”

“I was fired and had to leave the house.”

“You know, I bought your story about his gunshot wound. What is it this time? Sadistic roller skaters who knifed him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I bet it is.”

She finished her drink and poured herself another. Her fluttering hands seemed to calm.

“Suppose we have a couple more of these,” he said. “Then I’ll make us a steak before I call the State Police.”

“The police? Maybe you had better tell me what you think you know.”

“I know the woman’s alive because she’s a patient of mine. If the shot pattern had been a couple of inches to the right, she would have died.”

“The red-haired woman?”

“Yes. Her name’s Wilson by the way.”

“Wilson? She called herself Wainwright once. Martin thought he had killed her. He’ll be glad to know she’s alive. When will she be well enough to be arraigned?”

“Arraigned?”

“Arrested or whatever they do on a murder charge.”

Strickland looked puzzled. “Murder of who?”

“Ray Heath, of course.”

“Are you really not aware of what’s going on?”

Sara felt a cold stab of fear in her abdomen. They had panicked and run. The redheaded woman had regained consciousness and snared them. “What about the little man? He was on the grass outside the window. I know he was dead.”

“There was no little man. Only Heath’s body and the wounded woman were there when the police arrived.”

“And now they want Martin and me for Ray’s murder.”

“And attempted murder of Heath’s girl friend.”

“Didn’t they find the recording? The letters we were writing?” He shook his head negatively. “No, of course they didn’t. She destroyed them.” Sara jumped to her feet, spilling her drink. “How dumb can you get? We ran like terrified rabbits and left them everything they needed to frame us.”

He regarded her dispassionately. “You didn’t kill Heath?”

She whirled to face him angrily. “Of course not! Ray and I were … were lovers.”

“They said he had to fire you.”

“Technically that’s true, but it was on orders from the superintendant. And that was all tied in with …” She paused.

“With what?”

“Camp Mohawk and all that’s happened to Martin.”

“The retarded man in there?” He gestured toward the bedroom.

“He’s not retarded.”

“The papers said he’d been at the training school for over twenty years.”

“Well, that’s true, but …” She sank onto the couch and put her hands to her face. “My God, what’s the use. Every way we turn they seem to have us in another corner. It’s a goddamn maze and I can’t see how to get out.”

“The Wilson woman told the police that she was Ray’s friend.”

“And I seduced Martin and enlisted him as my accomplice in nefarious undertakings?”

“That seems to be her scenario,” he answered quietly. “I’m sure everything can be straightened out once you talk to the proper authorities.”

He noticed that in order to control her tremors, her fists were balled into lumps on her lap. Her body was rigid, and he detected an undercurrent of hysteria within her, only barely held in by sheer force of will.

“I want to tell you what we found out,” Sara said. Her voice rose and fell with inflections she was unaware of. “Ray did some work with Martin and then placed him into hypnotherapy. It has to do with Camp Mohawk and where all of this started.…”

Senator Rutledge G. Baxter snorted at the ringing phone and leaned over to snap on the bedside lamp with one hand while snatching the receiver from its cradle with the other.

“Baxter here.” His voice was authoritative and without a trace of sleep lethargy.

“It’s Althea.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Can you talk?”

“This phone only rings in my bedroom and the downstairs study. Martha sleeps in her own room. What is it, Althea?” he asked with irritation. “I read the papers about the incident up there. You covered yourself well, but what in hell happened to Billie?”

“Fowler killed him.”

“Damn!” He looked over at the blonde woman on the other side of the bed. There was a slither of silk against satin, and she half-rose to pick up and light a cigarette. She arched an eyebrow as she watched him pace the room as he spoke on the phone.

“You’re still in the hospital?” he asked.

“A few more days. I’ll have the plastic surgery done in New York.”

“I hope you’re not damn fool enough to put this call through the bedside phone.”

“Of course not. That would go through the switchboard. I’m at a pay phone in the visitor’s room.”

“There really isn’t much to talk about, Althea. The local and State Police up there are looking for Fowler. They’ll catch him eventually.”

“I think they need help. Fowler isn’t what I expected … he’s different.”

Rutledge stared at the darkened window. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll bring in some federal forces—call it national security matters and all that. If we’re lucky, he’ll be killed when they arrest him. I’ll see you after your surgery.”

“Come to New York, Rutledge. I want you with me.”

He stared at the phone receiver in disbelief. The request was unlike her, far afield from the strong-willed woman he thought he knew. “You know I can’t do that.”

“I’ll be at the St. Regis in two days. Please come up, if only for a few hours.”

“I’ll try and arrange it.” He purposely softened his voice. “You know how much I appreciate all you’ve done. You’ve made a great sacrifice for my cause and it won’t be forgotten.”

“I’m sorry it’s not over, Rutledge.”

“It’s not your fault, darling.” He glanced over at the woman in bed and saw her arch her eyebrow even higher. “Get some rest and get to New York as soon as you can.”

“I will, darling,” The phone clicked dead.

Rutledge walked slowly back across the room and thoughtfully replaced the receiver on its cradle.

“Althea?” his wife asked.

“Yes. It hardly sounded like her. It’s almost as if she’s lost her nerve.” He looked toward the window again.

“Come back to bed.”

“Yes.” He turned to face her. “I’m worried about her.”

“You should. It would seem that little Red Riding Hood has goofed—a couple of times. You know, Rut, I don’t like to meddle in your affairs, but you should seriously consider doing something about Althea. I think your relationship with her has been as productive as it’s ever going to be.”

He yawned and climbed back into bed. “I think you’re right as usual, Martha. I’ll tend to it in the morning.”

Althea Remington replaced the phone and felt the stinging pain start again on the side of her face. She left the visitor’s lounge, walked back down the hall to her room, and then into the small bathroom, where she stood before the mirror. A certain quality in the senator’s voice had not been lost on her. She stood quietly for a moment, rationalizing the vague sense of alarm she felt by attempting to convince herself that she had awakened him in the middle of the night. His faculties would not be sharp—he was discombobulated.

She gave a snort of derision. Rutledge was always alert. Always.

She looked at her reflection. One half of her face was as it always had been—the other swathed in bandages.

She reached up with both hands and tore the dressings away from her wounded face.

“Miss Wilson,” an aide said in alarm from the doorway, “what are you doing?”

Althea stared at the scarred and mangled side of her face and slowly turned to see a look of horror and revulsion on the aide’s face.

“They did this to me,” she said hoarsely. “All of them.”

Martin walked gingerly out of the bedroom into the main room of the A-frame. They were both sound asleep—Sara on the couch, her body curled like a small child, and Dr. Strickland, stretched out on the carpeting near her.

He stood looking down at Sara and Dr. Strickland while wondering if anything had happened between them. He finally decided it hadn’t. With the exception of their shoes, they were both fully clothed and appeared to have fallen asleep after a long discussion. He recalled awakening during the night and hearing the drone of their voices. The words had been too indistinct for him to make out what they were saying.

He felt better. The sleep had helped and the dull throbbing in his arm had begun to diminish. The kitchen area was to the rear of the A-frame and he began to prepare breakfast, favoring his wounded arm and making do with one hand.

He put nearly a pound of bacon into a large frying pan and separated the pieces as it slowly fried. When he was satisfied with its progress, he attempted to one-handedly break eggs into a bowl. He had watched the cook at school do this effortlessly a hundred times, but now found that it was more difficult than it looked.

“Scrambled eggs will have to do,” he said aloud. He took a loaf of French bread from the breadbox and searched in a utility drawer until he found a long serrated knife.

There was a noise like a groan from the main room of the A-frame. Martin went toward the sound to investigate.

Don Strickland turned uncomfortably on the carpet, sat up, and rubbed a crick in his neck.

Martin stood over him with a worried look on his face, and the serrated bread knife clenched in his good hand.

“No! Please!” Strickland looked at Martin with fear and scrabbled across the floor.

Sara sat up in alarm. “Martin!”

Martin turned in confusion. “What’s the matter?”

“The knife …”

Don Strickland scrambled to his feet and threw himself at Martin’s back. Martin moaned as the man’s bear-hug pressed against his wounded shoulder. He automatically half-turned and shrugged the doctor off his hip in a throw that tumbled Strickland against the wall.

“Stop it you two!” Sara rushed to the fallen Strickland and helped him to his feet. “What in the world’s going on?”

“That knife … he came at me with that knife.”

“I’m making breakfast,” Martin answered. He looked down at the bread knife as if he had never seen the implement before. “I heard groaning and came in to see what was the matter.”

“Oh.” Strickland’s voice indicated a deep chagrin. “Sorry. I thought …”

Martin turned to go back into the kitchen. “I know what you thought, and you were wrong. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes.”

They ate bacon and scrambled eggs hungrily and in silence. Strickland still seemed embarrassed by his misreading of Martin’s intent. He finished half a cup of instant coffee and pushed back his chair. “You know, you two have some story to tell.”

“It’s all true,” Sara replied.

“Oh, I’m sure it is. But I know you. How in the world you’re going to get other people to believe in this massive conspiracy is beyond me.”

“Martin has some very specific information. We thought that if it was released to the media, it would stop Operation Barbados.”

“What do you think happened to the letters you wrote but never had a chance to mail?” Strickland asked.

“She destroyed them,” Martin answered. “The red-haired woman.”

Strickland nodded. “Probably, since she destroyed all the other evidence you talk about. There is one thing, though, that bothers me.”

“What?”

“I treated Wilson when she was first brought to the hospital. She was in pretty bad condition, but according to your account, she was carting bodies off, destroying letters, and God only knows what else.”

“She had enough time.”

“But did she have enough strength?”

“Either that or she had help,” Sara answered.

“All right, be that as it will, I think you both should go to Washington and make contact with J.J. Sperry. His column is carried nationwide, and if he puts his investigators on this thing, he’s bound to turn up something.”

Sara sighed. “We drove Ray’s car here. Surely the police have an alert out for it by now. We don’t have any money, and I’m chasing around in clothes that can walk around by themselves.”

“You can take my Ford,” Strickland said as he reached for his wallet and counted out bills. “And I have about two hundred in cash. That ought to be enough to get you there. As for clothes, we ought to be able to scare up a change for you both.”

She put her hand on his arm. “We’ll pay you back as soon as we can.”

Strickland smiled his most professional smile and squeezed her fingers. “Of course you will.”

Strickland changed Martin’s dressing, gave him another injection of antibiotics, and told him to carry his arm in a sling. “You don’t really need it, but I’d like to keep the arm immobile for a few days.” He handed the car keys to Sara. “You can leave it in Washington and call to tell me where it is.”

“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.”

He smiled at her. “It’s for a good cause, right?”

“Right. How much gas is in it?”

“Nearly full. Now you two had better get going.”

Sara leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks for everything, doc. I’ll never forget it.”

“Get to Sperry. He’ll get this whole thing out in the open.”

“We will,” she said as they walked out of the A-frame to the jeep.

Sara drove, and they both turned and waved as the Ford pulled away from the small dwelling.

Dr. Donald Strickland looked at the vehicle as it disappeared around a wooded bend, turned, and went slowly back into the A-frame. He stood in the center of the living room a moment, undecided, and then walked over to the phone on the small table in the corner and dialed.

“Lt. Amston Wellfleet, please … Dr. Donald. Strickland calling. Tell him it’s important. I have some information concerning his suspects in the Heath murder … yes, I’ll wait,” he said as he tapped the phone receiver impatiently.

Chapter Fifteen

Dr. Don Strickland clenched the phone receiver as he waited. He thought of the tremendous effort it had taken for him to receive his medical license: four years of undergraduate work with a 3.7 grade point average, volunteer work in hospitals and labs to get the precious recommendations needed to gain the all-important interviews for admission to medical school. There were also the cut-throat labs with fellow grinds, hours waiting outside faculty members’ offices to peer anxiously at grade postings after crucial examinations.

It wasn’t worth risking over a crazy story told by a woman fired for alcoholism and an imaginative retarded man.

“Lt. Wellfleet, here. Who’s this?”

“Strickland, Lieutenant, Don Strickland—from the hospital. I’ve had a visit from Sara Bucknell and Martin Fowler. They’ve taken my Ford wagon, marker number MD 3415, and are heading toward New York City on the Adirondack Northway. If you put a roadblock on the southbound lane by Warrensburg, you should catch them.”

“This solid info, doc?”

“The solidest you’ll get.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I talk to my units.” The phone clicked dead and Strickland slowly hung up. He imagined the State Police had all the necessary radio equipment at the Horton Barracks. Within seconds, the lieutenant’s call would go out to mobile units and the roadblock would be in place. They would be caught.

A hand snaked around his arm and yanked the phone cord from the wall.

“What the hell!” Strickland whirled to face Martin.

“I thought you would call. I never trusted you.”

“I had to. I gave medical aid to a man who is wanted by the authorities.”

“You didn’t have to lie to us.”

“You would have killed me. Is that what you’re going to do now?” He took a few steps backward, trying to remember where he had placed the .22 rifle he sometimes used for plinking.

Martin picked up the serrated knife he had used earlier in the day to cut the bread. He held it before him, ready for an upward thrust, like Billy Bamburg had taught him.

“I helped you, Fowler.” Strickland’s voice cracked. “When you needed treatment I …”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Sara said from the doorway. “Did he call anyone?”

“The police. He told them to set up roadblocks on the highway.”

“Tie him up. They’ll come looking for you, doctor, but we should be well away by then.”

James Jefferies Sperry was a passionate hater of disorder, corruption and malfeasance in high places, inefficiency, women in politics, and exercise. He had awakened in a sweaty temper. The night’s dream was still vivid: a frustrating incident from the days when he was legman for another syndicated columnist and had been forced to hurry around the city during its almost tropical heatwaves. Reality returned and he gingerly pushed away from the bed and shuffled to the bathroom to adjust the shower.

When the water temperature was minutely adjusted to his satisfaction, he daintily stepped into the shower, shut the glass door, and began to lather with Leffinwell soap, from a supply imported yearly from a small shop on Bond Street, London.

The recollection that today’s column would be a blistering attack on the First Lady for her use of Air Force One on a theater junket to New York returned a modicum of good humor to the morning.

Sperry was fifty-six, wealthy from his years as a major syndicated columnist, and unmarried through choice—living with anyone, regardless of sex, was untidy. He was grossly overweight. His days were carefully orchestrated to provide maximum comfort with minimum expenditure of physical effort.

Soy Kuhn, his Vietnamese houseman, had breakfast prepared and served as Sperry rode down to the first floor in the small elevator installed a decade ago. Fresh flowers were arranged simply at the center of the table atop linen cloth. A four-minute egg rested in its cup next to cream-rich coffee and buttered croissants. Three newspapers, The Washington Post, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal were arranged on the right in correct order.

Sperry nodded to Soy and sat with a grunt before his egg. He sipped coffee and scowled at the headlines. The daily news was dull and that bored him. He began to slowly eat the single egg while devouring croissants.

The day’s nagging thoughts began to circle. The first was quite personal and might prove to have an unsettling effect on his home life. He strongly suspected that Soy Kuhn was padding the household account. Of course that would have to be taken care of, and although that sort of thing might be a common custom, it would not do in Sperry’s life. He sighed. Soy had learned the daily routine well—breaking in a new man would be time-consuming.

The second item was more delicate and more difficult to articulate. Some of his sources were holding back on him—he was certain of it. The last time he had experienced such a drying-up of information had been just prior to the abortive attempt to rescue the Iranian hostages.

He glanced at the headlines again as if the information contained there might enlighten him as to what events of importance were being deliberately withheld. The previous day’s news seemed innocuous if not boring. He nostalgically wished for another Watergate.

He was certain that something within the government was happening that J.J. Sperry did not know about, and that was intolerable.

He allowed himself twenty-five minutes for breakfast and the reading of the newspapers. Soy would have the car outside with the motor running.

Sperry Enterprises was housed in a suite of six offices with a view from Sperry’s private quarters of the nation’s Capitol. Several legmen and writers had desks in a room adjacent to Sperry’s, euphemistically called “the grunt cave.”

Three associates were waiting in his office. It was the usual early morning strategy meeting, and Sperry began speaking before he reached his desk.

“What about the First Lady’s trip?”

“I have a Xerox of Air Force One’s flight plan along with the passenger list.” Sperry nodded curt approval. “Backup?”

“A signed statement from a” waiter, two ushers at the Mark Hellinger Theater, and a doorman.”

Sperry nodded almost imperceptibly toward a writer. “I want it by two.” The writer quietly left the room.

“What came in on the phones?” The telephone was the lifeline of their business, and any call, no matter how innocuous or crackpot, was well screened and considered as a possible source or leak from high places. Sperry would always remember the soft-spoken accountant from GSA that he had nearly cut off and who ultimately revealed one of the greatest cost overrun boondoggles of his career.

“It’s quiet,” one of the legmen responded. “One kidnapping by little people in a flying saucer, and another call from upstate New York. Some broad claims there’s a conspiracy in the government and wants to talk to you.”

Sperry nearly smiled. “Scratch the kidnapping by the space invaders and give the woman with this week’s conspiracy the brushoff.” He nodded to signify the end of the meeting.

An intuitive feeling, the same visceral reaction that had allowed him to uncover so much about so many for so long made him pause. “The woman with the conspiracy … did she leave a name?”

“Bucknell. Sara Bucknell. Said she was on the road and would call back at ten. I’ll give her the brush …”

“No,” Sperry snapped. “That name ring a bell with you?”

“Bucknell? No. There’s a college by that name in Pennsylvania.”

“Read the papers! Sara Bucknell is wanted for murder in New York. When she calls back, you better damn well see that she gets through to me.”

Martin watched her cross the bright supermarket parking lot toward the car. Her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes informed him that the phone call had been unsuccessful. She climbed dejectedly behind the wheel.

“He wouldn’t talk to you?” he asked.

“He wasn’t at his office yet. They told me to call back, but they didn’t sound very enthusiastic. A man like Sperry probably gets a hundred crackpot phone calls a day.” She turned on the ignition. “And we’re going to be the hundred-and-first.”

After leaving the A-frame outside of Horton they had turned in a northwesterly direction, taken Route 30 to Tupper Lake, and then Route 3 west until they were out of the Adirondacks area. It had been a roundabout itinerary but a safe one.

Martin could sense the tenseness in her body as she drove. Although she seemed to be concentrating on the winding road before them, he felt a distant quality within her.

“You know,” he said, “if Dr. Strickland didn’t believe us, how are we going to convince an important man like Sperry?”

“I’ve been considering that. Sperry’s an investigative reporter, he’ll have contacts all through Washington. If we give him specific information, I think he’ll be able to corroborate it through other sources. At least that’s what I’m hoping,” she added wistfully.

“We better do something about these license plates,” Martin said.

“Oh, my God! He gave the number to the police.”

“I could switch the plates,” Martin said. “If we could find a car that wasn’t going any place for a while, we might get away with it all the way to Washington.”

“Good idea. I wasn’t thinking. Look in the glove compartment, will you? See if there are any road maps.”

Martin fumbled with the compartment’s catch until it fell open. He sorted through papers before pulling out a folded map. “Here’s one of New York and Pennsylvania.”

“Chart us a course toward Washington, through Pennsylvania but keeping to back roads and secondary highways. We can’t risk any major roads where the State Police will be alerted.”

Martin opened the map and stared at it blankly. Sara glanced over at him and her face softened. “You’ve never read a map before?”

He blushed. “No, but I guess there’s always a first time. Let me puzzle it out.”

Martin slowly plotted a course down the state through Noonville to Utica, and then by back roads to Cooperstown and into Pennsylvania at Hancock. It was a winding and circuitous route, but would probably keep them away from the State Police.

“We had better get new plates soon,” he said to her after they had discussed their route. “If we pull into a restaurant at ten, I’ll switch with an employee’s car. You can call Sperry while I switch plates. They might not notice the switch until late today when they leave work.”

“If then,” she said.

J.J. Sperry typed with two fingers on a battered Underwood upright that he resolutely refused to give up. His staff had been at him for months to install one of the new word processors, but his attachment to the ancient machine was irrevocable. He typed the last sentence of his rewrite of the day’s column:

“And so, fellow taxpayers, this little junket by our royal First Lady and three of her bridge playing cronies cost you and me a total of $15,432!”

He sat back in satisfaction as he signaled for his secretary. He loved it. He just loved putting the boots to a First Lady.

Eddy Robinson, the youngest of the legmen, responded to the buzz for his secretary. “We’re staked out,” the reporter stated flatly. “There’s a guy across the hall and two more in the building lobby. Probably a car down the street.”

J.J. Sperry smiled malevolently. “Excellent. That means they think we’re onto something important. I wonder what it is. Any idea what agency’s watching?”

“They have the dress and polish of federal people.”

Sperry smiled again. “Wonderful. You had better get out your electronic gadgets and sweep the phones to see if we’re tapped. Then, let’s put our heads together and figure out what in the hell we’re supposed to know, or getting close to knowing, that they don’t want us to know.”

His phone buzzed and he snatched it from the cradle. “Yes?”

“Miss Bucknell is on six,” the receptionist said. “You wanted her put right through.”

Sperry depressed the button for line six, leaned back in his chair, and let his voice lower to its most mellow register. “Miss Bucknell. How good of you to call. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I have some information concerning a conspiracy … something called Operation Barbados. I would like to speak with you in person. Could I have an appointment for tomorrow?”

“That wouldn’t be too wise, Miss Bucknell. I am afraid that certain governmental agencies have my office under surveillance. I would assume that includes my home also.” He glanced up at Eddy in the doorway and the young reporter shook his head to indicate the phones were clear. “Now, I have a room perpetually reserved in Virginia. Go to the Wheelwright Motel in Arlington and ask for the keys to Mr. Jefferson’s room. Do not call back here. I will call you there tomorrow at two.”

For the first time since the sequence of events had begun, Sara felt an inner buoyancy. They had help—they were in contact with a professional who could get verification of Martin’s story. “Two tomorrow. Mr. Jefferson’s room at the Wheelwright Motel,” she repeated. “We’ll be there.”

“Goodbye, then.” Sperry hung up with a delicate touch and smiled again. “Call our New York contacts,” he snapped. “Get me all you can on this Bucknell woman and whatever the hell she’s supposed to have done.”

Chapter Sixteen

Sara turned off the briskly pelting shower, stepped out of the tub, and began to towel dry. She felt cleansed and invigorated, and with the new-found help of J.J. Sperry, the nightmare of Ray Heath’s death would begin to fade. Tomorrow they would be in Virginia, and by noon they would have checked into the motel Sperry had designated.

There was the sound of a key in the lock. She called out, “That you, Martin?”

“How does a barrel of Kentucky Fried Chicken and some bourbon hit you?”

“Hits me pretty damn well.” She wrapped herself in a large towel and brought two glasses from the bathroom’s medicine chest.

Martin was sitting on the edge of the twin bed nearest the door. The box of chicken was neatly centered on her bed as if an offering. Next to the bottle of liquor on the side table, a plastic ice bucket brimmed with cubes.

“You have found the secret of modern living,” Sara said with a lilting laugh as she sat on the bed.

“Which is?” He looked at her and smiled.

“Motels provide oodles of ice.”

He smiled at her again and their eyes met. “The cooler’s right next to our door. I could hardly miss it.” He took the glasses from her, poured a large dollop of bourbon, put in cubes, and handed her a glass.

Sara held up her drink in toast. “To tomorrow and Mr. J.J. Sperry.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

“Tell me all you know about Sperry,” Martin said.

She began. “Well, he’s a modern muckraker who’s syndicated in hundreds of newspapers. He’s very careful what he writes, and is hardly ever proven wrong. His columns carry a lot of weight, Martin—enough weight to get us out of this mess.”

“Suppose he doesn’t believe us?”

“I think he will. Your information is too specific. You even have the map coordinates.” A quick flash of alarm passed over her face. “You do remember everything, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

She held up her glass again. “Then here’s to a new life.”

Martin smiled again, drained his own glass, and mixed two more drinks. He sat on the bed so that their knees touched.

The drinks were helping, Sara thought. For the first time in days the lumpish feeling inhabiting her abdomen faded. Nerves tensed during their wild flight from Ray’s house had carried an overextended burden too long, and now that she began to relax, a deep warm lethargy seeped through her.

Martin seemed in slow motion as he stood and ceremoniously moved the container of chicken onto the dresser. He placed his drink by the bottle and turned to sit next to her. His arm went over her shoulder and she nestled her head against him.

“We’ve had a tough go, you and I, Martin,” she said sleepily.

“It will be better,” he murmured huskily. His hand tilted her chin and their lips met. “I like you … I like you a lot.”

She returned the pressure of his lips. “I like you too, Martin.” She hesitantly tried to draw away, but his hand against the back of her head held them both locked together. “Martin …”

“Sara, I …” She reached to push him away and her covering towel fell from her body. She fumbled for the towel, but found that she was being forced slowly back onto the pillow. Her arms went by her sides as his weight shifted over her. “Martin,” she gasped. “Please.”

“Let me,” he said. It was nearly a groan.

“No, Martin. Not like this. Please!” Her fingers dug through the cloth of his shirt, but his passion seemed to increase. My God, she thought. She was going to be raped in a motel in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, by a man she trusted.

Her fists pounded against his back. His eyes, inches from hers, were glazed and uncomprehending. She grabbed his hair with both hands and shook his head back and forth. Hurt replaced the dull look in his eyes and his motion ceased.

“Not like this, Martin. It doesn’t happen this way.”

He sat up. “I’m sorry,” he said with a guttural sound.

“It’s my fault. I … I’ve been running around like …” She cast a deprecating wave over her nude body. “I wasn’t thinking and you had no way of knowing.”

“Knowing?” he questioned. “No, I didn’t know.” Without a further word he released the latch on the door and walked into the night.

Althea lay awake in the hospital bed sorting through confusing information. Strickland had informed her that she would be released in the morning, and he had made arrangements for an appointment on the following day with a New York City plastic surgeon. “One of the best,” he had told her.

There was no further word from Rutledge, although a large bouquet of roses had arrived in the room sent by an anonymous donor. She knew who had sent them.

Her last talk with Rutledge had been unsatisfying. She detected a distance in his manner, a detachment that she found more than disconcerting.

He would know everything by now. His sources would have given him a full report on everything that had transpired.

She wondered how she fit into the new scheme of things.

She had failed him and now she was suffering for that failure, but she wondered if that were enough to satisfy him.

Fowler and the woman were still at large. Somehow, in the doctor’s car, they had avoided detection and were now … where? Washington, of course. She went through a mental list of the letters she had destroyed which Sara and Ray Heath had written concerning Operation Barbados. Their next step would be a direct contact with one of those addressees.

She considered the names, discarding some, shunting others aside, utilizing her full knowledge of Washington politics to decide.

She settled on two names: the investigative columnist J.J. Sperry, and the senator from Kansas, Harris Crowell.

Those were the men she would contact if the situation were reversed.

Yes. She would go to Washington in the morning. The plastic surgeon would have to wait. She must redeem herself.

With the decision made, she closed her eyes in preparation for sleep. Seconds later she heard the room door opened a few inches very slowly. The light from the hospital corridor outlined a figure in the entry way. The door opened further and a nurse, dressed in a white pants suit uniform, stepped into the room. The nurse held a hypodermic needle at eye level, pointed to the ceiling as if it were a miniature lance.

At least this one was kind enough to attempt not disturbing her patients, Althea thought.

God, another injection.

She wasn’t due for any more medication! She was leaving the hospital in the morning.

Her muscles tensed as the nurse moved stealthily across the room and stood for a moment by the foot of the bed. Althea’s eyes were closed, one arm flung out, and her breathing forced into a slow normal rhythm.

The nurse moved toward the arm hanging off the side of the bed. She held the syringe up toward the light from the hallway, depressed the plunger slightly, and then prepared to thrust the needle into Althea’s arm.

In one fluid motion, Althea’s extended hand chopped into the nurse’s larynx, while her other hand gripped the wrist holding the syringe.

The nurse staggered back. She released the needle into Althea’s hand as both her hands clutched at her throat. She gasped for breath and voice but only harsh choking sounds issued from her mouth.

Althea swung her legs from the bed and followed the woman across the room. Her hand darted out again and then a third time as she slammed the fingers into the woman’s esophagus.

She swung the nurse over the bed and pinned her by forcing her elbow down over her throat. Her body half-lay over the other woman’s. She still held the syringe in a firm grasp.

The nurse looked up at her with wide eyes filled with terror.

“Who sent you?”

“Guh … guh … guh …” The injured nurse tried to speak, but the combination of the blows to her throat and the securing forearm made speech impossible.

“We’ll just see what you brought,” Althea said as she plunged the needle through the nurse’s pants into the flesh of her thigh and depressed the plunger.

With the sting of the hypodermic, the woman beneath Althea began to thrash in frantic desperation.

Althea pressed her forearm deeper into the flailing woman’s throat to prevent any outcry. The movement of the other woman’s limbs beneath her began to slow until they became mere flutterings.

The terror stricken eyes closed, reopened, and then the pupils retreated into the skull. The woman lay still.

Althea felt the pulse at the wrist and at the carotid artery. There was none.

The woman was dead.

Althea stripped the uniform from the corpse and slipped it on. She pulled the sheet and blanket up over the dead form and left the room quietly.

Martin had been gone an hour and it had started to rain. Sara sat on the edge of the bed fully dressed, staring out over the darkened motel room toward the window where she had pulled the blinds.

She wondered if he would ever come back.

She sat on the bed nearest the door with her knees clamped closely together. It was the loneliness that was the most difficult to bear. He’d been gone only 60 minutes—3,600 seconds. A short time. The barest flick of an instant in any scheme of things for one who was so well trained in the panoramic sweep of history.

She had no coat, no rainwear, not even a headscarf to ward off some of the downpour, but she had to find him.

Sara pushed away from the bed, opened the door, and then paused. The room key was on the dresser. She quickly stuffed it into her pocket and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

No. He might return while she was out. She fumbled for the key, unlocked the door, and quickly found a few sheets of notepaper in the top dresser drawer. She scrawled a note:

“Went looking for you. Be back. Love, Sara.”

It was time to get started and she left the room.

The Ford was still parked around the end of the motel, removed from sight from the street. She started the vehicle, turned on the headlights and windshield wipers, and shivered with chill from the windblown rain.

Which way had he gone?

The end of the motel parking lot exited onto a secondary highway—to the right was the town of Gettysburg, to the left the battlefield and cemetery.

She knew instinctively that he would not have walked to town. He would not want to be around others. He had gone to the battlefield and she turned the car in that direction.

She would have missed him if it hadn’t been for the lightning. The roll of thunder and intermittent flashes that streaked across the late summer sky illuminated the form pressed against the side of the monument.

She drove toward him as far as the vehicle could manage and then got out.

He sat with his back pressed against the monument, his knees drawn toward his chin, as he stared out over the expanse of field that had once held the death throes of so many.

“Martin.”

He didn’t move.

“I … I was worried about you.” She stood over him and he purposely looked away.

A zigzag bolt of lightning struck a tree several hundred feet away and she was suddenly frightened.

“It’s dangerous here. We should be out in the open away from the trees and flat on the ground.”

“I was thinking about a girl I once saw,” he said. “It was ten or fifteen years ago. It’s hard to tell, those days at the school all seem the same. Some guys caught her behind the gym. I guess she was maybe fifteen … I was younger and they were older. They ripped her clothes off and started doing things to her. She was crying and I ran and hid in the shed, the same place where you found me. It wasn’t very pretty, what they did to her.”

She knelt by his side and put her fingers against his cheek. “I’m very sorry about what happened. It was all my fault for being so goddamn dumb.”

For the first time he looked at her. “There’s so much I don’t know. Everything is so new. Everything I do is for the first time.”

“Oh, God, Martin.” She kissed him and felt his body tense. His arms turned rigid, his mouth unyielding.

“Don’t.” It was a strangled cry of protest.

“Yes … yes …” she said and kissed him again and pressed her body against his.

She felt him quiver and then his arms were around her and his lips soft and searching. “My God, Sara. My God.”

They lay together in the rain and did not notice.

Chapter Seventeen

With a brisk motion, J.J. Sperry snapped off the small recorder. He looked at them over tented fingers. Children’s voices from the pool outside the motel room tinkled around them. Sara pulled the drapes and switched on the lamp over the table near Sperry. Martin shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, as if awaiting command.

They had to bend toward the large man in order to hear his measured, nearly inaudible comments.

“You two can’t imagine the uncomfortable circumstances I have had to subject myself to in order to elude my watchers and arrive here alone. Most uncomfortable and most inconvenient. And you dare, you have the audacity, the temerity, the self-indulgence to request that I listen to this drivel.” His voice began to rise as the sound of his own words increased his anger. “I do not know what possessed you to concoct this scheme, except perhaps as some outrageous attempt at self-justification for the crimes you have committed.”

Sara stood and turned her back to the two men. She pushed an edge of the window drape aside and looked out at the sun-drenched swimming pool. Three towheaded children played in the water while an older woman on a chaise longue read a paperback novel. The domesticity of the scene, which was in such sharp contrast to her own dangerous predicament, struck her with a physical impact. She felt scalding tears peak the corner of her eyes.

“Why did you come?” Martin asked Sperry.

“Because it’s my business to listen to harebrained conspiracies. Because for every dozen psychopaths I hear, I can perhaps authenticate one, and the revelation of that one is a service to our country.”

“I’m sorry we wasted your time,” Sara said bitterly without turning.

Sperry extracted a paper from a thin briefcase by the side of his chair. He scanned it quickly. “It would seem that the New York State authorities desire your incarceration for murder, attempted murder, breaking and entering—two counts, car theft, and felonious assault.” He looked slowly from one to the other. “My, my, you two have certainly been busy.”

Sara whirled angrily. “We went through a great deal of difficulty to bring you this information. What you heard is what Martin learned at Camp Mohawk. You must believe it!”

“From two fugitives dressed in what I would classify as ‘early hippy’?”

“If we wore evening clothes, would it make a difference?”

“No. However, I can help to arrange your surrender to the proper authorities under favorable circumstances. I do feel a certain obligation to you two in that I agreed to meet with you. I shall place my law firm at your disposal and we can make the most auspicious arrangements possible.”

“Surrender?”

“But of course. Surely you didn’t intend to run forever?”

Sara was angry. “We felt the information was important to the country.”

“You’re accusing highly respected U.S. senators, military officers, and business executives. You have no corroboration.”

“Martin’s information is specific: map coordinates, names and numbers of vessels, infinite detail. That in itself is corroborative.”

“You’re manufacturing a conspiracy in the very loftiest places. A plot involving dozens of important people. Such things cannot be kept secret.”

“That’s why we came to you!” Sara nearly yelled at the investigative reporter. “I know there has to be a weak link somewhere. We thought that with your sources you would be able to find it.”

Sperry glanced down at the notes in his hand. “Based on the accusations of an unemployed, perhaps alcoholic woman and a man who’s spent the last two decades in a school for the retarded? Surely, Miss Bucknell, you can understand my reluctance to believe this manufactured whatever-it-is?”

“Martin is not retarded. Ray Heath tested him and found his intelligence to be above average.”

“The testimony of a dead man.”

“Does Martin act retarded?”

“Retarded people don’t always look or act retarded.” J.J. Sperry slowly turned to face Martin directly. He spat questions in a staccato burst. “Who’s the Secretary of State?” Martin looked blank. “Your two senators from New York? What’s hollandaise sauce? What do you call the first ten amendments to the Constitution? Who was F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

Sara rose in a fury. “That’s not fair! You’re not giving him a chance. He’s been locked up in that place for nearly his whole life. Of course there’s a lot of general information he hasn’t been exposed to.”

Sperry turned to her. “But he has the sophistication to recognize a very complex military-political move to give the government justification and legal right to … Come on, little lady, you can’t have it both ways.”

“Martin didn’t realize what he had heard. It was only under deep hypnosis that it came out. Ray and I recognized Operation Barbados for what it was.”

“Hypnosis? Deliver me! Can you imagine how that would look in my columns? I write a very respectable column noted for its veracity, madam. I might point out that I do not, repeat, do not, write for The National Enquirer. Hypnosis! Good God!”

“According to Ray, hypnosis can be a valid clinical tool in many cases,” Sara said. She couldn’t help but notice the rising inflection in her own voice. There was a tint of desperation in her argument with Sperry, brought about by the obvious fact that she was losing.

“It may be, my dear. But the editors of my newspapers won’t believe it or publish it.”

“They would if you put your reputation behind it. It would also stop them from going ahead with Operation Barbados.”

“Yes, that it would—if there were such a thing.” Sperry stood and reached for his London Fog. “You two are amateurs. I have been taken by professionals. In the first place, your primary error was in telling me the whole story before you put the bite on me. The good ones who take me throw out a tidbit or two, something that smacks of a new Watergate, ask for expense money, and hold back the remainder of their so-called tip until I come up with the cash.”

“Make a phone call,” Martin said.

Sperry was adjusting his hat, but turned to look at Martin. “What?”

“I said, make one phone call. You must have many contacts—try one—in the right place.”

For the first time since his entrance into the motel room over an hour and a half ago, Sperry seemed uncertain. He was poised, apparently ready to reach for the door handle, and yet something kept him. “One call wouldn’t prove anything,” he said contemplatively.

“It might,” Sara added, “if you made it to the right person. A person who would have to be privy to Operation Barbados, if what Martin says is true.”

Sperry unconsciously touched his inner breast pocket. The pocket contained the most precious tool of his trade, an article so important that it only left his person at night, and then was locked in a concealed wall safe near his bed. It was a small coded address book and contained a list of informants in government, business, and the military. It was his final arbiter of what was true. “You two are sure of yourselves, aren’t you?” he asked with some hesitancy.

“I know what I heard at the camp,” Martin said.

Sperry shucked off his raincoat and signaled for Martin to move off the bed. He sat near the headboard next to the telephone. His hand hovered over the receiver. A local call did not go through the switchboard and would be on a clear line. The Pentagon was a local call.

J.J. Sperry began to dial.

Maj. Easley Waltham was overage in grade. He knew his placement on the colonel’s promotion list, and often contemplated that outside of all-out war, his name would never move high enough on the list for him to receive his silver leaves.

Perhaps that time wasn’t so far off.

His desk phone rang and he gladly shoved aside a turgid memo and snatched up the receiver. “Major Waltham.”

“Sperry here. Do you know anything about something called Operation Barbados?”

“Jesus God, Mr. Sperry, don’t say that again. Don’t even think that again.”

“I’ll meet you at our usual place and we can discuss this at greater …”

“Good Lord, no.” Waltham hung up the phone with finality. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the palms of his hands.

J.J. Sperry held the buzzing phone in his hand and then slowly hung up. He stared blankly down at the instrument and at a restaurant menu by the side of the phone. A dozen pieces of unrelated information fell into place. His fine antennae had sensed the cabal of silence that had fallen over Washington. It now became clear that his call had touched a raw nerve in the frightened major’s life. A secret existed that was so important and so confidential that it could not be purchased, discussed off the record, or even hinted at.

Operation Barbados was what they had been keeping from him for several weeks. It was the undercurrent in Washington that he had sensed but could not pinpoint.

He knew with assurance that what Martin Fowler had told him was true.

“This whole thing is just like that bastard Baxter,” he said nearly inaudibly.

“Your call told you something?” Sara asked.

“It’s what my call didn’t tell me that’s so damn important. Your story may be true, Fowler. I still say may be, since there’s a hell of a lot of checking to be done.”

“We don’t have much time,” Martin said. “The schedule calls for the operation to take place in a couple of days.”

“I know. My people will get right on it.” Sperry took a long black billfold from his pocket. “You two have any money?”

“We have a few dollars left,” Sara answered. “Very few.”

Sperry counted out several bills. “All right, this will hold you over a few days. You can sign for your meals in the motel restaurant; and all those bills will be sent to me. For God’s sake, get some decent clothes. You two look like escapees from a convention of ragamuffins.”

“When will we hear from you again?” Sara asked.

“Probably tomorrow. I need corroboration on this. It’s too big to go with without at least three independent sources. Knowing what I know from Martin, I’ll get three to break.” He reached for the door. “Stay quiet and be careful.”

He was gone.

“What now?” Martin said.

“I think we take the man at his word,” Sara replied. “Let’s go buy ourselves a wardrobe.” She counted the money on the bureau. “I think now we can afford it.”

“Snails?”

“Snails.” Sara watched as Martin looked down at the shells glistening in the aromatic garlic sauce. “Escargots.” She tried to put a lilt in her voice. “You said to order you the same as myself.”

He looked up with a small tentative smile edging his mouth. “And to think I could have had a tomato juice as appetizer.”

“Or pâté de foie gras, which is fat goose liver.”

He shook his head and gingerly pried the meat from one of the shells. “I have a lot to learn.”

They ate in silence. She sensed that he was uncomfortable in the restaurant. Not that he should be. It was a fair-to-average steak house. One of a similar type could be found in every town and city of the country. She knew him well enough now to understand his feelings when she observed the imperceptible tensing of his shoulders as the maitre d’ met them at the entrance, and his hesitance in ordering as he examined the large menu.

As if he knew what she was thinking he looked into her eyes with the same tentative smile. “You see, we never really went to restaurants at the school.”

“I thought they took you on field trips into town?”

“Sure.” The smile deepened, and she was struck with the progress he had made in this short period of time. The mask of emotionless response that was his visage when she first met him was beginning to disappear with the growth of more natural reactions. The gray trousers, navy blazer, white shirt, and maroon tie he had selected gave him an almost Ivy League look.

“McDonald’s was more our style. A Big Mac was a special treat.” He circled a finger slightly. “Never the likes of this.”

The wine steward appeared at Martin’s side and displayed the label of a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that Sara had ordered. She nodded slightly in the affirmative and Martin did the same.

The wine was deftly uncorked and a smidgen tilted into a goblet. Martin was still looking at her, and she looked down at the glass and up to his face twice in quick sucession.

Martin tasted the wine and turned to the steward. “Fine,” he said.

“You’re learning,” she whispered when the waiter moved to another table.

“With your help. You look beautiful in that dress.”

“Why, thank you. Just a little old thing I picked up off the rack with J.J. Sperry’s money. Now that you mention it, you look pretty sensational yourself.”

The meal continued, and occasionally Martin would ask about the use of a utensil or about a dish served at a neighboring table. The nearby production of a Caesar salad fascinated him.

Sara was enjoying herself and they ordered a second bottle of wine. Not only did she feel a release of tension now that they had the backing of Sperry, but her tutelage of Martin into the ways of adult life made her see things with new eyes. She felt as if she were viewing the most mundane of things with childlike wonder.

They attacked their rare steaks ravenously, easily finished the baked potatoes with sour cream, and interspersed the meal with pieces of warm, freshly baked bread. They skipped desert and Sara ordered Irish coffee.

“This is Irish coffee?” he asked when the dark brown beverage topped with two inches of whipped cream was served. “Looks like an ice cream sundae.”

“It’s got booze in it,” she whispered conspiratorially.

He arched an eyebrow. “Hey, interesting.” He began to spoon the topping.

In the glow of the meal’s aftermath, Martin made the gesture that Sara had known was inevitable. They had avoided intimacy on the drive down from Gettysburg and the wait for Sperry, although as she drove she occasionally sensed his sidelong glances. Their lovemaking beneath the thunderclouds on the darkened battlefield now seemed distant and far away, as if it had happened between other people; but he had not forgotten.

His hand reached forward and curled her fingers. She has no alternative but to meet his eyes.

“I love you,” he said simply.

“We’ve been through a lot together, Martin, but now with Sperry’s help it’s almost over. With his influence, once the story has broken, I think we can get both our lives straightened out.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to be apart.”

“Well, no, of course not.” She tried to keep her tone level and slightly aloof, but not cold. She couldn’t bear to hurt him. “But we will have our own things to do.”

“When it’s over,” he said distantly. “But let me make love to you again tonight.”

How could she tell him that the incident at Gettysburg was done from her own fear, sense of loss, and compassion for him? It was the motivation of a modern woman in a very complex situation and difficult to articulate. She was physically attracted to him; she knew now that she always had been. She appreciated his awe as lost years were revealed to him … but his conception of a commitment would be far different from hers.

He smiled again and she had to admit it was an attractive smile. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“No, but there’s something you have to understand.”

“Go on.”

“I think it’s about time we thought of the future. Yours and mine.”

“You’ll return to teaching,” he stated.

“Probably.” She laughed. “If I can find a university that will have me.”

“I’ve thought about that. Universities are like the school although larger. They have huge lawns and many flowerbeds. That’s work that I am trained to do. Wherever you teach, I can be a groundskeeper.”

“Martin, you’ve never even had a girl friend. You aren’t ready to commit yourself to anyone.”

“And you aren’t ready either?”

“We have different interests.”

“I haven’t had time yet to know what my interests are.”

It was her turn to hold his hand. “Please, Martin. Please try and understand and don’t make this difficult for me.”

He stood. “It’s time to go. Isn’t there something about leaving a tip?”

“Fifteen percent,” she replied.

He smiled again and the grin seemed to become more infectious with repetition. “I can manage to compute it.”

“I’m sure you can.”

Outside the restaurant he took her hand and they walked the hundred yards to their motel unit. “In case you’re worrying, I don’t intend to attack you tonight.”

She squeezed his hand. “I never thought you would.”

When they arrived at their room, he unlocked the door and they stepped inside. His arms went around her as he gently kissed her.

She pulled away. “Martin … please.”

He gave her a short peck on the forehead. “I know. Goodnight.”

Later, when they were both in their respective beds Sara called over to Martin softly. “You awake?”

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to say goodnight and to say again how lucky we are to have found J.J. Sperry to intercede for us.”

“I know. Very lucky.”

The rush hour traffic for once did not irritate J.J. Sperry. He had enjoyed the afternoon. He always did when he had a cage or two to rattle. He had the corroboration he needed, and tomorrow he would write the column that would break the story.

It would be a day to be relished. His staff, as usual, would be astounded as he held their usual early morning conference and revealed the intricacies of Operation Barbados. As soon as the column was forwarded to the newspaper syndicate the wire services would pick up the gist of the contents and all the media would be pounding on his door.

Yes, it would be a good day. The kind of day that made the work worthwhile.

He’d shake them up. Senator Rutledge Baxter would be up on charges before the Ethics Committee within a week.

The quaint Georgetown street was crowded with parked cars, and he had to circle the block until he found a vacant spot several houses down from his. His good spirits still prevailed. He would not let the day-to-day annoyances of city living mar this night of achievement.

Sperry carefully locked the car and began to walk briskly toward his own house. He passed a parked plumbing van and glanced inside out of idle curiosity. The two men on the front seat were pointedly looking the other way. One held a copy of The Wall Street Journal, the other a Styrofoam cup.

Sperry smiled. They were so obvious they should have carried signs. At day’s end, ordinary plumbers did not drink coffee and read financial news before returning home. So, the surveillance was continuing. It would end tomorrow when the news broke.

He inserted his key in the latch, and on impulse, turned and waved at the waiting men in the plumber’s van. They were watching him, but at his friendly salutation, immediately turned away to stare in the opposite direction.

Sperry was still smiling as the door opened and he stepped into the empty house. He had fired Soy that morning, so he would have to make do for himself this evening, but even that prospect could be mitigated with the small pleasures of a bachelor life. He would grill three prime lamb chops and mix a green salad with his special creamy anchovy dressing. A bottle of vintage brut Bollinger would go well.

Jack Daniels on the rocks would be his first order of business, then dinner, and afterward, over a cognac, he would make notes for tomorrow’s important article.

A mild pique of irritation occurred when he realized that there wasn’t any ice in the dry sink. Of course, there wouldn’t be—he had fired Soy. The Jack Daniels was also low. He must remember to call and order a case.

In the kitchen he flipped ice cubes into a silver bucket and then stepped over to the wall phone and dialed the liquor store.

The phone was dead. He slammed the receiver down with a clatter and stomped scowling into the living room.

He poured the sour mash, added ice from the bucket, and gently stirred.

The house was quiet as he sat in the easy chair before the fireplace and sipped on his drink.

Something was wrong. He knew it with the sudden intuitive clarity that had never failed him.

He carefully placed his drink down on a side table and stepped to the fireplace to pick up a pair of tongs. The house was alarmed if it hadn’t been tampered with. Each window was expensively armed to set off a loud outside siren and also ring at the nearby precinct station.

Sperry carried the tongs across the living room and crashed out a small pane of glass in a side window.

There wasn’t any sound—no wail from the outside siren, just as there would be no alarm activated at the police station.

He returned to his chair and drink. He was too old to run, and in his present physical condition he would never make it to the corner. The house was devoid of firearms; his repeated columns on gun control legislation attested to that.

The men from the plumber’s van would be along shortly. It would take only seconds for them to breach the front door. He only hoped that they were professionals and would do it neatly and with a modicum of pain.

He knew who was ultimately responsible. He had shaken cages all right, and one of the shaken had called Baxter. He had underestimated the ambitious senator.

Sperry leaned back in his chair and drank his Jack Daniels while looking at his favorite Jamie Wyeth over the fireplace. All that he felt was a faint nostalgia for the story not written.

It would have been a good piece—one of his best.

Pity.

Chapter Eighteen

As Sara watched Martin unload the food from the McDonald’s bag, she noticed his animation. From time to time he would glance at her and smile.

It seemed nearly impossible that this man sharing her room was the same one who had arrived at Meegan halfway house only days before—the same man who had taught himself to ride a bicycle and eagerly reported to an alien job in an alien environment.

If nothing else, the recent rush of events had accelerated his assimilation into the real world. What might ordinarily have taken months to accomplish had taken days, sometimes hours.

Martin placed a paper napkin over his arm and, in a stiff and formal manner, approached the table where she sat. He plunked a water tumbler in front of her, ceremoniously poured a tiny splash of soda from the McDonald’s container into the glass, and then snapped erect—waiting.

Sara tasted the soda and smacked her lips. “Yes, it has an adventuresome and robust tang. I would say that the delicate succulence of the cola extract has been blended authoritatively with the soda water.” She nodded and he filled her glass.

He delicately opened a Big Mac container and set it next to her soda. “Do you approve, madam?”

Sara bent and smelled the sandwich. “A combination of frozen utility grade beef and cheese, along with carefully selected mayonnaise, herbs, spices, and wilted lettuce. Compliments to the chef.”

They both laughed as he sat opposite her and took a large chomp from his cheeseburger.

They had slept well, the most refreshing rest they had experienced in days. It was as if the intercession of J.J. Sperry had relieved their inner tensions and allowed for the complete relaxation of their bodies.

“We’ll stay holed up here until we hear from Sperry,” she said. “I would think he’ll get back to us no later than this time tomorrow.”

“Uh huh. I wonder if there’s anything on the news yet?” He flipped on the television.

“Probably too early,” she said. “Maybe on the six o’clock.”

The noon anchorman’s face swam into focus and the sound picked up his voice in mid-sentence.

“… of an apparent heart attack. Sperry’s body was discovered early this morning by Corrine Avery, a longtime cleaning woman for the noted columnist.”

Sara stiffened. “Oh, my God, no,” she said softly as the newscast continued.

“Sperry, whose syndicated column appeared in over three hundred eighty-five newspapers, had long been known for his Washington exposés. When contacted, staff members were grief-stricken and stated that the investigator was working on an important column when felled.”

Martin looked at her in astonishment as Sara stared blankly at the newscaster. She felt numb until deep suspicion overcame shock. The coincidence of Sperry, in robust health yesterday, succumbing to a death by natural causes seemed too fortuitous to have happened on the eve he was to write the exposé column on Operation Barbados.

“They killed him,” Sara said, and Martin nodded.

“Contacted at his suburban Virginia home, Senator Rutledge Baxter had these comments.”

The program cut to a videotape of the senator seated in a book-lined study, staring somberly at the camera.

“The nation’s capital will deeply miss a man like J.J. Sperry,” Baxter said. “The well-being of the nation is dependent upon such men to hold a magnifying glass over our foibles and malfeasances. No man has ever done that better than J.J. Sperry.”

The tape cut to a spokesman for the president and Martin flipped off the set. “They killed him,” he reiterated flatly.

“I’m sure of it.”

“We should call his office and see if Sperry had told them anything about us.”

“Yes.” She moved to the telephone on the bed table in slow motion. Sperry’s office number was written on a note pad next to the phone and she dialed.

“Sperry Enterprises,” an emotionless voice answered.

“This is Sara Bucknell. I’ve been talking with Mr. Sperry about something very important.”

“Mr. Sperry passed away last night,” the voice answered without feeling.

“I know. I just heard and I’m terribly sorry, but is there anyone else there who would know about our conversation?”

“One moment, please. I will put you through to Mr. Robinson.”

The phone was dead in Sara’s hand as it went on “hold.” Minutes passed. Her palms began to perspire and she considered redialing, but the phone was still without sound. She hadn’t been cut off—yet.

“Robinson. Who the hell is this?”

The voice on the phone startled Sara, and it took her a moment to realize that the man on the other end of the line was half-drunk. She could hear a great deal of noise in the background—they were having a wake at Sperry’s office.

She spoke as clearly and concisely as she could. “This is very important, time is running out. I have been talking to J.J. Sperry about …”

“Poor old J.J.’s dead,” the voice answered and its maudlin content preambled tears. “Dead,” Robinson repeated.

“Yes, I heard. Did he tell anyone in the office about Operation Barbados?”

“This week’s conspiracy?”

“Yes, somthing like that. Please, did he?”

“No. Hey, wait a minute—you the broad wanted for murder in upstate New York?”

“Yes, but Mr. Sperry and I were talking about something else.”

“He was arranging for your surrender, right?”

“Wrong. I told him about Operation Barbados. It concerns a group of powerful men who are going to have …”

“Listen, lady, you call us back in a couple of days, okay? We don’t even know if the syndicate will continue the column with J.J. gone. Contact me the middle of next week and we’ll get all the details … all right?” Without waiting for an answer Robinson hung up.

Eddy Robinson poured himself a double finger of bourbon and kicked back his chair in order to have room to put his feet on the desk. The old bastard had been rough to work with, but he was the master … the real master. He raised his glass in silent toast.

“Hey, Eddy,” a voice called in his doorway. “Did you know our phones are tapped?”

Eddy Robinson drank again. “Fuck it.”

“Don’t point that weapon at me, Althea.” Rutledge Baxter dissembled well, and after his initial start of surprise as he got into the limousine, his face assumed a broad friendly smile.

“You sent someone to kill me, Rutledge.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Liar.” She pushed the gun against him.

“Will you allow me a moment to at least talk about it? We can go to your place and talk over a drink. We won’t even have to use any subterfuge for the trip. Mr. J.J. Sperry’s legmen won’t be on our tail.”

“You took care of that too.”

Rutledge didn’t answer. He picked up the intercom to speak with the limousine’s driver. “Take us to Miss Remington’s apartment.”

The driver flicked his eyes into the rearview mirror and flipped open the button of his uniform jacket to reveal a holstered snub-barreled revolver. He looked into the reflected eyes of Rutledge Baxter for confirmation.

Rutledge shook his head and said no softly. “The apartment please, and notify the office at what number I can be reached.” He settled back in the seat next to Althea and half turned toward her. “Your face?” He ran his fingers lightly over the bandage that covered her cheek.

“Not very pretty.”

“Too bad we lost Billie. It rather surprised me, a man of his professional competence.”

“I’m sure he was more surprised than you were,” she said bitterly, “if he had time for surprise. You’re a son of a bitch, Rutledge. Do you know that?”

“Of course, darling. But you’ve always known that. I had always rather thought that was part of what attracted you to me.”

“Not when your venom’s directed against me.”

“You have to admit that your record up there in the Adirondacks was not exactly unblemished.”

“I’m not finished with Fowler—I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Althea. We’ll get Fowler in good time. You should be on your way to New York to the plastic surgeon. Do you have enough money?”

“Yes, I have enough money. Whatever possessed you to send someone after me? My failure? Billie?”

“How can you be sure it was me? This is the first I’ve heard about any attempt on your life. I thought you were in New York—in a hospital.”

Her eyes flickered with brief uncertainty. “You’re such a goddamn liar. You probably don’t even know yourself when you’re telling the truth.”

“Why would I have you killed?” Because you know too much and you’ve outlived your usefulness, he told himself, but his mask did not slip.

“I … I don’t know. But who else would have tried?”

“Fowler and the woman.”

“That wasn’t Sara Bucknell who came into my room that night.”

“Someone she hired, or an accomplice … there are several possibilities.”

The car pulled smoothly to the curb in front of the apartment building and a doorman stepped toward the limousine. Althea stuffed the Beretta into her pocket, but still clenched it firmly.

“Pick me up in an hour,” Baxter snapped at the driver and stepped out of the car.

They walked into the apartment house and silently waited for the elevator. When the doors hissed open, Rutledge stepped aside to let her enter, but she moved the pistol in her pocket to wave him inside.

They rode to the fifteenth floor without a word. “Use your own key,” Althea said as they left the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall.

Rutledge turned with a smile when they stepped inside. “Make us a drink.”

“Make your own goddamn drink.”

“I will. Your usual?”

“Why not. You know, Senator, I ought to shoot you in the goddamn balls.”

“I think you ought to hear me out first.” He mixed two vodka martinis and handed her one. “Please put that peashooter away.”

“It’s large enough to kill you.”

“In your own apartment?”

“Maybe I don’t give a damn anymore.”

He knew he had her. She was searching desperately for reasons to reestablish their relationship. If he could only find the correct button to press, the right lever to throw, this impasse could be turned around to his advantage.

“I think you do care, Althea,” he said softly.

“Look at me!” She ripped the bandage away from the side of her face to reveal the raw wounded flesh of her left cheek.

He involuntarily took a step backward and felt the mask on his face slip for a moment. “You should have that tended to. The plastic boys in New …”

“I did it for you.” The fingers of her free hand fluttered against the wound. “For you! And what do I get for it?”

“When you’ve had reconstructive surgery, you’ll look as good as new, and after that a vacation in the Bahamas will restore you.”

“You know, Rutledge, you put on the same act for me as you do for the stupid bastards who vote for you. I don’t know why I never saw that before.”

“We spent most of our time together in bed.”

“Not any more, Senator.” Again her hand fluttered against her mutilation.

“Self-pity doesn’t become you, Althea. One of your finer points has always been your strength.”

The phone rang and Althea picked it up with one hand while still keeping her small revolver trained on Rutledge. “Yes … who? Just a minute.” She handed him the receiver. “It’s for you.”

Rutledge took the phone in irritation and snapped into the receiver. “Baxter. What is it?” He listened intently for a few moments. “All right … good … take them. How many men do you have available? Three …” He looked at Althea speculatively a moment. “Wait a minute,” he said into the phone and covered the receiver with his palm.

“Fowler and the woman have been traced to a motel across the river. Want to go?”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He uncovered the receiver. “I’m sending over someone who I want to be part of it. Wait until she arrives and then go at once. Understood?…” He hung up and turned to the redheaded woman with a smile.

“They’re all yours.”

Rutledge leaned back on the sofa and observed her over the rim of his cocktail glass. She bustled into the bathroom to replace the bandage on her face, and then quickly changed into jeans and a loose shirt. She would be out of the apartment in minutes.

He would wait until she was gone, of course, and then he would make a return-call to the waiting men.

They could take out three just as easily as two.

Rutledge Baxter slowly finished his drink.

Weasel hadn’t killed anyone before … at least he wasn’t positively certain he had.

There had been that time five years ago in Riverside Park when they had rumbled against the Angels and he had fired his piece. One of the Angels had dropped with a bullet in his chest, but several other pieces had gone off. It could have been his shot, but there had been no way to prove it and he had never taken credit for the kill.

The rusted Saturday Night Special he had fired that night was an ancient blunderbuss compared to the piece he now held in his lap. He fondled the cool metal of the .38 with the long silencer.

Man Mountain drove Weasel in the plumbing van, while Althea and Two Spot were in a three-year-old green Chevy following close behind.

He unscrewed the silencer in a nervous gesture.

“Quit that,” Man Mountain said without turning his eyes from the road.

“What?”

“Playing with your goddamn piece. I’m afraid you’re going to shoot me in the gut.”

“I know how to handle it.”

“You better. The man don’t want no foul-ups.”

“Who we working for?”

“You got no idea?”

“Nope.”

“Then play it smart and don’t try and find out.”

Weasel shrugged. “What the hell. As long as his money’s good. You sure there’s only two of them?”

“That’s the word.” Man Mountain looked over at him a moment. “You want another coupla yards?”

“Depends on what I got to do.”

“There’s a third one he wants taken out. He gave me the word to take care of it and I’ll do it if I have to, but maybe you’d like the extra cream.”

“Who’s the other one?”

“The broad with Two Spot.”

“The redhead in the Chevy?”

“That’s her. She’s taking a one-way trip to Virginia.”

“I never killed a woman before.”

“Shit! You never killed no one before. It’s time you lost your cherry.”

Weasel shrugged. “Why not? Don’t make no difference to me.” He replaced the revolver in its holster inside his jacket and looked out the window to stare into the right-hand rearview mirror on the outside of the van. The Chevy was following closely behind them, and the redheaded woman on the passenger side was clearly visible. What the hell, he thought. Why not? The combined money would give him enough for a secondhand Datsun 220Z. Jesus, would he make out with those wheels.

“You sure now?” Man Mountain asked.

“I’m sure.”

They drove the rest of the way to the motel in silence.

Martin let the Venetian blind slats fall back together. He had been staring out onto the nearly empty motel parking lot, not for any reason in particular, but from a vague sense of uneasiness.

“Who are you expecting?” Sara asked.

He shrugged. “We can’t wait here until next week on the hope that Sperry’s guys will talk to us. It will be too late.”

“I’ve been considering the problem. We have to contact someone else.”

“Who?”

She sat tiredly on the bed. “I don’t know. Off hand, I can’t think of anyone else in Washington that has the contacts Sperry had. We have to find someone who can corroborate what we say; otherwise, with our past history, no one will believe us.”

“Operation Barbados is due to commence tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Sara sat at the small desk and opened the single center drawer. Inside were half a dozen sheets of writing paper, a ballpoint pen, and some postcards. She picked up a sheet and began to make a list of U.S. senators. “Criteria,” she mused. “The guy we contact can’t think like Senator Baxter. It will have to be someone liberal, and yet someone with enough prestige to have some weight to throw around in governmental circles.”

There was a knock at the door.

Martin flattened himself against the wall while Sara jerked in fright.

“Who is it?” Martin called out.

“Maid. I have fresh towels for you.”

Martin looked at Sara and she nodded in acquiescence. “Okay,” he said. “Just a moment.” He unlatched the door.

It swung open.

Althea, holding a long-barreled pistol, burst into the room. She waved Martin to the far side of the room and lowered the angle of the pistol so that it pointed at his stomach.

Althea paused for an instant. The man standing ten feet before her was frightened. He was the man who had shot her, the man who was responsible for her failure and humiliation. Their eyes met, she wanted him to know, and she savored this brief instant.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

There were two thumping sounds in rapid succession. The wall, near Althea’s head, puckered as a bullet plowed into the plaster. The second shot caught her in the back below the shoulder and spun her in a half-circle. Her gun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling and flew from her hand as she fell awkwardly to the floor.

Martin threw himself across the room and slammed the door shut as two more “thumps” sounded and shots tore through the wood and ricocheted off the unit’s rear wall.

He scrambled for Althea’s gun that had slipped under the bed and he fired through the Venetian blinds without aiming.

Althea groaned and scrambled crablike between the twin beds. “Those bastards … I’ve been set up.”

Martin crawled toward her, shoved the beds apart, and pressed the pistol barrel against Althea’s forehead. “Who are you?”

“Althea Remington. I work for Rutledge Baxter … don’t kill me. I can help you.”

“Baxter sent you to kill us,” Sara said from the far side of the bed.

“They’re after me too. There’re three of them out there.”

“I have a weapon,” Martin said. “If they try and come through the door …”

“They will. You don’t understand. They have automatic weapons in the van. You can’t fight a machine gun.”

“We can call for help on the phone,” Sara said.

“They know you won’t do that. That would bring the police. You have to get out of here. Is there a back way?”

“The units back up against each other,” Sara replied. “There’s only a front entrance and window.”

“If we ever get out of here, I’ll help you,” Althea said.

Martin peered over the edge of the bed and aimed the pistol at the door. “You think they’ll come in here after us?” he asked.

“I know they will,” Althea said. “With machine guns.”

Man Mountain glared at Weasel. “You fuck-up. You nervous son of a bitch.”

“You told me to waste the redhead.”

“After she killed the others, shithead.” Man Mountain whipped the barrel of his pistol across Weasel’s face and dislodged two teeth. Weasel’s gun clattered to the macadam as he fell by the side of the van.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the fallen man whined.

“How do we get them out of there, mastermind?”

“We … we go in after them.”

“That’s exactly right, and you go in first.” He yanked Weasel to his feet. “In the van. We’ll have to get some heavy artillery.”

Weasel scrambled almost happily toward the van’s double rear doors. “All right!”

Man Mountain spun him around. “Yeah, all right. I’ve got a coupla Uzis in there, and we’re going to have to use them.”

“So, what’s wrong?”

“So, they’re going to make one hell of a noise. The motel people are going to call the cops, the army, and God only knows who else. We’re going to have to get the hell away from here—fast. And we’re going to have exactly two minutes from our first shot to get in there, waste them, and get the hell away from here.”

“They got one pistol with a coupla shots left and we got machine guns.”

“You got a machine gun, fucker. You’re going in through that door while we back you up. Come on, let’s get the artillery.” He shoved the younger man inside the van and sprawled him across the flooring.

Two Spot, who had held a position alongside the Chevy, poked his head in the van doors. “What’s coming down?”

“The kid here fired too soon. We’re going to have to go in after them.”

“Oh, Christ!”

“The kid goes in point.”

Man Mountain ripped open a long metal toolbox and picked out the first Uzi. He shoved it into Weasel’s arms and picked up the second for himself.

“I never shot one of these,” Weasel said.”

“Oh, Jesus!” He grabbed the weapon back, shoved in a magazine and primed it for firing. He slammed it back at Weasel. “The safety is off. You point it and pull the trigger. Can you manage that?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s go. Remember, we got two minutes from your first shot, so you better not waste any fucking time getting in that door and wasting them.”

“They can hit me as I go in.”

“Is that right? You should have thought of that before you snapped one off at the redhead.”

They lined up three abreast five yards in front of the unit’s door. A gray-haired retired couple, sauntering down the walk toward their own room, saw the determined men with weapons and scuttled away toward the motel office.

“Go!” Man Mountain commanded.

The three Uzis broke into rapid fire. Man Mountain’s and Two Spot’s shattered the front window and stitched shells along the interior walls of the room.

Weasel fired a long burst through the door and then ran forward, kicked at the shattered wood and knocked the door back inside the room. He stepped into the room and swung the machine pistol in a low wide arc that walked bullets from one side of the room to the other.

The room was empty.

“What the fuck?” Man Mountain said from the doorway.

“Where the hell are they?” Weasel said.

Two Spot ran forward and fired into the bathroom. The bullets whined in their ricochet off the tiles. “Not in here.”

“They got to be here,” Weasel insisted.

Man Mountain stepped into the closet and looked toward the ceiling. “There’s a goddamn trap in here. They’re on the roof. Come here, Weasel. Get up there.”

Weasel took a step forward, peered up through the open trap in the ceiling of the closet and shook his head. “No way. I poke my head up there and they blow it off.”

The barrel of Man Mountain’s Uzi pressed into the flesh of Weasel’s neck. “You stay down here and I blow it off.”

“Oh, Mother of God,” Weasel said as Man Mountain boosted him upward toward the trap.

“See anything?”

“No. If they’re up here, I can’t see them.” Man Mountain stepped aside and let him fall to the floor.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Two Spot said as sirens sounded in the distance.

Chapter Nineteen

Althea had bitten her lip from the intensity of the pain when they pulled her through the trapdoor onto the roof. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were closed as her head rested against Martin’s shoulder.

Without thinking, Sara drove toward the bridge that would take them into Washington. Her only concern was to gain access to the crowded metropolis where they could lose themselves in heavy traffic.

“What are you going to do with me?” Althea asked weakly.

“We ought to have left you for your friends,” Martin replied.

“Or dump you in the Potomac,” Sara said without taking her eyes from the road.

“I can help you.”

“Your help is the last thing in the world we need,” Sara said.

Althea groaned as the car hit a pothole. Her eyes flicked open. “I want you to stop him. You’re the only ones who can.”

“Stop who?”

“Rutledge … Senator Baxter.”

Sara laughed. “We’ve been trying. God only knows, we’ve been trying.” She looked into the rearview mirror to glimpse the ashen face of the red-haired woman in the back seat. Sara smiled tightly. The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped her. They were helping the woman who had shot Martin, attacked them in Ray Heath’s house, and just minutes earlier was prepared to kill them both in the motel room. They should probably shove her out the door onto the sidewalk and let her bleed to death. Instead she asked, “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

Althea gasped in pain as she tried to sit erect to look out the window. She shook her head as if to orient herself. “Three blocks straight ahead and then turn left.” She fell back against Martin’s shoulder.

“How’s her breathing?” Sara asked.

“Not too good.”

“I’ll hurry as fast as I can.”

“Crowell,” Althea muttered. “You have to see Senator Crowell. He can help you now that Sperry’s dead.”

“Did Baxter kill Sperry too?” Martin asked.

“Yes. You must see Senator Crowell. I know him. I can phone and make an appointment.”

“I don’t think you could phone your own grandmother in your condition,” Martin said.

“Yes.” Althea sat upright and brushed away the trickle of blood on her face with the back of her hand. “Stop at a phone. I can do it.”

Again Sara checked the other woman’s condition in the rearview mirror. She looked even paler than before, but they would have to chance it. There was an open pay phone on the next corner near a bus stop, and she swerved the vehicle to an illegal stop near it.

They helped the wounded woman from the car. Althea held to the roof rim a moment as if willing strength to return to her limbs. She shook her head and lurched the few steps to the phone kiosk. The phone receiver trembled in her hand a moment and then was replaced in its cradle with a bang. She glared at them.

“Who’s got a goddamn dime?”

Sara searched her pockets, knowing that most of their money was in her handbag back at the motel. “Martin?”

Martin’s pocket yielded six singles, two quarters, and a nickel. The quarters would do and she rushed them to Althea, who clutched the rim of the kiosk to hold herself erect.

The trembling woman put a quarter in the slot and dialed the Senate Office Building. “Senator Crowell’s office, please.” There was strength and vibrancy in her voice, as if she had willed her last vestige of stamina into its resonance. “Is the senator in? Oh, good. This is Althea Remington. I worked for the senator some years ago. I’m sure he’ll remember me. It’s quite important … that’s right, Remington.”

Sara saw lines of pain etched in Martin’s face. “Your arm hurt?”

He nodded. “It was climbing out of the closet that did it.”

“You know that we’re probably crazy as hell to let that woman arrange an appointment for us. She’s probably setting us up again.”

“They tried to kill her—I think we have to trust her.”

Althea hung up and came toward them. The weave to her walk was more pronounced, and Martin rushed forward to grab her arm and help her inside the Ford. She sat with her head tilted back. Her breathing was shallow. “Listen, I’ve only got a couple of minutes before I pass out. Take me to the Emergency Room entrance and leave me. Don’t wait. I’ll tell them some damn story or other. You have an appointment with Senator Crowell at seven. This car sticks out like a sore thumb. Dump it and go to 112 Washburn. He’ll be waiting. Now hurry and get me to the hospital before I die on you.”

Senator Harris Crowell was disgruntled. He poured boiling water into the teapot. It was a sad state of affairs when the most exciting event of his evening was waiting for tea to brew.

Who the hell was Althea Remington? She seemed to know him personally, and she insisted that she had once worked for him.

He couldn’t remember her and that bothered him.

There had been so many over the years. Twenty-eight years was a long time to serve, and that encompassed a great many senatorial aides, clerks, interns, and assistants. It was a long procession and she would have been one of many.

The tea was ready. He ceremoniously poured it into a small porcelain Japanese teacup. They had brought the tea set back from Japan in … when was it? ’sixty … ’sixty-one? God, even the years were merging together. Yes, ’sixty-one, the fact-finding mission. He had taken Alma along but he had paid her way, of course. Free junkets were one thing, but you paid for your wife.

“I miss you, Alma.”

He mumbled it aloud as he did every night. God, he missed her. She had died five weeks after his last reelection, and only later did he discover that she had known of the malignancy during the campaign. She hadn’t told him until there was no way to withhold the secret.

She wanted him reelected, and now he didn’t even bother going home for the summer recess. There was no need—he wouldn’t stand for election again. The years were catching up and the impatient young Turks at home were beginning to yap politely at his heels.

He missed the old house back home on Bedford Avenue. It was the same still as it had been since the day they moved in after their wedding, except now the furniture would be covered with sheets, and the arms of easy chairs would stick out like the appendages of apparitions.

He should sell both houses and move into Watergate. The space was a nuisance, the upkeep required constant supervision, and God only knows he didn’t need it.

If he moved, it would mean leaving the place that had been her home and that would make her all the more distant.

He would stay and live with her memory.

He should probably retire before his term ended. That would allow the governor to appoint an interim senator. He drank tea and thought about that a moment. The governor—the very reason he would not resign. He would not allow that idiot to appoint—in fact, he would probably appoint himself and allow the lieutenant governor to assume office—and that was a worse fate.

He’d hang on as long as he could and hope that the last vestiges of his political strength would allow him to be somewhat instrumental in the nomination of his successor.

That is, if he didn’t die first.

He had to take more nitroglycerin this afternoon. It had taken two tablets under his tongue before the squeezing angina pains had subsided.

The attacks seemed to be coming with greater frequency. He’d have to ask Dr. Shelton about that.

He glanced at his watch. Fifteen of seven. His visitors would arrive at seven. He hoped that they would be interesting. He needed some stimuli for the long evening.

Martin and Sara sat at a small Formica-top table in a luncheonette four blocks from the senator’s house. They stirred coffee listlessly and watched the slowly creeping second hand on a large wall clock.

“He’s not going to believe us,” Martin said. “And Operation Barbados starts tomorrow.”

“We convinced Sperry,” she replied without much conviction.

“But he was able to make one phone call and get some sort of cor—”

“Corroboration.”

“Thank you. That’s a good word. I’ll try and remember it.”

She squeezed his hand. “And I hope Senator Crowell can get it.”

“There’s so little time.”

“We don’t have any other choice, Martin. This is our last chance to convince anyone. If we don’t get the story out before they start the operation, it will be too late. The information means nothing after the fact.”

Martin sipped his coffee thoughtfully a moment. “Which is why we have to do things differently. I think I can pull it off if you go along.”

“What do you have in mind?”

The massive wooden front door of the senator’s Georgetown house was crisscrossed with brass fittings, dominated by a lion’s head knocker at shoulder height. Sara lifted the heavy brass ring and let it fall.

The sound seemed to reverberate throughout the downstairs and the door was opened within seconds.

The man who greeted them was slight to the point of frailty. His features were pinched and drawn, giving him a cadaverous look. Thinning white hair and the severity of a dark navy blue suit seemed to accentuate his slenderness. Only his eyes, piercing blue from deep sockets, seemed to give a hint of true vitality.

“Yes?” It was a firm and resonant voice that belied the physical appearance.

“We have an appointment with Senator Crowell at seven.”

A thin smile on drawn lips. “I am Harris Crowell. Please come in.” He stepped aside as they entered. “Go straight back to the kitchen. I’ve just made some tea, and I’ve turned into a great kitchen sitter in recent years. Would you care for some?”

“That would be fine,” Sara answered.

Sara noticed that the rooms they passed—living room, formal dining room, and study—seemed empty and unused. As she entered the kitchen, she understood why the senator preferred to sit there. It was a bright and shiny room that gave off an ambiance of a thousand past gourmet meals. Copper pots hung along the walls and gleamed in cheerful light. A dozen plants grew in a planter along a rear wall that could receive morning light from a large window overlooking a tiny formal garden.

Senator Crowell placed two porcelain cups before them and poured. “Lemon?”

“Thank you,” Sara said as Martin nodded.

“Miss Bucknell and Mr. Fowler, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He sat down and seemed to appraise them in a pleasant fashion. “And exactly what can I do for you? I assume you are not from my state?”

“No. We’re from New York.”

He gave the slightest fey smile. “Obviously my loss.”

“We’ll get right to it. We know you are busy.”

The eyes of the old man laughed. “Not as busy as you might think. It would seem that the causes I have fought for during my political career are in slight disfavor at the moment. But please proceed.”

Sara took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe that the columnist, J.J. Sperry, was murdered. As I see it, they probably injected him with a powerful muscle relaxant that caused heart failure.”

Senator Crowell held up a thin hand. Martin noticed that the blue blood vessels on the back of the hand seemed barely contained by the white skin. “That is hardly the province of a United States senator. You should take your suspicious to the police.”

“That’s for a later time,” Sara said. “We’re here to see you because of why Sperry was murdered.”

Crowell nodded. “I see. And that is?…”

“I’d like Mr. Fowler to tell you,” Sara said.

Martin clasped his hands together and hunched over the table to stare directly into the eyes of Senator Crowell. “I was hired by the columnist J.J. Sperry for a specific undercover assignment. It was my job to infiltrate Camp Mohawk located in the Adirondacks.”

Crowell nodded. “I have heard of it.” The eyes smiled again. “Although I must confess I was never asked to join.”

“In order to do so,” Martin continued, “I had to become a patient-student at a training school for the mentally retarded.” It was his turn to smile. “Or the intellectually exceptional as they are more humanely called. I was taken to the training school under the guise of being the son of an older man and woman. They said they feared that I would have no one to take care of me when they passed away, and were therefore desirous that I be trained to become self-sufficient. The reason for this approach was that Camp Mohawk each summer hired a large group of the educable retarded.”

“For confidential purposes, I’m sure,” Crowell added.

“Yes. Shortly after I arrived, I was able to prove to the staff that I was ‘educable’ and capable of selection for assignment to the Camp Mohawk staff. This subsequently happened, and I worked at the camp for Senator Rutledge G. Baxter.”

The piercing blue eyes widened. “Baxter, yes,” the senator said softly. “We have often crossed swords.”

“While working at the camp for Senator Baxter, I was able to gather the following information concerning Operation Barbados.…”

Sara was astounded. She had agreed to let Martin make the presentation, sensing that he was able to do so, and that it would give the facts further credibility. She continued listening as he talked, and found herself almost believing that he was in fact an undercover legman for Sperry. She also noticed that his succinct account deleted any reference to Billie Bamburg.

Senator Crowell had to believe them immediately. There was not time to explain Martin’s misclassification as a mental defective, or to go into the machinations of the men and woman who had stalked them and finally murdered Ray Heath.

She noticed that the senator listened intently, occasionally asking a direct question or sipping on his tea. From time to time he would nod his head in a benign manner. She felt a rush of warmth for this aging politician with the patrician bearing.

“Mr. Sperry was preparing an exposé,” Martin concluded, “the night he died.”

“Or was killed,” Sara added.

Senator Crowell looked pensive. “I wouldn’t put an operation like this past Senator Baxter. I never have trusted the man. He always seemed a little too ambitious, a little too jingoistic, a little too calculating and politically expedient. He has great plans for himself, I’m afraid.”

“The plan is to go operational tomorrow evening,” Sara said. “If you could reveal this information on the Senate floor tomorrow, before Operation Barbados begins … they would be forced to call it off.”

“Yes, that’s true,” the senator said slowly. “Such information put into the record would effectively stop them.” He stared off into space for a moment. “Yes, it would certainly stop them, or make a damned fool out of an old politician.”

“You don’t believe us?” Sara asked.

“Oh, I didn’t say that. I’d just like a little background information. You don’t begrudge me that, do you?”

“No, of course not,” she replied with a sinking heart.

“Exactly how did you get involved in this, Miss Bucknell?”

“Martin and I are friends.”

“Close friends?”

“Very close friends,” she replied.

“I see. Both of you must understand that if I made such extreme allegations on the Senate floor and were proven incorrect … I could be censured.”

“We understand that,” Martin said, “but the matter is so important. It could lead us into war.”

Crowell smiled. “I believe they have recently called them police actions. Yes, you are correct. It is important—so important that I would be derelict of my duty if I did not follow through.” He stood and went to the kitchen wall phone.

“Who are you calling?” Sara asked.

“Martin mentioned a Captain Newmark. From his position in this matter, I would imagine he is attached to Naval Operations. I think a call to the night duty officer there should obtain the good captain’s home phone number.”

The call was made and Crowell jotted down the home phone of Captain Newmark in Fairfax, Virginia. He dialed the second number.

“Captain Newmark?”

A hesitant “Yes?”

“This is Senator Crowell. I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions?”

“No, sir. Of course not.” The reply was crisp and military, almost as if the respondent had snapped to attention.

“Are you aware of Operation Barbados?”

“Yes, sir. I am surprised you know about it, sir. The exercise is highly confidential—for training purposes, of course.”

“I see. And this exercise takes place tomorrow in the South Atlantic?”

“Yes, sir. In international waters off the South American coast. I prepared the tactical details myself, after a recommendation by the war college.”

“What sort of training exercise is it?”

“Antisubmarine and submarine surveillance, Senator.”

“That seems harmless enough.”

“Routine, Senator. We run similar exercises constantly—almost an ongoing thing.”

“Yes, I would imagine you do.”

“May I ask the senator’s interest in the matter? I would assume it’s a cost question, but I can assure you, sir, the cost is well justified if we are to stay alert.”

“And this exercise will take place at 34 degrees, 17 minutes latitude, and 58 degrees, 30 minutes longitude?”

A moment of silence, and during the interim Sara had time to be surprised at the senator’s instant recall.

“I believe those are the correct coordinates. I would have to check the file to be absolutely certain,” Captain Newmark said.

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your cooperation, Captain.”

“Anytime, Senator. I consider it my duty to cooperate with the Congress.”

“Yes. Well, so it is. Thank you again and goodbye.” Crowell slowly hung up and turned to face them.

“He verified it?” Sara asked.

“He verified that a routine exercise is to take place in the approximate location Martin suggested. I hope it has occurred to you two that you may have misconstrued this whole matter?”

“I think they intend to use this as justification to get American troops involved in South America,” Sara said. “It is not a routine maneuver.”

“Are you sure?”

“They wouldn’t be trying to kill us if it were routine,” she blurted.

“Kill you?”

The words spilled out of Sara in an avalanche. “They ran us off the road, they shot and beat Martin when he was in the halfway house, and they killed Ray Heath. What more! What more can you possibly want?”

The facial lines around the senator’s eyes seemed to tense. His eyes turned cool. “It would seem that Mr. Fowler omitted a few details.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” Sara stood so abruptly her chair fell on its back. “I’m tired. I want to find a deep hole somewhere and just climb in it and pull down the sides.”

She rushed toward the hallway, but Martin caught her wrist. “No,” he commanded. “We have to try and convince him. It’s our last chance.”

Sara brushed a tear away with the back of her hand. “Of course you’re right, but I think we’re fighting a losing battle.”

“I think it’s time you filled me in on the not-so-insignificant details,” Senator Crowell said.

Sara finished a cool cup of tea and began to speak carefully and intently.

“I took a position as director of a halfway house for the educable retarded,” she began.

Harris Crowell’s specialty was the manufacture of grilled cheese sandwiches with crisp slices of bacon imbedded within melted cheddar. He flipped the final one over on the griddle, pressed it down firmly with his spatula and then onto a plate. He sat at the table and nibbled disinterestedly while the others did the same.

“You’ll have to come back sometime and have my other gourmet meal—roasted pepper burgers. I’m rather limited in the culinary arts.”

“The sandwich is very good,” Martin said.

“You know, Martin, I believed the first story about your position as an investigative reporter for J.J. Sperry. It’s hard to assimilate that you spent over twenty years in a training school.”

“I kept a low profile.”

“A modern colloquialism. Your usage is surprising.”

“We watched a great deal of television.”

“Yes, I can imagine you did.” He turned to Sara. “You know, of course, that I am in a deep quandary. On the one hand, I have spoken with a high military person who tells me that Operation Barbados does exist, but that it is a routine training exercise. On the other, I listen to you two, mindful of the fact that you are fugitives, and hear a rather implausible story of murder, attempted murder, and a conspiracy that can shake the country. Exactly what do you think I can do?”

“Denounce them on the floor of the Senate,” Sara said. “Denounce them before the plan is operational. They wouldn’t dare go ahead with it.”

“They will call me irresponsible, and worse, they will call me senile, Miss Bucknell.”

Sara looked at the delft clock on the kitchen wall. The hands were at nine. There were less than twenty-four hours before Operation Barbados began. “You’re going to have to believe us.”

“I know several of the men involved. I have fought Senator Baxter for years. Of any senator now serving, I am probably more inclined to believe you than anyone else—and even if I do, my hands are tied. Without proof of your allegations, there is no responsible way I could bring these charges to the floor.”

“Then we all have a quandary, Senator. There is no possible way we can corroborate what we say in the time remaining. Tomorrow at this time it will be too late.”

“I will fight the Baxter Amendment on the floor of the U.S. Senate.”

“And you will be outvoted.”

“Probably.”

“Would you bring it to the floor if you were absolutely certain that what we said was the truth?” Martin asked.

“Yes. I would have to.”

“What can we do to convince you?”

Crowell shook his head. “If we only had time. If we had a week, I could have members of my staff investigate. I could use my subcommittee’s subpoena powers. There would be several avenues I could explore, but there just isn’t time. And, unfortunate as it may be, I cannot accept your unilateral word.”

Sara stood again. “Then there is nothing more to discuss.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She walked down the hall toward the front door. Martin took a last beseeching look at Harris Crowell, but the old man shook his head. He walked with Martin down the hall and opened the front door for them.

A plumbing van was parked directly in front of the house and two men stood on the stoop.

Man Mountain pulled a .45 automatic from his jacket pocket. “Back up,” he said softly. “Back in the house.”

Chapter Twenty

Martin smiled broadly and shuffled forward with an outstretched hand. “Hey, you guys got guns. Can I see one?”

Man Mountain’s fist drove into Martin’s solar plexus and crumpled him into a corner of the living room where he lay choking for breath.

Sara knelt next to him. “Are you all right?”

“What’s wrong with that guy, he crazy?” Man Mountain asked.

Martin stared up at Sara. His eyes were blank and uncomprehending as his breath gradually returned.

Sara turned to look up at the large gunman looming above them. “Not crazy. Retarded.”

“Well, keep him in line or he gets hurt. That goes for you too, old man.”

“Who sent you?” Crowell asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, grandpa. We came for the pictures. We take the pictures, we leave and nobody gets hurt. Understand?”

“What pictures?”

“Don’t wiseass me—the pictures of the birds. We know you got them.”

“The Audubon drawings?”

“The bird pictures. Like that one.” The large gunman pointed to one of the Audubons on the living room wall. “We load them in the van and we leave. Easy enough?”

“I thought the old man was supposed to be the only one home?” Two Spot asked.

“So, he has company,” Man Mountain replied. “Makes no difference. Get that crap off the walls while I keep them covered.”

Crowell sat back in one of the living room’s high-backed chairs. “You’re going to have difficulty pawning them. I would suggest the silver service in the dining room.”

“We’ll get that too. In fact, we’ll take a hell of a lot before we’re through. We got a buyer for the birds already, so don’t worry your old head about it.”

Two Spot began to methodically remove the drawings from the walls.

“Do you know who I am?” Senator Crowell asked.

“You could be Muhammad Ali for all I care. So keep it down.”

Senator Crowell stared at Martin in astonishment as Sara helped the whimpering man across the room and onto the sofa. Martin pressed his back against the cushions and held his hands loosely in his lap as he rocked his head slowly back and forth. His jaw was slack, and a sliver of saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth.

Sara patted his hand. “You’ll be all right now.” She glanced at Crowell and saw his eyes register comprehension.

“The man hurt me,” Martin whined.

“He won’t do it again. Sit quietly and be good.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Man Mountain demanded.

Sara whirled angrily. “I told you. He’s retarded. He has the mental age of a five-year-old.” It seemed true, she thought to herself. She had seen grown men in Martin’s condition at the training school. His representation was perfect. But then, he had had a long time to learn.

“I had a brother like that,” Man Mountain said as near wistfully as he could muster. “The old lady shipped him off to some school and that was the last we saw of him.” The moment’s compassion immediately disappeared as he turned angrily to Two Spot, who was still removing drawings from the walls.

“You check the house yet?”

“You told me to get the pictures.”

“Well, goddamn it, check the upstairs and back rooms. There could be a platoon of cops in there for all we know.”

“There ain’t no one.…”

“Shut up! Get moving!”

Two Spot was back in five minutes. “The place is empty,” he announced.

“All right. Now, bring the van around back to the alley and we’ll load from the rear door.”

“Right.” Two Spot disappeared out the front door.

Man Mountain straddled a straight chair near the archway to the living room with his back to the wall. He held the large automatic in two hands, one on the butt with a finger curved through the trigger guard, the other grasping the barrel.

Two Spot returned with a sheepish grin on his face. “The fucker won’t start.”

Man Mountain glared at him. “What do you mean, it won’t start? Of course it’ll start.”

“You try the son of a bitch, then.” He slipped his .45 from a pocket and took Man Mountain’s place on the straight chair.

“Idiot!” Mountain said as he went to the front door. They heard him mumble as he left. “Have to do every goddamn thing myself.” He was back in three minutes with a deep scowl on his face. “Course the fucker won’t start. Some bastard stole the damn battery.”

“Can’t trust no one,” Two Spot said.

Without a further word, Man Mountain strode to the phone extension in the hallway and angrily dialed a number. “Weasel, Man Mountain here. Some fucker stole our battery. Get another one over here toot sweet.… Whadda you mean you got no wheels? I don’t give a shit. Steal a set then.… Whadda you mean, busy? Get your miserable ass over here … I can’t wait around here all night.… What’s that?… Oh, fuck it, all right.” He hung up and returned to the living room where he addressed Two Spot. “He can’t get over here until late tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

“And leave the stuff and the van parked right in front for the cops to trace to us? No way. We’ll just keep our friends company until the battery arrives.”

Senator Crowell leaned forward. “Do you mean to tell me that you two intend to hold us hostage until tomorrow?”

“Something like that. But you ain’t hostage.… Let’s say we’re your guests for the night.”

“I find it odd,” Crowell continued, “that on this particular evening you decided to burglarize my home.”

“It’s been ripe for the pickings for a long time, old man.”

“Why tonight?”

“Why not?”

Senator Crowell’s posture stiffened as his voice deepened. Sara felt that his whole manner had changed, so that he now appeared to be chairing a congressional committee rather than being held captive in his own home.

“I find it strange that you didn’t have this house under surveillance,” Crowell continued.

“Maybe we did, old man.”

“Then you must have surely noticed that it’s empty during the day. While I am away you certainly could have taken all you wished without difficulty.”

“You run the Senate, old man, and I’ll do the burglarizing.”

“Is the risk worth it?” Crowell asked.

“You don’t worry us, the girl don’t, and retard over there’s a basket case.”

“Burglary is one thing, armed robbery is another, and holding us until tomorrow is kidnapping.”

“Why don’t you shut up!” Two Spot interjected. “All this talk makes me nervous and I don’t like being nervous.”

Man Mountain shrugged. “Check out the kitchen. See if he’s got anything we can eat.”

Two Spot holstered his pistol and started to leave the room. As he went through the archway he gestured to Man Mountain. The second gunman waved his automatic at his prisoners ominously and stepped around the corner to whisper with Two Spot.

Senator Crowell immediately went to the archway and listened.

“Why don’t we just waste them and get the hell out of here?” Two Spot whispered.

“Because, stupid, Baxter says he wants it done this way. Now get into the kitchen.” Man Mountain lumbered back into the room as Crowell scurried to his chair.

“Who do you work for?” Sara asked the large gunman.

Man Mountain smiled. “The ways things been going—my bookie.”

“Rutledge Baxter sent them,” Crowell said.

“You talk too much, gramps.”

“It had to come through Captain Newmark,” Crowell said to Sara. “When I called him about Operation Barbados, I guess he called Baxter, who in turn sent our friends over to visit.”

“Why don’t they just kill us and leave?” Sara asked.

Crowell shook his head. “He doesn’t have to. As long as I don’t reach the floor of the Senate before Barbados begins, our information is useless. I think I owe you an apology.”

Martin’s inarticulate sounds filled the room as his back and forth jouncing movement increased in intensity. “Huh, huh, huh,” he kept repeating over and over.

“Will you shut him up before I do!” Man Mountain waved the barrel of the .45 in Martin’s direction.

Sara put her arm around Martin. “It’s going to be all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Huh, huh.” Martin’s head movement gradually slowed until it stopped. He stared directly at Man Mountain without recognition.

“There’s steaks in the freezer,” Two Spot said when he returned to the room.

Man Mountain waved the automatic toward them. “In the kitchen everyone. Little lady here can cook.”

Martin sat in a corner on the kitchen floor between the cellar door and a large hutch. He pulled his knees up under his chin and stared directly ahead.

Sara cooked two frozen steaks on the stove grill, while nearby. Senator Crowell desultorily mixed a green salad.

“You got any beer, old man?” Man Mountain asked.

“I don’t keep any in the house,” Crowell answered without turning.

“You got anything to drink?”

“Only wine.”

“How about a bottle of Guinea red?”

Crowell turned to face the two gunmen. “There is probably a bottle of red wine in the cellar. Did you have any particular year in mind?”

“Wiseass. As long as it don’t make us go blind, we’ll drink it.”

The strident ring of the phone shattered the room. Senator Crowell took a step toward the receiver on the wall, but Two Spot waved him back.

The phone kept ringing.

“Who do you think it is, old man?”

“It could be anyone,” Crowell answered. “Probably an aide from my office with some business for tomorrow’s session. I had better answer it or they’ll get suspicious.”

“No way. Let it ring.”

“I’m almost always home these days. They’ll wonder.”

“Let them think you went to an X-rated movie.”

The phone continued ringing and then stopped. The silence was almost jarring.

“Get the wine, Two Spot.” Man Mountain turned to Sara. “Can the dummy carry a bottle without breaking it?”

“Of course.”

“On your feet,” Two Spot said to Martin with a wave of the gun barrel.

Martin clumsily got to his feet as the gunman opened the cellar door and switched on the light. Martin shambled down ahead of the man with the .45.

The cellar was an unused and musty place. Hanging naked light bulbs cast yellow streaks across the dusty floor. Boxes were piled in haphazard fashion, and in a far corner was a series of wooden wine racks filled with dozens of assorted bottles.

Without taking his eyes and weapon off Martin, Two Spot pulled a dusty bottle from the middle of the rack and flipped it over to Martin.

“Is that red?”

Martin deftly caught the bottle by its neck, held it for a brief moment, and let it slip from his fingers to shatter on the floor.

“Goddamn butterfingers!” He hesitated a moment, torn between a desire to search for the wine himself, and caution. Caution prevailed. “Find a red one. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Uh huh. I know my colors.”

“Then red, damn it! And hurry. I’m thirsty.”

Martin squatted and began to laboriously pull out bottle after bottle. He held each one up toward the light, examined it closely, and then clumsily replaced it in the rack.

“Can’t you find one, dummy?”

Martin looked up at the man standing over him. “I’m looking,” he said petulantly. He estimated the distance from his crouched position to the man with the automatic pistol at less than five feet. If Two Spot should look away, for the briefest of moments, he could bring a filled bottle up under the other man’s chin and …

His adversary seemed to subliminally suspect something, and took two rapid backward steps. “What’re you doing down there, dummy?”

“Nothing. I found a red one.” The moment had passed and Martin stood with the bottle held before him.

“All right. Take it upstairs. Ahead of me.”

Martin held to the thin banister with one hand, clenched the wine bottle by its neck with the other, and methodically walked upstairs. He had discovered one important bit of information. When the wine bottle had dropped and shattered on the floor, there had been no outcry from the other gunman. Thick walls and flooring would provide a protective barrier if he were to entice Two Spot into the cellar a second time. A minuscule piece of information, but it could be crucial.

Sara served the steaks and the senator piled a huge salad into bowls. Man Mountain sat in a chair with his back against the wall.

“Are you going to eat?” Sara asked impatiently.

“Two Spot first. We eat in shifts so one of us always got his eyes on you.” He turned toward Two Spot as he entered the kitchen. “What took you so damn long? You and the idiot pressing the grapes?”

“He dropped one.” He handed the bottle to Senator Crowell. “Here, open it.”

Martin resumed his place on the floor near the cellar door. He intended to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Senator Crowell uncorked the wine, and Two Spot holstered his weapon and sat before the steak. He poured a water tumbler of wine.

Man Mountain waited his turn to eat and continued to watch them carefully.

Martin knew that these men were professional killers. He began to bob his head again as he watched the intruders carefully. Two Spot was devouring his steak rapidly while intermittently taking large draughts of wine. The man was probably a conditioned drinker—the red table wine would have little effect on his professional abilities.

He again recalled the voice of Billie Bamburg at Camp Mohawk: “You can spot the professionals easy. It’s as if they wear signs. They’ll be cool and careful. They move slow—watching every step. The amateurs move with jerky motions, their eyes shift, and they handle their weapons like it was some strange animal that might bite them.”

These men handled their weapons as if they were normal extensions of their hands.

Two Spot finished eating, belched, and took Man Mountain’s place on the chair in the corner. He unholstered the heavy automatic, while Mountain began to eat.

Yes, Martin remembered the lesson well. He would have to be careful with these men. He would be lucky to get one chance, and that would be the only chance.

He had to separate them. There would not be opportunity or possibility to take them simultaneously.

As the night progressed, people began to drowse, but Martin, sitting on the floor in a corner in the living room, noticed that the two intruders were wary and alert. Senator Crowell, after flipping nervously through a series of magazines, stretched out on the couch and fell asleep. Sara curled up on the floor near the couch, with an afghan pulled to her chin.

Two Spot had located a card table, placed it in the archway to the living room a good dozen feet from his nearest prisoner, and cheated at solitaire. The ominous-looking .45 was inches away from his right hand.

Man Mountain seemed to be restless, and he prowled the house in a lone search for valuables.

The day’s events had taken their nervous toll. Martin felt his eyelids droop, and occasionally he would slip into a brief sleep only to jerk awake a few seconds later.

Dawn light fell through the upper windowpanes and cast streaks across the floor near the door. Martin’s head jerked backward as his eyes snapped open. He wondered how long he had been asleep.

Two Spot yawned, shuffled the now greasy cards, and then slammed the pack down on the table top. He picked up the automatic and stretched. “Mountain, where the hell are you?”

The call came from the study down the hall. “Watching the tube. You want relief?”

“Damn right, I do.” Two Spot waited impatiently as Man Mountain lumbered down the hall. He saw that Martin was awake. “Come here, kid.”

Martin got unsteadily to his feet and rubbed his eyes. “You want me?”

Two Spot beckoned with his finger as Man Mountain took over the chair at the card table. “Yeah, come with me.”

Martin followed Two Spot down the hall toward the kitchen. The gunman’s back was to him, and he briefly considered the possibility of throwing himself at the other man and taking him down.

They would fight for the automatic, and even though Martin felt he would prevail in the struggle, it would take precious seconds, and the other man would be standing over him before he could gain possession of the weapon.

They entered the kitchen, and Two Spot gestured toward the cellar steps with his gun barrel. “Get me another bottle. Can you manage that?”

“I think so.”

“Then move it!” He gestured again and Martin scuttled awkwardly down the cellar steps. “Jesus,” Two Spot said tiredly as he threw the electrical switch. He came halfway down into the cellar and sat on the steps to watch Martin search the wine racks. “Don’t drop it,” he called out.

As Martin came back to the steps holding a bottle gingerly with both hands, Two Spot stood and faced to the kitchen door.

It was a natural movement, and his second turning of his back on Martin was only the slightest breach of security. The long hours of watch and Martin’s apparent low mental capacity had lulled him into a single error.

Four more steps into the kitchen. Martin took the steps separating him and Two Spot two at a time. He reached the other man at the moment he started to look back.

Martin held the neck of the bottle with both hands and brought it forward against Two Spot’s larynx.

The gunman dropped without a sound, and as he went down Martin hit him a second time at the vulnerable spot where skull and spinal cord meet.

Two Spot crumpled lifelessly on the kitchen floor linoleum.

The .45 slithered partway across the waxed linoleum.

Martin grabbed the weapon and felt its heavy weight fit comfortably into his grasp.

The falling man’s body had made only a slight sound as it hit the floor, but it might have been enough to alert Man Mountain. Martin threw his body sideways and aimed the automatic at the door.

He waited.

He counted to ten under his breath. The swinging kitchen door was still shut, and he could not hear any movement in the hallway outside.

He slowly got to his feet, and kept his back against the wall as he sidled toward the door. He pushed it open a few inches. The hall was deserted. He stuck the large automatic into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back and started down the corridor.

He was halfway to the living room when Man Mountain looked out of the archway. His pistol was pointed toward the floor.

“Where in hell is Two Spot?” Mountain asked.

“In the kitchen.”

“Tell him to get his ass back here.”

Martin stopped and let his mouth gape. “Huh?”

“Tell him. Never mind.” He called out. “Two Spot!”

Martin was only yards from the large gunman. He bent forward into a shooting crouch, and with one fluid motion withdrew the .45 from his pants, braced it as Billie had instructed, aimed at the large man before him, and tried to pull the trigger.

The trigger would not pull!

“What the hell!” Mountain’s gun swung toward Martin and fired as he snapped off a quick shot.

The sound of the shot reverberated in the hallway as Martin grabbed the banister and vaulted over. Mountain fired again and the bullet splintered the wood near his face.

Martin slid the safety, thumbed back the hammer, gripped the weapon firmly and fired.

His shot caught Man Mountain in the shoulder and spun the man in a circle.

Martin stood and fired again as the large man fell. The second shot killed him.

Sara screamed from the living room. “Martin! Come quick! Something’s wrong with the senator!”

Chapter Twenty-one

Senator Harris Crowell’s complexion was blue-white, his breathing came in shallow gasps, while perspiration beaded his forehead.

Sara knelt next to the couch and loosened the stricken man’s shirt collar. Martin stood over them anxiously.

“Is he going to die?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know.”

The old man’s eyes flicked open. “Pocket … right hand pocket. Medicine. Hurry.”

Sara began to frantically search through the legislator’s clothing until she found the small pillbox.

“Prop him up, easy,” she said.

Crowell fumbled with the open pillbox, picked out one tablet and then another, which he placed under his tongue. He signaled that he wanted to lie back on the couch.

They stood over the frail man and watched as his breathing returned to normal. His color was still poor, and the pasty complexion attested to extremely poor circulation. Crowell’s eyes opened and he gave them a small smile. “I won’t die on you—yet,” he said.

“We’ll call for an ambulance.”

“Our visitors?”

“Both dead,” Martin replied flatly.

“I expected as much,” the senator said. He closed his eyes a moment as another wave of pain racked his body. “No ambulance. There’s too much to explain just now. It will all have to wait until later in the day.” He struggled to sit and Martin immediately bent to prop him up against the cushions. “I must get to my office. I have a speech to prepare for today’s session.”

“You can’t do that,” Sara said in alarm.

“My dear, I can’t not do that. Let me rest half an hour and then we must go. You will have to help me into the car. I think perhaps I would like some tea now. Can you arrange that?”

“Of course,” Sara said.

Martin and Sara took seats in the front row of the Senate gallery as two aides helped Harris Crowell down the aisle below. They positioned him in his chair and signaled for a Senate page.

Whispered instructions were given and the aides quickly left the Senate floor. The young page stood at attention next to Crowell’s desk as the senator scrawled a hasty note, folded it, and handed it to the teenager.

The page crossed the floor to the dais and handed the note to the president pro tern, Millicent Cartwright.

“The chair recognizes the senior senator from Kansas, the Honorable Harris Crowell.”

Senator Crowell stood, gripped the edge of his desk, and nearly lost his balance. His initial words were hesitant but gained strength as his speech continued.

“Madam President, other honorable members, in a few hours, United States naval vessels on station in the South Atlantic are going to experience an armed attack by foreign gunboats.”

There were murmurs throughout the chamber, which died out as Crowell continued.

“This incident, which operates under the code name of Barbados, has been manufactured, planned, and executed under instructions of the junior senator from Virginia, Rutledge G. Baxter.”

The undercurrent of remarks on the Senate floor increased as Senator Crowell continued. Martin noticed Senator Willard, whom he recognized from Camp Mohawk, blanch and immediately leave the floor at a near run.

“At 7:00 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time, two torpedo gunboats will make a flanking attack on our vessels at map coordinates …”

Martin noticed a flurry of activity near the dais as the president pro tem turned the chair over to a young senator from Georgia. Then the president pro tem also left the chamber, hurrying out a rear door.

President Pro Tem Millicent Cartwright rushed through the ornate double doors to the right of the dais. She ran into room S212, the ceremonial vice president’s office located just off the Senate floor, and snatched up a telephone. She found herself breathing rapidly, nearly gasping, as she asked the operator for the White House.

Secret Service agent Edward Brumby yawned as the president of the United States made a chip shot into a sand bunker, just off the fourteenth green. The president’s colorful curses drifted across the golf course. Brumby smiled and looked at the grim-faced army warrant officer sitting by his side in the golf cart.

The warrant officer had a black briefcase chained to his wrist. He did not smile in return. The officers with the black box never did.

A device on the agent’s belt beeped, and he reached into the rear of the cart and picked up the receiver of the radiophone. “Mesa I,” he answered. He listened for a moment and then drove the cart one-handed toward the president.

The president was rocking back and forth on his heels in preparation for his bunker shot. He looked up in annoyance at the approaching cart. “What is it, Ed?”

“The White House has patched through a call, sir. Senator Cartwright says it’s a national emergency.”

Brumby felt the warrant officer by his side tense as his fingers curled over the edge of the case containing that day’s missile release codes.

There was a quick flicker of fear behind the president’s eyes, which disappeared as he reached for the phone receiver. As he spoke, he continued studying the lie of his ball, half-embedded in sand.

“Millicent, how are you?… Has Harris gone senile making remarks like that on the floor?… Baxter … that doesn’t surprise me …” He continued listening for a few more minutes and then handed the receiver back to Brumby. “Can you get me the chairman of the Joint Chiefs on that thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then make it snappy. I’ve got a fire to put out before it gets started.”

“Go to the East Front and drive under the side steps,” Althea directed the cab driver. The driver nodded and swerved into the right lane.

The pain began again. It seemed to circle along her back, traveling down her shoulder to her arm and radiating along the flesh encased in the cast. She wanted to pop another Percodan but was afraid that the cumulative effect would lessen her ability to think or coordinate properly. No, she couldn’t take another pill. She would have to withstand the pain and force herself on. She eased back against the seat cushion and grimaced.

A few more minutes. A few more feet to walk. A few more ounces of will to be drawn.

There was little will left. The recent events had numbed and frightened her.

It would stop soon. It would all be over soon.

The hospital authorities and police investigator had been skeptical over her story of an unknown sniper. They had checked their files and, since they were unable to tie her into any known crime, had begrudgingly taken notes on the non-existent man who had allegedly shot her. No one had really believed her, but it was the only story she could manufacture on the spur of the moment, and it had sufficed.

Leaving the hospital had been more difficult, and although her clothing had been placed in her room closet, she had not been able to sign for her valuables. The four-block walk to her apartment had been the longest distance she had traversed, but when she reached the pills in her bureau, they had helped.

The taxi pulled under the Capitol steps and halted. Althea gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and nodded for him to keep the change. “Will you help me inside?” she asked. “To the elevator.”

“You sure you’re all right, lady?”

“Just to the elevator, please.”

She got off at the third floor, since she knew that the Senate Gallery was only a few feet down the hallway. It seemed an interminable distance, and twice she had to stop and lean against the wall to let a spasm of pain pass. Visitors, clutching gallery passes, gave her looks of curiosity as they hurried by.

A pass! She didn’t have a pass. A simple thing to acquire. She knew half a dozen senators or aides that would provide her with one, but she didn’t have the strength to walk to their offices.

She would try the press gallery. There seemed to be an unusually large cluster of reporters surrounding the door to that gallery and she might be able to sneak in.

A Capitol policeman stopped her. He glanced first at her cast then at her pain-ravaged face with its bandages. He seemed embarrassed to detain her.

“Can I see your bag, ma’am?”

“Of course.” She shrugged the purse strap off her shoulder and struggled with one hand to undo the clasp. The guard nodded, glanced cursorily inside for concealed weapons and let her pass through the door.

Althea walked down the steep steps and took a seat at the rail immediately above the gallery floor. She saw that Senator Crowell was speaking, and she smiled grimly. They had done it. They had reached Crowell and convinced him.

She rested the heavy cast on the railing and searched the floor for Rutledge Baxter.

He wasn’t there—yet. But he would be.

Sen. Rutledge Galation Baxter rushed through the cloak room doors and hurried to his desk. He signaled to the chair for recognition. “Will the honorable senator from Kansas yield?”

“I will not, sir,” was Harris Crowell’s immediate response.

“I call a personal point of order,” Baxter yelled at the chair.

Althea was able to fire the .32 snub-nosed revolver that was hidden inside her cast three times before a Capitol guard was able to reach her and knock her away from the rail. She screamed in pain as the revolver slipped from her fingers.

Sen. Rutledge Galation Baxter, a look of stupefaction on his face, slid to the floor of the U.S. Senate and died.

Epilogue

Russell Sage had always been considered brilliant. He had finished high school at fifteen, his undergraduate work at eighteen, and now at twenty had completed most of the course work toward his doctorate. The intensity of his academic life and natural competitiveness had filled him with a certain unfortunate pomposity.

He stood at a small podium in front of the class and wiped his glasses carefully. The long windows to the side were brimmed with autumn leaves, while the dark wooden panels of the room’s walls seemed to reflect the smell of fall foliage.

“Are you ready, Mr. Sage?”

“Yes, doctor. I have completed my testing and have arrived at a conclusion.”

“Excellent.” There was a faint tinge of humor in the professor’s voice that unsettled the gifted student only momentarily. “Will you enlighten the rest of us?”

“Yes, sir.” Sage opened a file folder and meticulously rearranged the papers. When he began to speak he unconsciously lowered his voice two registers to a tone he considered more somber and fitting for his recitation. “I held a lengthy interview with the subject this morning, and personally conducted a Wechsler-Bellevue Series III individualized intelligence test on the subject.”

“Did you make personal notes on the subject’s appearance,” the professor interjected, “along with your results?”

“Indeed I did.”

“We would like to hear them preliminary to your objective test findings and scores.”

“I would be glad to do so.” Russell searched briefly through his notes and began to read. “The subject is a Caucasian male who is thirty years of age. He has excellent musculature. Dress was sloppy, shoes unlaced, and food stains were observed on his tee shirt. He walks with the characteristic gait of the severely retarded. His visage could only be termed blank. Facial features and voice are devoid of expression with occasional inappropriate response. This examiner’s conclusion is that the subject is severely intellectually handicapped with a suggested mental age of five.”

“Objective evidence,” the professor snapped.

“The records supplied to me, which of course I read extensively before the clinical work, indicated that the subject had been placed in a training school for the profoundly retarded approximately twenty years ago. Extensive testing at the school showed results consistent with my findings.” He stopped reading from his notes and glanced up at the class. “At this point, I hardly felt that an extensive objective test was necessary, but I proceeded to fulfill the requirements of the assignment.”

“Your objective results,” the teacher insisted.

“Consistent with my preliminary examination. I can state conclusively that the subject is of subnormal intellect and is in fact severely retarded.”

“Educable?”

“No. He can be taught a bare minimum of functions.”

“Are you certain?”

Russell Sage removed his glasses and glared at the class leader. “I will stake my grade in this course on my conclusions.”

Dr. Sara Bucknell quickly crossed the room and opened the classroom door to admit Martin Fowler.

Martin shuffled into the room and sat awkwardly in a straight chair near the podium. His hands dangled between his legs and his mouth gaped slightly as he stared blankly at the class.

Russell Sage glanced at his subject and a slight smirk curved across his face. “I would be glad to point out the salient characteristics of the severely retarded after long years of institutionalization.”

At the rear of the class, a young woman with blond hair nearly down to her waist abruptly stood up. There was a deep flush of anger spotted across her cheeks. “I understand the necessity for clinical work, Dr. Bucknell, but not the appearance of the subject before a full class. It’s … it’s like he’s an exhibit at a zoo!”

“Would you like to question the subject, Miss Rawligs?”

“I don’t care to participate in this display!”

Martin shifted position in his chair. His mouth closed, he crossed his legs, and his features assumed animation. He smiled at the standing girl. The few changes in posture and look caused an immediate metamorphosis of his appearance, and a low gasp went up in the class.

“I don’t mind being on display, Miss Rawligs,” he said. “However, I would like to point out several errors that Mr. Sage made.”

“Objective tests can’t be phon—” Sage’s sputter dropped into silence.

“Mr. Sage neglected several important lines of inquiry,” Martin continued. “To begin with, he did not determine whether English was my primary language. It so happens that it is, but it might have made a significant difference in score results. He also did not make inquiry into possible emotional deprivation due to child abuse.”

Russell Sage left his notes on the podium and returned to his seat. “I think I’ve been had,” he mumbled.

Sara smiled tightly. “I want to thank Dr. Meade for allowing me to participate in an area not in my discipline. But, perhaps Mr. Fowler and I have something to offer you in this brief hour. I hope you have all learned something through this demonstration. Shortly, you will all be going into clinical work.” She leaned forward intently, choosing her words carefully and emphasizing each one. “Do not make drastic initial assumptions. Do not categorize. Do not assume all you read in files to be correct. Now, we shall spend the remainder of our hour discussing emotional deprivation and the individual’s dependency on institutionalization.”

Dr. Meade stood next to Russell Sage as they looked out the window to watch Martin and Sara, hand in hand, cross the campus lawn.

“Who is he?” Russell asked.

“If you got your beak out of a book once in a while, you’d know,” Meade replied. “Mr. Fowler is chief of maintenance and Dr. Bucknell’s husband.”

“And one hell of an actor,” Russell added.

About the Author

Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1983 by Stockton Woods

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3793-8

This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright Page